#the previous tag is the tag i will use for this

[veltana]

Breaking point

✦ Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~2,5k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Dub-con (proceed with caution if this might trigger you), pwp, smut and a bit of fluff at the end, possessive/protective!bucky, degredation (slut, fuck doll, cum-bucket), grinding, choking, spitting, pussy slapping, fingering, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, pet name (sweetheart).

✦ Summary: Bucky is done with you going out with losers.

✦ Note: This used to be called I will kill them if they touch you but I never liked that title so I renamed it! Also, you guys didn't know what you were voting for, but it was the banner for this story! Please reblog and comment! Asks are always welcome 💚

Masterlist | AO3

"Please don't scare this one away as you did last time," you beg and look at Bucky's reflection in the bathroom mirror. He makes a face where he's leaning against the door frame behind you and then sighs when you give him a look. "He wasn't worth shit if he didn't wanna fight for you," he points out.

Now it's your turn to sigh and you cross your arms, glaring at him. "He isn't supposed to fight for me on a first date. We're supposed to have a good time and hopefully fuck." Bucky's mouth hardens, and he looks away. He doesn’t like that, at all.

Ever since you became roommates he's been very protective of you, helping you with the smallest things, driving you everywhere you need to go, even if you can drive yourself. Sometimes it's overbearing but most of the time it's nice to have someone care for you like that.

Unfortunately, recently he's picked up a habit of intimidating the people you go on dates with. He stands behind you when they come to pick you up, and his large frame and cold stare make many of them cower. A few have turned around right away, others have asked if that's your boyfriend or something, thinking it was some type of open relationship/cuckold situation.

"Don't say shit like that," Bucky says through gritted teeth. "I don't wanna think about you fucking other people." You can't help the teasing smile that cracks your face. "Makes you jealous?" With a huff, Bucky pushes off and leaves you to continue.

Two hours later your makeup is done and your hair fixed to perfection. You sit on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt, with a glass of wine, waiting until the last minute to put on the skin-tight dress. While scrolling on your phone, Bucky sits beside you with a beer. "So where's the loser taking you?" "Don't care,” you shrug. “Honestly, my priority tonight is to get laid. The previous ones were a little too… bland. But he seems promising." "What do you mean, bland?"

Putting your phone down you look at him, "You don't wanna hear this anyway, you'll just get mad," you point out. "I don't get mad," he defends. "Pfff, you're such a liar, I can see it in your eyes whenever I mention another guy." "Because you deserve the best and all I've seen is trash."

Irritated, you put your glass down too. "Why don't you pick for me then? Who would James Bucky Barnes deem worthy of fucking me?"

The grip on his beer is so hard his knuckles whiten and his lips are a thin line. When he doesn't answer you lean back and start to count people off.

"Well, Steve seems a bit too sweet for my taste but I mean I would not mind trying a slice of that all-American beefcake," you muse. "Sam is so charming and funny! That quick tongue would probably work wonders, if you know what I mean," you wink and watch as Bucky's eye twitch, his jaw clenched hard.

"Tony," you continue. "Well, he seems a little self-absorbed but maybe he's a really selfless lover. Won't hurt to check!" "Loki is so handsome," you bite your lip. "I would surrender my body to him in a heartbeat! But I've heard that he leaves people high and dry and that would be awful."

Tilting your head, you say, "Do you think Thor and Jane would be up for a threesome? I can just imagine eating her out while he fucks me from behind and then we could-"

With a slam he puts the bottle on the table and grabs your face with his hand forcefully, silencing your tirade of words and squeezing your cheeks so that your lips pucker.

The grip is close to bruising and it's an instant pull in your lower stomach. His eyes are black with anger, something you've never seen directed at you before. "No one," he hisses. "Not one of them is fucking you, I will kill them if they touch you."

His hand releases you and grabs your neck instead. You're shocked, and instantly so horny it hurts. Opening your mouth to speak he squeezes harder, making a wheezing sound come out.

"I'll give you a chance to stop this. Tell me right now you don't want this and we'll act as if nothing happened. Otherwise, I'm fucking you into this couch until you can't remember your goddamn name." When he finishes his grip lightens. The rush of blood makes you euphoric and boneless. You want to give yourself to him, let him do whatever he wants. "Fuck me," you whisper.

The kiss is more teeth than lips and the hold around your throat hardens again. You try to keep up with him but it's impossible as he pushes his tongue into your mouth, claiming every inch, making you lightheaded with the lack of oxygen. You gasp for air as he pulls away, releasing you. His gaze is brimming with lust and want now, all signs of anger gone. Then he pushes you down onto the couch.

"You're a kinky little slut, aren't you sweetheart?" he mocks and leans in over you, spreading your legs with his. All you can do is nod and try to wiggle close so you can press your center against his clothed cock. It's clearly outlined in his sweatpants and you hope it's as big as it seems. "If I put my hand down your pants, are you gonna be wet for me?" "Yes Bucky," you whine.

The throbbing is almost unbearable and his smirk is downright sinful. "Come on, rub yourself on me, show me how much you want it." With another whine, you brace yourself against the couch and lift your hips. He doesn't move a muscle to help as you struggle to find the right position.

"That's disappointing," Bucky smacks his lips and frowns. "Thought you wanted this." "I do Bucky, I do, please I'm trying," you tell him desperately. With effort, you get into a good enough position to grind your cunt on his cock through the layers of clothing. It's not nearly enough to curb the ache.

"Useless," Bucky sighs and grabs your legs. "Do I have to do everything?" He pushes your knees up towards your chest, folding you in half and pushing his cock right into your core.

"Sorry," you moan. His mean words have only made you needier and you move yourself against him with abandon. Bucky is motionless above you, not making a sound or saying a word, just staring at you chasing your high. Your movements turn unsteady when you start to come close.

If you were of sound mind you would notice the glint in his eyes but instead, you’re barreling towards your climax. Until he suddenly moves away.

Gawking you stare at him and he just smiles wickedly in return. "Take off your clothes, spread your legs" he instructs and you quickly pull your pants off and discard your t-shirt and underwear, spreading your legs as best you can on the couch. Bucky takes in your bare body, moving his hands slowly down your thighs until his palms frame your pussy.

"Fucking shaved for him too,” he notes with a snarl. You're not sure why that upset him. "Sorry!" you say, just to be safe.

"I don't need your hair curled, your make-up done or your whole body shaved. I will fuck you anyway, sweetheart, no matter what you look like because you belong to me," he growls before he spits on your cunt, sending a rush through you, making you moan and spread your legs even more.

For the first time, he touches you properly, letting his fingers spread the spit all over your pussy before shoving two of them into your soaked core. He pistons them in and out, putting his thumb against your clit and making colors burst before you.

"You want to come on my fingers, you fucking slut?" When you nod frantically he instructs, "Open your mouth, stick out your tongue." A second after you do spit lands on your tongue and droplets on your face. It nearly tips you over.

"Swallow it," he orders and watches you as you do, some form of approval shining in his eyes for the first time. "Who do you belong to?"

The question is too complicated to understand, you can't focus on what he wants. "I don't…" is all that comes out.

"Wrong answer," he says and removes his fingers, making you shout in disappointment. Sharp slaps land on your wet cunt and you instinctively try to move away from it, but he grabs your legs, pulling you back. "Don't you fucking run from me."

"I'm sorry," you cry, looking pleadingly at him. "I'm- I'm yours James, yours to do what you want with. Please, please, please let me come!"

With a huff he pushes his fingers back in, pressing the tips into your g-spot and getting his thumb back on your clit. His unbothered state makes you feel so small and insignificant, heightening the pleasure coursing through you.

As it climbs, your body shakes, your legs trembling from being held open. "I'm- I'm- don't stop!" you beg. Closing your eyes you focus on the feeling of him, his other hand still gripping your thigh hard. You hope it bruises.

"I can feel you, slut!" Bucky's voice is the cherry on top of everything. "Come on my fingers, do it, come for me!" he commands and of course, you do as he wants. With a scream you convulse, almost pushing him out with the sensation flooding you. Bucky is talking above you but you're not sure what he's saying because all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears.

A hard tap against your cheek makes you open your eyes. "Don't pass out on me, I'm not done with you yet." "Wouldn't dream of it," you smile dumbly, and it earns you a smile in return. But it quickly passes as he pulls off his tank top and pushes down his pants. The cock is just as big as you hoped.

He rubs the head against your soaked center, sending overwhelming sparks through you, making you twitch. When he notches the head of his dick at your opening your blood freezes. "C-condom?" you stutter.

Cocking his head he asks. "Do you really want that? Doesn't a slut like you want to be filled up with cum?" "Y-yes, but, Bucky…" you gnaw your lip.

"I want to fuck my little cum-bucket raw, make sure you feel me running out of you for days," he gives a light thrust, almost pushing inside, giving you a taste of heaven. For a second you look at each other and Bucky presses in just a little bit more. It decides it for you. "Please fill me with your cum Bucky, I need it so bad!" you whine and he chuckles before shoving his fat cock into you without mercy.

Quickly you wrap your legs around his hips, meeting his hard thrusts that are sending your body into overdrive. "Feel so fucking good sweetheart, your cunt was made for me, wasn't it?" he groans. "Yes it was," you answer breathlessly.

He grabs your face. "Those other losers are never going to satisfy you." "No, Bucky, only you!" "That's right, you're my fuckdoll now, sweetheart," he says before he leans down to kiss you. It's much sweeter this time and you grab his head, carding your fingers through his hair, feeling your chest fill with another type of warmth.

When he pulls back he says, "Beg me not to come in you." Your cunt clenches and your second orgasm is suddenly a lot closer. "Bucky, please don't… I can't get pregnant," you make your voice small and frail.

In response his laugh is cruel. "Yes you will, your purpose in life is to be bred. I'm going to cum in you every day til it sticks and then everyone will know who you belong to." "Please, pull out," you beg and reach down to rub your clit, feeling the climax shimmering underneath your skin.

"Such a bad liar, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Are you going to come on my cock? Are you gonna claim me just as I claim you?" "Yes! I just need- harder!" you pant. "Fucking hell," Bucky grunts and does as you demand.

The climax rips through you with little regard for your sanity. The sound leaving your throat makes it raw and a second later Bucky moans your name loud enough for the neighbors to hear. It's almost good enough to feel him finish inside you that you come again, but you’re too spent to do more than shudder.

Then he kisses you again, sweetly, caringly, and pushes his arms in under your body to hug you close to him. "So perfect," he whispers against your mouth. The cums start to trickle out onto the couch but neither of you care, too caught up in each other's lips.

"How are you doing sweetheart?" he asks when he comes up for a breath. "I feel a little high," you confess. "Haven't been fucked that good in a long time."

There is something in his gaze that shifts and he leans his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry. I just… I couldn't take it anymore… I like you so much." "Lucky for you I get off on that stuff," you smile. "And if I had said stop I trust you would have."

He hugs you so hard you can hardly breathe. "Of course, I fucking would." "You can make it up to me by going tender the next time," you smile. "Next time?" "As many times as you’ll have me." He laughs into your skin. "I don't think you're ready for that!"

Suddenly the sound of the doorbell jerks the two of you apart. You stare at Bucky with wide eyes. "My date," you whisper, horrified.

With a smirk, he raises himself on his arms. "I should make you go on that date with my cum running out of you, maybe even let him get as far as spreading your legs just to see that you’re already claimed."

With a groan, you cover your face with your hands. "Don't tempt me," you tell him before wiggling out from under him, finding your clothes, and hastily pulling them on.

Opening the door just a crack, you understand you look a mess by the way your date eyes you. "Sorry," your voice is small. "I wasn't feeling great and then I fell asleep on the couch." "Yeah, you look terrible," the guy notes before handing you one of the ugliest bouquets you've ever seen. Quickly stepping away he says, "I'll call you." but you know he won't. "Great, I'll see you around," you respond before closing the door.

Bucky takes the flowers from you and shoves them in the trash before grabbing you around the waist and kissing you again. "Didn't you say he was promising?" "I have no clue what you're talking about," you answer with a completely straight face but then start to giggle as he swoops you up and carries you to his bedroom.

[444xxuqnxvxu]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . fucking kinich (nsfw) ^ྀི ˚. ᵎᵎnotice: gn!reader, 2nd person pov,nsfw, reader has a cock, top!reader, bottom!kinich, afab!kinich, kinichs genitalia is refered to using female terminology, mild overstimulation, short thirst

. ۫ ꣑ৎ .Kinichs hips jerk weakly in your grasp, yet your fingers refuse to loose contact with the burning skin on his hips, instead opting to push your hands down further. The hunter watches through bleary eyes, as your gaze stays entirely unmoving, fixed to the part where the two of you are connected with each other, much closer than you usually are. Your cock is buried deeply inside his dripping cunt, parting his folds and molding his insides into whatever shape best suited for you. Kinich doesn‘t complain, doesn‘t get the opportunity to, with the way you pound into him, each thrust seemingly trying to reach deeper and deeper inside him. By now, your entire cock is covered in his slick, embarassingly so, and it doesn‘t help that he can hear the loud pounding of his heart against his ribcage, muffled over the obscenely wet squelching sounds from your cock sinking into his cunt over and over. He can feel your dominant hand releasing his side of its painfully bruising grip, something akin to disapointment welling up inside is mind for the brief second that your hand leaves his body. The feeling lingers barely, before your hand latches onto his neglected clit, thumb rhythmically circling the throbbing nub eith both, unforeseen gentleness, and precise pressure. Your action forces a hoarse moan out of his drying throat before Kinich gets the chance to cover his mouth enough to stiffle the noise. Quiet gasps and groans have gradually begun to fade into muffled moans and occassional high-pitched whimpers. His entire body is filled with an unfamilar warmth that has gradually spread from his face all over his body, collecting in a tight knot inside his stomach, where it is currently coiling and writhing as you repeatedly drag your cock against his sensitive walls. He can feel it all: Every ripple, every vein, every delicious curve of your cock, moving in a frantic rhythm against every spot he can think of inside his hole. With one last swipe of your thumb over his clit, his back arches off the matress as he spills all over your hand eith an embarassingly loud keen. Kinich swears he can see white dotting his vision as he trembles underneath you, attempting to collect himself from his previous orgasm. Before he can muster up enough self-control to get himself back together, you pull out our cock until only the fat tip remains pushed inside. The drag of it against his oversensitive walls leaves him writhing and whimpring, trying to pull away from the iron grip you have on his hip. Your soiled hand comes up to his face, mockingly patting his burning cheek with it, while grazing his drool covered lips with your dripping thumb. „An exchange is always mutual,“ he hears you whisper into his ear. „And as far as I‘m aware… I haven‘t come yet.“ . ۫ ꣑ৎ . a/n: i got side-tracked after browsing kinichs tag, its not my fault this man is extremely breedable, anyways have something short while i cook up something for the result of the poll

[myzticbean]

Cat!Dad Series: You're My "Maine" Squeeze

Pairing: Qin Che | Sylus / MC (fem! reader) Tags: Super fluff, established relationship, cute cats, domestic bliss Can also read at A03

Previous posts in the Cat!Dad series:

Zayne: Quit kitten around - let's celebrate

Title: You’re My “Maine” Squeeze

Wrapping my arms around Sylus, I rest my hands against the motorcycle’s tank as it rockets down the dark street. I slip a hand under his leather jacket as we both lean into the tight corner, disappearing into the condo’s underground private entrance. The motorcycles that had been following us blew past, unaware we had already made our getaway. 

I laugh, a little giddy from the rush of adrenaline at the chase and successful escape (ahem, joyride), hugging his broad back and resting my helmet between his shoulder blades as he slows and parks the bike. 

“I told you it would be fun,” Sylus says calmly after he pulls off his helmet. I tug mine off as well, my bun squished to my head and tangled flyaway hairs sticking to my face, but I know I’m still grinning from ear to ear. 

“Another successful mission with my criminal mastermind partner,” I chuckle, shaking my hair out of the hair tie before throwing it back up into a ponytail. I swing my leg over and hop off the bike, and he stands as well, wrapping me in his arms in a quick hug. 

We wear matching black leather jackets, my curb stomping boots laced up over black jeans, and a custom thigh holster holding my (not-quite-legal) gun. I lean into his embrace, lifting my face to smile smugly at him.

“Admit it, I definitely helped you a lot this time.”

“You literally started a fight and got us thrown out -- of my own club,” he answers sardonically, tightening his grip around my shoulders and waist. But he can’t hide the lip twitch of amusement and the softness in his gaze as he stares down at me. 

“You needed to hire better help anyways,” I say airily, stepping out of his embrace and flicking a strand of my ponytail back over my shoulder saucily. “That they didn’t even recognize their boss…tut.”

“You do realize most people shouldn’t recognize me, otherwise it defeats the purpose of being the mysterious leader of an underground organization,” he responds dryly, locking the steering on his bike and grabbing the straps of our helmets in one hand. 

“That they didn’t even recognize your dark, dangerous, and sensual aura and let you do whatever you wanted is just a crime against nature,” I answer cheekily. I open my mouth to continue my teasing despite his grimace, when the hissing and howling of cats interrupts me.

As we neared the elevators, I saw a couple of cats brawling, two smaller dark colored tomcats wrestling a dirty, fluffy, absolute monster of a cat. Even while clearly outnumbered, it was holding its own and about to turn the tide of the fight when another cat appeared, intent on jumping into the fray. 

“Oh no,” I say, taking an unconscious step forward. I wasn’t sure how to intervene without getting scratched to holy hell when an empty can was suddenly thrown from behind, clattering as it pelted one of the dark cats on top. 

It screamed, not that it was actually hurt, but more in surprise as it backed off of the giant cat on the bottom. Without waiting, the big cat sprang to its feet, roaring like a tiny lion and racing forward aggressively. 

The tomcat didn’t bother waiting around to see if it could take the big cat on - it scrambled to its feet and raced away, the other cats following close behind. The bigger cat stopped, sitting on the ground in exhaustion, bloody scratch marks on its face, back and ears. 

“You poor thing,” I murmur, squatting down to try to get a closer look. It would probably be pretty skittish, especially if it has been a feral, unneutered male used to roaming the streets of the N109 zone and surviving. 

It turns to look at me at the sound of my voice, its tail flicking back and forth as it surveys me from where it sits on the cold concrete. “I wonder if he’ll let us take care of his wounds,” I say to Sylus who stands behind me, his hand propped casually on one hip as he looks between me and the cat.

“It’s a tom, probably not,” he answers.

“I tamed you,” I say a little tongue-and-cheek as I glance at him slyly over my shoulder. 

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully. “I might argue it was the other way around, kitten.”

“Here kitty, kitty,” I whisper, flicking my fingers at him. I moved to kneel down on one knee, not moving closer, but holding my hand out in case he wants to come over for a sniff.

The cat didn’t deign to move closer, but also doesn’t seem afraid or inclined to scamper away from us. He just peers at me with intent yellow eyes, his fluffy tail flipping back and forth as if to lure me in with the promise of touching it.

I can’t help myself -- I shuffle forward a little bit, my hand still outreached, wanting to see if he’ll let me get close enough to at least take a better look at his scrapes. He’s certainly not afraid - his watchful eyes are flickering all around. 

“Look at this handsome boy,” I croon, voice pitched a little lower, trying to entice him to take a step towards me. I wish I had some food for him. 

Sylus just sighs behind me. 

“Ignore him, kitty,” I suggest, trying to stifle a giggle when I see the cat’s yellow eyes briefly dart behind me before locking back onto mine. “You are definitely the biggest, most handsome cat on the block. If you come juuuust a little closer, I want to make sure you haven’t been hurt.”

The cat yawns, his sharp teeth on full display before he licks his nose and gives me a blink. 

“That’s right, big guy. You know I won’t hurt you.” 

Sylus suddenly chuckles behind me. “Let’s do this a little faster, shall we?” Without pausing, he activates his Evol, wrapping the cat in red and black swirls of color and lifting it into the air. It yowls in immediate displeasure, thrashing and kicking.

“Oh, don’t-” I try to say, before Sylus deposits it in my arms, though still wrapped up and held immobile by his power.

It freezes, looking up into my face, while I peer down at him. “It’s okay, kitty, I won’t hurt you,” I say soothingly. I resist the urge to pet it - it’s trapped and can’t escape, and my touch could do more harm than good. Instead I hold him close against me, cradling him gently in my arms as Sylus guides me towards our private elevator. 

We ascend to the penthouse as I’m trying to look over his wounds - with his thick hair, it doesn’t seem like he sustained too much damage, but I wouldn’t be sure until I could investigate more thoroughly. He is, however, extremely dirty and covered in fleas, which I can see crawling through the dirty fuzz. 

“He needs a bath,” I say, looking him over. “Do you think we should take him to a vet instead?”

Sylus scoffs quietly behind me as we enter our private floor. “I’ll make a call.” 

“My rich boyfriend is so strong and powerful,” I laugh, walking further into the condo and heading towards the bathroom. 

“Do we have any of that blue dish soap?” I call out as I settle the cat down in the shower. I need to grab a towel, and with Sylus’ Evol still activated, he won’t be able to move too much. I kick off my shoes and socks and grab a few fluffy dark towels from underneath the sink, whispering to the cat as I reach for one of the handheld shower heads. Since the shower is big enough for 10 people, the cat is safely outside of the spray as I test out the water and let it warm up.

“What a good boy you are,” I croon, kneeling down by the cat once the temperature has been adjusted, gently allowing the warm water to soak into his fur. The cat gives a grimace and gnashes his teeth, but otherwise doesn’t fight it. 

“Yes, you’re so smart, what a sweet kitty you are. You were definitely going to win. It was three-on-one, and look how strong and brave you were…” I ramble on and on as I soak him from the neck down, gently carding my fingers through his fur to try to get him completely wetted. 

Sylus walks in with a bottle of the dish soap, rolling his eyes a little at my running commentary. “I’m worried about you, sweetie,” he says lightly, squatting by the shower entrance and setting down the soap bottle. 

“Hush,” I say, fighting back a smile as I throw a mock-glare over my shoulder. “Squeeze me,” I say, holding out one palm.

“I wish,” he mutters before he obliges, squirting a heaping handful of soap.

I soap my palms together and get to work, thoroughly (but gently) cleaning up the poor, battered cat. His cuts and scrapes aren’t bad, but I’m careful to avoid getting too much soap in those areas to avoid any stinging. I keep speaking to the cat, voice low and calm, and he doesn’t otherwise flinch at being doused in water and soap.

“I wonder if he was someone’s pet?” I question thoughtfully. “He’s too well behaved for a feral cat.”

Sylus just hums but doesn’t say anything, his Evol still containing the cat though it’s obvious the animal isn’t fighting it. I make sure to wash off as much of the dirt and fleas as I can, rinsing and repeating one more time, and the amount of dirt pooling beneath the two of us turned the pale gray tile completely black. 

But as the cat emerges, clean and victorious, I’m astounded to see a pure white beauty in its majestic display. “He’s so handsome,” I gasp, gently drying him off with a soft towel. 

“I know, you’ve already mentioned it many times,” Sylus says dryly, but the humor glinting in his ruby-colored eyes is obvious. “I always knew you’d be a cat person.”

“You call me kitten often enough, I thought it was obvious,” I say, smiling playfully. 

It’s quiet again for a moment as I finish drying the cat off, before noting, “I don’t think he’s seriously hurt, but he had fleas and could use a check up.” 

As if waiting for my remark, the doorbell chimes, announcing a visitor. I look over at Sylus, who has climbed to his feet and casually strolls out of the bathroom. 

I reach out, cradling the cat in a new clean towel and exit the bathroom and into the living room where a man with a black kit is waiting for us. Without much expression and with almost no conversation, he takes the cat from my arms and begins his check up, and the cat -- who is still held by the black strands -- immediately begins to meow and scream non-stop.

“Oh, poor baby,” I whisper, clenching my hands but unable to help. I look on in concern, trying not to react as the impersonal vet quickly doctors the cat’s wounds and gives him a few shots. 

“He’ll be fine in a few days. I’ve given him his vaccinations, and a pill that will help kill off the remaining fleas.” 

“What kind of cat is he?” I ask, the cat looking even larger as the fur dries.

“I’d guess Maine Coon based on his size and features,” the vet says. “You can do a DNA test if you want to know for sure.”

“Will he get bigger or is he fully grown?”

The man lifted the cat’s lips, checking his teeth. “He’s a young cat, maybe still under a year old, so I would guess he’s still growing. Maine Coons can keep growing until they are around two years old.”

He gives me a few instructions on how to continue caring for the animal, and without much fanfare, leaves. 

“Let’s let him free now,” I murmur to Sylus after setting him down on the floor. Sylus releases his Evol, and the cat slowly stands, taking a few steps and sniffing the air. 

“He’s so cute,” I sigh, watching him tentatively explore his new surroundings. 

“He better not pee on anything until we can get him neutered,” Sylus mutters. “We’ll never get the smell out.”

I reach out, wrapping my arms around his waist and nuzzling into his chest. “You’re so wonderful,” I say, content and a little tired. The doorbell rings again, and I lift my head off his chest to look up at his face, puzzled. 

He motions for me to go, saying, “Get in the shower, I’ll get him settled. The twins brought some supplies.”

I smile in relief, giving him another squeeze, and silently beg for a kiss as I stand on my toes and lift my face. He cups my chin, brushing warm lips over mine in a chaste kiss. He gives me a second kiss on my forehead.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll join you soon.”

More than a week has passed since we rescued the cat. I’ve had to travel to and from Linkon for work, but Sylus never asks if I am going to take the cat with me or drop it off at the shelter. Instead, the cat seems to settle into the plush penthouse as if he had never lived a life on the outside, his kingly attitude right at home in the dark, romantic surroundings. 

After arriving a little later than I expected, I put my overnight bag away in the bedroom before I grab one of the new cat toys lying about. It’s a stick with a feather dangling from a string, and I flick it around on the floor and up in the air, laughing aloud as the cat makes a daring leap trying to catch it. 

“You can do it, Junior,” I cheer as he stretches out his paws, dagger-like nails exposed. Mephisto caws angrily in the corner, pacing back and forth on his stand as he watches the playful cat. They’ve been sassing each other all week, with the kitty missing chunks of hair and Mephisto decidedly more ruffled looking with mechanical feathers lying twisted on the ground. 

The door opens and Sylus walks in just in time to hear me, raising his eyebrows as he comes towards me carrying a couple of shopping and garment bags. 

“Please don’t tell me that name means what I think it means?” he sighs.

I start giggling and the cat takes a flying leap, tackling me to the ground. I ooph out a rush of air, his heavy body colliding with mine as I clutch him to my belly and roll backwards. Sylus drops the bags into the couch and strides over, grabbing the cat by the scruff of the neck and tossing him (somewhat gently) onto the coffee table. He reaches down, helping me to my feet as I fight off a giddy laugh. 

“It’s exactly what you think,” I answer, a sly smile twisting my lips as I reach down to pat Junior on the top of his head, his large, fuzzy ears twisting to catch our voices. “He looks just like his daddy, after all…”

“I did not, in fact, sire a cat. But if my little kitten is so inclined to have her own litter, I could be persuaded.”

I burst out laughing, pushing at his shoulder (he didn’t budge). “I’m not ready for a baby right now. Baby making, however…”

His eyes glint in the light, strangely dark as he locks his gaze onto mine, tugging me closer and into a tight embrace. He leans down, nuzzling his face into my neck, arms wrapped around my waist. “Let’s go practice now,” he suggests, teeth nipping gently at my skin in blatant invitation. 

I sigh, languid from the pleasure that courses up my spine as he trails long fingers down my back in a slow caress. He kisses me tenderly, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before I open to let him in, our tongues pressing against each other in unhurried exploration. We’ve kissed hundreds of times, but each press of his lips to mine brings a fresh wash of affection and excitement.

I lift my arms to wrap around his neck, falling deeper into his kiss, but a demanding howl from the coffee table shatters the moment. I look down, meeting the irritated eyes of the cat staring back at me. “Sorry, Junior. You shouldn’t be watching mommy and daddy like this.”

Sylus stifles a long exhale before he reaches down, adjusting himself, and steps away back towards the bags. I follow along with interest, trying to peek into the bags, but he covers it up. 

“You can open this one now,” he says, holding out a shopping bag. “I’ll show you the others later.”

I look with interest at the other handful of bags and garment bags, but don’t press. I’ve learned that any surprise from Sylus is well worth the wait. Instead, I tear open the bag and read the brand name on the box. “Evol CommuniCollar?” I question, looking up at him in surprise. “Aren’t these ridiculously expensive?”

He scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “Maybe if you’re not me.”

I roll my eyes. “You are such a snob sometimes.” I eagerly read the description. “It says here that it can translate everything your pet says into human language. This is so cool!”

I sit down and start fumbling to open the box, tearing off the flap corners in my haste to get it open. “Oops, I hope we don’t need to return this,” I say. He looks completely unconcerned as he settles on the couch next to me, as Junior perches politely on the coffee table near my knee, tail swishing back and forth. 

Reading the instructions, I open my phone and download the app as Sylus checks the battery charge on the collar. I fill in Junior’s information, noting his suggested breed and age in the settings. While Sylus isn’t watching, I set the AI voice to one of my favorite male celebrities that is (surprisingly) available in the list. 

Sylus gently adjusts it around the cat’s neck, making sure his fur isn’t being pulled or tangled, and gives him a single pat on the head.

Junior is still watching Sylus and gives a tiny meow, and the collar suddenly beeps, a deep, masculine AI-voice is clearly projecting from the collar. “Father.”

I gasp, practically swooning on the couch. “He knows you’re his dad,” I squeal, covering my mouth to hide the huge grin. Sylus looks taken aback, one eyebrow raised as he stares down at the cat that is still looking up at him. He obviously recognizes the voice when I see his sidelong glance at me. 

I hurriedly continue reading the instructions. “While animals may not experience the same family bonds, environmental stimulus, language or emotional capacity that humans do, they’ve been able to map the closest electrical triggers to feelings that we can understand.”

I laugh a little. “So I guess he knows you aren’t his birth father. Maybe you’re his step-dad.”

The kitty looks at me chuckling on the couch, attention flicking back and forth, and as he looks at me directly, he gives a single, long blink. “Wife.” The masculine voice is low and rumbly as he purrs a little.

My mouth drops open, and I don’t dare to look at Sylus. I’m trying desperately to stifle a cackle of mischievous delight, and I reach out to stroke my hand along his back. 

“No,” Sylus says, reaching out to catch my hand. “Don’t reward him for bad behavior.”

“How is he being bad?” I ask, choking on my laughter. I’m trying not to cry, eyes welling up as I gasp for breath.

“This collar is defective. Let’s throw it away,” he says resolutely, reaching out a hand to unclasp the collar from the cat before I bat his hand away.

“Don’t you dare. This is priceless.” I try to be stern, but my quivering lips and definitely giving it away.

He looks slightly irritated but does take his hands away and folds his arms across his chest. I turn back to the cat, giving him a little scritch behind one fluffy ear, and he closes his eyes, rumbling in pleasure. 

“Feels good. It’s itchy,” the cat collar says in its low, dulcet tones. “Wife. Wife.” The purrs get a little louder when I switch to the other ear.

“No, I’m your mom,” I correct, and the collar gives another little beep with tiny rumbling noises as if to translate what I said.

“No, not mother. Wife,” the cat collar responds, and the cat blinks up at me again, holding eye contact. 

I cover my mouth to hide my laughter when I see Sylus stiffen up beside me. “No, I’m your mother. And this is your dad,” I say, pointing to Sylus. “I’m his wife.”

I pretend I don’t see Sylus whip his head around to look at me. I’m trying to make a point to a cat, and this is the easiest way to get it across. How would a cat understand human dating behavior? 

The cat looks obviously disgruntled as the collar makes more translation noises. His tail lashes angrily back and forth, and he turns his head away from me, obviously not agreeing to my words. 

I lean forward, giving him a little kiss on his forehead, ignoring his mew of unhappiness. “I love you so much, my handsome little guy. You’re the bestest boy, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, I’m the best cat. Better than the bird,” the collar agrees, and the cat turns to nuzzle his head into my chin.

I pepper little kisses all over his cute little cat face. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m hungry. I’d like dinner, please. I want the fish one. The wet food, not the crunch food.” 

“Oh, you like the tuna more than the chicken? You should really eat the kibble too, it’s better for your teeth if you can eat some crunchy food,” I say, and we walk into the kitchen, chatting together. 

Sylus leans back against the couch cushions, sighing as scrubs one hand over his face before climbing to his feet and going to store away the bags.

Junior and I chatter back and forth, his sentences slowly becoming longer and more in-depth the more the collar was used. 

He finally finishes his food and I ask to gently wipe his face and whiskers with a clean towel, and he happily obliges, purring loudly as I clean him up. We walk together back into the living room, where Sylus has once more taken a seat on the couch, the fireplace crackling and the low throb of classical music coming from the record player. 

“Father,” Junior murmurs, leaping onto the couch and then clambering into Sylus’ lap (uninvited, but also undeterred). I smile, nestling into his side as he raises an arm and pulls me in closer. 

“Father, play with me. Play with me,” the cat begs, raising one paw and tapping it against Sylus’ chest. 

I try to bite back a smile, shifting away slightly so I can quickly snap a photo. Sylus resigns himself, reaching down to flick one furry ear before he tugs gently at a whisker. The cat grows ever more exasperated as he tries to bat away Sylus’ hand, who snaps his fingers and conjures up a handful of black feathers dusting along Junior’s head and back. 

“You wanted to play, and now you’re mad?” Sylus asks, listening to the cat muttering profanities (with the help of the collar) and hiding a small smile. 

Finally the cat huffs and flops down, and the feathers immediately disappear. We both look down at the large cat stretching himself along the length of Sylus’ thighs, Junior’s head resting closer to his stomach. I reach out, giving him a scritch as I nuzzle into Sylus’ broad shoulder.

Sylus presses a tender kiss to my forehead as he sweeps one long-fingered hand down the back of the cat in a soothing, absent-minded stroke. He drops his head, feathering kisses across the bridge of my nose and cheeks, before pressing a deeper, sweeter kiss to my lips. 

“So about that litter of kittens you mentioned…” I pull away to whisper into his ear as Junior finally settles and little snores start to emerge. 

Activating his Evol, he carries that cat over to his bed, settling him into the cushions lightly while he stands and hefts me over his shoulder. “Practice makes perfect, sweetie,” he purrs, striding into the bedroom and shutting the door while I try to muffle my giggles.

Junior licks his lips, snuggling deeper into his bed and drifting off into an even deeper, satisfied sleep.

Cat image source

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (16)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 15

- Next part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh

The air is heavy with a somber weight as Jacaerys gently leads Rhaenyra through the corridors of Dragonstone. Her steps are slow and careful, her body still fragile from the birth and the grief that followed, but her eyes are clear, her expression set with determination. It’s been a week since they laid Visenya to rest, but the pain is still raw, a wound that refuses to heal. Yet, Rhaenyra has insisted on attending this council herself, determined to show strength despite her suffering.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Mother?” Jace asks quietly, his arm steadying her as they near the council chamber. His concern is palpable, his young face lined with worry.

“I have to be,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice firm though there’s a tremor beneath it. “This is our fight, Jace. I cannot hide away, not now.”

He nods, though his brow remains furrowed, and he pushes open the heavy wooden door, guiding her inside. The room falls silent as they enter, all eyes turning to the Princess. Rhaenyra pauses, taking in the faces around the table—men and women sworn to your cause, their expressions a mixture of respect and unease.

Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, are seated near Luke, their young faces tense with the weight of the situation. Rhaenyra’s younger sons are being looked after elsewhere, kept away from the turmoil that threatens to consume them all. She draws strength from seeing Luke, his gaze filled with determination, and from the presence of others who have pledged their loyalty.

Rhaenys is there, standing with her son, Laenor. She looks older, the lines of worry etched deeper on her face, but there is a fire in her eyes that has not dimmed. She inclines her head to Rhaenyra as she approaches, a silent acknowledgment of shared grief and strength.

“How is Corlys?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice quiet but steady as she takes her seat.

Rhaenys steps forward, her voice calm and reassuring. “He is recovering. The worst has passed, and the fever has finally broken. He will be ready to join us soon.”

A murmur of relief sweeps through the room. Corlys Velaryon’s presence and support are invaluable, a cornerstone of their cause. Rhaenyra nods, a faint smile of gratitude touching her lips. “That is good to hear.”

Lord Darklyn clears his throat, drawing the attention of those gathered. “A raven arrived from Dorne this morning,” he begins, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “It seems they intend to stay out of this conflict. They will not join the Greens and are leaning toward supporting Prince—your husband’s—claim.”

A ripple of approval spreads through the room. Jace, his shoulders squared with pride, speaks up, his voice filled with confidence. “It’s no surprise. Dorne remembers what happened the last time they challenged my father.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at her son. His courage, his strength—they remind her so much of you. She’s proud, but there’s a hollow ache in her chest, a yearning for your presence.

She glances around, her eyes searching the room, noticing your absence for the first time. “Where is he?” she asks, her voice quiet but edged with concern. “Where is your father?”

The room falls silent, the easy camaraderie dissolving into something more guarded. Jace exchanges a quick look with Luke, hesitation flickering across his face before he turns back to Rhaenyra.

“Mother, he… he hasn’t been well since Visenya’s funeral,” Jace admits, his voice low. “He’s been restless, angry. He and Daemon… they left this morning. They took off with their dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenches, a sudden fear gripping her. “Where did they go?”

Jace hesitates, glancing at Luke again before he speaks. “In the direction of Oldtown.”

The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, the room seems to spin around her. She grips the arm of her chair, her knuckles white. “Oldtown…” she breathes, her mind racing, remembering your promise, the fire in your eyes when you swore vengeance for Visenya.

“Gods…” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice barely a whisper as the realization sinks in. You had been consumed with rage, blinded by grief. You’d spoken of fire and blood, of making them pay for what they had done.

Her heart pounds in her chest, a mixture of fear and despair twisting inside her. You’re not just going to Oldtown—you’re going to burn it. To unleash your fury upon those you hold responsible, no matter the cost.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself as she turns her gaze back to Jace. “We must prepare,” she says, her voice trembling but determined. “We need to be ready for what comes next.”

Jace nods, though the worry does not leave his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

Rhaenyra looks around the room, her gaze sharp and commanding despite her weakened state. “This is just the beginning. They’ve made their move, and now we must make ours. We cannot let them tear us apart.”

There are murmurs of agreement, the council members straightening, their resolve hardening. Rhaenys steps forward, her eyes on Rhaenyra. “We stand with you, Rhaenyra. We will do what needs to be done.”

Rhaenyra nods, a flicker of gratitude passing over her face. “Thank you, all of you. We will not falter.”

She looks at Jace again, her hand resting briefly on his arm. “We will be ready for whatever comes next.”

The room is filled with the murmur of plans and strategies, a flurry of activity as the council prepares for the storm that is surely coming. And though the fear and worry gnaw at her, Rhaenyra knows she must be strong.

You are driven by grief and rage, but Rhaenyra will stand firm. She will hold Dragonstone, prepare their forces, and wait for your return. 

The sun blazes high in the midday sky, its light blinding as it glares down on the unsuspecting city of Oldtown. Below, the streets bustle with life, unaware of the doom that soars toward them from the direction of the sun, the gleaming silhouettes of two dragons hidden in its harsh glare.

Silverwing’s wings cut through the air with powerful strokes, your heart pounding in sync with each beat. Ahead, Daemon and Caraxes fly with a fierce, relentless speed, their massive forms casting shadows over the sprawling city below. The Hightower, once a proud symbol of power and wealth, looms before you, a tempting target.

You share a look with Daemon, a single nod passing between you as you split off, his gaze fixed on the towering structure of the Hightower, while your own eyes lock onto the Starry Sept. The Faith of the Seven, who had crowned your half-brother, who had dared to deny your birthright. You can feel the rage boiling in your veins, the need for vengeance scorching through every thought.

Caraxes dives first, his roar shattering the midday stillness as flames pour from his maw, a torrent of fire that engulfs the great tower. The stones crack and explode under the intense heat, chunks of rock and debris hurtling through the air. Screams rise up from within the tower, and you see tiny figures—nobles, lords, and ladies—hurling themselves from the windows, desperate to escape the inferno, only to meet their end on the unforgiving ground below.

Silverwing’s roar answers Caraxes, and you direct her down toward the Starry Sept. The beautiful building, with its delicate spires and intricate carvings, stands as a symbol of the power that has been wielded against you, against your family. It will fall, just like everything else they have built.

“Dracarys!” you command, your voice echoing with fury. Silverwing responds with a roar that seems to shake the very sky, flames spilling from her jaws to wash over the Sept. The roof catches fire instantly, the ornate wood and stonework crumbling under the onslaught. The holy place of the Faith is reduced to a screaming, writhing mass of flames and smoke.

Septa and Septons flee from the burning structure, their robes ablaze, their cries filling the air. The smell of charred flesh and burning incense fills your nostrils as Silverwing lands atop the collapsing Sept, her claws crushing what remains of the once-proud building. The impact sends chunks of stone flying, the ground trembling beneath the force of her weight.

Silverwing lets out a triumphant roar, her voice carrying over the dying screams below. Debris scatters in every direction, the sky filled with a choking cloud of ash and smoke. The sight of it fuels the fire in your chest, your hatred, your grief, your rage. You lean forward, your eyes fixed on the chaos below.

“This is for Visenya,” you murmur, your voice lost in the cacophony. “For everything they took from us.”

Your gaze sweeps across the city, taking in the panic and confusion spreading through the streets. You see the Citadel in the distance, its towers rising arrogantly against the sky. A den of maesters, those who have spread their lies and manipulations, who have whispered poison into the ears of kings. They, too, will burn.

You signal Daemon, and Caraxes veers toward the Citadel, his wings beating furiously as he gains speed. Silverwing follows, her powerful form gliding effortlessly through the thickening smoke. Below, the people of Oldtown scatter like ants, fleeing in every direction, their shouts and cries blending into a single, desperate chorus.

Caraxes unleashes a torrent of fire upon the Citadel, the flames licking up the towers, devouring stone and wood alike. Scrolls and tomes, records of centuries, are consumed in an instant, knowledge and history reduced to ash and cinders. The maesters inside scream as they are caught in the blaze, their voices mingling with the roar of the flames and the shattering of glass.

Silverwing circles around, her flames joining those of Caraxes, the combined heat turning the once-proud Citadel into a blazing pyre. The fires leap higher, consuming everything in their path, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and stone.

You watch, your heart a storm of emotions—anger, sorrow, satisfaction, all mingling into something fierce and unrelenting. This city, this place that has stood against you, that has defied your claim, that has crowned your half-brother in your place—it will be brought to ruin, every stone, every life, ground to dust under the might of dragonfire.

Silverwing’s wings beat against the hot air, her body glowing with the reflected light of the flames as she turns her gaze back to the rest of the city. There is no mercy in her eyes, only the reflection of your own vengeance, your need to see this place reduced to nothing but smoke and ash.

Your voice is a growl as you command her once more. “Burn it all.”

Silverwing’s roar answers you, and she dives, her flames sweeping over the city below, over houses and markets, over temples and towers. People run, screaming, trying to escape the oncoming inferno, but there is no refuge, no safety. The streets become rivers of fire, the buildings collapsing under the relentless assault.

You can see Daemon, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, as Caraxes lays waste to another section of the city. Together, your dragons are a force of nature, unstoppable, unyielding. You turn your gaze to the Hightower once more, the great structure now a smoking ruin, its walls blackened, its stones shattered.

You will leave nothing behind. You will raze it all to the ground, and when the ashes settle, they will remember this day, the day the wrath of dragons was unleashed upon them.

For Visenya. For your daughter. For the throne that was stolen. You will see them all burn. And Oldtown will be the first to fall.

Silverwing and Caraxes turn together, their flames lighting up the sky, and the city of Oldtown is swallowed by the inferno, the screams of its people echoing in the hellish glow. And still, you and Daemon do not stop, your dragons raining fire and destruction, until the city is a smoldering wasteland beneath you.

The charred remains of Oldtown smolder under the midday sun, the acrid stench of smoke and ash hanging thick in the air. The city is unrecognizable, its proud structures reduced to rubble, flames still licking at the ruins. Amidst the devastation, the once proud blue and silver form of Tessarion lies torn and broken, her wings shredded, her body twisted and lifeless. Caraxes circles above, his roar echoing across the desolate landscape, a triumphant call that vibrates through the air. But of Daeron, there is no sign—he has vanished like a shadow, slipping through the chaos like a phantom.

You stand in the midst of the destruction, Silverwing looming behind you, her scales glowing in the harsh light, reflecting the inferno around you. The heat is intense, almost suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to the fire that burns within your chest. Before you, a small cluster of Septons and Septas stand trembling, their robes stained with ash and blood, their eyes wide with terror.

One of the Septons, his face twisted with fear but his voice defiant, steps forward. “You are a monster,” he spits, his words ringing out over the desolation. “An abomination, cursed by the gods. You and your dragon are the doom of us all.”

You feel a cold smile curve your lips as you draw Blackfyre, the legendary blade gleaming darkly in your hand. The weight of it is familiar, comforting. It’s as if the sword itself thirsts for blood, hungers for vengeance. You take a step forward, your gaze locking onto the Septon’s.

“You speak of gods and curses,” you say, your voice low and filled with barely restrained fury. “But where were your gods when my daughter was killed? Where were they when the Faith crowned a usurper in my place?”

The Septon falters, his courage wavering, but he does not step back. “You defy the Seven, Targaryen. The gods will strike you down for this blasphemy.”

You raise Blackfyre, the blade catching the light as you point it at him. “The Faith of the Seven is an enemy of the throne,” you declare, your voice ringing out over the ruins. “An enemy that has aided in the theft of my birthright, that has betrayed the true blood of the dragon. I will root you out from every corner of Westeros. You will find no sanctuary, no mercy.”

The Septon’s face pales, but he lifts his chin defiantly. “The gods will judge you,” he says, his voice shaking but resolute. “You will burn in the Seven Hells for this.”

You step closer, the tip of Blackfyre inches from his chest. “Then let them strike me down,” you hiss, and with a swift, brutal motion, you drive the blade through his robes, piercing flesh and bone. The Septon screams, a high, wailing sound that cuts through the smoke and ash like a blade.

“Scream louder,” you command, twisting Blackfyre as his blood pours over your hands, hot and slick. “Call out to your gods. Let them hear you.”

The Septon’s cries turn to desperate, choking sobs, his hands clawing at the blade, his eyes wide with agony. The others around him watch, horror-stricken, but none dare to move, frozen in the grip of terror. You twist the sword again, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone give way under your hands.

“Is this not what your gods wish?” you ask, your voice mocking, filled with contempt. “Where is their wrath now? Where is their power?”

The Septon collapses to his knees, the life draining from his eyes as his strength fails him. With a final, savage pull, you yank Blackfyre free, the blade glistening with his blood. He crumples at your feet, his breaths ragged and shallow, his face a mask of pain and despair.

You look up at the sky, the smoke swirling above, and raise Blackfyre high, the blood dripping from the blade onto the scorched ground. “Are you watching?” you shout, your voice filled with a bitter fury that echoes across the ruins. “Are you listening, gods of the Seven?”

The sky is silent, the only answer the distant roar of Caraxes, the crackle of flames, the weeping of the dying city around you. There is no thunder, no divine retribution, no sign of any power greater than the one you wield in your hand.

You lower the sword, your gaze sweeping over the Septons and Septas, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. “Your gods are silent,” you say, your voice cold, emotionless. “If they exist at all, they do not care.”

Turning your back on the crumpled, dying Septon, you nod to Silverwing. “Dracarys.”

With a mighty roar, Silverwing unleashes a torrent of fire, her flames sweeping over the huddled figures. Their screams rise up, a cacophony of terror and pain, as they are consumed by the inferno. You do not look back as you walk away, the heat of the flames at your back, your heart a cold, burning core of rage and loss.

Let the world see this and tremble. Let them know that the dragon has returned, and that you will not rest until all who have wronged you, who have betrayed your family, have been reduced to ash. This is the price of treason. This is the price of faith in false gods.

And you will be the one to collect it, blade by blade, fire by fire, until the debt is paid in full.

The atmosphere in the Red Keep’s council chamber is heavy scent of smoke and incense. Aegon, the newly crowned king, lounges in his chair, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood of the table. Aemond sits beside him, his face twisted into cold determination, his single eye fixed on nothing, lost in thought. Alicent is nearby, her gaze flicking between her sons and the door, her expression tight with anxiety.

Around the table, the other members of the small council wait in uneasy silence—Grand Maester Orwyle, his face pale and strained; Lord Tyland Lannister, his lips pressed into a thin line; Ser Criston Cole, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, as if prepared for any sudden threat. Lord Jasper Wylde and Larys Strong complete the assembly, both watching the door with nervous anticipation.

The door bursts open, and Otto Hightower strides in, his face ashen, his movements almost unsteady. Alicent’s eyes widen, alarm flashing across her features as she quickly rises, moving to support him.

“Father, what’s happened?” she asks, her voice laced with worry as she takes his arm, guiding him to the nearest chair.

Otto collapses into the seat, his hand clutching at his chest as if trying to steady his breathing. “Oldtown…” he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oldtown is gone. Burned to the ground.”

A shocked silence falls over the room, every face turning toward Otto in disbelief. Aegon sits up straighter, his eyes widening. “What?” he breathes, his voice tinged with disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Otto takes a deep breath, his face lined with exhaustion and grief. “Your half-brother and Daemon… they attacked Oldtown. Burned the city, the Hightower, the Citadel… everything.”

Alicent’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with horror. She sways, and Ser Criston steps forward, his face dark with concern. “My lady…”

She shakes her head, trying to gather herself. “And Daeron?” she asks, her voice trembling. “What of my son?”

Otto’s gaze drops, his face tightening. “There is no word of him. Tessarion is dead. I fear the worst.”

The room erupts into chaos. Orwyle’s face turns even paler, if that were possible. “The Citadel… gone?” he mutters, his voice filled with disbelief. “The records, the histories… centuries of knowledge…”

Tyland Lannister leans forward, his voice sharp and urgent. “And what do we do now? What if they come here next?”

Aegon’s face twists with fear, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking some escape. “He’s mad. Worse then Maegor,” he says, his voice rising with panic. “He’ll kill us all.”

Otto lifts his head, forcing his voice to be calm and steady. “No, he won’t. King’s Landing is armed, fortified. We have dragons, too. He won’t attack us here.”

“But we need to prepare,” Alicent insists, her voice shaking. “We need to protect what’s left of our family.”

Larys Strong, his eyes dark and calculating, is the first to find his voice. “We need allies,” he says softly, his gaze shifting around the table. “If we are to survive this, we must gather support, quickly.”

Aemond rises, his movements sharp and determined. “I will go to Storm’s End,” he declares, his voice cold and unyielding. “The Baratheons will stand with us.”

Tyland nods, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “I will send word to my brother in the West. House Lannister has not forgotten the insult dealt by the Targaryen prince. He will rally to our side.”

Aegon looks between them, his face pale and drawn, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “And what if that’s not enough?” he demands, his voice a harsh whisper. “What if he brings his dragons here?”

Otto forces himself to stand, his hand resting on the back of Alicent’s chair for support. “Then we will fight,” he says firmly, though his eyes betray the fear that gnaws at him. “We will defend the throne, and we will not let him tear this realm apart.”

The room is tense, the fear and uncertainty thick in the air. Aegon looks around at his council, his eyes wide with desperation. “Do something,” he demands, his voice breaking. “Anything. We cannot let him win.”

Aemond places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze fierce and determined. “We won’t let him take this city,” he promises, his voice low and deadly. “Let him come. I will meet him with fire and blood.”

The words hang in the air, a grim vow that sends a shiver through everyone present. They have seen what your wrath can do, the destruction you are capable of. And they know that the fight that is coming will be like nothing they have faced before.

Otto sinks back into his chair, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glances at Alicent, his eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. “We must be united,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “For our family.”

Alicent nods, though her face is pale, her hands trembling. She turns to Aegon, her voice soft but filled with resolve. “You are the king,” she says, her eyes locked on his. “You must be strong. For all of us.”

Aegon swallows hard, his gaze shifting from his mother to his uncle, then to the rest of his council. “I will try,” he says, his voice a thin, fragile thread. “I will try.”

The room falls silent, the weight of the coming storm pressing down on them all. They are the rulers of a kingdom on the brink of war, a family divided by blood and betrayal. And somewhere beyond the walls of the Red Keep, you and Daemon are coming, your vengeance burning as bright and deadly as dragonfire.

The sun is sinking low over Dragonstone, casting the cliffs and towers in hues of gold and crimson. The air is charged with anticipation, a collective breath held as you and Daemon descend from the sky, your dragons’ massive forms casting shadows across the courtyard below. Silverwing and Caraxes land with a thunderous crash, their wings sending gusts of wind that stir the banners overhead, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra stands at the forefront, her face pale but resolute, surrounded by your children and family. Jace and Luke stand tall beside her, their young faces set with a determination beyond their years. Joffrey is next to his eldest brothers, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mixture of awe and fear. Beside them, Aegon and Viserys, still too young to fully understand the gravity of the moment, huddle together, their small hands gripping each other for reassurance.

Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, stand slightly apart, their faces calm but watchful. Rhaenys is there too, her gaze proud and unyielding, Laenor at her side, his expression one of quiet strength.

Beyond them, your bannermen and retainers have gathered, a sea of loyal faces turned toward you. And beside them, Ser Erryk stands, his armor gleaming in the dying light. In his hands, he cradles the crown of King Viserys, the metal dark and heavy with the weight of your father’s legacy.

You dismount from Silverwing, your boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. The silence is profound, the only sound the rustle of banners and the distant cry of seabirds. Daemon joins you, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, his expression inscrutable.

Rhaenyra steps forward, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel the unspoken question in her gaze, the worry and the fear she tries so hard to hide. You walk to her, your heart a maelstrom of emotions—rage, sorrow, resolve. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she touches your arm.

“You’re back,” she whispers, her voice filled with relief and something more, something fragile.

You nod, your voice low. “I am.”

Her gaze flickers over you, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a confirmation of the man she knows, the man she loves. You see the moment she finds it, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. She glances back at your children, then at Ser Erryk.

Erryk steps forward, his expression solemn as he raises the crown. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice carrying over the courtyard. “The crown of your father, King Viserys. It belongs to you.”

The air is electric, a palpable sense of history turning in this moment. You reach out, your hand steady as you take the crown from Erryk’s hands. It’s heavier than you remember, the metal cold against your skin, the weight of it pressing down on you with a finality that is almost suffocating.

You lift the crown, holding it for a moment, the eyes of everyone present fixed on you. Then, with a deep breath, you place it on your head, the cold metal settling against your brow like a seal, like a promise.

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a soft, reverent sound that grows into a cheer, the voices of your bannermen and retainers rising in unison.

“Long live the King!” they shout, their voices echoing off the stone walls, filling the air with a fierce, defiant energy. “Long live King Y/N Targaryen!”

You turn to face them, your gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, taking in their loyalty, their hope. This is your moment, the beginning of something new, something that will reshape the future of the realm.

But even as the cheers rise around you, your eyes find Rhaenyra’s again, and you see the shadows in her gaze, the unspoken fear that lingers there.

Daemon steps forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Nephew,” he says, his voice low but carrying a note of fierce pride. “The realm will tremble.”

You nod, your gaze steady on his. “It will.”

Rhaenys moves to stand beside Rhaenyra, her eyes sharp and assessing as she looks at you. “The Hightowers will not take this lightly,” she warns, her voice calm but edged with steel. “They will come for you.”

“I welcome it,” you say, your voice carrying a cold, unyielding resolve. “Let them try. They will find a dragon waiting.”

The crowd quiets, the weight of your words sinking in, the reality of what lies ahead settling over them like a shadow. This is not just a crowning; it is a declaration, a promise of fire and blood to come.

You turn back to Rhaenyra, your hand reaching for hers, your fingers intertwining. “This is our fight,” you murmur, your voice for her alone. “For our children, for our family, for Visenya.”

She nods, her grip tightening around yours. “For Visenya,” she echoes, her voice steady, her gaze fierce.

And as you stand there, your family gathered around you, the crown of your father on your head, you know that this is only the beginning. The war has already begun, and you will see it through to the end. You will reclaim what is yours, no matter the cost, no matter the bloodshed.

The dragons have returned, and all of Westeros will feel their fury.

[min-imum]

FLUFFY GYU SMUT !!!!

nsfw, mdni

content warnings: gn!reader, this is actually so fluffy because i love domesticity and i’m a sucker for domestic fluff but also mingyu is too hot so i ended up being a smut account but but but TIYA I MEANT AN ASK WITH CONTENT 😞😞😞😞 it’s okay this means i can write WHATEVER I WANT!!!!!!!! DOMESTIC MINGYU!!!!!!!, super soft sex, super sweet mingyu, AUGH its vanilla and it’s cute, also i literally added tags to this in advance because my dumbass completely forgot to add tags in my previous post and i was like hmm it’s a suspiciously low number of notes for the amount of time this has been up OHHHHHHH no tags., second time i’ve had to rewrite a fic because tumblr said nope sorry we cant save this AND THEN IT JUST DIDNT SAVE EVEN THOUGH I ALREADY SAVED THE DRAFT EARLIER AND I WAS JUST ADDING ON :( im being so fr the first draft was SO much better on god and it was longer too but i forgot what i wrote rAAA

mingyu — your sweet, darling boyfriend. you love him with all your heart and you know he loves you too.

he shows you just how much he loves you all the time. you know he loves you when he crawls up at dawn to make you breakfast. you know he loves you when he crouches to tie your shoelaces for you. you know he loves you when he sends you sweet texts throughout the day, and when he purchases souvenirs from all his travels for you, and when he wraps his big arms around you on a bad day to cushion you and comfort you.

you know he loves you when he makes love to you like this, slow and sweet and filled with emotion.

he kisses you slowly, languidly, and you moan into his mouth as his cock presses into you inch by inch. when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with adoration. it makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

when you finally take him to the hilt, he pauses, litters kisses over your face and neck, presses his lips to your jaw, bites gently at your earlobe, and waits ever so patiently for you to get used to his size inside you.

“you can move, gyu,” you whisper. he kisses you once more as his hips start to move, grunts falling from his lips with each thrust. he leans his forehead against yours tenderly and bumps your noses together affectionately.

his hands roam your body, squeezing gently and feeling you up. he revels in every moan and whine that escapes from your lips. he nuzzles against your cheek sweetly.

as much as you like the rougher, meaner sex you have with him, this sweet love-making is your favourite. he never fails to remind you how much he loves you and how special you are to him.

he presses his nose into your hair and breathes in your scent.

“did you use my shampoo, baby?”

“mhm,” you smile sheepishly. “sorry.”

“don’t apologise. i like it when you smell like me.” he giggles, expression absolutely lovesick. you blush, shy and contented.

“i like smelling like you too.”

he has the sweetest smile on his face, eyes glittery and lips curled, as he fucks you with all the love in the world. he loves making you feel good, he loves taking care of you. he loves you.

soon, you’re cumming over his cock with a long whine, and he fucks you through it. he always makes sure you cum first. and then he follows quickly, rolling his hips into you one last time and emptying himself into you.

finally, he rolls the two of you over so you’re lying on his chest, his cock still buried inside you.

“hi,” you giggle.

“you’re so cute,” mingyu coos. “my adorable baby. i love you so much.”

you smile, eyes bright with happiness and satisfaction. “i love you too.”

“let’s get up soon, okay? i have to clean you up and change the sheets,” he murmurs.

as always, your sweet boyfriend never fails to take care of you and show you how much he loves you.

“okay,” you hum. “five more minutes?”

he strokes your back affectionately and presses a tender kiss to your head. “five more minutes.”

[moronkyne]

If I see someone yuck someone else’s unproblematic yum I’m gonna go crazy

Just because someone posts about something that isn’t probable doesn’t mean you have to go out of your way to say something negative about it.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be negative.” Think about what you said. If someone posts something that isn’t morally wrong, problematic, and/or won’t truly affect you and you still choose to bring you opinion, an opposing opinion, to a space where it was never asked for…it sounds like you’re being pretty negative to me.

But again, that’s just my opinion. It’s not like it’s common sense or whatever. (Ahem sarcasm)

Go ahead. If you say you want to see a character play a game that acquires character customization then say it. If you want an audio that caters towards a specific group of people then say it. It doesn’t matter if it’s not probable, it’s what you want. So wear that shit like a badge, bro.

We’re on a goddamn social media app, stop trying to trash other peoples (unproblematic) takes. Ofc people aren’t gonna always agree with you. If it annoys you then here’s some advice.

Ignore, scroll.

Okay thanks for coming to my Tedtalk.

[hotvintagepoll]

Welcome to the HOT AND VINTAGE MOVIE STARS poll blog!

The Scrungly Little Guys (gender neutral) Contest will start THIS THURSDAY, September 26th. All contestants have now been processed and are ready to scrungle it up for your enjoyment. Reminder that this contest enshrines the weird, the off-putting, the comic, the character actor, and the strange cinema legend. If you need a reminder of what scrungle means, this picture is the golden standard.

All polls—including ongoing polls, previous rounds, old tournaments, the various shadow brackets, the Dracula Daily polls, and fun mini polls—can be found in the #hotvintagepoll tag. I am working on a more complete tagging system so people just here for the polls can navigate the blog more easily, but that's still in the works.

FAQs:

“Define scrungly?” For the purposes of this tournament, a contestant must noticeably present in some way as at least one of these: odd, bizarre, off-putting, disheveled, creeping, feral, small, filthy, silly, funny, kooky, comical, exhausted, or just plain strange. This contest presents a wide array of scrungly appeal, so not every contestant will hit every single one of these (but should, ideally, be a few of them). Scrungles were chosen based on how convincing their submitted propaganda was. This contest is all about oddball character actors, creeping henchmen, comic relief sidekicks—the side characters who never get the credit they deserve in proper rundowns of famous old movie actors.

"How do I decide who to vote for?" Vote on whoever seems scrungliest to you. Do not vote for someone based on hotness alone. The video propaganda, included under the cut, is highly encouraged for showcasing scrungles.

"Is this just like the hotness tournaments?" No. This contest is sillier.

"Hey! Some of these guys sucked and they shouldn't be here!" Yes, some of these guys sucked. I agree with you. For reasons I've gone into before, I don't exclude anyone from the contest for moral reasons, even if I personally think they were garbage. I do this because I cannot responsibly research and vet every competitor's background and legacy, and I'm not comfortable being the moral barometer for everyone, even in cases where I think it's really obvious. You are welcome to vote against people for moral reasons, but as mod I don’t post or boost negative propaganda about anyone.

If I see repetitive, trolling, or bigoted remarks in the comments, I will block you from this bracket. If you want to point out a competitor’s problematic aspects in the replies, that’s fine, but if I see bad-faith trolling, you will be blocked. I will also block if you start harassing other people voting on the polls. If you really hate that someone is winning, please post positive propaganda for their opponent instead.

I welcome additional propaganda for the scrungly little guys in reblogs or asks. I boost the best propaganda I see and try to boost equally for everyone. I don't accept propaganda that’s post-1970 or from non-film appearances. When sending your propaganda, please don't send me too many pics or videos at once (I max out at about four per ask.)

The views expressed in the propaganda are not my own. I don’t alter submissions beyond fixing obvious spelling mistakes. I do choose the poll pics, purposely trying to pick the silliest ones possible for this contest; if you think I could do even sillier, send me one I can use instead. If you think a contestant needs more propaganda, send me an ask with some and let me know if you'd like it added to the poll post if they make it to the next round.

“Who won the major hottie tournaments?” Eartha Kitt and Toshiro Mifune are the reigning hotness champions. They are both living it up by the pool in the sunshine, as far from the shadow realm as possible.

“The....the shadow realm?” All hotties who fail to continue in a hotness tournament are sent to the shadow realm, far below the crust of the earth where the sun never shines, a dark and dismal and gloomy place. (Boris Karloff keeps making everyone try his brandy-based guacamole.)

“Was [this famous person] submitted to any of the tournaments?” Try a tag search for them (ie, [#famous person name] in my search bar). If you still haven’t found your hottie, they either did not fit the criteria of working in movies from 1910-1970, weren't convincingly scrungly in their submission, or were not submitted at all.

“My FAQ isn’t on here :(” send me an ask! I love hearing from you guys—just please check these basics first.

Thank you for being here! Enjoy the polls.

Tournament schedule post-hiatus:

Ongoing: Dracula Daily casting polls

Starting September 26th: Scrungly Little Guys contest (gender neutral)

After that: Ultimate Hottie Tournament (top brackets of the hot men & hot women competing together)

TBD: Hottest On-Screen Couples (Astaire and Rogers, Bogie and Bacall, etc)

TBD: Horror Hotties (Frankensteins, Draculas, Brides, etc.)

TBD: Dandy Detectives (Marples, Sherlocks, Nancy Drews, etc.)

fun mini polls that pit sets of characters from the same movie together, like the Philadelphia Story or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers ones (these can be found in the #minis tag)

[puma-riki]

No One Noticed...

Synopsis: You've never seemed to make friends well. Sure, you had people you knew and were well acquainted with, but no one ever seemed to get closer to you or want to. You think that no one notices you and you'll continue the rest of your college years alone like all the years before. Except Ni-ki notices just about everything you do.

Pairing: Nishimura Riki x Fem! Reader

Genre: Fluff, Humor (or attempts at), sliIght angst, smau + written parts, idiots to lovers, university au, slow burn

Warnings: consistent cursing

Characters: Enhypen (all), Eunchae (lesserafim), Keeho, Soul, (P1Harmony)

Status: Ongoing (Start: 092124)

Taglist: @bee-the-loser @iaintseggsy @channieismylove | Comment on any chapter from No One Noticed... saying you want to be added to the taglist!! or send me an ask !! | bold could not be tagged :c

------------------------------------------------------------

Masterlist | Previous | Next

04. HAPPY WEDNESDAY GUYS‼️‼️ + written

Campus Library 1:54pm

Ni-ki checked his phone for what had to be the 100th time since he took his spot leaning against the wall next to the library stairs. He hadn’t misread your texts, had he? Were you late? Or worse—were you already inside waiting while he was stuck out here, making him look like the kind of guy who didn’t care enough about his grades to show up for a tutoring session he asked for? That thought didn’t sit well, even if it wasn’t possible. Ni-ki had shown up 30 minutes early, too anxious to risk being late.

He opened his phone again, kicking at the small pebbles scattered across the pavement, He was about to send an SOS text to his friends' group chat when he heard a voice

"Are you out here waiting for me?" oh god it was you, he almost broke his neck, turning towards you.

You shifted the worn bag hanging on your shoulder, arms crossed against the breeze carrying the first hints of autumn. Ni-ki locked his phone and shoved his hands into the pockets of his green bomber jacket.

"Uh, yeah." He stood up from against the wall and shuffled his feet awkwardly, "I wasn't sure which study room we were using so, I just thought I'd wait for you to show up" His voice was quiet, and he felt it. This was the first real conversation you two had ever had—and the first time you’d ever looked directly at him.

"Oh, really?" You pouted slightly, your brow furrowing in confusion. Cute, he thought. "I thought I texted you the number. My bad." You walked past him, gesturing toward the stairs. "I’ll make sure I tell you next time, okay?" You smiled softly, tilting your head toward the stairs, signaling for him to follow.

You had only shown up ten seconds ago, and already, Ni-ki's heart was pounding.

He cleared his throat. "Kay," he mumbled, falling into step behind you as you made your way inside the library.

His nerves stayed with him as he climbed the stairs, especially knowing he would soon have to admit he was completely lost in biology—something you excelled at. He didn’t want you to think he was stupid.

After venturing into the library and ascending another flight of stairs, you pulled a keycard from the back pocket of your jeans and tapped it against the door to one of the study rooms.

“This room is reserved for the tutoring program specifically,” you explained, holding the door open for him with a smile. "So, we'll meet here for future sessions too."

Ni-ki felt like he was stepping into a padded cell. He was going to be alone with you in this room for 2 hours, how was he supposed to keep his cool and actually pay attention to the material instead of admiring you. He felt his hands start to sweat in his pockets as he took a seat at the long table sitting horizontally in front of the door after mumbling a shy thanks to you for holding the door for him. He sat his backpack down on the chair next to him as you did the same in the seat across from him.

"So," here came the embarrassment, "What exactly are you struggling with in bio." You gave him a quick glance as you dug in your bag for a notebook and pen.

Ni-ki wiped his hands on his jeans. “Well,” he started, feeling the familiar weight of self-disappointment in his chest, “pretty much everything, honestly.” His voice was quiet, the words almost painful to admit.

"That's okay! Biology is one of the harder classes, plus our professor is kind of a hard ass so it looks harder than it actually is." Your reassurance made his shoulders relax a little, and he let out a breathy laugh, your playful tone helping to ease his tension. You couldn't help but find him a bit cute.

“And it’s still early in the semester,” you continued, smoothing out your notebook page. “I’ll help you catch up.” Your encouraging smile sent a warmth through him. He nodded, wishing he could find his voice.

"Do you have any past quizzes and tests with you?"

“Yeah.” He quickly fumbled through his bag, nerves and the weight of your gaze making his hands clumsy as he pulled out a stack of papers littered with red marks. He felt a pang of embarrassment as he handed them over, watching you flip through his messy work. Red ink stained nearly every page, a reminder of how lost he’d been. He watched as you flipped through them, analyzing where he went wrong and where he had managed to get something right.

“Okay,” you said, setting the papers aside. “We’ll start from chapter one and work through it together. I’ll explain things differently from the professor and see if that helps.” You were already jotting down diagrams and definitions without needing to reference anything, working from memory.

"Okay, cool" he mumbled, trying to not make it obvious that he was taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

You smiled at his shyness, finding it endearing, "Okay so," You finished writing and turned your notebook towards him. As you began explaining biology’s chemical basis, Ni-ki found himself slowly relaxing, nodding along as the confusion in his mind started to unravel. Maybe tutoring wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.

Until you asked him a question.

Ni-kis mind went completely blank when his eyes met yours for the first time in the past hour. He felt heat creep up his neck and to his ears, luckily his hair had been long enough to cover it. he defeatedly admitted that he had no clue how to answer. his eyes downcast at the notebook and your hands instead of your face.

"That's okay! That's why I'm here to help you, you'll get better at it." The warmth in your voice surprised him. He was used to strict teachers, but you were different—gentler. he had partially expected you to be as uptight as some of his professors who would've grown impatient with his hesitation and wouldn't have responded so kindly.

You asked a few more questions throughout the session, and though he got most of the first ones wrong, you explained patiently each time, your soft smiles easing his nerves. When he did manage to get a few answers right, you brightened, praising him and diving deeper into the material. He felt his heart soar and warmth spread through his chest when you did so. With each moment, he felt himself relax, though he stayed shy, mumbling his responses and avoiding eye contact. You didn’t seem to mind, even though it was kind of hard to hear him, but you kept it professional and didn't say anything, not wanting him to feel more embarrassed.

"Okay, its 4:03. We can stop here." You say checking your watch. "Do you have any questions about anything from this chapter?" Your eyes meet his for a split second before he's averting his gaze from you and to a random corner in the room.

Ni-ki shook his head, "Not that I can think of,"

"Alright, then. Don't hate me for what I'm about to do" You tease, taking the notebook you both worked in for 2 hours and scribbling something down on a clean page.

Ni-ki raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. "What are you doing?" He tilted his head to try and get a glimpse of what you were writing. after a minute you slide the notebook back towards him.

"Before Friday, try answering these questions so we can see if things are making more sense." You say, clicking your pen closed and putting it back into your bag. "You can keep the notebook, by the way."

"You're giving me homework?" He jokes, a pout forming on his lips, as he picks up the notebook and scans the questions you wrote down, there were only 5.

"I said don’t hate me!" you laughed. “Text me if you have any questions, okay?" you laughed lightly as you stood up and slung your satchel-like bag over your shoulder. You watched him nod, beginning to put the notebook in his bag with the rest of his stuff.

"Okay, I will, Thank you [name]" he gave you a friendly smile as you began pushing in your chair and made your way to the door.

"Of course, see you Friday Ni-ki!" you gave him a small wave and opened the door.

"See you Friday" he echoed after you. The door clicked shut and then you were gone, leaving him to sit with the fluttering in his chest.

[fxckadoodledoomunson]

A Heart Divided -3-

Previous

|3| The mermaid’s wrath…

Summary: The truth about your sister and Eddie comes to light, leading your parents to make a decision. And on the day of the semifinal, Eddie gives you a piece of his mind.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, slight mention of sex but no smut, Eddie Jason and Andy being dicks, fat shaming.

Tagged: @somethingvicked @ali-r3n @mirandasidefics @mewchiili @erisdogwood @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @yourdailymemedelivery @pretendthisnameisclever

You rode as fast as you could, unaware that you left your bag behind at Steve’s. You were unsure why your father wanted you home immediately. But you figured that it had to be something to do with your sister. As soon as you arrived at your house, you got off your bike and you rushed to the front door, swinging it open. As soon as you shut the door behind you, you shouted, “I’m home.”

You walked through the living room, as you asked, “Why did you need back so…quickly?”

You stopped, as you saw your father holding your sister’s broken radio while your mother was on the sofa, comforting your sister, who you could see, was putting on the crocodile tears. Your father approached you, as he lifted the radio in front of you. “I need you to be honest with us,” he sternly said, before asking you. “Did you break your sister’s radio?”

Before you could even answer, your sister sniffled, “Don’t know why you’re asking her, Daddy. She’s only going to deny it.”

As your mother comforted her, you crossed your arms, confessing, “Yes, I did.”

Your father gave you a stern look, while your mother who was still cuddling your sister, as she asked, “Why would you do that? What gave you the right to do break something that brings happiness to your sister? You know that she loved that radio.”

Your blood started to boil, disgusted at your mother’s words. Before you knew it, you blew up. “Why? Why?!”

Your parents flinched at your wrath. In their eyes, you were mild, hardly getting mad at anything. But in that moment, all they could see was just an angry teenager.

“Maybe if she and Eddie weren’t being inconsiderate arseholes, making things hard for me by fooling around when I’m trying to study and practice for the swimming competition, and-“

“Whoa!” Your father exclaimed, raising his hand for you to stop, before turning to your sister, before asking her, “Eddie? As in Eddie Munson? The boy your sister’s been tutoring?”

“Oh! Don’t be absurd,” your mother interjected. “She wouldn’t-“

Suddenly, you heard the door knocking. Your father pointed at you and your sister, as he sternly said, “We’re not finished.”

He stomped to the door and opened it, to find Laura Cunningham standing outside.

“Laura, what brings you here?” He asked.

Without asking your father’s permission, Laura stormed inside. “I need to speak to your wife,” she announced, as stomped into the living room.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” She asked.

Your mother mentioned to her that you had broken your sister’s radio, before mentioning your sister and Eddie’s relationship.

“I mean, have you heard anything more absurd?” Your mother nervously laughed, before her laughter died down, as she met Laura’s glare.

“Actually I have,” Laura spoke, before revealing. “You see, I went to see Mrs Banks earlier for coffee and a chat about her son’s sermon, and she told me what she had witnessed.”

Your sister lowered her gaze to the ground, as your parents attentively listened to what Laura was saying, mentioning that not only Mrs Banks saw you break your sister’s radio, but also mentioned what she and Eddie had gotten up to after you left.

Laura pointed her finger at your sister, as she told her, “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady. I’m only thankful that my son wasn’t home to hear you doing all sorts.”

Laura shuddered, when your father turned to your sister, and gave her a stern look, as he asked, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Your sister looked up at him, before shifting her gaze to you, giving you a sly smirk. She then turned to your father and Laura, and confessed, “Yes, Eddie and I have been seeing each other ever since spring break. And we did it…a lot.”

Your parents gasped, as Laura looked like she was going to have a heart attack. Your mother went to check on Laura who retaliated, “Don’t. Just know that you and your family are no longer welcome to our home. Not until you turn away from sin.”

As your parents pleaded and apologised to their neighbour, you turned to your sister who was still looking smug, before angrily rushing upstairs to your room, your father called out to you, as he followed you only to have the door slammed shut in his face when he heard another knock on the door. As he stomped down the stairs, your father groaned, “Who is it this time? Devil worshippers?!”

He opened the door to find Steve standing outside.

“Oh, hello Steve,” your father greeted him.

As Steve greeted your father, he overheard your mother, your sister and Laura arguing, before asking, “Is this a bad time?”

Your father stepped out and closed the door behind him, drowning out the arguments. “What brings you here?” He asked.

Steve lifted up your bag, handed it over to him, letting him know that you left it behind.

“Oh, thank you very much,” your father replied. “I’ll pass it back to her.”

Just as your father was about to go back inside when Steve asked him, “Also, could you let her know that if she needs more practice that she’s welcome to come to my place again?”

Your father gave him a small smile, before telling him, “I will do.”

After saying goodbye, your father stepped back inside, leaving Steve to go back to his car when Chrissy approached him.

“Hey,” she greeted him, as she crossed her arms.

“Hey,” Steve replied, as he leaned against his car door.

“I take it that my mom’s still in there?”

Steve furrowed his eyebrows when Chrissy mentioned that the pastor’s mother saw Eddie with your sister earlier and snitched on them to her mother, as she looked up at one of the upstairs windows, before commenting that she hoped that you were okay.

“Well,” Steve shrugged, as he replied, “She was still down about Eddie and her sister when I spoke to her earlier.”

Chrissy shook her head, as she told him, “There’s definitely more going on than what we know. I mean, her sister was never nice to a lot of people. When I first joined the cheer squad, she always teased me for being too short for cheer.”

“She may be hot, but she was always a bitch. She makes Carol Perkins look like Snow White.”

Chrissy stifled her giggle as Steve lightly chuckled, “Well she does. But I get what you mean.” Steve leaned his head back, as he asked, “ I mean, how could Munson fall for someone like her sister who wouldn’t have look at him twice at high school?”

Chrissy nodded, as she told him that you had always been nice to him even before you began tutoring him. “My heart broke for her when she admitted that she liked him,” she confessed, making Steve move his head forward, facing Chrissy.

“I figured that she had a thing for him, even before the whole situation,” Steve revealed, as he looked down at the ground. “Unrequited love sucks.”

As Chrissy stood beside him, and leaned against his car, she asked, “Do you like her?”

Steve furrowed his eyebrows, as he turned to her when she asked if he liked you.

“Uh…no!” Steve retorted , as he raised his hands. “I do like her, but definitely not in that way.”

“Oh,” a surprised Chrissy exclaimed. “I thought you…”

“Definitely not. I’ve always thought of her as a sister, and the feelings are mutual.” Steve let out a chuckle for a few seconds before hearing the door open.

It was Laura.

As she stomped on the pavement, she turned to her daughter and sternly said, “Chrissy, come inside. That family is no longer welcome in our home.”

A confused Chrissy turned to Steve, as she silently walked away when Steve called out, “I’ll see you around, Chrissy.”

Chrissy turned her head, giving him a small smile, before turning away as she followed her mother.

Meanwhile, you were sitting on your bed in your pyjamas, drying your hair with a towel when you heard a knock on your door.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking that it was your sister standing outside. But then, you heard your father’s voice, “It’s only me, pumpkin.”

You huffed, before telling him to come in. As soon as he opened the door, your father lifted your bag, as he said, “That Harrington boy said that you left it at his place.”

You couldn’t believe that you left your bag behind. As he handed it to you, he assured you, “Don’t worry, I made sure that your sister didn’t peak inside.”

You softly thanked him, when your father sat on the bed beside you, before he asked, “Do you want to talk about it? About your sister and Eddie?”

You shook your head, trying to fight the tears. You could tell Steve and Chrissy about your feelings, but sadly, you couldn’t do the same with your family.

Your father sighed, before informing you, “Listen, I thought I should let you know first, as you knew Eddie before their relationship. I’m planning to invite Eddie and his uncle over for dinner tomorrow night.”

You lifted your head and swiftly turned it, as you were about to protest against the idea when your father mentioned, “Since the relationship’s out in the open, we might as well do it. Besides, I want to hear Wayne’s thoughts about it. But if it makes you uncomfortable, then I won’t-“

You shook your head, as you blankly told him, “Do it. It would happen sooner than later, so invite them over.”

You didn’t want it to happen, but like your father, you wanted to know Wayne’s input on the relationship. It was wishful thinking, but you hoped that maybe by tomorrow night, Eddie will change his mind about dating your sister.

“No way. Are you serious?” Chrissy asked you the next day after you told her that your father had invited Eddie and Wayne over for dinner.

“I wish I wasn’t,” you replied, as you and her were sitting on the bleachers, as you watched the first two groups play volleyball. “There’s no way I can go through with it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Chrissy assured you, as she squeezed your hand. “And you said that his uncle’s coming, so maybe Eddie will have to behave himself in front of him.”

You sighed, as you shifted your attention to Eddie, who was sitting in the bottom row of the bleachers, talking to Grant, who begged Eddie not to cancel Hellfire, while watching Jeff play.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not cancelling. It’ll just be later than usual,” Eddie told him. “Her parents want me and Wayne over for dinner.”

As soon as Eddie turned his head, you swiftly shifted your attention back to the two teams playing. Not long after, the coach blew his whistle, telling the teams to go and sit on the benches, before calling the rest of the class, including you to step to the net.

You couldn’t think of anything more awkward than being on the same team as Eddie, especially as he looking back at you before muttering to himself. Fortunately, you had Chrissy, Patrick and Aimee on your team.

However, you felt bad for Grant who was stuck on the same team as Jason, Andy and Chance along with Andy’s girlfriend, Hannah.

You could hear Robin and Vickie cheering for you while Jeff cheered for his friends before hearing the coach telling everyone to get into position, as he passed the ball to Jason. As you moved further back away from Eddie, the coach raised his hand before swiftly move it down, as he blew the whistle, letting the match commence.

As soon as Jason served the ball net, you watched the ball heading for Patrick, who smacked it towards Chrissy, who then hit it towards Aimee, who managed to smack it over the net. Grant tried to hit it over, but missed, earning a point to your team. After you gave high-fives to the girls and Patrick, you turned to Eddie, who had his arms crossed, and was about to high-five him only for you to remember that you and him were not on good terms. As you lowered your hand down, you and Eddie noticed Jason and Andy ganging up on Grant for missing the ball. “What was that, freak?” Jason sneered.

“I bet if it was a giant meatball, he would catch it,” Andy cackled.

Eddie was about to give the curly haired meat head a piece of his mind when you called out, “Hey Andy! Why don’t you quit fat shaming someone, and actually learn how to play?”

Eddie and Jeff exchanged surprised looks as they heard you defend Grant, who was unsure whether or not to thank you for sticking up for him.

Eddie turned to look at you when you quickly faced onwards. Why did she do that? He thought. I thought she…

The whistle blew, making Eddie lose his train of thoughts.

As the coach passed the ball to Aimee, Eddie shook his head as he thought, I’m sure she only said it to make herself look good.

After the whistle blew again, Aimee began to serve, hitting the ball over the net, heading towards Chance, who managed to hit it towards Jason, who then smacked the ball between you and Eddie, causing you two to collide and fall, earning the point to Jason’s team.

After you managed to pick yourself up, you stuck out your hand, offering it to Eddie, only for him to harshly smack it away, before picking himself up. You hissed as you rubbed your hand, realising that he scratched your palm when Chrissy checked if you were okay. You silently nodded, as Chrissy glared at Eddie, while Robin shook her head.

After Chance served, Patrick smacked the ball back, only for it to be hit by Hannah, who smacked it to your direction. With your hand still feeling sore, you used your other hand to hit the ball, only for it to hit the net, giving Jason’s team another point.

While the rest of the team praised you for trying, Eddie scoffed, before muttering, “Clearly doing it for attention as always.”

His words angered you. You didn’t know what you did to make him treat you like shit. You didn’t know if your sister had said or did something to make him think about you the way he did, but all you knew is that you were no longer tolerating it.

As soon as Andy smacked the ball towards you, you grabbed it, making your teammates, including Eddie, wonder what you were doing when you abruptly threw the ball square right in Eddie’s face, causing him to fall down on his back.

Everyone became shocked when they noticed blood gushing from Eddie’s nose. Jeff and Grant rushed to his side to pick him up, as Jeff asked you, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” As soon as Eddie got to his feet, he told them, “I’m fine.”

He elbowed them, as he bellowed, “I said I’m fine!”

As he wiped his bloodied nose, Eddie stomped towards you, getting up close as he growled, “You really are a fucking psycho. Your sister was right about you.”

Angered by his words, you slapped him across the face. Andy and Jason chortled at what they had witnessed when the coach blew his whistle as he approached you two and shouted, “Okay! That’s enough! You two! Principal’s office now!”

A few moments later, the two of you waited outside the principal’s office. While you had a an ice pack for one hand and a bandaid for your scratched one, Eddie held a tissue up his nostril, leaning his head back, as he muttered, “You didn’t need to be so dramatic, I was just telling you what she said.”

You turned your head, silently judging him for being a arsehole, as you told him bluntly, “You’ll make yourself choke if you tilt your head back.”

Eddie silently mocked you, when he started to choke, causing him to spit the blood out of his mouth on his shirt, which disgusted the receptionist. You immediately went to her desk and grabbed some tissues for Eddie.

“I did tell you,” you retorted, as you passed him the tissues. Eddie, who snatched the tissues off you, as he glared at you when the door opened with Higgins stepping outside, asking for you to come in. As you followed Higgins, Eddie commented something crude about you being Higgins’ pet to you when you harshly threw your ice pack on his crotch.

“Jesus,” Eddie winced, as he removed it from his crotch, placing it on the chair next to him.

After Higgins asked you to take a seat, you bluntly said, “Look, just get it over with and suspend me or expel me. Because I really don’t want to be here right now.”

Higgins looked at you with concern. You were one of the brightest students in the school, and hearing that you got into a fight with Eddie Munson, he had to think of something so that the school’s reputation wasn’t ruined.

He sighed, as he told you, “You’re one of our best students, and one of our star swimmers. It would be a shame if it was thrown away because of one bad seed, especially as the race is tomorrow.”

You wanted to tell him that Eddie wasn’t a bad seed, despite how he treated you of late and how he pushed you to throw the ball at him, causing his injury.

However, you remained silent when Higgins continued to speak, “However, given your…recent aggressive behaviour, you’ll be given a week’s detention starting from next week and I advise you to see Ms Kelly once a week for the next month.”

That’s all? I expected worse, you thought, as you watched him write a pink slip, before handing it to you, as he told you that you’re free to go. As you left, you heard Higgins say, while walking past Eddie, “Mr Munson, back here again…” As soon as you left the office, you were walking through the hallway where you were greeted by Chrissy, Robin and Vickie.

“Are you okay?” Chrissy asked.

“What happened?” Vickie asked.

“Did you get suspended?” Robin asked.

You shook your head, as you told them that you had detention from next week and you were advised to see Ms Kelly.

“To be honest, I was expecting a lot worse,” you replied, when Chrissy took your hand and checked your palm, before suggesting, “I think we should go to the nurse to get it wrapped-“

You shook your head, as you told her, “I’ll be fine.”

Suddenly, the girls’s faces fell, as Eddie marched through the hallway, glaring at your direction, as he stormed past. You and the girls watched him heading outside, as Robin asked, “Who does he think he is, treating you like shit?”

You deeply sighed, wondering about the repercussions that would follow.

Later on in the evening, your mother was preparing the dinner, while your sister was putting on her make up when your mother asked her, “Honey, can you help me set the table?”

“Mum, I’m trying to do my makeup,” she retorted before telling her to ask you instead. She then complained about not having a new dress for the dinner.

Meanwhile, you were in the living room, being lectured by your father about the earlier altercation between you and Eddie.

“You’re lucky that you didn’t get kicked out of tomorrow’s semifinal. You could’ve lost your scholarship, you do realise that?”

“Yes sir,” you responded with sincerity. Your father sighed, as he sat down next to you, before taking your injured hand, and told you, “Look, I know things have been awkward since your sister’s relationship had been brought to light, but I need you to-“

“And apologise to Eddie, I know,” you told him.

“Well, it’ll definitely show that you’re being the bigger person. But also, I want you to make sure that you’re on top of everything. You’re graduating soon, so you can’t let yourself slip up. Okay?”

You silently nodded, as your father patted your back when you heard the doorbell ring.

After your father asked you to answer it, you got up from the couch and headed to the door and opened it, finding Wayne and a bruised Eddie standing outside.

You were unsure how Wayne would greet you, given your earlier fight with Eddie. What you didn’t expect however, was Wayne smiling at you, as he opened his arms to give you a hug.

You lightly hugged him back with a puzzled expression on your face, wondering why Eddie didn’t snitch on you. After he let go, Wayne turned to Eddie, telling him to give you a hug. You turned to Wayne with confusion, before shifting your attention to Eddie who huffed, before stepping towards you and reluctantly hugged you, while Wayne shook your father’s hand. You were about to apologise to Eddie for earlier when your sister stepped out of the kitchen and rushed towards him, as she greeted him in a shrill voice, “Hi baby.”

Wayne rubbed his ear, irritated by her voice while Eddie immediately pulled away from you and went to kiss your sister, when she stopped him, telling him that she had just done her makeup.

“That hasn’t stopped me before,” Eddie lightly chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, as you headed into the kitchen where your mother asked you to help set the table, unaware that Wayne was watching you with sympathetic eyes.

All through out dinner, the adults were chatting and your sister and Eddie were flirting, while you sat there, silently fiddling with your food with your fork when Wayne said to your parents, “I must confess, when you said that Eddie’s been seeing one of your daughters, I thought it would be her.”

He pointed to you, which made you lift your head up when he continued to speak, “Then I figured maybe they finally reconciled after their fallout.”

You then heard Eddie scoff , before he retorted, “Well, he thought wrong. I’d say that I picked the right sister…” He then took your sister’s hand, making her smirk, before he muttered, “And not that psycho bitch.”

Your eyes widened, as you heard Eddie. You looked around the table, feeling embarrassed, almost at the brink of tears. Your father was about to open his mouth when Wayne sternly told Eddie, as he put down his cutlery, “Eddie, apologise to her.”

Eddie silently glared at you when Wayne told him, with a more angry tone, “Eddie, I said apologise to her.”

Eddie swiftly turned his head to his uncle and retorted, “Why should I? She’s the one who started it. Did you not hear me tell you that she almost broke my nose?”

Wayne turned your parents as he coolly asked them to excuse him, so he could talk to his nephew in private.

As soon as Wayne got up, he grabbed Eddie by the arm and dragged him out of the dining room, telling him, “I’m aware of that incident between you two, but I also know that I brought you up to have manners.”

While the pair were arguing, you sat there silently when your sister spat, “I hope you’re happy. You ruined everything.”

Your mother tried to calm her down, when your sister whined, “No! She always ruins everything for me-“

Your father told her to stop, which led to an argument between your family.

Tears streamed down your face, hearing the commotion around you when you suddenly heard a clock ticking, followed by a deep voice telling you, “She’s right…you do ruin everything…”

Unable to take it anymore, you pushed your chair back so hard that you almost broke the leg and shouted, “Stop it! Just stop it!”

The house became silent, as everyone turned to you, gaping, while your sister commented, “Gross…”

You realised that blood was dripping from your nose. As soon as you wiped it away with your sleeve, you immediately ran out of the dining room and headed to your room as your father called your name when you slammed the door behind you, before sliding down against it, as you sobbed.

“What’s going on with me?” You blubbered, unsure what was happening to you. Ever since you found out about your sister, you had been getting bad headaches, then the recurring nightmares in the past two nights, and earlier on, you heard a dark voice echoing what your sister commented, along with a nosebleed.

Back downstairs, your father apologised to Wayne and Eddie for your outburst when Wayne shook his head, as he calmly said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard worse.”

“Well, at least that’s one less mouth to feed,” your sister snidely commented, which made Wayne’s blood boil, wondering what Eddie saw in her.

Instead of confronting her, Wayne took a deep breath before asking your mother where the bathroom was.

After been given the directions, Wayne went upstairs. However, he went to the door with your name on it, and knocked on it.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dad,” you sobbed from the other side of the door. “Please leave me alone.”

“It’s me, kiddo,” Wayne called out. Not long after, you opened the door, revealing your puffy eyes.

“Wayne, I can’t tell you how sorry I am-“ you began to apologise when Wayne stopped you by hugging you.

“I understand what you’re going through,” Wayne told you, as he let go of you, before sitting on the edge of your bed. “I’ve been on the same boat myself.”

You looked at him with a confused expression, as he patted the bed, prompting you to sit next to him.

As you sat down, Wayne told you that he loved a girl who gave him the same treatment as Eddie gave you.

“She started treating me like crap for no reason after she got together with my brother. I couldn’t understand why she did it, even to this day. But I’m sure that Al said something to her put her off.”

“And, was this girl…Eddie’s mother?”

Wayne shook his head, telling you, “No, not sweet Elizabeth. She was an angel. No, this was before my brother met her. This girl’s name was Eunice. Unfortunately for her, she got her heartbroken by Al after he was seeing her best friend behind her back.”

“Oh God…” you muttered, “Well, it’s her loss I guess.”

He had let out a small chuckle, as silently gazed at him, before you began asking, “How long have you known…?”

“It wasn’t hard to tell,” Wayne lightly chuckled, as he replied. “I saw how your face lit up whenever you looked at him during your tutoring sessions.”

Meanwhile, Eddie went upstairs to find his uncle when he overheard you two talking.

“It’s just a shame that you two are no longer on good terms,” Wayne told you.

“How did know about me and Eddie?” You asked.

“I saw him and the Mayfield girl arguing about you. She saw the way he spoke to you on the first day back, and gave him grief for it.”

You sighed, before telling him, “I don’t know what I did wrong, Wayne. Before spring break, we were fine, but now everything’s gone to shit.”

Can’t believe she’s got Wayne on her side, Eddie angrily thought. But she won’t get away with it.

Eddie snuck into your sister’s room and got on all fours, as he searched under her bed when he found what he had been looking for.

“Gotcha,” he whispered, as he pulled out a diary from underneath the bed.

He tucked the diary into his inside pocket, before picking himself up from the floor. As soon as he left the bedroom, he called out Wayne’s name.

As soon as Wayne’s head popped his head out of the door, Eddie said, “I thought you were in the bathroom.”

“Oh, I was,” Wayne lied, before telling him that he was just saying goodbye to you.

“Well, we need to get going so I can get the campaign started, and introduce everyone to my girl,” Eddie told him, as he ambled towards your door.

You stood up, trying to suppress your emotions, as Wayne looked at his watch, before he said to you, “We better make a move. I’ll see you tomorrow at the race.”

You nodded, as the two men were about to leave when you called out to Eddie, who reluctantly turned around.

“I’m sorry about earlier, I should’ve controlled my anger.”

Eddie’s face softened, as he felt confused. The last thing he expected was an apology from you. However, he quickly thought you were made to apologise by your parents.

Eddie remained silent when Wayne nudged him, as he asked, “Eddie, do you have any to say to her?”

Eddie glanced at his uncle, before shifting his attention back to you. He cleared his throat, before mumbling, “Sorry…”

“Eddie?” Wayne sternly said.

Eddie sighed, before speaking up, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have kept pushing your buttons.”

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Wayne said, as he patted Eddie’s shoulder. “We better make a move.”

After saying goodbye to you, Wayne immediately went downstairs to say goodbye to the rest of the family.

You went to sit down on your bed, reaching for something in your bedside table draw when you realised that Eddie was still standing by the door. You turned to him and asked, “Was there something else?”

Eddie blankly gazed at you, before scoffing as he went back downstairs.

You huffed, as you shook your head, before grabbing your diary from your draw and started writing…

The mermaid had never been so angry in her life, until the not so valour bard had pushed her too far. Fortunately, the wise man was able to help keep the peace between the two of them for now.But how long will it be before the storm of conflict started to rage again?

The next day, almost the whole town came to see the race. You were outside the changing room, making sure that all of your hair was tucked in your cap, as thought about what happened last night when you heard someone calling your name. You turned to find Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Max approaching you. To be truthful, you were prepared for the boys to give you the same treatment as Eddie and the older boys had given you.

“We just wanted to wish you luck on the race,” Mike told you.

“Yeah, you’ll totally blow everyone away,” Dustin said, as he smiled at you.

“Oh, thanks,” you replied, feeling surprised. “I’m surprised that you guys are actually talking to me, after I’ve been avoiding you and Hellfire.”

“Well, Max told us what happened with you and Eddie,” Lucas explained.

“And what a total asshole he’s been to you lately,” Max elaborated.

“Sinclair!” You heard Jason calling Lucas, telling him to sit with him and the rest of the jocks.

After Lucas wished you good luck, he and Max went to take their seats when Dustin spoke up, “Listen, even though Mike and I are still hanging out with Eddie,” Dustin mentioned. “We know that you’re not like what he said. So whatever his problem is, I just hope that he’ll see sense.”

“Not with his new girlfriend around he won’t,” Mike mumbled.

“So, my sister actually went to the campaign then?” You asked, as you crossed your arms.

“Yeah she did,” Dustin replied. “Although, all she did was flirt with Eddie when he was supposed to be Dungeon Master.”

“He even ended the campaign early, just so he could spend more time with her,” Mike mentioned. “I hate to admit it, but since he got with her, his story telling has fallen flat. Even Gareth, Jeff and Grant agreed.”

“Is that so, Wheeler?”

You looked up to find Eddie standing behind the wary freshmen, who turned to him and started rambling when Eddie pulled them back, dragging them to the bleachers, as he told them before pushing them to the barrier, “We’ll discuss my story telling skills later.”

After the two freshmen took their seats, Eddie turned around, darkly looking at you, as he growled, “I need to talk to you.”

Before you could answer, Eddie discreetly grabbed your arm, pulling you into the changing room.

“What are you doing?” You angrily asked. “I need to be out there-“

“You might have pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes, thinking that you’re so innocent.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked. “I don’t know what I did-“

You stopped, as Eddie pulled out the hidden diary of his jacket pocket, and held it near your face. You realised that it was identical to your own diary, but you knew that it wasn’t yours.

“Recognise this?” Eddie asked, as he moved it away, before opening it up, flipping through the pages.

“It looks like a diary,” you replied. “But whatever you think it is, it’s not-“

“Looks like I have no choice but to tutor the freak. How he’s a senior three years in a row, I’ll never know,” Eddie read aloud, which left you confused.

“What? What are you-?”

“I don’t know why I bother helping him. The freak should just give up and drop out.”

Before you could say anything else, Eddie flipped through the pages, before reading aloud, “Corroded Coffin, ha! What a joke! Those guys couldn’t even carry a paper bag, let alone a tune.”

He then glared at you, as he said whilst flipping the page, “Here’s another…”

He then read aloud, “Who would’ve thought that the Hellfire Club could be so dull? I would rather have my ears chopped off by Freddy Krueger than hear that dreary so called campaign again.”

You glanced at him with confusion once again, as Eddie slammed the diary shut, before waving it about, whilst asking, “Any of that ring any bells?”

“You think that I wrote that kind of shit?” You asked.

Eddie opened one of the pages, showing it to you, as he scoffed, “This is your handwriting, is it not?”

Before you could respond, Eddie read one more page to you, “Munson really thinks he’s God’s gift to women, because he can play that stupid guitar. How any woman can stand him, I’ll never know.”

He slammed the diary shut once more, as he sighed, “Now, not gonna lie… that one really hurt. Especially, as I actually liked you. And I don’t mean as a friend.”

You gaped, hearing the confession.

“You liked me?” You whispered, as a tear fell down your cheek.

“Yeah, liked, as in past tense.”

Eddie sarcastically laughed, as he put the diary back in his pocket, before telling you. “You know, I thought you were different from the other girls I’ve been with. But you’re just the same. At least your sister had the decency to show me the type of person you really are.”

You gasped, realising that your sister might be the reason for Eddie’s recent treatment towards you.

Just as Eddie was about to leave, you rushed behind him, and grabbed his hand, as called out to him, “Eddie, wait. Eddie, listen to me. You have to believe me.”

Eddie angrily turned to you, as you continued to speak, “It may look like my handwriting, but believe me, I never wrote any of that. Why would I write those things? Why would I write all that shit about you when I actually liked-?”

“Don’t!” Eddie growled. “Don’t you dare say that you actually had feelings for me. You mean nothing to me anymore.”

You silently sobbed when you heard the coach calling your name. You wiped your tears away, as you headed out of the locker room, leaving Eddie behind.

He took deep breaths, as he was about to leave when he heard a door slam open from the changing room. He then turned to find an angry Chrissy standing in her cheer outfit, clenching her fists.

Eddie’s face fell, as he glanced at her, muttering her name.

“We need to talk,” she growled, as she stomped towards him and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the fire exit door, as she said in an angry tone, “Now.”

Next

[wardenofthefade]

I have unwillingly seen the latest Discourse surrounding the number of choices made in previous games (spoiler tag stuff y'all I beg) that matter in Veilguard and people are mad because it's like 3 or something and bemoaning the death of bioware now and

I mean guys I'd love it if they'd account for every last little choice we'd made and give us extra content but they were never going to do that. When I think back to Inquisition VS the size of the Keep, it's laughable. Genuinely, what decisions mattered from DA2 or Origins, materially, in Inquisition? Who you made King/Queen in Origins. Did you do the DR or not. What happened to Alistair, I suppose. And then we had a few codex entries, sure, to account for some of the others. But so many other choices did not matter. Did Leliana die in your Origins run? Wellllllll she's still here (we'll do some text on an ending slide for ya). Did you help Dagna join the Circle?? Welllllll she's here but she'd be here regardless! LOL!

At the end of the day the choices given in the other games IMO were basically worthless. I just played Origins & Inquisition to completion, and the only special choice that pops into my mind honestly is the fate of Connor.... and that's just whether or not an NPC is hanging out in Redcliffe or not. Again I'd love it but like. I have never felt like our choices actually mattered much to begin with lol. They matter in the game you're playing, and then the carry over is iffy. I want that carryover as much as anybody else, I just knew it wasn't gonna happen. I don't think this will feel any different from how Inquisition felt.

Ok now I go crawl back in my spoiler-free cave until the 31st of October. Just had to rant slash laugh for a minute here.

[abyssal-ilk]

I really wish a Dalish Elf could point out to Vivienne that the only reason Clans keep minimal mages is because they want to avoid Templars pulling up and massacre-ing everyone for harboring a bunch of apostates. I wish I could know what her reaction is to that particular detail she leaves out. She would probably have a new excuse locked and loaded but I wish I could hear it.

going to use this ask to complain about the treatment dalish mages get in dragon age inquisition, because the idea that the dalish cast out their mages when there are "too many of them" is something bioware completely pulled out of their ass for dai. in previous games and dragon age media, the dalish are shown to be nothing but accepting and protective of their mages, no matter how many mages there are in a single clan. the idea that the dalish would cast out a young child (in the case of minaeve, the creature specialist in haven) or an adult mage (in the case of dalish from the bull's chargers) because there are supposedly "too many mages" in one clan is. ridiculous.

i do fully agree that the dialogue options an elven inquisitor are given during that conversation are like. extremely bad, though. bc they are. but it's such a break off from the already established lore of how the dalish treat the mages in their clan that i can't get past it long enough to genuinely pick apart vivienne's reaction to it because. that's just. not how dalish mages were treated previously. but yes, the dialogue options should of been different.

edit: this was originally just in my tags, but i figure i'd add this bit too incase this is reblogged

[cb-polls-stuff]

So, I wear glasses. Not that that’s obvious. My previous pair, these black rectangular things, were always really dirty. I didn’t properly clean them very often. I just wiped them off with my shirt every now and then.

Now, with my current pair, more ovular clear glasses, I wipe them down pretty often, and I always use a proper cloth for the lenses—never my shirt.

So, I’m wondering.

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (17)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 16

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh @your-favorite-god

The wind howls through the darkness as you and Lucerys descend toward Storm’s End, the storm lashing at you with a fury that seems almost personal. Rain slashes against your face, the icy droplets biting into your skin, but you keep your gaze steady, guiding Silverwing through the turbulent air. Below, the formidable walls of Storm’s End loom like a fortress of shadow and stone, the courtyard barely visible through the sheets of rain.

Luke’s dragon, Arrax, circles closer to Silverwing, the smaller dragon clearly uneasy. You see Luke’s head turn sharply as a deep, resonant roar echoes from beyond the castle walls. The massive form of Vhagar, barely visible through the gloom, hovers like a specter, her silhouette outlined by flashes of lightning. Silverwing responds with a piercing shriek, her muscles tensing beneath you, and you feel her desire to charge, to face this ancient beast that looms so ominously in the storm.

“Easy,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the storm’s fury, your hand resting firmly on Silverwing’s neck. You turn to Luke, his face pale but determined, his eyes wide with the fear he’s trying so hard to suppress. “Stay close to me,” you shout, your voice carrying through the wind. “Let’s go inside.”

He nods, swallowing hard as Arrax huddles closer to Silverwing’s larger form, the younger dragon seeking comfort and protection. You guide your son down to the courtyard, Silverwing landing with a thundering crash, her wings beating furiously against the storm.

“Come on!” you call to Luke, your voice firm but gentle, trying to instill some of your own resolve in him. “We have a message to deliver.”

The guards, soaked and shivering, move forward hesitantly as you dismount, their eyes flicking nervously between you and the dragons. You stride forward, your hand on Luke’s shoulder, your gaze locked on the doors to the great hall. “Take us to Lord Borros,” you order, your voice brooking no argument. “We have urgent business.”

They nod, too awed or too frightened to protest, and lead you through the heavy wooden doors and into the hall. The warmth inside is a shock after the storm outside, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows over the stone walls. The scent of smoke and wet earth fills your nostrils as you step forward, Luke close beside you.

Lord Borros Baratheon sits at the head of the hall, his bulk towering even from his seat, his daughters arrayed around him. His gaze shifts from you to Luke, and then, with a visible effort, to Aemond, who stands off to the side, a mocking smile playing at his lips. Borros’s face is strained, the muscles in his jaw clenched as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

“Y/N Targaryen,” Borros begins, his voice deep and rough, but with an edge that betrays his unease. “What brings you here, in such weather? Do you come to set my house ablaze as you did Oldtown?”

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze with a cold, steady stare. “I come to remind you of your oath,” you reply, your voice ringing through the hall, filled with the authority that comes with your birthright. “You swore to my father, King Viserys, and to me, your loyalty. I have come to see if you will honor that vow, cousin.”

Borros shifts in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he tries to muster his courage. “And if I don’t?” he challenges, his tone laced with a defiance that is almost brave. “Will you burn Storm’s End as you did Oldtown? Is that your answer to those who won’t bow to you?”

Before you can respond, Aemond steps forward, his smile widening, his eye gleaming with a dark, malicious light. “Half-brother,” he drawls, his voice carrying a mockery that grates against your nerves. “Will you force your will upon this house, as you have others? Or are you afraid to face a real dragon?”

Your hand clenches around the hilt of your sword, a cold anger settling in your gut. “Mind your tongue, Aemond,” you warn, your voice low and dangerous. “I’m not here for you.”

Luke, beside you, shifts uneasily, his eyes flicking between you and Aemond. “We came to deliver a message,” he says, his voice trembling slightly but steady. “To ask for Lord Borros’s support, as he promised.”

Borros leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting between you, Luke, and Aemond. “And what do you offer me in return for this support, boy?” He muses, his tone thoughtful.

Luke hesitates, glancing at you, then back at Borros. “We offer peace, my lord. And the protection of House Targaryen.”

Aemond laughs, a sharp, bitter sound that echoes off the stone walls. “Peace?” he sneers. “You think peace will keep Storm’s End safe when the dragons come?”

You take a step forward, your gaze locking onto Aemond’s. “Silence,” you say, your voice hard. “This isn’t about you.”

Aemond’s smile fades, his eye narrowing, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think you can walk in here and demand loyalty,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained rage. “You, who tore apart a city, who killed innocent people—”

“Mind your words,” you growl, your hand tightening on your sword. “Or I’ll show you what real fire and blood looks like.”

Borros rises, his face flushed with anger. “Enough!” he roars, his voice booming through the hall. “This is my house, and I will not have it turned into a battleground for your family squabbles!”

He turns to you, his eyes blazing. “I swore an oath, yes. But I will not be bullied or threatened into a choice that could destroy my house. You offer peace, Y/N, but your actions speak of war. Why should I trust you?”

Before you can respond, Aemond steps forward again, his face twisted with a dark glee. “Because he has nothing else,” he taunts, his voice filled with malice. “He knows that without force, he cannot hold the realm. So he comes here, to make demands, to try and make you bend the knee.”

You glare at Aemond, the rage boiling over, your grip on your sword tightening. “This is not the place for this, Aemond. I came here to speak with Lord Borros, not to engage in your games.”

But Aemond’s eye glints with a dangerous light, and he takes another step forward. “Then draw your sword, brother,” he hisses. “Show me what you have.”

Luke’s face pales, his hand twitching toward his own weapon, but you place a firm hand on his shoulder, shaking your head. “No,” you say quietly, your gaze never leaving Aemond’s. “This is not the time.”

Borros watches, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, and something like respect for the restraint you’re showing. He clears his throat, drawing all eyes back to him.

“You want my support, Y/N?” he says slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of the decision. “You want me to choose sides in this war of yours? Then show me why I should.”

You take a deep breath, forcing the rage back, focusing on the man before you. “Because you swore an oath to my father, to me,” you say, your voice steady and calm. “Because my cause is just, and I will see it through. And because if you stand with me, I will protect you, your house, and everything you hold dear.”

Borros’s gaze flicks to Aemond, then back to you. “And if I refuse?”

You lift your chin, your eyes hard. “Then I will take your refusal as it stands and leave. I will not force you to fight for me.”

Aemond’s smile vanishes, his eye narrowing with fury, but Borros’s face softens slightly, a flicker of something like gratitude passing over his features. He nods slowly, his gaze shifting to Luke.

“I will consider your offer,” he says, his tone final. “You have my word.”

You bow slightly, your gaze never leaving Borros’s. “Thank you, my lord.”

But as you turn to leave, Aemond steps forward again, his voice a hiss of rage. “Coward,” he spits, his eye blazing. “You’ll run from here, just as you ran from everything else.”

You freeze, your hand on Luke’s shoulder tightening. But before you can respond, Borros raises his hand, his voice booming. “Enough!” he commands. “There will be no bloodshed in my hall!”

You turn back to Aemond, your gaze locked on his. “This isn’t over,” you say softly, the promise of dragonfire in your voice.

And with that, you guide Luke from the hall.

The storm rages around you, the wind howling like a banshee (a/n: for those who know 😉) as Silverwing cuts through the darkened sky. Lightning splits the heavens, illuminating the roiling clouds and the distant, furious sea below. Rain lashes against your face, soaking through your clothes, but you barely notice, your focus entirely on the young dragon flying just ahead of you.

“Stay close, Luke!” you shout, your voice barely audible over the storm’s roar. Arrax flaps frantically, his smaller wings struggling against the gale, the young dragon’s movements erratic and desperate. You can see the fear in Luke’s eyes as he glances back at you, his face pale and streaked with tears and rain.

A deafening roar splits the air, and your heart drops as you see the massive form of Vhagar descending through the clouds, her wings blotting out the sky, her jaws gaping wide. Aemond’s laughter echoes through the storm, a chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“GO!” you bellow to Luke, your voice raw with urgency. “Fly, now!”

Luke hesitates, his eyes wide and terrified, and you can see the tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks. “Father, I can’t—”

“Now, Lucerys!” you scream, your heart pounding with fear and desperation. “Get out of here! Go back to Dragonstone! Do as I say!”

Silverwing rears up, placing herself between Arrax and Vhagar, her powerful wings beating against the storm. She roars in defiance, a sound that vibrates through your very bones, her body coiled with alarm as she prepares to defend her young charge.

Luke sobs, his hands trembling on Arrax’s reins. “But—”

“GO!” you roar again, and finally, finally, Luke nods, his face twisted with grief and terror. Arrax lets out a frightened cry, his wings flapping furiously as he veers away, plunging into the storm, his form quickly swallowed by the darkness.

You feel a rush of relief, mingled with the fierce, protective anger that surges through you as you turn your attention back to Aemond. Vhagar hovers above you, her massive form a dark, menacing presence against the storm-lashed sky. Aemond’s face is a mask of rage, his single eye blazing with hatred as he glares down at you.

“You think you can protect him?” Aemond sneers, his voice carrying over the thunder and wind. “You’re just delaying the inevitable. He will die, and so will you.”

Your blood boils, fury tightening your grip on Silverwing’s reins. “Not today, Aemond!” you shout, your voice filled with defiance. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me first!”

Silverwing lunges forward, her wings propelling you toward Vhagar with terrifying speed. Her jaws snap open, a roar of fury and challenge tearing from her throat as she charges at the ancient, monstrous dragon. Vhagar responds in kind, her massive head swinging down, flames billowing from her gaping maw.

You pull Silverwing sharply to the side, just barely avoiding the torrent of fire that erupts from Vhagar’s jaws. The heat scorches your skin, the light blinding for a moment as you maneuver Silverwing around, circling wide, looking for an opening.

“Come on, you old beast!” you shout, your heart racing, adrenaline flooding your veins. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Aemond’s laughter rings out again, dark and cruel. “I’ll tear you apart, brother!” he roars, Vhagar diving after you, her claws outstretched, her jaws snapping. The sheer size and power of the ancient dragon are terrifying, her movements almost effortless despite her bulk, and you can feel Silverwing straining, her muscles taut and quivering as she dodges and weaves through the storm.

You push her harder, urging her to climb, to gain altitude, the wind whipping past you, the rain stinging your eyes. Vhagar follows, relentless, her wings beating the air with a force that seems to shake the very sky. You glance down, your heart lurching as you see Luke and Arrax, tiny and vulnerable below, still trying to escape the chaos above.

A flash of movement catches your eye, and you react instinctively, pulling Silverwing into a sharp dive as Vhagar’s claws swipe through the space where you were just moments before. The air vibrates with the force of the near miss, and you feel the terror and exhilaration mingling in your chest as you twist and turn, the storm swallowing you whole, blinding you, disorienting you.

You shout encouragement to Silverwing, her fierce roars mingling with the thunder, her powerful body a living extension of your rage and grief. You can feel her heart beating beneath you, can sense her fear and fury, her determination to protect, to fight, to survive.

Vhagar’s massive form looms behind you, her breath hot and foul, her roars deafening. Aemond’s voice is a taunting hiss, the malice in his tone cutting through the storm. “Run, run, little dragon!” he jeers, Vhagar’s claws slashing through the air as she tries to close the distance. “You can’t hide forever!”

You grit your teeth, Silverwing twisting and banking, trying to stay ahead of the monstrous dragon, trying to shield Luke, to buy him time, praying that it’s enough. “Come on, Silverwing!” you shout, your voice raw with desperation. “We can do this!”

But Vhagar is relentless, her shadow looming over you, her roars a deafening crescendo that drowns out everything else. She lunges, her jaws snapping just inches from Silverwing’s tail, her breath hot and searing, and you feel the terror clawing at your throat as you pull Silverwing into a tight spiral, trying to shake her off, to draw her away.

Aemond’s laughter is a jagged knife in the darkness, his voice dripping with cruel delight. “This ends here, brother!” he roars, Vhagar diving after you, her massive body cutting through the storm like a blade, her eyes locked on you with a murderous intent that chills you to the bone.

You twist Silverwing to the side, just barely dodging Vhagar’s outstretched claws, the force of her passing nearly knocking you from your saddle. The world tilts, the storm a chaotic whirl around you, the ground a distant blur below, and you can feel the exhaustion, the fear, the desperation clawing at your mind.

But you cannot falter, cannot hesitate, not now, not while Luke is still out there, still in danger. You push Silverwing harder, urging her to climb, to fight, to survive.

The storm still howls around you, wind and rain battering against you as Silverwing and Vhagar twist and turn through the chaos, their roars mingling with the thunder. The air crackles with energy, the sky split by jagged streaks of lightning that illuminate the fierce dance of the two dragons locked in deadly combat.

You grip the reins tightly, your heart pounding with adrenaline and fury. Silverwing dives and rolls, her movements fluid and swift despite the rain and wind that whip around you. Vhagar, massive and relentless, looms behind you, her jaws snapping, her claws tearing at the air as she tries to close the distance.

“Come on, Aemond!” you shout, your voice hoarse, barely carrying over the storm. “Face me, you coward! I’ll see you dead!”

Aemond’s laughter, harsh and mocking, cuts through the storm like a blade. “Not before you, brother!” he roars back, his eye blazing with hatred. “You’re the eldest, after all!”

You grit your teeth, rage and determination surging through you. Silverwing surges upward, her wings beating powerfully against the wind, and you feel her muscles bunch and flex beneath you as she gains height. Vhagar follows, her larger form struggling in the storm, her bulk making her movements slower, less agile.

“Now!” you shout, pulling Silverwing into a sharp turn, her body twisting around in a move that takes you beneath Vhagar’s massive frame. You urge her upward, your heart pounding as you push her hard, her wings flaring as she shoots up from below.

In a blinding flash of lightning, Silverwing’s talons latch onto Vhagar’s back, her jaws snapping just inches from Aemond’s face. You see the sudden flash of fear in his eye, his face paling as Silverwing’s teeth close around the air beside him, the sound of her jaws clamping shut like a thunderclap.

“Die!” you scream, your voice raw with fury. Silverwing roars, her head rearing back, and then she breathes, fire spewing forth in a torrent that engulfs the space around Aemond. He throws himself back, his arm raising in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the searing heat.

Vhagar bellows, the sound vibrating through the air, a deep, guttural cry of pain and rage. She twists violently, her massive body thrashing beneath Silverwing’s weight, and you feel the shudder that runs through your dragon as she struggles to hold her position.

Aemond’s voice, thick with pain and fury, cuts through the storm. “You think you’ve won, brother? You think you can take me down?”

“Let’s find out!” you roar, your heart a blazing inferno of rage and defiance. Silverwing’s claws dig into Vhagar’s scales, her wings beating furiously against the older dragon’s back as she lashes out with her teeth, her roars blending with the storm.

But Vhagar, old and powerful, does not yield easily. She twists and bucks, her massive form buckling beneath the assault, her roars shaking the very sky. Silverwing struggles to maintain her hold, the two dragons locked in a deadly struggle, their bodies crashing together in a fury of scales and fire.

You push Silverwing harder, urging her on, feeling the burn in her muscles, the strain in her wings. “Keep going!” you shout, your voice raw, your hand gripping the reins tightly. “We’re almost there!”

But Vhagar, with a mighty heave, manages to throw Silverwing off, her massive body twisting as she pulls away, Aemond’s voice a roar of triumph and rage. “I will see you burn, brother!”

Silverwing reels back, her wings beating furiously as she tries to regain her balance, and you feel the exhaustion in her movements, the weariness that seeps into your own bones. The storm is unrelenting, the wind howling around you, and you know you can’t keep this up much longer.

But you won’t back down, not now, not when you’re so close. You urge Silverwing forward again, her body surging through the storm, her roars fierce and defiant. “We’re not done yet!” you shout, your voice a challenge, your heart a blaze of unyielding fury.

Vhagar turns, her massive head swinging around, her eyes blazing with fury. But you see the hesitation there, the flicker of uncertainty in Aemond’s gaze as Silverwing barrels toward them, her jaws snapping, her body once more coiled with determination.

And then, with a final, desperate effort, you pull Silverwing up and over Vhagar’s back, her wings flaring wide as she dives down, forcing the older dragon to twist and turn, her movements sluggish and labored. Aemond curses, his voice lost in the storm as he struggles to control Vhagar, his grip on the reins white-knuckled, his face a mirror of frustration and fury.

Silverwing lands atop Vhagar again, her talons digging deep into the old dragon’s back, her jaws snapping just inches from Aemond’s face. He flinches, his eye wide with fear, and for a moment, you see the boy he once was, terrified and vulnerable beneath the mask of the man he’s become.

Silverwing’s roar fills the air, her jaws closing around the space where Aemond’s head had been a moment before. She breathes, a torrent of fire bursting forth, and Aemond jerks back, his face contorting with pain and rage as the flames lick at his armor.

Vhagar bucks wildly, her body thrashing beneath you, and you feel the force of it, the sheer power of the ancient dragon, as she throws Silverwing off again, slashing the younger dragon with her talons. Aemond shouts something, his voice filled with desperation, and then Vhagar turns, her wings beating furiously as she pulls away, retreating into the storm.

You watch them go, your heart pounding, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Silverwing hovers in the air, her body trembling, her wings beating weakly. You can feel the exhaustion in her, the weariness that weighs down on you both like a leaden cloak.

You glance down, the ground a distant blur below, the storm still raging around you, the rain and wind battering against you. You know you can’t keep this up, that you have to land, that you have to find shelter, find safety.

With a gentle pull on the reins, you guide Silverwing down, her wings straining as she descends, the wind pushing against you, the storm still howling in your ears. You land on a rocky outcropping, the ground slick and uneven beneath Silverwing’s claws, and you feel the relief that floods through you as she settles, her body trembling with exhaustion, her sides heaving with each labored breath.

You dismount, your legs unsteady beneath you, your body aching with fatigue and adrenaline. You look up at the sky, the storm still raging above, the clouds dark and forbidding, the wind a relentless force that whips around you.

You know this is only the beginning, that the battle you’ve fought here is just a taste of what’s to come. But for now, you’re alive, and so is Luke, and that’s enough.

For now, that’s enough.

The courtyard of Dragonstone is bathed in the eerie, flickering light of torches, the flames struggling against the relentless wind that sweeps in from the sea. Rhaenyra stands at the forefront, her eyes fixed on the horizon, every muscle in her body taut with worry. The storm rages in the distance, dark clouds churning over the choppy waters, and her heart aches with a dread she can barely contain.

She hears the distant roar of a dragon before she sees it—a small, battered form emerging from the storm clouds, wings beating furiously against the gale. Arrax. Relief and fear twist inside her as the dragon descends, landing awkwardly in the courtyard, his sides heaving, his scales slick with rain and blood.

Luke slides down from his saddle, stumbling as he hits the ground, his face pale and streaked with rain. He looks around wildly, his eyes wide with panic, and when he sees his mother, he lets out a choked sob, his legs giving way beneath him.

“Luke!” Rhaenyra cries, rushing forward, her heart pounding with terror. She reaches him just as he collapses, her arms wrapping around his trembling form. “Oh, gods, what happened? Where is your father?”

Luke clings to her, his body shaking violently, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Mother… I… I don’t know,” he stammers, his voice breaking. “Father… he told me to go… to fly away. Vhagar… Aemond… they were—” He cuts off, his voice choked with fear and grief. “I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know if he got away…”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenches painfully, her mind reeling as she holds her son close, her fingers digging into his soaked clothes. “It’s all right, Luke,” she whispers, though the words feel hollow, meaningless. “You’re safe now. Come inside.”

She guides him toward the keep, her arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, her mind spinning with fear and uncertainty. Behind her, the guards exchange uneasy glances, their faces shadowed with concern as they watch the scene unfold.

Inside, the great hall is filled with a tense silence, the air thick with anticipation and worry. The advisors gather, their expressions anxious as they turn to Rhaenyra, their questions hanging heavy in the air.

“Your Grace, where is the king?” Lord Alfred Broome asks, his voice strained, his eyes flicking to Luke, taking in the boy’s shivering form, his wet clothes, his pale face.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies, then to Daemon, who stands apart, his eyes narrowed as he studies her. She feels the sting of tears behind her eyes, the lump in her throat that threatens to choke her.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “They were attacked… by Aemond. I don’t know what happened to him.”

A murmur ripples through the room, fear and uncertainty spreading like wildfire. Daemon’s face hardens, his eyes flashing with a fierce, protective anger. He steps forward, his hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt, his gaze fixed on Rhaenyra.

“I’ll go,” he says, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll find him.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her grip tightening on Luke’s shoulder. “No,” she says, her voice firmer now, though it trembles with the weight of the decision. “I’ll go.”

A ripple of shock and protest rises around her, the advisors exchanging worried glances, but it’s Rhaenys who steps forward, her eyes sharp, her voice steady.

“Rhaenyra, think,” she says quietly. “You’ve just been crowned queen. The realm needs you here. Let Daemon go. He’ll find him.”

Rhaenyra’s heart twists, torn between her duty and her fear, the desperation clawing at her insides. She looks at Luke, his face drawn and pale, his eyes filled with the kind of fear no child should ever know.

“I can’t,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I can’t just stay here. Not while he’s out there.”

Daemon moves closer, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his eyes intense. “I’ll find him, Rhaenyra,” he promises, his voice low and fierce. “I’ll bring him back.”

Rhaenyra looks at him, searching his gaze, and she knows he means it. But the thought of staying behind, of waiting and wondering, is almost unbearable.

“Please,” Rhaenys says softly, her voice gentle but insistent. “Let him go. For the sake of your children, your realm. You cannot risk yourself.”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, the tears she’s been holding back finally spilling over. She looks at Daemon, her hand resting on his arm, her grip tight.

“Find him,” she says, her voice trembling. “Bring him back to me.”

Daemon nods, his eyes dark with determination. He glances at Luke, then back to Rhaenyra. “I swear it.”

With a final look, he turns and strides from the hall, his steps echoing through the silence. Rhaenyra watches him go, her heart aching, her mind a storm of fear and hope and despair.

She pulls Luke closer, her hand stroking his wet hair, trying to calm him, trying to calm herself. The room is filled with the murmur of worried voices, the storm outside a relentless reminder of the danger that still looms.

Rhaenys steps closer, her hand resting gently on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “He’ll find him,” she says softly, her voice a steadying presence. “And he’ll bring him back. You have to believe that.”

Rhaenyra nods, though her heart is still heavy, her mind filled with images of you out there in the storm, fighting against the fury of the elements, against Aemond’s rage and hatred.

She knows you are strong, that you are a fighter. But the fear gnaws at her, the uncertainty a bitter taste in her mouth. She can only hope, only pray, that Daemon will be able to keep his promise, that he will bring you back.

For now, she holds her son close, her heart breaking for him, for the fear and pain in his eyes. For the battle they are all fighting, for the family they are struggling to hold together.

And as the storm rages outside, Rhaenyra waits, her heart heavy, her mind filled with thoughts of you.

The storm has finally broken, the sky above the small island clearing to reveal a pale, washed-out blue, the last vestiges of dark clouds clinging to the horizon. The air is cool and still, the fury of the tempest replaced by an eerie silence that seems to hang over the island like a shroud. Daemon, atop Caraxes, soars over the landscape, his eyes scanning the ground below, his heart heavy with fear and determination.

He’s been searching since dawn, Ceraxes weaving through the air in wide, looping circles, their shadows casting long, dark streaks across the rocky terrain. The aftermath of the storm is visible everywhere—trees uprooted, rocks scattered, the ground soaked and treacherous.

“Come on,” Daemon mutters under his breath, his grip tight on Caraxes’ reins. “Where are you?”

He pushes Ceraxes lower, the dragon’s powerful wings beating steadily as they glide over the cliffs and crags, the sea below crashing against the rocks in a steady, rhythmic roar. And then, finally, he sees them—a flash of silver amidst the dark stones, a shape that sends his heart pounding with a fierce, desperate hope.

“There!” he shouts, guiding Caraxes down, the dragon’s wings folding as they descend, landing heavily on a wide, rocky outcrop. Daemon dismounts in a fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud, his eyes fixed on the figures before him.

Silverwing lies sprawled on her side, her silver scales dull and stained with blood, her wings folded awkwardly, her breaths coming in deep, shuddering gasps. Beside her, you’re slumped against a rock, your body bruised and battered, your face pale, your eyes closed.

“Gods…” Daemon breathes, his heart clenching as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside you. He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he touches your shoulder, shaking you gently.

“Wake up, Y/N,” he says, his voice rough with worry, with fear he tries to keep at bay. “Come on, wake up.”

There’s a long, agonizing moment of silence, and then, with a low groan, your eyes flutter open, your gaze unfocused, pain clouding your expression. “Daemon…?”

Relief floods through him, so intense it nearly knocks him off balance. “It’s me,” he says, his voice softer now, his hand tightening on your shoulder. “You’re alive, thank the gods. Are you—”

You grimace, trying to sit up, your body protesting with every movement. “I’m fine,” you mutter, though the words are a lie, your voice strained and weak. “Silverwing…?”

“She’s here,” Daemon assures you, his gaze flicking to the wounded dragon. “She’s alive.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your eyes closing briefly as if to steady yourself. “We fought… Aemond… the storm…” The words come out in broken fragments, your mind still trying to piece together the chaotic blur of events.

“I know,” Daemon says gently, his hand resting on your arm, his voice calm, soothing. “You’re safe now. Both of you.”

You nod, though the movement sends a fresh wave of pain coursing through you. “Luke…?”

“He’s safe,” Daemon assures you, his voice firm. “He made it back to Dragonstone. Rhaenyra’s with him.”

Relief washes over your face, mingled with exhaustion, with pain. “Good… that’s good.”

Daemon glances at Silverwing again, his brow furrowing with concern. The dragon’s wounds are deep, her sides marred by long, ragged gashes, her breathing labored. But she’s alive.

“We need to get you back,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “You need a healer, and so does she.”

You nod, your face tightening as you try to stand, your legs trembling beneath you. Daemon catches you, his arm wrapping around your waist, steadying you. “Easy,” he murmurs, his gaze sharp with worry. “Take it slow.”

With his help, you manage to get to your feet, your body swaying, your vision swimming. “I’m fine,” you insist again, though the words lack conviction, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Daemon doesn’t argue, his grip firm and supportive as he guides you toward Caraxes. “We’re going back,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Rhaenyra needs to see you, needs to know you’re alive.”

You glance back at Silverwing, the dragon’s eyes half-open, watching you with a weary, pained gaze. “She won’t leave without me,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, with the bond that ties you to her.

Daemon nods, his hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. “She doesn’t have to. Caraxes will fly alongside her. We’ll go together.”

You nod, too exhausted to argue, too relieved to care. With Daemon’s help, you manage to climb onto Silverwing’s back, the dragon shifting beneath you with a low, rumbling groan. Daemon mounts Caraxes, the two dragons standing side by side, their wounds stark and painful against the dawn-lit sky.

“We’re going home,” Daemon says, his voice carrying over the wind, his gaze meeting yours with a fierce, unwavering determination. “And we’re going to make them pay for this.”

You nod, your heart heavy with exhaustion, with pain, but beneath it all, there’s a fierce, unyielding resolve. This is far from over. You’ve survived, you’ve fought, and you’ll continue to fight, for your family, for your children, for everything you hold dear.

With a powerful beat of wings, the two dragons lift off, the wind whipping around you as you rise into the sky. Below, the small island stretches out, the sea crashing against its shores, the storm clouds breaking apart as the sun begins to rise.

You lean forward, your hand resting lightly on Silverwing’s neck, your heart steady, your mind clear. You’re alive. You’re going home.

The eerie glow of Dragonmont's depths envelops you as Silverwing and Caraxes descend, the heavy air filled with the scent of sulfur and smoke. The chamber, carved deep into the mountain, reverberates with the sound of the dragons’ wings beating against the still air, the low rumble of their landing echoing through the stone.

Dragonkeepers move forward swiftly, their red cloaks and careful movements a blur of efficiency and practiced calm. They approach with reverence and caution, their eyes darting between the two great beasts, assessing the extent of the wounds marring Silverwing’s silver scales and Caraxes’ long, sinuous body.

You dismount, your legs trembling beneath you, the pain and exhaustion still a heavy weight in your bones. Daemon is at your side in an instant, his arm steadying you as he helps you down, his face set with a fierce, unyielding determination.

“They’re here!” a voice calls out, echoing through the chamber, and you see movement at the far end of the cavern. A group emerges from the shadows—Rhaenyra, her face pale and drawn, Luke at her side, his eyes wide and anxious. Behind them, a handful of retainers and guards, their expressions a mixture of relief and wariness.

As you take a step forward, Rhaenyra lets out a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as if an unbearable weight has been lifted. Her eyes are fixed on you, shining with unshed tears, and she moves forward, almost stumbling in her haste to reach you.

“Thank the gods,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her hand reaching out to touch your arm, her fingers gripping tightly, as if to reassure herself that you’re real, that you’re here. “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” you murmur, your voice rough, your heart aching as you see the fear and worry etched into her face. You pull her close, your arms wrapping around her, holding her tight, feeling the warmth of her body against yours, the steady beat of her heart.

Luke stands just behind her, his face pale, his eyes locked on yours. “Father, I—” His voice breaks, and he looks down, guilt and relief mingling in his expression.

“You did well, Luke,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the exhaustion that pulls at you. “You did what you had to. I’m proud of you.”

He nods, a tear slipping down his cheek, and Rhaenyra reaches out, pulling him into the embrace, her arms wrapping around you both. For a moment, there’s nothing but the three of you, the storm and the battle and the fear fading into the background, replaced by the simple, overwhelming relief of being together, of being alive.

Daemon stands a few steps away, his gaze sweeping over the scene, a hint of a smile curving his lips. “We made it,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction, of triumph.

Rhaenyra pulls back slightly, her eyes flicking to Daemon, gratitude and something like understanding passing between them. “Thank you,” she says softly, her voice filled with a sincerity that needs no further words.

Daemon inclines his head, his gaze steady on hers. “We’re family,” he says simply, and there’s a weight to his words, a promise that goes beyond blood and loyalty.

The Dragonkeepers move forward, their hands gentle but firm as they begin to tend to Silverwing’s wounds, their voices low and calm as they murmur reassurances to the injured dragon. Caraxes shifts restlessly beside her, his long neck snaking around as he watches them, his eyes sharp and alert.

“Let them work,” Daemon murmurs, his hand resting lightly on Caraxes’ side, his voice soothing. “You’ve done your part, old friend. Now let them do theirs.”

Silverwing lets out a low, rumbling sigh, her body relaxing slightly under the careful hands of the keepers. You watch her, your heart heavy with a mixture of relief and sorrow, the weight of everything you’ve been through pressing down on you, threatening to overwhelm.

But Rhaenyra’s hand is still on your arm, her touch a grounding presence, her gaze steady and warm. “You’re home,” she whispers, her voice a promise, a vow. “We’re all home.”

You nod, your throat tight, your eyes closing briefly as you let the words wash over you, let them anchor you. You’re home. You’re together.

There will be time to mourn, to plan, to fight again. But for this moment, this precious, fragile moment, you let yourself breathe, let yourself feel the warmth of your family around you, the steady pulse of life that beats on, even in the shadow of war.

The heavy doors to the council chamber swing open with a resounding thud, and Aemond strides in, his face pale and twisted with anger, his clothes still damp from the storm and dragon flight. The room falls silent, every head turning toward him, eyes widening in shock and curiosity. He moves with a rigid, furious grace, his jaw clenched, his single eye blazing with barely contained rage.

Aegon, lounging in his seat at the head of the table, straightens, his brows lifting in surprise. He exchanges a glance with Alicent, who sits stiffly beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a look of unease flickering in her eyes.

“What happened?” Aegon demands, his voice sharp, his gaze raking over his brother. “Where have you been?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, the muscles working beneath his skin as he takes a deep breath, his eye locking onto Aegon’s. “I found him,” he says bitterly, his voice low and hard. “Our dear brother. He and his dragon.”

A murmur ripples through the chamber, the council members exchanging uneasy glances. Alicent’s face tightens, her hands twisting in her lap as she looks between her sons, her eyes wide with worry.

“And?” Aegon presses, his voice mocking, a cruel smile playing at his lips. “Did you kill him?”

Aemond’s face flushes, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. “No,” he snaps, the word spat out like a curse. “He fought back. Forced me to retreat.”

There’s a shocked silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Alicent’s gaze darts to Otto, her eyes filled with fear and anger. Otto’s expression is grim, his mouth a tight line as he looks at Aemond, then back at Aegon.

Aegon lets out a low, mocking laugh, his eyes gleaming with a vicious amusement. “So the mighty Vhagar wasn’t enough, then?” he taunts, leaning forward, his smile widening as he takes in Aemond’s flushed, furious face. “I thought you were supposed to be unbeatable.”

“Aegon,” Alicent warns, her voice trembling with tension, but Aegon ignores her, his laughter growing louder, harsher.

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor, his hands reaching up to yank the crown from his head. The weighty steel of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown glints in the flickering torchlight as he holds it aloft, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and disdain.

“You see this?” he shouts, his voice echoing through the chamber. “This bloody thing? I never wanted it!” With a furious snarl, he hurls the crown to the ground, the metal clanging against the stone with a sharp, ringing sound.

The council members flinch, their eyes darting between the two brothers alarmed. Alicent rises to her feet, her face pale, her hands trembling as she reaches out, as if to calm her son, to pull him back from the edge.

“Aegon, please—”

“No!” Aegon shouts, his voice cracking with fury, his hands clenched at his sides. “You and Grandsire put this on my head, made me king! But what does it matter if my own brother can’t even win a single battle? If we’re all just waiting for Y/N to come and burn us alive?”

Aemond’s eye narrows, his body rigid with barely suppressed rage. “Watch your tongue, Aegon,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve no idea what it’s like out there, facing him. Facing Silverwing.”

Aegon’s lip curls, his gaze filled with disdain. “Oh, poor Aemond,” he sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The great warrior, the dragonrider, beaten back by our elder brother. How pathetic.”

“Aegon!” Alicent’s voice is sharp, desperate, but Aegon barrels on, his anger pouring out in a torrent of bitter words.

“I didn’t ask for this!” he yells, his voice raw, his eyes wild. “I didn’t ask to be king! You made me wear this crown, made me sit on that damn throne! And for what? So we can all die for your stupid dreams?”

Otto stands, his face dark with anger, his voice cold. “Enough, Aegon,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. “This is not the time for this—”

Aegon whirls on him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Not the time? When is the time, Grandsire? When he comes here, breathing fire and death? When we’re all burnt to ashes?”

The council is silent, the tension so thick it seems to hang in the air like smoke. Aemond’s face is a mask of fury, his hands trembling with the effort of holding himself back. Alicent steps forward, her eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking.

“Aegon, please,” she begs, her hands reaching out to him, her face stricken. “You are the king. You must be strong, for the realm, for all of us.”

Aegon stares at her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and desperate. And then, with a low, bitter laugh, he shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the crown lying on the ground, the heavy dark steel glinting dully in the dim light.

“I never wanted it,” he whispers, his voice raw, broken. “I never wanted any of this.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing through the chamber, leaving the crown lying abandoned on the cold stone floor.

[thetravelerwrites]

What is Expected, What is Understood (The Sacrificial Princess and the King of Beasts) Part 1

Rating: Explicit Fandoms: Niehime to Kemono no Ou | Sacrificial Princess & the King of Beasts Relationships: Sariphi & Leonhart, Amit & Jormungand Additional Tags: Loss of Virginity, Blood Mention, Discussion of Conception, Discussion of Pregnancy, Discussions of Oral Sex, Detailed Descriptions of Sex, Discussion of Menstruation, Breeding, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Extension of Canon Words: 4929

It's been four years since their wedding and, for one reason or another, Sariphi and Leonhart still have not consummated their union. Under the constant pressure to produce an heir, and after a disastrous first attempt, they realize they are unprepared and decide to hire a midwife.

This one has been up on my Ao3 for a while, but I decided to bring it to tumblr. Please reblog and leave feedback!

Four years had passed so quickly since the wedding that it felt to Sariphi like it had been no time at all. Even still, she often struggled to believe it was real and not some fanciful fever dream she had conjured up as a coping mechanism as she waited in passive acceptance for the day of sacrifice to arrive. 

Now nineteen, Sariphi was a little less impulsive than she had been when she first came to the kingdom, making a conscious effort to conduct herself with more dignity and grace now that she was queen, but she was no less enthusiastic and eager. Her influence was felt in every corner of the palace, like a breath of fresh air. Staff who had been working in the palace since the time of the previous king could feel a dramatic difference in the atmosphere: the palace had been tense and darkly oppressive during the reign of the former king, while it was silently somber and cold after His Majesty had ascended the throne. Sariphi’s presence had made the palace warmer, lighter, and more brilliantly bright in comparison. 

After many, many intensive lessons, Sariphi had finally taken on some of the administrative work from Anubis within the last few months, with Amit as her assistant. The work was hard but rewarding, and Sariphi was simply happy to be helpful. Even so, it was still two months before Anubis would let her do any of the work on her own without hovering over her shoulder, watching for mistakes.

“Should this document be filed under regional, capitol, or national?” Sariphi asked Amit one afternoon while working. “It’s an assistance request for the outer ring of the capital city, but that falls on the border with the nearby province of Reiza.”

“Hmm,” Amit said, looking over it. “Who sent the request?”

“Both the governor of Reiza and the alderman of that district of the city. It’s a joint request.”

“Ah. Perhaps make copies of it and file it under all three. That way, there would be a record of the request for every category. For reference.” 

“I see.” 

Before being sent as a bridal candidate and eventually becoming Sariphi’s official companion and lady-in-waiting, Amit had been thoroughly educated in administration, so her help was invaluable to Sariphi, who’d had none of that training before ascending the throne. Although it would have been expected of her to take on the administration work immediately after becoming queen if she had been a beast princess, she had been far too busy learning history, etiquette, language, and politics in the first year to even begin administration.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” Amit said, sighing. “Why don’t we take a break? I have tea and snacks I made myself. Everything was checked before I used it.” 

“Who checked it?” Sariphi asked suspiciously. 

“It wasn’t me!” Amit insisted. “The ingredients were tested by the imperial alchemist, I swear!”

“Hmm,” Sariphi said, taking a biscuit. “If you say so.”

Sariphi had nearly fallen victim to a couple of assassination attempts in recent years perpetrated by anti-human militants that had infiltrated the palace staff, those who still resented the king for his lineage and her for her mere existence. As a result, every bit of food and drink that was placed before her for the last year had to be tested and monitored closely from kitchen to table. Amit had tried to appoint herself Sariphi’s poison tester, but Sariphi had quashed that idea immediately. As had Jormungand.

Sariphi yawned as she accepted a cup of tea. 

“Are you tired today?” Amit asked. 

“Yeah,” Sariphi admitted. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” 

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“Well… I heard the maids talking. They seem to feel like an heir should have been conceived by now.” 

“Are you bothered by that?” 

“A little.” 

“You shouldn’t take it to heart, Sari,” Amit said, patting her shoulder. “They’re just worried about you.”

“It’s not just them. The royal council has been putting pressure on His Majesty about it since the wedding. Anubis has been dropping suggestions in that roundabout way he does, too. His Majesty is sick of hearing about it.”

Amit laughed. “You don’t need to worry too much about it,” She said. “You and His Majesty love each other so much that I’m sure you’ll hear good news very soon.” 

Sariphi blushed and looked away. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well… we’d have to… He’d need to… we haven’t…” Sariphi stuttered to a stop and hid behind her hair, embarrassed. 

Amit gasped. “You haven’t…” She squeaked and blushed as well. “Consummated your nuptials yet? Anyone against your union could use that as ammunition to force you to annul the marriage if they found out! They could use that to make His Majesty take a concubine! It’s been four years!” 

“I know!” Sariphi exclaimed, and then lowered her voice. She was glad Cy and Clops weren’t there in her office at the time and that Bennu was fast asleep in his gilded cage. “But he’s never touched me and I’ve been too nervous to make a move on him. I know he’s worried about hurting me, but… I’ve also wondered… if he wasn’t interested in me like that.”

“But he loves you!” Amit said.

“I know he loves me, I’ve never doubted that he loves me, but romantic love and sexual love don’t always go hand-in-hand.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” 

“I’ve only brought it up once recently. He told me that I’m still young and we have lots of time and not to worry about it. I’m nervous that if I bring it up too much, he’ll shut me out. He has a bad habit of keeping his worries to himself.”

“He’s not alone in that,” Amit said shrewdly, and then covered her mouth with her hands at her own boldness.

Sariphi sighed. “I know. It’s not just about having heirs. I… I want to be more intimate with him. I want to be his wife in every possible way.”

“Have you told him that?” 

“No. I guess my mistake was assuming he would already know that. I forgot that he can be hesitant when it comes to personal relationships, even when he really cares for someone. After hiding his true self for so long and only existing for the sake of the kingdom, he’s still learning to voice his desires. He doesn’t know how to be selfish or ask for things he wants for himself.”

“You should talk to him again and tell him how you feel. I really envy that you and His Majesty can talk to each other so openly. I hope Captain Jormungand and I can have that kind of relationship once we marry.”

Jormungand and Amit had been engaged for nearly half a year and their wedding was planned for spring. Sariphi was so excited to be the Matron of Honor for her, since none of Amit’s family would be attending to stand with her. Though Jormungand may have the Captain of the Imperial Guard and a talented man with many accomplishments and accolades, the royals of Murga were still affronted by the fact that Amit would be marrying a commoner. According to Amit, being shunned by her family was nothing new, since she had no value to them as the fifth princess, and although she tried to behave unperturbed, Sariphi knew she was sad about it. 

Amit was acutely aware that it was a serious breach of etiquette to even ask the queen to participate in the wedding of a commoner, and though she knew Sariphi would be overjoyed to accept, she couldn’t bring herself to ask. It was Jormungand, not Amit, who asked Sariphi to be Amit’s Matron of Honor in her stead. Jormungand, who had no family, was quite unhappy that Amit’s family had snubbed her due to her marriage to him, though he knew their relationship had always been strained. He decided there was no higher honor, nor greater satisfaction, than having the queen of the realm standing in their place, especially considering the king himself would be standing for Jormungand. Sariphi agreed wholeheartedly and accepted with delight.

“You’re right,” Sariphi said. “I’ll talk to him tonight.” 

Sariphi was nervous all through the dinner banquet and avoided His Majesty’s eye out of embarrassment. She could feel him staring at her, though he said nothing to her and the evening passed without fuss.

That night, after they retired for the evening, had their baths, and returned to their chambers, he caught her by the waist and easily lifted her onto his shoulder, which he was still prone to doing when they were alone. After climbing into the bed, he sat her atop his lap and caged her in his embrace. 

“Out with it,” He said without preamble. “Why have you been avoiding my gaze all evening?” 

“Why do you have to be so inconveniently perceptive?” Sariphi sighed exasperatedly.

“Anyone with eyes could have observed your odd behavior,” He retorted. “My queen is many things, but subtle she is not.” 

“Something Anubis will probably scold me for later, I’m sure,” Sariphi agreed. “As he always says, ‘Tact and decorum is the benchmark of every great queen’.”

“Do not change the subject,” Leonhart said, squishing her face in his claws. “What troubles you?”

Sariphi sighed. “I was thinking about the heirs thing again.” 

Leonhart sighed in turn. “We have discussed this. There is an abundance of time to worry about that. It is not something that requires your concern at present.” 

“When should I be concerned?”

“Never. It is not worth your energy.”

“Amit said that if anyone finds out that we haven’t consummated our marriage, they could lawfully force you to take a concubine or make us get an annulment.” 

“Which is why it shall not be discovered.” 

“Leo… It’s not just that,” Sariphi replied. “Talking to Amit today made me realize… the reason why it bothers me isn’t just the need for an heir.” 

“What is the reason, then?” 

Sariphi flushed and picked at a single strand of his mane rather than looking him in the face. 

“I… We… We’ve been married for four years now… and we haven’t… been intimate… and I wondered if you weren’t interested in such things.”

Leonhart was silent and Sariphi, feeling anxious, began rambling very fast.

“I know we had discussed having kids before and I know you don’t want to hurt me, but you had mentioned that you wanted to have at least two, but we need to be intimate for that to happen, but you’ve never made a move, so I thought you didn’t want to, but I–” 

“Sariphi, stop,” Leonhart said, taking her chin and making her look at him. “You do not need to explain yourself, I understand what you are saying. To tell the truth… you are correct. I have been hesitant to attempt intimacy with you because I do not wish to hurt you. The difference in our size obviously means that the act would cause you immense discomfort. You did not seem to show much interest in it, either, so I assumed until now that you were satisfied to wait.” 

“So… you do want to? Be intimate with me, I mean?” 

“I do wish for that, yes,” Leonhart said. “Of course I do. Truthfully… I have thought of it quite often as of late, especially now that you have grown taller and gained weight. It is hard not to notice how… lovely you look, and your warm body lying next to me every night is often difficult to ignore. But as I said… I worry about hurting you.” 

“Perhaps it won’t hurt,” Sariphi said optimistically. “We’ll never know until we try, right?”

“I suppose you have a point,” Leonhart agreed, though he looked skeptical. “You also truly wish to be intimate with me?”

“Yes, I do,” She said earnestly. “I’m your wife and I love you. I want to do all the things husbands and wives do.” 

“I see,” He said slowly. “Do you… wish to try tonight?” 

Sariphi gulped but nodded. “No time like the present. Honestly, I’ve been ready for a long time, I just didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“I see.” Leonhart took a deep breath. “I fear I have no experience with this. I am unsure how to begin.” 

Sariphi moved off of Leonhart’s lap. Kneeling next to him and plucking up her courage, she carefully drew her nightgown over her head and off of her body, then removed her undergarments, fully exposing herself to him for the very first time. His eyes widened and his breathing sped up slightly. Rolling onto his knees as well, he reached out to touch her but stopped short, seeming unsure, looking at his large claws in dismay.

“It’s okay, Leo,” Sariphi said, moving forward to press her breast to his palm. “You can touch me. You won’t hurt me. It’s okay.”

As much as she tried to reassure him, he was still intensely cognizant that his claws could wrap around her entire body with room to spare, claws that were strong enough to rend solid stone, and his need to be careful was obvious. Instead, he turned his hand and caressed one of her nipples with the back of the claw on his first finger. She inhaled sharply and made a slight sound, biting her lip. She looked anxious, but she gazed at his face with open trust. 

Leonhart leaned forward and pressed his nose to the hollow of her neck, breathing in deeply. She reached up and raked her fingers through the fur of his neck. His arms encircled her, and he pulled her bare body against his own clothed chest. He felt himself stir below, and shrugged his arms out of their sleeves. He pulled her toward him and lay her down on the bed under him, stripping off the drape around his waist and letting it fall heavily to the floor. Her beautiful body lay open to him, her silver-white hair spread out around her head like a glowing halo, and she reached for him.

Carefully lowering his body over hers, he kissed her. She moaned softly and moved underneath him, stroking his chest. He pressed his hardness to her entrance, pausing for a moment to observe her face before attempting to enter her slowly. She seemed fine at first, but as he pushed harder, her brow furrowed and her breath stuttered. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. 

She didn’t speak, but nodded. He continued, but stopped when she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, holding her breath. 

“Are you sure I should carry on?” 

“Yes,” She said, her voice strained. “It’s okay.” 

He had barely moved an inch when he noticed tears gathering in her eyes, and the moment he caught the scent of blood, he removed himself and climbed off of her. Sure enough, there was blood on the sheets under her. It wasn’t a lot, but it was more than enough to ruin his mood.

“Why did you stop?” Sariphi asked, wiping her eyes. 

“I have hurt you, just as I feared I would,” He said, putting his clothing back on and stooping to gather up her clothes as well. 

“I’ve heard it’s normal to bleed the first time,” She insisted. “Many women do.” 

“It is not just that,” He said. “I could see on your face that you were in pain.” 

“It wasn’t that bad, I swear!” She said, holding her nightgown to her chest. “I can do it! Even if it’s painful, I can handle it! I still have to bear your successor regardless! Everyone expects it of us!”

“As loath as I am to hurt you for my own satisfaction, I am even less inclined to do so to suit the wishes of others,” Leonhart said. “We will try again another day, when you have healed. I refuse to injure you further.”

“But–” 

“No,” He said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Not tonight. It is not as though I am suggesting we never consummate, but it seems we are not ready for this yet.”

“Leo, it’s been four years.”

“I am well aware of that, Sariphi. Neither of us know much about this subject. We need… help. Advice.”

“Advice from whom?” 

“I am unsure,” Leonhart admitted.

"Are there books we could read?"

"Oh, I am certain there are, but I do not even know where to begin looking, nor do I wish to ask. All I am certain of is that I do not wish to cause you further pain. There must be something we can do to make this… process… easier.” He took her nightgown out of her hands and pulled it back over her head. “I’m far more concerned with the well-being of the woman I love than I am for any amorphous children who are yet to exist. Whatever our responsibilities may be, you are my wife before you are the queen.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round?” Sariphi asked, reluctantly pulling on her undergarments. “The queen exists for the country, so her discomfort is not important if it’s for the good of the people, right?”

“Perhaps,” He said. “But I care not. If it would cause you harm, it is not worth doing.” 

“Do you not want to be intimate anymore?” 

“No, I still wish for that,” He replied. “But only if it is good for us to do so. For both of us.” He pulled her back into his lap and embraced her once more. “Do not misunderstand, Sariphi. I love and desire you. That has not changed, nor will it ever. Be assured of that fact and do not fret.” 

“Okay,” She said, cuddling into his chest. Though he was not one for words, he seemed to always know what she needed to hear. They lay down together and tried to sleep, but neither found much rest that night.

The next morning, His Majesty insisted that Sariphi stay in their chambers and rest for the day, calling Amit to keep her company. Sariphi had to admit, she was a little bit sore, and gratefully accepted. 

“How did it go?” Amit asked once they were alone. “I heard the maids say there was blood on the sheets.”

Sariphi shook her head. “We tried, but he stopped almost immediately when I started bleeding. He says he won’t try again until we get some sort of help.” 

“What sort of help?” 

“I don’t know,” Sariphi admitted. “I don’t know who we could possibly ask about this.”

Amit sat quietly in deep thought. “What about a midwife?” 

“Midwife?” 

“Certainly,” Amit said. “A midwife could solve this problem, wouldn’t you think? Conception, pregnancy, and childbirth are the sole scope of their expertise, is it not?” 

“Well, sure,” Sariphi agreed. “But is there one in the palace?” 

“Oh,” Amit said contemplatively. “I’m not sure. Anubis would know. Hiring staff who work directly with the royal family is one of his many duties.” 

Sariphi blushed. “I couldn’t possibly ask Anubis about this.” 

“Then mention it to His Majesty and have him pass on the message to Anubis. If the palace doesn’t have a midwife, then they can find one.”

The next day, after Sariphi told His Majesty about it the night before, His Majesty sat in his office, pouring over paperwork, when he finally broached the subject with Anubis. 

“Anubis.” 

Anubis looked up from his own work. “Yes, Sire?”

“Does the palace have an imperial midwife at present?”

“A midwife?” Anubis echoed in surprise. “Could Her Majesty be…?”

“No,” His Majesty replied, looking into the far distance out of the closest window in an effort to appear magnanimous rather than embarrassed. “Not as of yet. It is for that reason we require such a person to seek their advice on the matter. It seems Her Majesty has been quite worried about the constant prattling on the subject of an heir, despite the fact that the queen is still quite young and we have only been married a short time.”

“Four years is plenty of time to conceive an heir, Sire,” Anubis pointed out.

His Majesty glared at him.

“I-I see,” Anubis replied hastily. “The palace has not had an imperial midwife since the passing of the previous queen. By rights, a new imperial midwife should have been appointed upon the queen’s ascension, but in the aftermath of the attempted insurrection prior to the sovereign marriage rites, and then the peace talks with Yoana directly after, it appears that the appointment was overlooked.” 

“Very well. Hire one immediately.” 

“Of course, sire,” Anubis said, but he paused. “Although… I am concerned that there may not be any midwife in Ozmargo willing to take the position.” 

“Because the queen is human?” 

“Well, yes,” Anubis said delicately. 

His Majesty sighed. “I had believed this sort of discrimination would have been much reduced by now, though I suppose it is to be expected.” 

“I didn’t mean necessarily in terms of discrimination. More to the point, I doubt that there are any of beastkind in the kingdom who would know how to treat a human.” 

“Ah,” His Majesty said. Anubis was correct, of course. “Could we not call one from Yoana?” 

“I suppose we could,” Anubis said. “But what woman in her right mind would make that journey? The way between the kingdoms is still treacherous and full of peril. Even with guaranteed security, there may not be any who would agree to such a dangerous undertaking.” 

“Post a job notice regardless, in both Ozmargo and Yoana. If even one person were to answer, that would be enough to begin moving forward.” 

“As you wish, Sire,” Anubis said. He bowed and excused himself.

It took more than two months to finally get a response to the job posting. An old, bent woman of the pangolin tribe, leaning on a walking stick, ambled up to the palace after sending a notice that she would take on the position. The scales of her tail rasped across the marble floor as she walked, making something like a soft rattlesnake sound. Her eyes were bleary and brown in color with blue along the edges of the iris. She looked around the palace as if unimpressed. 

Anubis, having been notified of her arrival, met her at the large double doors of the throne room. 

“I understand you are the one who responded to the request for an imperial midwife?” Anubis asked without pleasantries. 

“Yessir,” The old woman said, her voice cracking with age. 

“Your name, so I may announce you to His Majesty?” 

“Coral will do.” 

“I see. Follow me.” 

Anubis turned at the guardsmen manning the doors and nodded. The doors swung open, and sitting there were both His and Her Majesties. His Majesty’s throne sat center stage on the raised dais with Her Majesty’s smaller throne to his immediate right, turned slightly to face him. Sariphi wasn’t used to receiving guests while sitting on her throne yet, so she often stayed silent unless directly spoken to. His Majesty had told her she didn’t need to receive the guests if she didn’t want to, but Sariphi had insisted she wanted to take her role as queen seriously, and that included being a welcoming host.

“Your Majesties,” Anubis said, coming up and bowing. “I present Coral, the woman who has answered the request for an imperial midwife.” 

“Very well,” His Majesty said, waving his hand. Anubis bowed again and stepped to the side, allowing the old woman to stagger toward the dais. “We welcome you, Coral. Before your official appointment, you must prove yourself capable of the duties you will be assigned. We have the documentation and testimonials you sent us beforehand, but that will be useless to us if you are deemed unfit for the position.” 

“Seems fine,” Coral said amiably. “Although it seems like you’ve not got much choice, elseways, as I'm the only one who showed up.” 

“Mind your tongue!” Anubis hissed. “You are in the presence of Their Majesties, if you’ve forgotten! Be respectful!” 

“Hush up, pup,” She said, flapping her hand at him dismissively. Anubis seethed, but His Majesty waved him down “I’m as old as dirt and twice as bitter, so I ain’t all that keen on niceties. If you want to get all bent out of shape ‘cause I’m not standin’ on ceremony, you go right ahead, but I reckon I was called here for a reason, and that ain’t it.”

Sariphi hid a giggle. Coral reminded her of Bennu and she instantly felt affection for the old woman.

“Indeed,” His Majesty said, nonplussed. “Are you confident you can treat a human?” 

“Sure, sure,” Coral said with a shrug. “I’ve been a midwife for nearly a century now, and I’ve helped all manner of child into the world. Humans are mammals, as I understand, and the basics of mammals are reasonably similar; the bits are usually in the same place and work just the same. Usually. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“We understand,” His Majesty said, standing. “What do you need to begin?” 

“Well, to start, I need to examine the girlie here,” Coral said, nodding at Sariphi.  “She’s the one I’ll be lookin’ after, I figure.” 

His Majesty glanced at Sariphi, who nodded and stood up. 

“You are permitted to conduct an examination,” He said. “Though you will not do so alone. Princess Amit will be present for the examination, and Captain Lantevelt will stand guard outside of the door.” 

His Majesty motioned for the edge of the dais, where Amit and Jormungand stood. Amit stepped forward while Jormungand stepped back. He also motioned near the other side of the dais, where Lantevelt was standing. He joined Amit and waited for Sariphi to step down. 

“There is a dedicated room for you in which you may work,” Anubis told Coral. “And your sleeping accommodations are also located there. Princess Amit knows where it is and will lead you there. If you pass the trial period and are hired, you will report directly to Their Majesties or to myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, you’re very important, I get it.”

Anubis growled in agitation. 

“You will relay your findings to us when you have finished,” His Majesty said. “Afterward, we wish to speak to you privately.”

“You got it, boss,” Coral said, not waiting to be dismissed and waving her stick at Amit. “Lead on, missy.”

“Yes,” Amit said, bowing. “Follow me, please.” 

Sariphi patted His Majesty’s hand briefly before following Amit, Lantevelt, and Coral. His Majesty watched the group walk out of the throne room and sat back on his throne. 

“You seem worried, Sire,” Jormungand told him. “Her Majesty is well, I trust?”

“She is as robust as she has ever been, yes,” His Majesty replied. “It is not out of fear for her health that I do this.”

“I do not presume to know what troubles you, Sire,” Jormungand said. “But as a soon-to-be husband myself, I can imagine I may face similar tribulations in the future. You have my sympathies.” 

“Hmm,” His Majesty said, standing. “Your concern is appreciated, Captain.”

Anubis sniffed in discomfort. “As I have nothing to contribute to this conversation, I will carry on with my duties. If you will excuse me.” He bowed and left. 

Jormungand laughed. “As cold as ever, Abi.” He turned back to His Majesty. “I shall also take my leave, Sire.” 

“You may do so,” His Majesty said. As Jormungand bowed and made to depart, His Majesty called suddenly. “Jormungand.”

Jormungand halted and turned on his heel. “Yes, Sire?”

“We must imagine Anubis would find discussing domestic troubles quite… distasteful,” He began slowly. “Would we be correct in assuming you would be… more receptive to such things?” 

Jormungand tilted his head. “That may be. Certainly more so than Abi.” 

“In the future…” His Majesty said, but then stopped himself. 

Jormungand realized what His Majesty was trying to ask and chuckled. 

“If ever you need an ear, Your Majesty, I’m more than willing to lend you both of mine. Feel free to call me Jor when we are alone. If it suits you, of course.” 

His Majesty showed a hint of a smile, since no one else besides himself and Jormungand was there to see it. “We are… I am grateful. Jor. Thank you.” 

Jormungand gave him a good-natured laugh.

“What are friends for, Your Majesty?”

With that, Jormungand bowed again and excused himself.

Friends. For many years, His Majesty had debated whether it was appropriate or even possible for a king to have friends. His father… well, his uncle, the previous king, certainly had no one that could be considered a friend. The closest would have been the previous Anubis, the current Anubis’s father, though the previous king barely batted an eyelash when his most loyal vassal had died right in front of him. 

When he first became king, His Majesty had emulated the previous king in behavior, since he had no other example to follow. Now, after having met Sariphi, he had come to realize that the previous king’s life was rather… empty. Hollow. As such, His Majesty decided that he didn’t wish to live the same way. Granted, having friends would require him to be more open, which he still found difficult, but he believed it would be worth it in the end. 

He’d had only one friend since he was a boy. Now... he had two. His Majesty smiled to himself and went back to his office.

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[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXVII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3 ONE MORE THING this is a little bit spicy ;)

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Elain traced the fine calligraphy of the letter in her hands. Her name was written across the sealed envelope in a pretty, looping scrawl. She would have recognised Nesta’s lovely script anywhere. 

The familiar wax seal had been pressed with a symbol she knew well. The peak of the mountain was one she had seen painting the horizon of her home for the last few years, the three little stars drawing her attention. 

Cora had given her the envelope just as she had been getting ready for bed. The knock had her freezing at first, anticipating the worst. Lucien never made his presence known, choosing to simply use his magic to enter their rooms, same as Eris. At the late hour she could hardly imagine anyone coming for a social visit. 

The sound of her friend’s voice, had Elain tugging a nightgown over her head in a clumsy rush, running barefoot over the carpeted floors to open the oak door of her and Lucien’s shared chambers. 

Cora had looked serious, passing her the piece of parchment with her full lips tugged into a slight frown. “From your sister,” she had whispered, so low Elain almost had not heard. She had pressed it into her palm, pressing down slightly to indicate its importance.

Elain had known her brows were furrowed, the confusion she had felt etching onto her expression. She had opened her mouth, but had not been given the chance to respond, or even ask for clarification.  

“Sleep well,” Cora had offered quickly, shifting in a flurry of dark skirts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The day of her wedding. 

As the thought whirled in Elain’s mind for a moment, Cora stepped past the stone archway and winnowed down the hall effortlessly. Her steps were silent, her long hair swinging in its simple braid. 

“Goodnight,” Elain mumbled, more to herself as the Night Court female turned down the corner, hardly casting her a second glance.   

Lucien had gone to find his mother, and Elain was left to rip the letter open in privacy. She closed the door behind Cora, leaning her back against its rough surface. The bark was uneven through the fabric of her clothes, grounding her as she read over the words on the paper. Only one statement stood out to Elain, making her bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted the copper bitterness of her own blood. 

The last few weeks of searching for a loophole have led us to dead end after dead end, and Rhysand wants to avoid a conflict at all costs. 

While the writing was clearly Nesta’s, the words were obviously Feyre’s. Elain stopped reading to take a deep breath, her heartbeat thunderous, blood rushing to her ears. She wanted the same thing, especially after the war with Hybern. Seeing the death and destruction in the aftermath of such a war had been awful, had haunted her nightmares for months.  

You have to decide whether you want to cancel this wedding, Elain, and whatever choice you make, me and Nesta will be there to support you. 

The letter ended, leaving Elain to her own thoughts. She could not stop the small smile from gracing her features, glad that her sisters trusted her enough to make this decision without their influence. She read the letter one more time, committing the words to memory. 

There was a loud crack coming from the logs in the fireplace, and Elain found herself taking small steps toward it. She understood completely that if she wanted to end her rushed engagement to Lucien, she was well within her power to do so. 

My mate. 

Elain knew all she had to do was tell Cora, and the two of them would face the High Lord of Autumn. Perhaps he would dismiss her, tell her it was wedding day nerves, but ultimately she figured he would let them leave. Eris might even help them, she was certain he did not want to see either of them dead at his father’s hands. 

Lucien. 

Elain whispered his name softly to herself, his name bringing her nothing but a sense of comfort and calm, so different from the emotions that had tormented her before she arrived at his cruel home. Elain traced her finger along the crisp edge of the letter, tossing it into the raging fire without a second thought, having made her decision days ago. 

Elain was going to marry Lucien. She had convinced herself it had very little to do with their mating bond anyway. It all seemed so simple in her head. When they returned to Velaris together, she would get to know him further. At some point, Elain had begun to consider him a true friend, a partner as they navigated the obstacles in the Autumn Court. She could see him in her future as clear as if she were looking at it through glass. 

Without warning, Lucien winnowed into the large space, causing Elain to jump with an embarrassing yelp. She watched as the last of the letter shrivelled and burned, turning to ash, just as she whirled around to face him. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the cotton of her nightgown beneath her fingers. 

“You scared me,” Elain mumbled, pouting as she walked towards him, hoping he had not seen the last of the envelope’s remains in the fireplace. She hoped to avoid having such a conversation with him, especially as there were other more pressing matters on her mind. 

Lucien laughed, leaning towards her as she approached, comfortable. “My apologies, lady,” he replied, bowing at the waist gracefully. 

Elain rolled her eyes, not willing to admit she found him charming. She cupped his face between her hands, kissing him on the cheek softly. “How’s your mother?” 

“Excited,” Lucien said, dimples flashing as Elain smiled up at him. “She’s been desperate to marry one of us off for centuries.” 

There was a bit of guilt eating at Elain, and it had been for some time. Knowing that there were lies between herself and Callista did not seem like a good way to start their relationship, but she had decided that if the Lady of Autumn ever learned the truth, she would simply find it amusing.

“You never even got me an engagement ring,” Elain accused playfully, watching with hungry eyes as Lucien took off his emerald jacket. The muscles on his arms tensed, a brown flash of skin at his throat making her blush. 

He seemed to notice, tossing the clothing carelessly onto an armchair. He rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt in practised gestures, revealing his forearms. “We don’t exchange rings in Autumn.” 

Elain cleared her throat, feeling heat travel to the tips of her pointed ears. She turned away from him, inching towards the wooden dresser near their bed. The comb Eris had gifted her when she had first arrived to the Forest House glimmered in the light of the candless, a glare shining on the sharpened point of each tooth. 

“Did you want me to get you one?” Lucien asked genuinely. She felt him searching the bond for any hint of whether she was upset, wanting to understand. 

Elain smiled to herself, thinking about the last ring she had been given. Being on the other side of the wall seemed like a lifetime ago. “No, I don’t think I want another.” 

She heard Lucien pause, waiting before he asked. “Do you still have that one?” 

There was kindness in his tone, no anger or possession over the idea of whether she had kept it or not. Elain shrugged, remembering how she had taken Graysen’s ring off one day when she had been gardening years before. She had crushed the cheap iron between two rocks and dusted the remains of the pretty pearl into the dirt next to the roses. 

Elain snorted, the sound unladylike but she found that she no longer cared about such things in Lucien’s presence. “I got rid of it a while ago.” 

He nodded, and she saw him through the mirror, considering. “We exchange necklaces,” he offered. “Everyone can see the rings you wear, but a necklace stays hidden beneath the collars of our clothes, just for us. Usually there are promises engraved onto the metal.” 

Elain hummed, tilting her head. “I like that.” She faced him, not realising how much closer he had gotten. She placed her hands onto the surface of the dresser behind her, feeling the edge digging into her hips. “They’d be made from gold?” 

“Always,” he said softly, his eyes flicking to her lips for the briefest of moments. “Gold is the colour of love here.” 

“I’m nervous,” Elain blurted suddenly, surprising herself with the admission. She gazed up at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lucien only smiled, the slightest tilt of his lips. “It’s not too late to call it off,” he replied with a shrug. 

“I don’t want to do that,” she shook her head, loose curls bouncing. She liked how insignificant he made it seem, as if he would simply do whatever she wished. “It’s just…what does a wedding even look like here?” 

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “You’re more worried about the ceremony than the fact that we’re actually going through with this?” 

“Being married to you doesn’t seem entirely awful,” she said sweetly, patting his arm. 

“How flattering,” he mumbled. She felt the way their bond practically sang at the contact. 

Elain giggled, searching his gaze. “So Eris walks me down the aisle, you’re standing at the altar with a priestess, and the reception begins. Then what?” 

“Then there’s a whole lot of praying to the mother,” Lucien said with a shrug. She motioned for him to go on, wanting him to continue. “The priestess is going to tie our wrists together, she’s going to pray a little more, and then we’ll officially be husband and wife.” 

Elain frowned, trailing her finger up his arm, toying with the fabric of his collar. “That doesn’t sound romantic at all.” 

Elain was certain she saw Lucien blush the slightest bit. “The romance starts when the couple is alone. Our court prefers small gestures, honest ones made in secrecy.” 

She decided that sounded very much like the Autumn Court she had briefly come to know. She pressed her hand flat against the nape of his neck, forcing him to come closer. Her voice became strained as an awareness took over her body. “So we go to the ceremony, we celebrate with the guests, and once we’re alone?” 

Lucien looked her up and down, and Elain tried to ensure scarlet did not stain her cheeks at the attention. His voice was low as he answered, “I suppose that’s up to you.” 

Elain swallowed, humming softly, threading her fingers through his silken hair. It fell in loose waves down his broad back.

“Usually that’s when we would exchange the necklaces, and take our vows,” Lucien said.

“When would we kiss?” Elain asked, desire making her forward. She knew he felt the same. 

“Up to you,” Lucien repeated softly, his breath fanned the curls framing her face. 

Elain got on the tips of her toes, arms curling around Lucien’s neck so she could press her lips to his. What started as a gentle kiss quickly shifted into something more desperate, especially as she moved her one hand so that it could trail along the bare skin just beneath his collar. 

Lucien held onto her waist tightly, keeping her pressed against the dresser. She arched into him, pressing herself more fully against him until there was no space left between them. 

Elain felt his sharp canines drag against her lower lip, gasping as he moved to place a rough kiss on her jaw. She threaded her fingers in his hair, keeping him near in case he thought she wanted him to pull back.

The bond thrummed softly, familiar, as Lucien turned his attention to the laces at her throat. He undid them swiftly, pulling at the strings carelessly, so he could trace his nose along her collar bones. When he bit the exposed skin of her breasts, Elain began to pull at his shirt, attempting to remove the fabric. 

“Lucien,” she breathed, his name a whisper as it fell from her mouth. He paused, shifting to look up at her. “I want you to…” the words caught in her throat, the growing ache between her legs fogging the rest of her senses and making her thoughts a mess. She rolled her hips in a gesture she hoped was enough to make him understand. At the feeling of his own arousal pressed against her core, he shifted forward to lean a hand onto the dresser. He pressed his forehead to her own, his eyes fluttering shut. He held himself like a coiled spring, every muscle tense. 

“Whatever you want,” he murmured. He smelled of crisp apples and summer mornings, the scent of his desire lingering in the air around them. “Whatever you want, Elain, I’ll give it to you.” 

“I want you,” she finished, kissing his cheek, her lips catching on the most brutal of his scars. The skin dipped and raised, but she did not feel it, merely noticing the way he seemed to relax at the action. 

With no warning he lifted Elain into the air, gripping her with steady arms as he winnowed them to the bed. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she dragged him on top of her as she fell.  

Lucien leaned on his elbow, hovering above her, his legs between hers. He bunched the fabric of her nightgown in his one fist, kissing her deeply as he waited for her consent. Elain pulled the shirt from where it had been tucked into his pants, letting her fingers trail along the exposed skin of his sides. He groaned at the contact, slowly moving the skirt of her dress so it rested in a wrinkled heap above her knees. 

Elain lifted her hips in a silent invitation, needing him to be inside her, aching at the thought of it. Lucien had other plans, though, kissing and nipping at her through the fabric of her nightgown, inching lower as she whimpered. He was on his knees, and she pulled the cotton further, understanding dawning on her as she held his flame-filled gaze. 

Lucien’s auburn hair reflected the sparks of the fireplace, his golden eye whirring softly in the silence while his russet one drank in the sight of her. His mouth brushed the place where all her pleasure centred, and Elain held her breath as she waited for him to make his next move. His broad hands spread her thighs slightly, keeping her in place, making her shiver. 

When Lucien pressed the flat of his tongue against her, Elain moaned, the sound ripped from her. He lapped at her hungrily, encouraged by the whimpers she made. He pulled her close, and Elain hooked a leg over his shoulder, searching for the strands of his hair as she reached for him. 

My mate. 

The skillful way he slipped his tongue between her folds had her feeling feral, she moved her hips, already knowing she was close to falling over the edge. When Lucien pressed a finger against her entrance, Elain brought her hand to her mouth, biting at her thumb until she was sure there were marks. 

He moved inside her slowly, drawing out her pleasure as he continued to lick and kiss at her. Elain thrust up into his hand when he added a second finger, shattering completely when he groaned, the vibrations making her see stars. 

Elain was still dizzy when he gingerly unhooked the leg she had wrapped around him, easing back up into her arms. She tugged at his shirt. “Take these off,” she ordered weakly, reeling, needing more of him immediately. 

Lucien huffed a laugh as he kissed her, and she could taste herself on his tongue. She made a soft sound, cupping his face with her hand, tracing the shape of cheekbone. 

She felt the outline of his length pressed against her core, his pants separating them. “Lucien,” she whined, his name muffled as she tucked herself into the crook of his neck. 

There was a flash of golden light as he gave in to her demand, ridding them of their clothes effortlessly with his magic. Next time, Elain promised to herself, she would painstakingly undo the buttons of his jacket and the laces of his shirt, but she was glad there was nothing between them anymore. 

Elain was burning with desire, pulling him closer for another kiss. He kept his legs between her thighs, his body on top of hers overwhelming in the best way. She let her foot idly caress his calf, encouraging. 

Lucien dragged the tip of his length between her folds, angling himself at her entrance. He shifted slowly, carefully, as though he was worried about hurting her. It was so unbelievably kind, emotion crashing over her as she realised just how much the bond must be affecting him. He seemed entirely unbothered, a sharp contrast to the creature Elain had become seeing him so vulnerable. 

Lucien’s thrusts were slow, as he brought himself to the tip before pressing his hips fully against Elain each time. He kissed her between breathless gasps, soft sounds of pleasure falling from his lips as well. When he placed a hand between them, rubbing where she needed him most in rhythmic circles, she clenched her eyes shut. 

When Lucien’s movements became more erratic, she watched, wanting to see him fall apart because of her. He threw his head back on a groan, his thrusts not stopping until she felt as her walls clenched around him. Elain bit his shoulder, stifling a cry, noticing they were both slick with sweat. 

Lucien shifted, easing her onto his chest as they both caught their breath. Elain kissed his lips in small pecks, laughing softly as he wrapped his arms around her. He held her close, seemingly not wanting to let her go, and Elain decided she could have stayed with him forever. 

My mate.

They fell asleep, limbs tangled, breath mingling. Elain felt safe tucked against him.

At some point in the night, she reached for Lucien once more, finding herself back under him. The candles had gone out and there was nothing but embers in the fireplace, but Elain was consumed in flames, the bond between their souls alight as she and Lucien came together once more.

[spaceorphan18]

The Lady Whistledown Papers : 1x08 After the Rain (Part 2)

Welcome back, Gentle Readers, to The Lady Whistledown Papers, where I’m taking an in-depth look at Penelope Featherington and Colin Bridgerton’s character arcs and romance within the show Bridgerton!

For previous issues, follow tag : The Lady Whistledown Papers

This is going to be a very musical issue, guys ;)

Boxing Match

So. We're here at this boxing match where Will's going to face an ethical dilemma, Simon's going to be involved, Lord Featherington is going to face some consequences of his actions, and Anthony's going to fuck Siena against a wooden beam in the back.

And Colin... is going to sit and happily chat with Benedict in the background. Apparently, he's not in a moody mood over Marina anymore.

I like the top hats though. There are times when this show veers so far into fantasy that I don't necessarily recognize the 1800s. But the top hats feels very much like 1800s. And I appreciate that.

Well, this scene might not really have anything for me to meta but... I'll bring in a BTS thing...

Apparently, Jonathan Bailey, Luke Thompson, and Luke Newton spent Season 1 harmonizing this little tidbit and it makes me wish that Bridgerton was a musical, because these boys can sing, and this is absolutely delightful. I wish this was better quality and longer.

(Bringing it up here - because I think this was filmed around the time of this boxing match? The costumes look similar.)

Anyway... there should be more singing on this show. Just, there should. That's how I feel about that.

Speaking of more singing...

Family Time

Omg, it took me forever to find this gif.... But I wanted to use a gif here because I wouldn't be able to still Colin because he's moving so much. Anyway...

We've got one of our big family scenes again. And as I've said before, I've always liked these scenes because the family dynamics are always richly on display, and one of the aspects the show does really well. The interplay between all of the different storylines is great here, as each one kind of gets a little nod as they weave in and out of the scene.

So, let's talk about this almost blink-and-you-miss-it Polin moment.

Francesca is back in town, so are Simon and Daphne, and the family is in high spirits (since we're at the end of the season and wrapping this thing all up). And they get Colin to sing in a catchy little tune (which I'll get into in a moment). And, as much as Colin was sulking and in such a bad place in the previous episode, he's bounced back rather well. And while he's not over it (Colin, we're learning, seems to hold onto things -- and the Marina stuff isn't done yet), he's come back from the heartbreak rather quickly.

Which... I think really speaks to the nature of Colin's feelings more than anything -- as they weren't that deep. Do I think Colin cared for Marina? Yes. Do I think he got caught up in a grand fantstical romance? Yes. Do I think he actually loved her? No. Because as his family members mentioned in the previous episode -- he didn't really know Marina. He just liked the idea of her. And those shallower feelings are easier to bounce back from.

So, we have here a Colin who is in better spirits. And the thing that really sticks out to me in this scene is how young Colin looks. He's singing what's essentially a child's play song, like London Bridges or Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Colin was pushing himself to be An. ADULT. But he's not fully there yet. And I feel like this scene kind of pushes Colin back to where he was at the start of the season. That sweet, charming young kid. Only he's not that anymore. Not really. Experiences do change a person.

Meanwhile, we have Penelope. She comes into this a little hesitantly. She's clearly there for Eloise. This is the first time we really see her in the family dynamic. Even though we don't see it -- it's implied that Penelope is often over there, and feels pretty comfortable being in the Bridgerton drawing room. She grew up there. She and Eloise's friendship formed there. And there she can be around Colin in an appropriate way. It is a home for her.

So, it's interesting that she comes into this room with that hesitancy. She takes a moment to watch Colin while he's singing - and I do believe in this moment she doesn't regret what she's done with Lady Whistledown. Because she's seeing Colin be happy again. Things are back to the way they were. And Colin feels like /her/ Colin again. And, oh, her longing look for him. Her love is always just radiating through her that it can't be contained.

There is also a small, little detail that I absolutely love. As she comes in, he's in the middle of a line, and his voice wavers and catches when he sees her. And I mean, not only does he see her - which is notable in that she's the girl who hides on the sidelines and doesn't get notice. But the sight of her is enough to catch him off guard. There's an unresolved tension there. And the moment acknowledges it, even if it can't address it.

Eloise, oblivious as usual, is going to jump in and steal Penelope away -- she's got news about Lady Whistledown. And the look of pure panic and terror on Pen's face as she worries that Eloise has discovered her secret...

But Eloise isn't there to unmask her, she's there to say that her sluething has brought her to the conclusion that Madame Delacroix is Lady Whistledown.

Penelope has a myriad of emotions that cross her face at this news. She's relieved that Eloise hasn't figured out her secret. But she's grateful that Eloise is on her and her family's side, and that Eloise's intentions are to have Lady Whistledown make a retraction to restore the Featherington name. It's an act of true friendship -- and Pen is so grateful that Eloise is her bff.

But also, there's a little bit of deflation there, too. It's a hard read, but the conversation takes a turn -- Penelope commenting on the fact that it's impressive that Madame Delacroix can run her business and be Lady Whistledown. And I'm not sure if it's out of a twinge of sadness that she can't tell Eloise that she is Lady Whistledown, or the fact that she's concerned that Madame Delacroix might be posing as LW, or just the fact that even if Penelope is rich -- Delacroix being able to live her life freely is a sad reminder that she can't.

Eloise loves the idea that Madame Delacroix can live life as she pleases, and aspires to be like her -- the unmarried and doing her own thing being the biggest appeals. But Penelope admits she can't be like that. She tells Eloise the fact that she has a sister who is a duchess will make it easier for Eloise to do whatever she likes -- including being a working, unmarried woman.

But Penelope isn't like that. Here she blames it on her family, and it's tattered reputation. Eloise can coast on her family's good fortune, but Penelope will always be fighting against her name and placement in society. But what is unsaid, too, is that while Penelope wouldn't mind making her own money (and, in fact, she already is), she does want to be married -- she does want love. And herein lies the comedy/tragedy of Penelope/Eloise friendship -- each has what the other one wants.

Of course, neither of these issues are going to be resolved here, so Eloise does something she doesn't even want to do with her siblings, and shares her chocolates, which brings a grin to Penelope's face. because they are good bffs.

And, of course, the ending moment is punctuated by the end of Colin's song, where he dissolves into a fit of laughter. And I just adore when Colin laughs, because he's such a sweetheart when he does.

But, okay, let's take a second and talk about the song -- which is called Now We Are Met. And, guys, I tried. I really tried. But I couldn't find much about this song, other than it was written by composer Samuel Webbe sometime during this era? There's not much to meta out of it -- other than it's a fun little song that you sing with your family around the piano, and it's usually done as a round. In case you're unfamiliar with rounds... here is a choir singing it (which, honestly, is really cool)

I would love to know the reason the show picked this particular song. Is it just a children's song that kids in the UK sing? Or is there some other meaning to it? I have no idea. Would love to hear from anyone who knows more about it - as I love discussing the use of music within story.

Yellow

Tying it to the boxing scene, Lord Featherington won a bunch of money, and now the Featheringtons aren't as badly off as they were - (even if society isn't that fond of them, still), and they're able to get bran new dresses for the Hastings' ball. Prudence is excited because she gets to let hers in. Phillipa finds hers to be perfect.

And... Penelope's is yellow.

It's such a great little comedic beat. (and, I mean, the bit with Portia telling Phillipa she can get married now that they can give her a dowry and Phillipa asking when it was lost is so hilarious. I'm so glad they pushed in on the comedy angle during Season 3.)

And, oh Penelope just isn't there yet -- she doesn't have the confidence to push against her mother's wishes. She doesn't have the power to let her clothes reflect the person she really is. She's still going to be that girl stuck in yellow, clinging to the walls of the ballroom for just a while longer. And that's okay. We've got a lot of great story to go!

And on that note, I'm going to end this musical based post with a cover Coldplay's Yellow -- a song, as you know, means a lot to this story, as we'll talk about a lot more come Season 3. :)