#thread: drinks and dragons

[astralartefact]

the ffxiv youtube posting a full yorha dark apocalypse trailer for the release of the rest of the anime while the community is already big mad after they have made the groundbreaking discovery that they like endwalker less than shadowbringers

surely only the most insightful of commentaries will follow *braces for impact*

me? i'm just over here full on seething that the stupid lore bullshit that people are mad about is continuing to rob me of 'yoko taro decided to write his most overtly political work in a video game crossover' discourse

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it��because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 11 — BREEDING

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — heizou, neuvillette, wriothesley, albedo

— warnings. — fem! reader, breeding, lots of cum n spit, hitting it raw, petnames used: darling, baby, rough syx

⚝ — HEIZOU

it's addiction, a form of fixation and heizou doesn't stop until you're crammed full of his cum— literally as his fingers spread his seed from your lips down to your chin to watch it mark you, your tears mixing in as he presses his thumb past your tongue, just to see how far you'll take it.

"you're a damn masterpiece," heizou coos, tilting his head with a grin that's not just wicked— it's fanatical, wild, the kind of grin a man gives when he's long past the point of reason and fully drowning in sexual passion. his fingers were still wet with you, his knuckles glistening, and yet he kept them poised just out of reach, just enough to make you twitch, grind, gasp like you're coming undone without him even touching you.

"look at you," he drawls, voice so sweet you'd never tell he's feigning innocence, "quivering mess for me already? you don't even know what to do with yourself, do you?"

without looking away once, the detective watches— fixated as your thighs tremble, as your hips lift just barely from the mattress, chasing friction like you'll die if you don't get it, body slick and aching, soaked enough to stain the sheets beneath you— and archons, does it make him smirk wider, you feel it, the raw sting of overstimulation threading through your gut, curling your toes, making your stomach pull tight with the weight of everything he isn't letting you have.

"fuck, i knew you'd take it all baby," heizou's already painted you in his spit and cum— yet it's still not enough, it never was— instead, he pulls his cock from your tightness just to smear the tip over your swollen entrance, patting his dick on your folds, laughing breathlessly when it makes a filthy squelch, "this mess? this is mine, mine, gonna fuck it into you until it's leaking out onto the sheets, no one else gets to see you like this,"

and the detective makes sure of it— everlastingly keeping you plugged full of his slender fingers, thick cock and tongue and when you cum again, after he's bred and bred and bred you the entire night, you're spasming and gushing so violently it splatters all over the sheets. yet he doesn't stop, instead, heizou just shoves his cock back in deeper, harder until you writhe beneath him, back bowing again and again— each arch a reflex, a raw plea for mercy as numerous sparks burst behind your eyes, "gonna mark you with it baby, yeah? you'll be dripping for days."

⚝ — NEUVILLETTE

neuvillette's formality cracks the moment he realizes what he's done— your folds already glistening, your mouth open and wanting, wanting him and archons, dragons beyond, the way you soaked him up was putting him on edge as he drops to his knees like it's judgment, tongue diving in to taste his mess, face buried, nose brushing your clit as he moans like it's the only language he knew, "so wet already, you— you need correction,"

he rasps— voice rough, an octave lower, soaked in something that might be reverence if it weren't so wretchedly obscene— and still, he doesn't let you touch yourself, not even when your thighs begin to shake around him, not even when your body rocks with the force of how close you were, how desperately your slick pussy clenched around nothing in search of friction.

you ache, no, you burn, for the pressure the moment his girth was pressing into your walls again, the smallest touch setting you on fire, for anything to soothe the overwhelming throb between your legs.

your hands twitch where he's pinned them down, the need so sharp it's nearly painful as your stomach coils, tight and low and heavy, and all you could think about was grinding your hand down to help yourself out, circling your clit fast and frantic until you fell apart.

but neuvillette only watches you, drinking in the sight of your helpless squirming, the flushed heat of your skin, the lust in your eyes, the way you beg without words.

the man wanted to see it— that aching edge where pleasure becomes unbearable, he wanted to know how far he could take it, how much you'll squirm, how much of his seed he could store inside you, how loudly you'll whimper, all because he won't let you come.

"you want it that badly?" he whispers, lips ghosting your throat, "oh so greedy, darling, so desperate, do you even know how you look like this? shaking for me?"

and he still doesn't let you touch yourself.

he fucks you until you sob, fills you until you cry, until your juices were slicking up his pelvis, spit frothed into the mess, his hands keeping you open wide before he pulls out to slowly rub his shaft between your folds again, your slick and his cum coating his erection so fucking nicely the overstimulation has you grinding down against his cock in mindless circles, hips chasing friction like you're possessed, like your body had forgotten how to stop.

"i need to see it," he growls, standing, slapping the head of his cock against your cunt, "need to watch it drip out," and when neuvillette fucks you full, it's with unbearable precision— every thrust calculated, dragging your walls wide and making you feel how his cum fills every inch, "don't try to hold it in, darling, let it spill out, let them all see how thoroughly i've claimed you."

⚝ — WRIOTHESLEY

to wriothesley it was certainly not enough to just fuck you— he wanted to destroy you, breed you until you're feeling only him and his warm seed pooling from your hole, the man wanted to see his release flooding your pussy, cum mixed with spit and arousal as he mouths at your chest, grunting into your skin.

"you're so fucking good at taking it," he pants, "i'm impressed," as his voice turns husky, cracked open at the seams, like he's trying to growl but the sound gets caught somewhere in his chest— because fuck, you're tight, yeah? tighter than he expected, tighter than he could handle without his breath catching and his rhythm faltering for just a split second.

naturally the handsome man doesn't say it out loud, but you could feel it— how his hips were stuttering every now and then, how his hands gripped you harder, how his mouth parted like he's choking on the heat of it all.

he's supposed to be in control, isn't he? always was, right? but the way you clenched around him made something shiver through his whole body as his forehead falls against yours, damp and hot, "fuck, you're gonna make me cum too fast like this— shit—'", as his cock drags so deep inside you it knocks the rationality off your head, your toes curling and thighs twitching in exhaustion, hips jerking involuntarily, yet he's thrusting down harder just to make you feel more of that unbearable stretch.

the obscene pressure made your mind go white and your slick drip down his thighs, "but you're gonna take more, aren't you? I'm gonna stretch this hole until it can't hold another drop," as wriothesley shamelessly spits between your legs before watching it drip down to mix with your slick, his groans landing on your ears as if it's heaven.

"gonna fill you again," he growls between thrusts, hips slamming into you, "again and again until i fucking see it running down your thighs," as he doesn't stop even when pretty tears bead your lashes— wriothesley just flips you over, presses your cheek to the soaked sheets and fucks you through your whimpers, "you're gonna wear my cum like a brand."

⚝ — ALBEDO

scientific? sure, terrifying and obsessed? please.

albedo watches every twitch, every pulse, every droplet that slips from your hole after the first round, "fascinating," he mutters something dark underneath his breath, fingers sinking into the obscene slick between your thighs— warm, wet, and clenching as though your body itself was begging.

he groans low when he feels the way you pulse around nothing, fluttering and soaked, hips twitching like you cannot bear the emptiness. yet his hips don't move at first— just press deeper, just spread you wider, parting the mess to watch how it drips and sticks, how your whole body quivers from the exposure.

albedo curses, "ahh, you're throbbing for me already? this way? this wet?" it leaves him like instinct, resembling life— something deeper than thought, older than want, "you're clenching so tightly, it's trying to hold me in," as he continues to be brutal the second time— driving in so hard your breath leaves your lungs, his mouth messy and open against yours.

"do you feel that?" he hisses, sharp and low, but you barely hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears, your toes curling helplessly, nails digging into his back as sparks of raw lust flare through you— wickedly so, unrelenting shocks that made your body flinch and jolt against him.

your stomach felt tight, heavy, on the brink of exploding— like it's about to break open from how close you were, how full you felt of his cum, how deep albedo was inside you.

every thrust knocks your head back into the pillows, making your body seize up like it's trying to run and stay all at once as he groans when you clamp down at his cock, and the way you twitch around him drove him into madness, "how it gushes back out when i pull? yet i hate seeing it leave you," as he spreads you wider, studies how his cum seeps out, then pushes it back in with slow, filthy thrusts, "again, you'll take it all again, i want you dripping from the mouth and cunt, maybe both— marked inside and out, i need to make it happen."

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[beeapocalypse]

realizing now if the existence dragons final dying thought had such an impact on reality (rendering all reptiles nonsentient in alamanni, idk what for honey sweet yet) then its first should have an equal if not greater impact acting as this big thing + theme throughout all stories going on but ughhhhhh i dont want to figure that out man. not right now at least

[emmiesoverthemoon]

does your mother know?

Pairing: g-dragon / kwon jiyong x reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: you're so cute, i like your style, and i know what you mean when i give you a flash of that smile. but girl, you're only a child!

Tags: age gap (younger reader/older jiyong), flirting, internal conflict if you squint, tension, implied sexual content as the title suggests, inspired by 'does your mother know?' by abba

ao3

The night was a living energy. It coiled and breathed around you—hard bass kicks pounding through your body like a second heartbeat, shadows slick as sweat and smoke, neon arteries throbbing through the body of the club. Bodies writhe, unthinking, lost in the rhythm, flowing as one as an ocean of umbra and alchohol. 

But not you. You were stillness set aflame.

Draped in liquid silk that captured every flicker of light like a secret, you were the eye of the storm—untouched, unbothered, and unmistakably dangerous. Inexplicably enticing in your own right to anyone who had a set of eyes. A glass hovered between your fingers, forgotten and half-full, your lips brushing its rim with the kind of patience that unnerves. You did not dance with the current, you had no need to.

You were the reason people dance. You were the current.

And Jiyong saw you, your energy—long before you noticed him.

Glancing across the sea of people from the bar stool of which you were perched upon, you spotted a man, possibly in his late thirties, you presumed. He was the embodiment of a slow-burning sin wrapped in expensive tailoring and silence sharp enough to cut. He moved like smoke—casual, elusive, with that deliberate ease men acquired only when they had stopped chasing validation and begun commanding it. Time didn't age him. It defined him.

His eyes locked on yours, and they lingered.

He should not have been looking. You were far too young—mid-twenties, perhaps? The kind of young that still shimmered with possibility. The kind that had not yet been dulled by regret, only sharpened by experience. You carried your allure not like an accident, but like a weapon—sheened in confidence, honed by intention, and worn like the most dangerous kind of armor. Aware. Amused. Utterly indifferent to the chaos it left in your wake.

You were, by every sensible measure of self-preservation, off-limits.

But then—you looked at him.

Not with the expected tilt of innocence or coy invitation, but with something older. Slower. Something that simmered beneath the surface like embers refusing to die. A single tilt of your head, the barest pull of your lips—not a smile, but a provocation. A whisper of sin dressed as curiosity.

Your gaze held his with a weight that felt intentional. Unyielding. Like the first touch of silk over bare skin—cool, electric, impossible to ignore. And when your smirk dared to form—subtle, smug, knowing—it undid something in him.

That was all it took.

Jiyong crossed the floor like a man already seduced, the air parting around him, thick with the scent of something about to become a mistake. His presence was deliberate, threaded with a confidence born not from youth, but from time. And still—still—you had managed to unravel it.

He ordered a drink with the ease of ritual, knowing full well he would not touch it. Not when you were watching him. Not when the real intoxication was already humming in the space between you.

He stopped just short of your side, and when he spoke, his voice was low, a little raspy but still so buttery, and tinged with something that sounded almost like disbelief. “You look like you’re scheming.”

You barely moved. Your chin balanced delicately on the back of your hand, legs crossed in that languid, unbothered way that suggested royalty or ruin—depending on the lighting. Your gaze did not waver. “Maybe I am.”

“Should I be concerned?”

You tilted your head, slow and thoughtful, as though you were still weighing his worth. Still undecided on whether he merited your attention—or your time. “Only if you bore me easily.”

Jiyong's laugh was low, surprised. Soft in a way that suggested he had not meant to let it out—you had caught him off-guard. That was no small feat. He was accustomed to being the one who disrupted, who disarmed, who flustered. But you? You had yet to even shift in your seat, and already, you had knocked him askew. Impressive didn't even begin to cover it.

“I don’t usually approach women like this anymore,” he admitted almost bashfully, watching you as if you were something delicate he might have dreamt into existence and feared waking from.

You hummed, velvet and amused. “Gone humble with age?”

“Gone wise.”

“I doubt that.” You leaned forward—only a breath, but it was enough. Enough for the scent of your skin to find him. Dangerous. Expensive. Not sweet. Not safe. The kind of fragrance that lingers in bedsheets and sins alike. “You strike me as the kind of man who says that while undressing someone in his mind.”

He faltered. The mask slipped. Just for a breath—but you saw it. Of course you did.

“You’re not wrong,” he says, and it sounds more like a confession than a flirtation.

“I never am.”

He watched the condensation collect on your glass, followed the lazy trail of a droplet as it slid down the curve of it—and then onto your finger, to which you brought it to your mouth. Then, slowly, your tongue claimed it from your fingertip with the kind of care that could undo a man entirely. The motion was not obscene—it was worse. His control wavered.

“You’re trouble.”

“You’re older,” you purred. “Shouldn’t you know better?”

That landed. You saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth—the guilt, or maybe the hunger trying to masquerade as restraint. Neither disguise suited him. Poor thing.

“You can walk away,” you murmured, your tone softening like silk drawn tight before the snap. “If this makes you uncomfortable.”

He swallowed hard. His voice dropped, rasped—gravel laced with want. “I should.”

You smiled. Not cruelly. Seductively. Like a warning unfolding itself one petal at a time. “But you won't, will you?”

And that—that—was the crack. The splinter. The first beautiful, irrevocable fracture in something that had been whole until he saw you.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tense, as though trying to shake loose whatever spell had tangled itself around him. You stood then, slow and serpentine, rising like smoke, like temptation. His eyes—traitorous and hungry—dropped before he could stop them.

Your hips. Your thighs. The promise in the sway of your walk.

You passed beside him, close enough for your perfume to curl around him again—closer still, until your breath ghosted across the shell of his ear.

“Come on,” you whispered, voice dipped in velvet and venom. “You've already decided.”

And of course—of course—he followed.

You chose not kiss him right away.

No, you let him ache. Let him stir.

The corridor was dim—walls pulsing faintly with the spill of bass from the club, shadows trembling with the breath of your nearness. You closed the space between you and Jiyong with feline ease, your body a whisper away from his, but never quite touching. The lack of contact was deliberate. Exquisite. Agonizing.

His back met the wall with a dull thud, and still—he dared not to move. He stood there, as if bracing for a storm, as if one wrong word might snap the last thread of composure he clung to.

Your voice was soft when it came. Intimate. Dangerous. “What’s got you nervous, Jiyong?”

You let his name roll slow off your tongue, just shy of a purr, your lips brushing the space beside his jaw. You felt the way his breath hitched, sharp and shallow, like he had been holding it.

He exhaled, eyes darting to your mouth, then away. “You’re younger than I’m used to.”

You smiled, just a little. Enough for mischief to gleam behind your lashes. “I’m not asking for your pension.”

He laughed—tight, reluctant, aroused. A sound that came from the chest, caught on restraint.

“What are you asking for?” he rasped.

You leaned in closer, until your breath fanned against the side of his neck, warm and steady. “A mistake.”

That was it. That was all it took.

He broke.

His hand came to your thigh, slow at first, then firmer—fingertips dragging over silk and skin as though needing to memorize the sensation. His other hand found your hip and pulled you closer, until there was no space left between your bodies—only heat. When his mouth found yours, it was not gentle. It was rough, consuming. Like a man punishing himself for every time he had said no to this kind of need and every second he had spent resisting you.

He kissed you like he needed it to breathe. Like he had already regretted it but would want to do it for the rest of his life.

And you kissed him back like you had been waiting—waiting—for this exact unraveling. You kissed like fire licking at wax, deliberate and destructive, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed into him.

Then—you pulled away.

Just enough.

Just enough to make him suffer.

Your lips hovered over his, your breath still mingling. Close, but not touching.

“You said you don’t do this anymore,” you murmured, the edges of your voice frayed with heat.

His chest rose against yours. Labored. Tense. “I don’t.”

“But here you are,” you said, the words dragging like silk along skin. “Looking like you’re one whisper away from falling to your knees.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers flexed on your hip, like he was fighting himself—like every instinct told him to surrender, but some distant voice still told him he shouldn’t.

A strangled sound escaped him. Half laugh, half growl.

His gaze dragged down your body, slow and searing. The way the dress clung to your curves. The bare inch of thigh peeking through the slit. The sharp rise and fall of your breath against his chest.

“You’re driving me mad,” he said, and it sounded like a confession ripped from the rawest part of him.

You tilted your head, coy and cruel in the prettiest way. “That’s what I'm here for,” you whispered. “I'll remind you how good it feels to lose control. Or perhaps I need to be reminded, it's up to you.”

Something in his expression shifted—desire darkening into something almost reverent. As if the line between wanting you and needing you had already vanished.

And then—low, strained, vulnerable—he said, “You’re not a child.”

The words stopped you. They hung between you like a blade.

You blinked, almost confused. “Excuse me?”

His throat moved as he swallowed hard. “You’re young. But not innocent. That’s what makes this…” He paused, as if trying to find the right word. “…worse.”

Not wrong. Not shameful.

Just unbearable.

Just impossible to resist.

You stepped in, chest to chest, lips ghosting over his jaw, and his hands—shaking with something like hesitance—settled at your waist. Not possessive. Not dominant. Just grounded. Like he needed to touch something real before he lost himself.

“Do I scare you?” you whispered, letting the question slip like warm honey into his ear.

His reply was a breath. A prayer. “You terrify me.”

You smiled.

Slow. Wicked.

“Good.”

You broke free from Jiyong's hold and laced your fingers through his as though the gesture belonged to you—unquestioned, inevitable. The corridor stretched before you like a promise, dim and hushed, each step echoing with the slow, deliberate rhythm of anticipation. He followed in silence, his presence simmering just behind you, the heat from his body coiling around your spine like smoke.

When you reached the elevator, you pressed the button without hesitation. A soft chime announced its arrival. The doors slid open with a whisper, and you stepped inside, the movement fluid, feline. He joined you, wordless still, though the tension radiating from him was palpable—thick, oppressive, intoxicating.

The lift began its ascent.

Enclosed. Dimly lit. Breathless.

He watched you, but not directly. His reflection in the mirror captured more than his eyes could confess—fixed on the slow drift of your fingers, now sliding with calculated ease along the inside of his thigh. Brazen. Unhurried. You stopped just shy of the ache he could no longer conceal, your nails grazing the expensive fabric of his trousers like a threat laced in silk.

"Tell me to stop," you whispered, voice low, velvet-wrapped and lethal.

His breath caught. His answer was ragged. "I don't want to."

"That was not what I asked."

The silence stretched between you, taut as a bowstring.

"I can't."

You leaned in, lips grazing the shell of his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. "Then stop pretending this wasn't also your idea."

Ding.

The doors opened.

The suite awaited—bathed in darkness and decadence. Soft gold spilled from the recessed lighting, illuminating gleaming marble, shadows stretched across plush furnishings. He stepped in behind you, quietly closing the door, the sound final.

You did not speak. You did not move.

You turned slowly.

Predatory.

"You don't do this often, do you?" you asked, voice measured, knowing. Your hands landed on Jiyong's chest, pushing him to sit on the sofa, and he obeyed wordlessly. How shocking.

He raised a brow, bemused. "Sleep with women who were still in school when my debut album dropped? No."

You stepped toward him, closing the distance until you stood between his knees. "That was not what I meant."

His gaze darkened. "Then what?"

"Lose control," you murmured, tracing the line of his collarbone with one finger, the touch delicate as a warning. "Let someone else take the lead."

He dared not answer, but his silence said enough.

So you climbed into his lap, both of your thighs placed on the outside of his, causing your skirt to hike impossibly high. Unfortunately for Jiyong's wondering eyes, it was not yet high enough to get a glimpse of what he really wanted.

He stilled.

As if your weight had stolen the breath from his lungs. His hands found your thighs, large and trembling with restraint, the tips of his fingers pressing into the soft skin as though afraid you might disappear.

You shifted against him—slowly, luxuriously—grinding just enough to remind him how hard he was beneath you, how helplessly human. He cursed beneath his breath, the sound low and reverent.

"You're making it difficult to be a gentleman," he growled.

You quipped, smirking slowly and devastatingly. "What makes you think I want one?"

That broke any remnant of hesitance he held.

He moved like a man unshackled, every thread of restraint burned to ash beneath your smirk.

His hands seized your hips with reverence and urgency, fingers digging into the silk of your dress like he could bruise need into you. Then his mouth found yours—not with hesitation, not with ceremony, but with a hunger so violent it bordered on desperate. His kiss was not practiced. It was not rehearsed. It was real, raw, ruinous. He kissed you like a man starved—like he had spent years on the brink and only now dared to fall.

You met him with equal force, mouth parting for his, lips moving with precision and intent. You kissed him like a woman with something to prove. Like a woman who had been watched, wanted, and worshipped, and had chosen—deliberately—to wreck him.

And oh God, were you doing just that.

His hands roamed without finesse, desperate to feel every inch of skin your dress dared to conceal. You guided him not with instruction, but with suggestion—a shift of your hips, a tilt of your mouth, a whimper against his tongue. You were not passive. You were not his passenger. You were the storm.

When you pulled away, just barely, lips slick and swollen, his eyes fluttered open—dazed and blown wide with disbelief.

“You taste like trouble,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

You tilted your head, letting your nails trail down the buttons of his shirt one by one. “You look like you want more.”

He did. Visibly. Painfully.

And yet—he hesitated.

“I shouldn't be—” he began, but your finger found his lips before he could complete his sentence.

“Thinking?” you asked, deceptively soft. “Is that what you're doing now, Jiyong?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. You could feel his pulse beneath your palm, racing.

“You don't want to think,” you whispered, shifting in his lap until the heat between your thighs pressed tighter against him. “You want to feel.”

He groaned, head tipping back against the cushions as though you had spoken some spell. Your lips brushed along the line of his jaw, open-mouthed kisses trailing heat and promise.

“You want to remember,” you continued, voice lower now, velvet and ruin, “what it is to be undone by someone who isn't afraid.”

He shuddered beneath you. Every word seemed to peel another layer of civility away.

“I'm—I'm not afraid,” he muttered, and the edge in his voice was more plea than protest.

You smiled, teeth grazing the shell of his ear.

“Prove it.”

And with that, he did.

He flipped you—effortlessly, breathlessly—so you lay beneath him on the plush velvet cushions, hair fanned out like a halo of temptation. His mouth found your throat, tongue tracing the delicate line where your pulse thundered, and he sucked marks and littered bites into your skin like he needed proof that this moment had happened. That you had been real. That—even if it were just for that night—you belonged to him, and he to you.

The heat between you sparked like dry kindling set to flame. Clothing became a battlefield of sliding silk and groaning seams. Your dress slid up inch by inch as his control crumbled piece by piece. Every kiss, every touch, every gasp you gifted him was another nail in the coffin of his composure.

And you reveled in it.

You arched beneath him, body pliant and burning, every sigh coaxed from your lips like a secret. He devoured each one with the same hunger he had kissed you—possessive, stunned, grateful. His hands roamed as though learning a language through touch. Your thighs fell open like a book, and yet he still had no rush to turn the pages. He looked at you as if worshipful, as if he had finally understood what it meant to covet something with your whole soul.

"You are..." he murmured against your breastbone, lips dragging slow and sinful over your skin. "Too much."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently to meet his eyes. “That is what makes it worth it.”

And when he sank into you, slow and thick and unrelenting, the breath left his lungs in a broken sound—dripping in pure devotion.

He moved with purpose. With need. With that rare, trembling ache of a man who had spent too long convincing himself he would never feel like this again. And you—you gave it to him. Every roll of your hips, every cry against his mouth, every sin whispered into the dark.

Yeah, you definitely made him feel alright.

And he did not dare stop. Not even when the world fractured around you, not when the only sounds left were your name and his groan and the wet, obscene music of bodies colliding.

When it ended—when your bodies fell still and your breath returned in jagged, grateful bursts—he did not let you go.

He stayed inside you. Stayed pressed to your skin like it was the only place he ever wanted to exist. You threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled him to your chest, the intimacy of that moment heavier than anything that had come before it.

And for once, Jiyong did not speak.

He simply breathed you in like salvation.

taglist: @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo

[tenderbeck]

We found each other (we weren’t even looking)

You weren’t used to this. The craving. It consumed you like a fire, burning everything in its path, without the slightest thought for the damage that could be done if you gave into the temptation, if you let it consume you. If you caved in and tasted that sweet, sweet syrup that will surely be your demise. The distinct metallic flavour of blood already filling your senses, a familiar taste, as if you had already tasted it in centuries of your life. One where you were free from the shackles you imposed upon yourself. But, as you slowly let the fire consume you, you understood that it wasn’t of a destructive nature, oh no: it was more similar to that of a phoenix. The last flicker of life was gnawing at your ribcage, asking, demanding to be felt, just to leave your body soon after and never return. But, as a phoenix’s fire, it meant rebirth. And what was Sylus to you, if not rebirth?

── ❦・⸝⸝ pairing: fiend!sylus x fem!vampire!reader

── ❦・⸝⸝ genre: porn with a lot of plot actually, so MDNI

── ❦・⸝⸝ word count: 7.2k

── ❦・⸝⸝ tags: explicit, blood, blood drinking, bites, vampire au, fiend sylus, vampire reader, desperation, they’re desperate for each other fr fr, teasing, A LOT of teasing, i mean it’s sylusmc so ofc there’s teasing, dry humping at the beginning of the smut, oral sex, sylus eating mc out, vaginal sex, size kink, creampie, sylus has two dragon dicks, so double the fun ig, double penetration, in one hole omg, dw she’s fine she’s a strong girlie, belly bulge, knot, begging, oh did I say begging sylus?, because that’s what you’ll get here, my sweet sweet pathetic fiend begging for pussy, sweet aftercare

── ❦・⸝⸝ links: ao3, x thread

this is my only lads account, i'll only post my writings here, on ao3 and x NOT IN ANY OTHER BLOGS / ACCOUNTS

── ❦・⸝⸝ author's note: hi babes!! here’s more on my vampire au to understand it better: vampires can feed from any creature, human and non-human, sometimes other vampires but it’s rare. they can smell the scent of blood, and each of them has their preferences and compatibility, so if someone is compatible their blood will smell delicious, if they’re not compatible it will smell awful and it will make the feeding excessively difficult to endure, moreover the taste will be as awful as the smell. hunting for food can lead to sex for diverse motives: to have better access to major pulse points (neck, thighs, wrists, arms, etc) and to soothe the pain that comes with the bite. all magical creatures are accepted in this world, but humans are still wary of them, so that’s why mc doesn’t want too many people to discover she’s a vampire.

to become a vampire, you have to want to be turned by someone or be born as one, mc here was born a vampire so she only knew this life. to turn someone, both people (vampire and human) need to want this, if not the poison exuded from the vampire’s fangs won’t work, since it’s magical and it works with desire.

can’t say more or I’ll spoil the fic, I’ll add something else in the end notes so now enjoy it dolls and let me know what you think about it and remember: english is not my first language <3

You were hungry. You’ve been hungry for days.

Finding unsuspecting preys was becoming more difficult, and searching for willing ones was nearly impossible. You hated this situation: hunger made you impulsive and you didn’t want to make rash decisions, lest your nature be discovered by too many people.

That’s how you found yourself in this underground bar late at night, totally not the result of your reckless thoughts that you totally weren’t regretting.

You tapped the rim of the glass you were drinking from with your index, the brown liquid still unlike your growing annoyance. This bar was buzzing with mortals already satisfying their sins with one another, none for you to sink your fangs in. You took a sip of your whiskey, carefully looking around again, using your enhanced sense of smell to search for something that was closer to a pleasant scent instead of rotting corpses. Being a vampire had its perks, sure, but being such a selective eater was a nightmare: couldn’t even drink from anyone that didn’t have a compatible blood type because of that awful smell and taste you had to endure if they weren’t. What a joke for an immortal being such as yourself.

As you rolled your eyes at your thoughts, you sensed someone put a drink on the counter and sit one chair away from you, and suddenly their scent invaded your nostrils, making your pupils dilatate and your fangs elongate a bit. This person smelt like leather, cigar smoke, cherries and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on, a unique fragrance that was almost floral to your senses. It was a scent that you salivated for: you never experienced this reaction with your previous preys, their blood must’ve been deliciously compatible.

Facing forward and sipping on your drink, you let your gaze shift to the stranger, not wanting to be caught. You had a reputation to uphold after all.

And oh my if they didn’t look almost better than they smelt: this man had ash grey hair in a wolfcut, crooked nose and such perfect lips, crimson eyes looking everywhere but your direction. He was dressed in a black shirt with specks of red and a big coat engulfed his figure. His posture emanated such a refined and classy energy that made you almost feel underdressed in front of him, even if you were wearing your favourite black gown.

“You know, kitten, staring might be considered rude,” a deep voice interrupted your thoughts and made you pause your every movement. How could he sense your gaze on him?

The man smirked at your reaction and led the glass to his lips, taking a sip. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he said, still facing forward.

You were astonished. How could he be so nonchalant in talking with you?  

“You know, talking to a refined lady like me without stating your name first might be considered rude,” you replied, finally turning your head in his direction, feigning a disinterested expression when you were all but that. That’s how you discovered that he turned and now you were looking him straight in the eyes, and it was a mistake. You found yourself pulled by a magnetic force, as if those rubies were calling for your gaze.

As if they were desperate to have you look at them.

“Oh, you’re right, where are my manners” the man smirked again, putting down his glass.

“Asshole,” you thought, “So full of himself. He’ll be a delicious meal at least.”

“I’m Sylus,” he took your gloved hand and kissed it delicately while holding your gaze, “and your name is?”

It was your turn to smirk now, “Oh sweetheart, you need to earn the right to know my name,” you said calmly, “And it’s no easy feat.” You retracted your hand and returned to sip your whiskey, still looking at him. This hunt was becoming fun.

The man – Sylus – shook his head while letting out a little laugh, and you found yourself a little weak hearing it. It was as if every fibre of your being was pulled in his direction, following every action he did, every sound he made and every word he spoke. This was dangerous, you’ve never felt this way.

“And what feats do I have to accomplish to deserve hearing your precious voice saying mine, kitten?” he said, leaning on the counter and looking at you with those ruby eyes that screamed danger, his smile ever-present as if he was mocking you.

You swirled your drink in your hand, the almost finished liquid sloshing inside, and you pondered for a bit the innuendo in his statement. It had passed quite some time since you had an intercourse with someone, and this was the easiest way to gain access to his neck and finally, finally, eat.

But there was also something strange in his request. In his expression. In his whole body-language.

You felt, for the first time in your life, like you were the one being preyed on. Like you had something that he needed. And you didn’t like it. At all.

Even then, you really, really, really wanted to whisper his name in the dead of the night, bodies tangled between satin sheets. Or, who knows, maybe you wanted him to scream yours if he was fortunate enough to hear it spoken from your lips.

“Telling you would spoil all the fun in seeing you try though,” you retorted, finishing your drink. “Don’t you agree?” You flashed him a sardonic smile as you put your glass on the napkin on the counter.

As soon as you finished speaking, something shifted in his gaze and in his smirk. You swore his eyes glowed for a fraction of a second, as if following his change in attitude towards you.

He stood up and sat on the chair next to yours, putting an elbow on the counter and facing you. His posture demanded space, but you didn’t want to give it to him, it would’ve been too easy. He was going all out in his hunt, and you figured two could play this game. You liked a little bit of fun, you just had to let him try, make him think he failed and then go away, change bar and search for a victim that didn’t make you crave the taste of their blood to the point you weren’t even sure if you could stop yourself once you started drinking. In the end you were the real prize here, couldn’t let him think otherwise and let his ego grow more than it already had.

You eyed the green liquor in his glass and slid your middle finger on its rim, thinking of a strategy to make him feel at least flustered in your presence, and not the other way around.

“Since you’re so fond of names, tell me how’s this drink called,” you said, looking up to his face.

He still had that smirk on his lips and a part of you wanted to kiss it away. What a fool you were becoming, letting your thoughts be invaded by this stranger. You needed to concentrate more.

“It’s a green apple liquor made by the bar’s owner,” he said, then his features shifted, morphing into an expression that resembled someone who just had an idea. He took the glass and offered it to you, “Do you want a taste, my lady?”

You quickly seized the opportunity that was presented in front of you, “My, my, what a gentleman you are, Mister Sylus.” You took the glass from his hand, your fingers almost touching, and slowly led it to your lips, taking a sip. The liquid deliciously burned in your throat, and you found yourself actually enjoying it, the sour taste being a nice treat to your tastebuds.

As you put down the glass and were about to say something, he brought his thumb just below your lips and wiped away a droplet of liquor that had escaped your mouth. He then brought it to his lips and licked it away, eyeing you as if he was tasting your essence instead of the liquid.

You instinctively licked your lips, ruining a bit your burgundy lipstick. How could a simple gesture make your core clench and your fangs ache to bite?

“Wouldn’t want to dirty your pretty face, kitten,” he said as he brushed your knee with a hand sending electricity throughout your body and, as if he sensed it, he added, “At least, not in this way.” A smirk.

Oh, you were so done. You couldn’t resist the call for his blood anymore. The call for his body. You had to leave or…

“Care to accompany me somewhere?” he abruptly asked, standing up and offering his hand for you to take. “I have a mansion just outside the city,” he spoke while shifting his gaze up and down your form, “I think you would fit perfectly with the aesthetics. Out of all the buildings I own, that one is my favourite.”

You were a bit taken aback by this sudden request. Where was it coming from?

Before answering you looked at him and, since you could sense something was different in his demeanour, with the aid of your enhanced senses you noticed that his breath was accelerated, his palms were sweating, and he looked almost… impatient? He looked like he couldn’t restrain himself anymore and that amused you, were you perhaps successful in your deed? He was really good at hiding it, though. Only a creature like you could notice this changes.

He was still expectantly looking at you, searching for an answer in your features. Still, you thought of declining his offer, because tonight wasn’t the night for rash decisions, right?

Or so you thought.

You, once again, were wondering what poor life choices led to this moment. Probably letting Sylus, a stranger, take you to his house – no, his mansion - was the one you should be blaming.

As you entered the building you noticed that he didn’t lie when he said you would look good with its aesthetics. It was a grand mansion with red and black furniture, styled impeccably.

The gloomy atmosphere suited your vampiric nature so well that you felt at home here, as if it was made to cater to your most hidden desires.

“You think so?”  Sylus’ voice interrupted you.

“Shit,” you thought “I must’ve said it out loud.”

Regaining your composure and your (fake) nonchalant demeanour, you answered, “it is quite classy indeed.” You started to roam around the room you were escorted to and noticed there was a big burgundy leather couch with a glass coffee table just in front of it. On top of the coffee table was a vase with some red flowers, and you suddenly recognised the scent. You slowly approached it and leaned down to smell the flowers.

“Here it is,” you thought, “The flowery scent I smelt on him.”

“Do you like them, my dear?”

You let out a gasp and almost jumped from the unexpected closeness. Sylus was behind you, so, so close, whispering in your ear. How could you not notice him approaching? Were your senses dulling down?

It was true, though, that this house was filled with his perfume. It was coming from everywhere; it surrounded you like a blanket, lulling you into a vulnerable state and you couldn’t let this happen. You still had to eat, and you were letting your guard down so much that you were wondering if revealing your nature would be a wise choice. A fleeting thought almost convinced you that he would’ve enjoyed the process of you biting his flesh and sucking him dry, drinking all the sweet, sweet syrup oozing from his wound.

“They’re called daturas,” he spoke again and approached the flowers, taking one from the vase.

“They symbolise power.”

“And they’re poisonous if ingested,” you added, nearing him and looking up to meet his gaze. “They do suit you, Mister Sylus,” you said as you gently caressed the flower’s petals.

“I think they’d suit you better, kitten,” he retorted, his gaze almost softening. He put the flower behind your ear and got closer to it, whispering, “Will you, too, be poisonous if ingested?”

You could sense his breath caressing your neck, your heart beating faster than it should. Why were you feeling like the prey? He was your prey. Your meal that was waiting to be consumed.

You turned your head towards his, smelling the delicious scent emanating from his neck.

He turned too, putting a hand on your lower back and trying to move you closer, but you didn’t want him to have it easy, so you quickly escaped his grip and started to look around the room some more, giving him a sultry look from behind your shoulder.

Your aimless roaming finally came to an end when you noticed a record player, and you thought of a fantastic way to continue this little hunt game you two had going on. Obviously, you were going to come out victorious.

You approached the record player and started looking at the vinyls near it.

You glanced back and noticed Sylus was staring at you, studying your every move with his arms crossed, as if he was restraining himself from going there and finally, finally touch you. How cute.

You found a vinyl you enjoyed and carefully put it on. It was a limited edition and, even if you were sure you weren’t going to see this man ever again, you didn’t want to ruin his prized possessions.

When the music started to play you put the flower that rested in your hair in the cabinet near the record player and turned around, offering him a hand, “Care for a dance?”

He slowly approached you and took your hand; that smirk adorning his face was almost amused,

“How could I refuse such a gorgeous woman?”

He positioned his hand on your lower back and started to lead the dance. He was a good dancer, you had to admit it, but you couldn’t let him get the upper hand, no?

You started to change the pace, taking the lead. The sensual movements of your bodies together made you almost feverish: this closeness allowed you to smell his scent to a level you weren’t able to before. You were so close that you could hear the fast flow of blood in his veins, his quickened heartbeat and his breath, that was caressing you so tenderly. You almost started to salivate at the sensations engulfing you, your fangs starting to elongate. You were feeling too much too quickly, and it almost made you dizzy.

You had to eat from him.

And you had to do it now.

You pressed yourself against Sylus and whispered in his hear, “Would you like to take this somewhere else?”

You felt him stiffen and you swore you heard him swallow. “Do you know what you’re asking for, kitten?” he brushed his nose against your cheek, “you’re tempting me so much, I don’t know if I can stop myself once I’ve had a taste,” his voice was breathy and needy, his words holding a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite understand. But, nonetheless, your hunt was being successful, and you were so excited to finally, finally consume him.

You nodded and let out a surprised gasp as he picked you up and took you to the upper floor, entering what you thought was the master bedroom. His bedroom.

He gently put you down and you observed better the surroundings: the aesthetic was the same as the rest of the house, dark red and black in everything you saw. In the centre stood a four-poster bed; the red curtains, made of a delicate cloth, flowed gently with the faintest movements.

You turned around and looked sultrily at Sylus, his eyes glowing with desire for you.

“Sit down,” you instructed, and he did exactly that, without asking anything. He took off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, sitting against the pillows and waiting for you.

You took off your heels and started to walk slowly, oh so slowly, towards him, his eyes hungrily following your every movement.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled your way onto his lap, straddling him and putting your hands on his shoulders. You could sense his breath hitching and his eyes becoming hazy, “Already this aroused, baby?” you let out a small laugh as you moved closer to his ear, “I haven’t even started yet.” This was becoming so, so fun.

“It’s difficult to not be, kitten” he gently put his hands on your waist. They just rested there, as if he was afraid that he’d scare you away if he tried to do anything else. He tilted his head to almost meet your face and whispered, “When the object of my desires is here, above me, could I have ever had any other reaction?”

You smiled and leisurely ground on his lap and he let out a breathy moan. You felt his member starting to harden under you and that made you so elated, it was the sign that he was slowly falling into the depths of pleasure, and it was all thanks to your ministrations.

His grip on your waist tightened a little as you started to give open mouthed kissed to his neck. The scent of his blood was so strong here and it made it difficult to concentrate. You licked his pulse point, savouring the taste of sweat and a flavour that was so distinctly him that drove you mad. Thoughts of finally biting him and sucking his blood were plaguing your mind so much that you subconsciously opened your mouth and let your fangs graze his skin, the fear of your nature being discovered thrown out of the window as your arousal was steadily growing, feeling your juices wet your lingerie.

You couldn’t wait any more, his blood was calling for you and you were desperate to answer, so you did the only reasonable thing there was to do: you put your hands behind his neck, tightening your grip on his hair and you opened your mouth, saliva escaping it and falling onto his skin, fangs ready and craving to pierce flesh. So, you bit.

Sylus let out a gasp and his hands tightened around you, but then you felt something prickling your waist. Claws?

However, you were too preoccupied with the blood filling your mouth to perceive his form shifting. It tasted as good as you imagined, if not better. The metallic taste dulled out by the flavours you were savouring; his blood was sweet and then sour, it was hot and then cold, a myriad of facets that resembled the man under you. Unpredictable but yet so familiar.

Many sensations traversed your body as you drank, but they came to a halt when the man took your hair and pulled you away, making you face him.

You were a mess, eyes clouded by desire, blood spilling from your plump lips and your tongue hastily licking it, not wanting to waste a single drop.

But then you focused on Sylus and oh my if he wasn’t even more beautiful in this state than he has ever been before.

His whole body changed, no longer completely human, and you instantly recognised his species, “You’re a fiend,” you stated breathily. If your pupils could become heart shaped, they surely would’ve by now. “So that’s why I felt like a prey,” you thought, “I was a prey.”

His eyes were glowing red, long black horns had sprouted from his head and his hands were clawed, you could feel them on your waist and in your hair; his shirt was torn to shreds, the result of his body changing. He discarded the remnants with a swift movement and said, “Took you long enough to notice,” his voice was deeper but the neediness was still lingering there.

He licked his lips, “You don’t know how much I had to restrain myself from transforming earlier, kitten.” He got closer to you and licked your face, tasting his own blood, “Had I known sooner you were a vampire, things would’ve been easier,” he said, “Now I can fully taste your desire without being judged, since you’ve already helped yourself,” he smirked.

“S– sorry,” you breathed out, now wetter than before because your movements never really ceased, “It’s just that… I needed to eat, and your scent was so delicious I couldn’t stop myself.”

You’ve never felt this way. You were craving Sylus’ blood and body in ways you never knew were possible in all your centuries of life.

He let go of your hair, giving your scalp some relief. Then his hand travelled down, down, down… reaching under your gown and touching your clothed core.

“You’re so wet for me, kitten,” he said as he got closer to your ear, “No need to say sorry, in fact I quite enjoyed it.” He started to slowly stoke your pussy, and you had to steady yourself by laying your head on his shoulder, letting out breathy moans and hugging his neck.

“You can eat some more baby, I won’t wither,” said Sylus. His hand’s movements against your core and the sweet scent coming from his wound led you to latch on it again, savouring that sweet ambrosia, worthy to be the meal of a goddess.

Under you, you could sense Sylus’ dick getting bigger just like your growing desire, but you could feel something else there…

You stopped your feeding, licking your lips clean from blood, and moved your hand down to touch his bulge, whispering, “Is that what I think it is?”

He exhaled loudly in response to your touches, “Yes, my dear, I’ve got two,” the fiend smirked,

“Would you like to see them?”

High on his blood, you let out a moan just at the thought. One was good, but two? How much could they fill you? Would it even be possible?

“Please show me” you breathed out and moved yourself away to leave him space to take off his belt and what remained of his pants. You couldn’t look away, anticipation evident in your features.

“Would you like to help me?” he said, taking your hand and guiding it to his tight underwear. You could feel the two dicks twitching under your touch and decided to stroke them a bit. Even in this state, you still wanted to tease him.

“Damn, kitten, you know how to rile a fiend up,” breathed out Sylus, who started to buck his hips at your hand’s movements, “Touch me more.”

 “You sure are a needy creature, aren’t you?” you smirked, and then decided to dip your hand in his underwear, feeling his cocks for the first time. They were girthy and had… ridges?

One was surely smaller than the other, so it would’ve been easier to fit inside your pussy which, you noticed, was now throbbing, aroused by everything you were seeing, smelling, touching, feeling.

You pulled his briefs lower and finally saw the two members in all their glory: they were one on top of the other, their base was pitch black and had red veins that reached the heads, which were red too. The longer bottom one was girthy and had ridges all over it, meanwhile the smaller top one was smoother and slimy. They were both already leaking precum, and you ached to taste it.

Maybe another time.

Because you were sure there would’ve been another time.

You started to touch the bigger one, beginning from the head and spreading precum all over its length, repeating the process a few times just to tease him. His breath was accelerated, and you felt his cock pulsating in your hands; in the meantime, he was gripping the sheets to restrain himself from touching you. What a pity you had other plans for him.

You stopped your ministrations and you heard him whine, then you helped him remove his underwear. You straddled him, positioning your wet clothed cunt over his cocks, and started to grind on him again.

“You know that we have yet to kiss?” you whispered, “I’ve tasted your blood, touched your cocks, but I have yet to feel your lips on mine.”

You didn’t have to repeat yourself because he hurriedly moved you closer, but he limited himself to just brush your lips with his.

“Do you know what fiends eat?” said Sylus, voice just above a whisper.

“Desire,” you replied and tried to kiss him, but he put a finger between your lips.

“And do you know how we feed?”

“No” you replied, “Is it important to know now? I think we’re pretty…” you ground a little harder on his cocks and his breath hitched, “Occupied. Maybe you can show me instead?” you tried kissing him again, but he stopped you.

“No, I need you to listen to me,” he pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes, “Restraining myself is becoming more difficult by the second; you’re so tempting kitten, I can taste your desire in the air.”

“Alright, tell me everything baby,” you replied, foreheads still close together. You then let your hand travel between you two, sliding it across his chest, stomach and then, finally, you reached his cocks and started to give them languid stokes, coaxing him to full hardness. No one was prohibiting you from doing this after all.

Sylus’ speech became breathy, finding it difficult to form full coherent sentences, “Kitten, I need you to know that I feed from every fluid your body releases,” he had to stop and bite his lips, trying to muffle a moan, “sweat, tears, blood, your sweet juices,” he continued as he took your hands and put them on his shoulder, then, he gripped your waist and started to move you over him. You could feel your pussy throbbing in anticipation as you heard his words.

“Kitten,” a moan, “I need you to explicitly say you want me to feed from you,” with one hand he gripped your ass from under your gown and squeezed it hard.

“Then ask me properly my dear,” you said, ever the teaser. It was exhilarating seeing Sylus, the big bad fiend, so desperate for you as you were for him. Now, though, your teasing was getting to you too; your folds were scorching hot, aching to be touched, and your sweet, sweet nectar was gushing out of you in copious amounts. What a pity your lingerie was ruined, it was your favourite pair.

Sylus let out a moan, his grip on your ass so strong you were sure it would leave bruises, “Kitten, let me eat you,” a pause, “I need you.” He opened his eyes, looking into yours, “Can I? Please?” he whined, and that made it for you.

How could you resist such a desperate request?

“Yes Sylus, consume me whole.”

As if hit by a magic spell, he used both his hands to pull you closer into a bruising kiss. One that screamed neediness, with clinking teeth and biting of lips. He then pushed his tongue inside your mouth, finally tasting your saliva, full of your desire.

He let out a moan that you didn’t hesitate to eat up, putting your hands in his long hair and pulling; you felt lightheaded, the arousal so uncontainable that you were starting to feel dizzy, your vision cloudy.

You pulled away from the kiss and he chased your lips, desperate to keep you connected, “Sylus, please, eat me out,” you finally voiced your thoughts in between kisses, “I want to feel your tongue inside me.”

You didn’t have to repeat yourself; he manhandled you into switching positions, now he was the one on top, “Take off your clothes,” he said, “everything.”

His gaze never ceased to admire your body as you did what he told you as quickly as possible, leaving on only your soaked panties for him to savour.

“You’re gorgeous,” Sylus said, mesmerised by your beauty. He opened your legs and put himself in the middle, kissing your neck.

He licked a fat stripe of skin and arrived at your breasts, palming one and kissing the other; your nipples were hardening under his touch, and you pushed your chest against him, seeking more. He put a nipple in his mouth and started to suck it, stopping to nibble and then resuming to lick as he played with the other, tugging and pinching it.

Your moans reverberated through the room, you didn’t know what to do: you were torn between bucking your hips, seeking some sort of friction to ease your aching core, and pushing your chest against his mouth.

Sylus made the decision for you, continuing to go down, kissing his way to your wet pussy. He put your legs over his shoulders and closed his eyes, sliding his nose over your clothed folds, smelling your delicious scent.

Your delicious desire.

“Sylus, please,” you whined, tired of all the teasing. You loved the slow game you two had going on, but now your arousal was so strong you couldn’t think straight, your only thought being filled by him. Tongue, fingers, cocks, anything you could take.

Without replying he licked you over the panties, tasting the juices that wet them, and you let out a moan and bucked your hips, sensing his smirk on your pussy.

“Now who’s the needy one?” said Sylus in a mocking tone, and he moved aside your lingerie, not bothering to take it off.

Finally, finally, he licked you, starting from your hole and arriving at your clit. The aching nub soon found some release as Sylus started to lick and suck it, caressing your folds underneath with his fingers. You were feeling overwhelmed, a lot of sensations going through your body.

You let your hands travel to his hair, trying to tug him away and then push his face against your cunt, unsure of what to do, of what to feel. His tongue was licking up all your sweet ambrosia, playing with your smaller labia and gently sucking on them. He put his hands on the back of your thighs and squeezed, then he lifted you up a bit, circling his tongue around your entrance.

You ached for him to enter you, to savour you from the inside and drink the nectar directly from the source. You were never this desperate during sex, but something about Sylus let all your inhibitions come loose, allowing you to feel everything that you were meant to be feeling. Desire, desperation, love.

Without a warning he entered you with his tongue, and you let out a moan so loud you’d be afraid of waking the neighbours up, if there were any.

He started to tongue fuck you, going in and out, in and out, in and out. The slow drag of his tongue inside your walls was making you impatient so you tried to hurry him by bucking up your hips and pushing his face onto your pussy.

Sylus let out a low growl and pinned your hips to the mattress, keeping you from moving more. He sped up his pace, though, and slurped your cunt like he was starving and you were the only meal he’s had in centuries.

And maybe you were.

The best meal he’s ever had.

While he was still fucking his tongue inside you, with one hand he started to stroke your clit, circling it, tugging it, playing with it. You felt your insides throbbing around his tongue, a telltale of you approaching orgasm.

You were oh so ready to tumble down that precipice, to ride his face and come, but he had other plans. When he sensed your state, he pulled his tongue out and moved away, not without giving your pussy a last stroke with his tongue, though.

You whined at the loss, feeling emptier than ever, “Sylus please,” you whined, “Why did you stop?”

Looking at his face, mouth glistening with your essence and eyes glowing red, you thought you kind of knew the answer.

He looked down and saw you still had your panties on, so he ripped them from your form, throwing them in an unknown part of the bedroom, almost angry at the piece of fabric for covering his sweet prize.

Now satisfied, he opened your legs and put them around his waist, preparing himself to enter you, “I can’t resist anymore kitten,” he breathed out, “I need to feel you around my cock,” he said, and then took your wrists in one hand, positioning them above your head.

You nodded eagerly, “Please Sylus, fuck me,” and just like that he started to push his hard length inside you, positioning his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

You could feel the thickness spreading you open deliciously, the ridges caressing every sensitive part of your insides. You tightened the grip of your thighs on his waist and started to let out moan after moan, the stretch morphing pain into pure bliss.

As he bottomed out, he kissed your neck and then bit down, savouring your desire directly from your blood. You gasped at this, and he started to move, slowly at first but then picking up the pace, still sucking your neck.

The delicious drag of his cock in your walls made you clench around him, as if you were trying to keep him inside, not wanting this feeling of fullness to cease. His dick was really big, but nothing you couldn’t handle, if anything you wanted more, you wanted all of him inside you.

His thrusts were becoming faster, almost shifting you up and down the bed, and his smaller cock slid over your clit with every movement, adding to the pleasure he was giving you.

All these sensations, along with his feeding, made you feel lightheaded, as if he was sucking your very life force, leaving you a quivering mess in his hands.

“Sylus,” you said in a whisper, “you’re consuming me.”

You felt like it was the end. You let this creature feed from you and now it was backfiring, but the thing you were most surprised about was that you didn’t even mind it. Dying like this, in Sylus’ embrace.

He was holding you like you were something to be cherished. To be worshipped. Like you were the most valuable treasure in a fiend’s hoard, and he was taking his time enjoying it. Enjoying you. He stopped his feeding but didn’t move away from your neck, licking the wound he made.

He never stopped thrusting, though. He just slowed down, as if he wanted to listen to you but wasn’t able to fully bring himself to a halt, and you strangely found pride in that. You managed to make a fiend desperate for you.

For your desire.

For your blood

For your flesh.

For you.

Maybe you, too, were a sick and twisted creature like him.

“I feel like,” you let out a gasp, interrupting your speech. He started to caress your sides with the hand not holding your wrists to coax you into talking, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself, “I feel like I’m dying.”

“Oh kitten,” he said, raising his head from your neck. He wiped his mouth and then caressed your face, dirtying it with blood, “you know that, in French, another name for an orgasm is ‘la petite mort’?”

You were a little confused at this, but you were too aroused, your vision too hazy and your mind too cloudy to do anything but shaking your head “no”.

“Do you know what it means?”

You shook your head again.

“It means ‘the little death’.” He licked the blood off your face, steading it with a hand under your chin. “So, let’s die in each other’s arms tonight, my lady” he whispered, and you closed your eyes in bliss as he kissed you. You tasted your blood mixed with his saliva on his tongue and let out a moan. Your flavours mixing together were the most delicious meal you’ve ever had.

He resumed his thrusting, but now it felt more calculated, like he was searching for something–

“Ah!” you moaned out as soon as Sylus hit a precise spot inside you, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, “Do that again.”

“Do what exactly?” he smirked and hit that spot again. And again. And again.

You were a moaning mess, tears starting to spill from your eyes as he fucked you, smudging your make-up.

But this didn’t feel quite enough. You needed more.

“Sylus, please, give me more,” you said, throwing your head back at the pleasure you were feeling.

“Kitten, are you sure?” asked Sylus, face flushed and sweaty, “I’d love to fill you up, but I don’t want to overwhelm you” he whispered, his grip on your wrists never wavering.

“Just do it baby, I need it– ah!” you moaned as he hit that delicious spot inside you. You were already a mess, but the craving for his second cock was too strong to be ignored.

“As my lady commands,” and he pulled out completely.

You whined at the loss, the feeling of emptiness making you clench around nothing.

Sylus let got of your wrists and with one of his hands gripped your waist as the other was wrapped around his dicks, guiding them to your needy hole that was waiting to be filled.

“Hold onto me kitten,” he said, and you wrapped your hands around his neck, preparing yourself for the stretch that was coming.

He slowly entered you with both of his cocks, the smaller one was so wet and slimy that it made the penetration easier. You were gasping and panting in his ear and you knew that this made it difficult for Sylus to stay focused and not bottom out in one go.

In the end, he was just a fiend weak only for two things: desire and you.

“My dear you’re so tight around me,” he breathed out, voice raspy and strained, “I want to fill you up with my seed, see you full of everything I can give you.” You found yourself nodding at his words, desperation clinging into the very fabric of your being.

When he bottomed out you both released a really loud moan; at this point it became impossible to form any coherent thought, the only thing that mattered was that you were full and you needed him to “Move,” you demanded, not even fully knowing you said that. As he did so, you felt his hand press into your stomach and he gasped aloud, “Kitten, look at yourself.”

You looked down and oh my, his cocks were forming a bulge into your stomach. They were reaching impossibly deep inside you, caressing every part you weren’t even aware existed. You observed the movement of his dicks, the constant in and out fully visible and driving you crazy. Your body responded at the sight, copious amounts of slick gushing out of you and sliding onto the mattress.

“Kitten, I don’t think I’ll last long,” he said. His chest heaved with every breath, his thrusts becoming erratic and less calculated than before; his orgasm was approaching and yours was too.

The ridges of his bigger cock massaged your walls as the smaller one filled you with pre-cum and a slimy substance that acted as lubricant; you couldn’t do anything but throw your head back and moan, clenching in time with his thrusts as you were nearing the edge, pleasure consuming you like a fire.

Seeing you in this state, he took a hand to your clit and started to caress it, trying to make you come for him with him.

One hard and precise thrust, combined with his hand on your aching nub, made you topple, your orgasm hitting you like a train as you moaned a string of “Sylus, Sylus, Sylus!”, your insides milking his cocks as he continued to move, searching his own release all flushed and needy, craving that sweet, sweet sensation.

“Please my dear,” you said crying, tears of overstimulation filling your eyes and streaming down your face, “Fill me up,” you finally shouted.

You heard him curse and felt something catch in your hole, trying to enter, “What is–”

“It’s my knot,” he hurriedly replied, “Please kitten let me knot you,” he pleaded, kissing and licking your neck, “Please please please–”

You eagerly nodded and just like that, as if he was restraining himself and was waiting for your command, you felt hot liquid paint your insides, filling you so deliciously you were about to pass out. One last thrust made his knot enter you, locking you together.

He almost collapsed onto you but was quick enough to embrace your spent form and swap your positions, making you lay on top of him, head on his sweaty chest. Sylus’ heart was beating so fast you feared it was going to burst out, his breath still laboured but less than before.

You both laid there in silence, trying to recover from your orgasms. Tender caresses were shared, kisses were given and fucked-out smiles were hidden.

After he came down from his high, he took your chin and made you look at him, making sure not to move you too much since you were still locked by his knot.

“You know, now that I’ve had a taste,” he kissed your nose, “I don’t think can live without you.”

He caressed your face tenderly, touch as light as a feather. As he observed your features, his crimson eyes were filled with something so close to love that you couldn’t find any other word to describe it.

It made you feel warm.

It made you feel so, so happy knowing that someone in this godforsaken world cared for you.

“No baby,” you said, tracing his lips with your index, basking in the coziness of the moment, “It is me that can’t live without you.” You shared a chaste kiss with him, one that meant “I’m here to cherish you”.

Sylus at first smiled tenderly, a soft gesture that seemed so unusual in his fiendish features. Then he smirked and moved a hand down, gripping your buttock, “Is that so?”

You smiled amused and kissed him again, “I can sense you have something in your mind.”

“I was about to ask you if this feat was enough,” he said as he playfully slapped your asscheek, making you gasp.

“Enough for what?” you asked, confused.

“For me to be worthy of knowing your name.”

You let out a laugh, a genuine one. You almost forgot that he still didn’t know your name.

It was so strange.

Knowing next to nothing of a person yet feeling so strongly about them. People could call this love at first sight, but you both knew it was more than that. What you two shared was an unbreakable bond, one ebbed into every fibre of your bodies, one written in your souls, forever entwined with each other. It was built on desire and need and everything present in this universe.

It was nothing and it was everything at the same time.

You looked softly in his eyes and caressed his chest, then said, “You are right Mister Sylus, my name is–”

── ❦・⸝⸝ author's note: surprise!! sylus was a fiend and was hunting her too, what a delicious turn of events. obv now that makes sense why I explained how people turn vampires, since mc feeds from sylus and he doesn’t turn or has any reaction.

i really hope you liked it, this fic is literally my magnum opus and i’m so fond of it, so kudos and comments are very appreciated ♡

p.s.: you can find me on twitter @/tenderbeck where i post lads related stuff!! love you all

── ❦・⸝⸝ click to find my masterlist

[jadeshifting]

★⋆. — HOGWARTS ELECTIVE CLASSES TO SCRIPT

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED ARTIFACTS

ever wanted to know how cursed rings, bewitched mirrors, and sentient diaries work? this course teaches you how to identify, dismantle, and (if you’re brave) create magical relics—you never know when you’ll need an enchanted necklace or a vanishing cabinet, i suppose

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FASHION HISTORY

from the enchanted silks of the 1500s to robes that literally spark joy (or flames) in the 1900s, this elective dives into the who, what, and why tho of wizarding couture. you’ll learn how clothing reflected magical politics (hello, anti-Muggle fabrics), the most popular clothing charms over the centuries, and why Merlin’s pointy hat was such a massive deal at the time

𓆩♡𓆪 — CURSE REVERSAL

sometimes, magic backfires—this class teaches you how to undo everything from jinxed cauldrons to full-on blood curses. it’s half science, half art, and fully life-saving

𓆩♡𓆪 — HEALING

for the bleeding hearts (and bloody injuries). this elective teaches advanced healing charms, restorative potions, and how to fix the most catastrophic accidents without having to Floo to St. Mungo’s. class is split 50/50 between the healers of the next generation, and mischief makers that are so unhinged they have to heal themselves. this class sees all the good, the bad and the ugly

𓆩♡𓆪 — DRAGON STUDIES

learn all about the physicality, variety, and history of these dynamically unique creatures, and perhaps learn how to not get torched while studying them along the way. the course includes field trips (waivers from home and insurance spells VERY much required)

𓆩♡𓆪 — CHARMED CULINARY ARTS

enchanted cooking utensils will be your best friend as you navigate this course, learning to do everything in the kitchen from baking bread that sings to brewing drinks that bubble with magic. (house elves are assistants in this class, and you can always convince them to slip you an extra treat or two)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ADVANCED DIVINATION

tea leaves and crystal balls don’t even begin to scratch the surface of everything divination has to offer—if you’re a believer, and grounded enough to put up with the kooky professor. this course dives into obscure methods of divining the future: dream walking, cloud reading, rune casting, and much more. perfect for the more spiritually inclined students (or those who just enjoy the professor’s cryptic drama)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL FORESICS

got a Sherlock streak, or always wondered how the aurors do it? learn how to dissect magical crime scenes, trace hex signatures, and untangle the threads of a cursed crime

𓆩♡𓆪 — MINISTRY POLITICS & MAGICAL LAW

in this course that’s absolutely not for the academically faint, you’ll find yourself taking part in debates more than any other course. debate the ethics of using Veritaserum in court, or why house-elf labor laws are a mess. these students are likely future members of the Wizengamot

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED HOMEKEEPING

from self-sweeping brooms to magical security systems, think Martha Stewart meets The Standard Book of Spells. this course covers everything you need to know about using magic to run the most efficient household ever (you get a headache when you think about how Muggles do all of this without magic)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ALCHEMY: THE ART OF TRANSFORMARION

arguably the ultimate nerdy class—i’ve yet to meet a single person who wanted to handle the theories and coursework of this class. learn the secrets of transmutation, potion refinement, and (the whole thing’s pretty mysterious) all about the quest for immortality

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL CREATION THEORY

an elective created as the direct remedy for students making overeager and academically misguided attempts to make their own spells (some spells don’t exist for a reason, Fred and George.) learn the theory of how to craft spells from scratch and fine-tune them to your exact needs—perfect for the creatively chaotic. though, of course, you don’t actually make spells in class (that’s a direct ticket to St. Mungo’s)

𓆩♡𓆪 — THEORY & ETHICS OF NECROMANCY

strictly theoretical, of course (for legal reasons), this class dives into the magical theory of spirits’ existence, resurrection spells, and the history of necromancy. it also manages to cram most of one of the longest-standing debates in magical history into a year-long course (we can raise the dead, but should we? HM, i wonder)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLESS MAGIC

if you’re someone who thinks ‘why bother with a wand when you are the magic?’ this course is for you—it trains you in wandless spellcasting, so you can cast even when you’ve “misplaced” your primary weapon

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FOLKLORE

from ghostly greenhouses to the allegedly haunted halls of Hogwarts, from ancient fairy tales to horror stories that keep even the bravest wizards awake at night, this course covers all of the folklore and tall tales from centuries of wizarding history and storytelling

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED CARTOGRAPHY

i’m sure you already know that making an enchanted map is a skill that never goes out of style (cough, Marauder’s.) in this course, learn to create enchanted maps that move, update themselves, and accurately portray secret rooms and passageways (though they might not cover the more mischievous aspects in the course, i’m sure you can figure those out on your own time)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL ETHICS & PHILOSOPHY

all the way from time turners and truth serums to love potions and dementors, this course holds a magnifying glass to all the moral dilemmas of using magic in gray areas—just because you can hex someone doesn’t mean you should, and if you need a love potion, maybe you should reexamine some things first

𓆩♡𓆪 — QUIDDITCH ANALYTICS

a course all about the stats, spells, and tactics behind the wizarding worlds’ favorite sport. think of it as sabermetrics, but with broomsticks. students are an even split of quidditch players, and those who love quidditch without wanting to zoom hundreds of feet above the ground (understandable)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLORE & CRAFTING

take your first step towards becoming the next Ollivander by studying wand woods, cores, and how to match them with their perfect witch or wizard. careful, your own wand might be open to more scrutiny than you’re accustomed to. warning: NOT a class for people with butterfingers

𓆩♡𓆪 — MOVING PHOTOGRAPHY

learn how to properly snap a good photo and develop moving pictures, charm them with special effects, and create photo albums that are magically cohesive enough to tell their own stories. with moving photos holding entire memories, someone always needs a good magical photographer

𓆩♡𓆪 — GRIMOIRE WRITING & SPELL JOURNALING

every great wizard of the past and present had a grimoire to keep track of their endless magical escapades. learn how to create your own spellbooks, safely document your findings, and make them impossible for dark wizards (or just nosy siblings) to read

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL LINGUISTICS

communication is key, whether it’s haggling with goblins, charming house-elves, or negotiating with dragons. this course helps you break through the language barrier—literally—to the entire wizarding world and all its species

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL JOURNALISM

for aspiring Rita Skeeters (hopefully no one, let’s make it ethical), this course covers investigative reporting, spell-resistant quills, following the honor code of interviewing and writing, and even some tips on how to charm the Daily Prophet editors with your work and score a job in the journalism field. NO Quick-Quotes Quills allowed, ever !!

𓆩♡𓆪 — TIME MANIPULATION THEORY

absolutely no time-turners allowed, despite learning all about them. learn the ethical and practical implications of bending time, including nearly every historical horror story of witches and wizards who got a little spin-happy with the power. (does the course only exist as a big fat warning for the students who are granted use of a time turner? we’ll never know—but yes, probably)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUSIC & ENCHANTED COMPOSITION

a course taken by many of the choir members, which allows you to delve deep into the magic behind musical spells, how to ethically enchant instruments for killer performances, and both writing and performing magical compositions. don’t mind the frogs in class, they’re brushing up on their technique, too

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL COMBAT TACTICS

this course covers a mix of strategic dueling with battlefield planning, as it covers pretty much every notable magical duel and battle in history. perfect for those angling to join the Aurors, or those who are just looking to win every wizarding duel

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING THEATER

this course involves combining drama with charms to bring stories literally to life on stage. props are enchanted and can interact with the actors, the weather matches each set, and actors might just float mid-scene. students can sharpen their acting and set enchantment skills to hopefully be on one of the great wizarding stages one day (or working behind the scenes of one)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUGGLE STUDIES: ADVANCED INTEGRATION

forget the “what’s a toaster?” training-wheels shit—this course is about truly blending wizarding ingenuity with Muggle innovation. a popular course among muggleborn students, who have the opportunity to actually use their heritage in their favor to explore a whole world of social and magical possibilities

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ A Golden Cup ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part four of a golden cage series.] words: 14.2k. synopsis: The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside. notes: we are soooo locking in to trauma in this chap. we are soooo drinking from teacups and gossiping with our friends. we are sooooo going to an awkward dinner party. we are sooooo teaching our boyfriend how to pray. we are sooooo scared & sooooo miserable! this is sooooo unedited! but sorry to the people who are here for smut bc there is none in this chapter. enjoy the plot <3 xoxox (pretend i didn't disappear for half a year tyvm) warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. maybe premonition. canon-typical violence/blood/injury, angst. character death. religious trauma, all kinds of trauma, inner monologues, kissing and some fluff. doubting religion AND the crown. foreshadowing if that's a warning requests closed. this is for my irl roommate & personal kissing mannequin @dipperscavern . & for the loml & other kissing mannequin @systraes . you are the void i shout to. fate into flesh or whatever they say idk. febu previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

PEACE FINDS YOU IN THE MOST BIZARRE OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 

It has followed in every step of life – the moment a foot slips from a stirrup, a smile in the first drop on dragonback. Quiet prayers whispered through the torrential downpour on the night your brother slayed Lucerys; Patient words under the scrutiny of the Queen’s entire court. A hand, unwaveringly gripped around sharp steel as your betrothed pointed his sword down your nose. 

Perhaps it is a simple and base instinct, some quiet mechanism within the folds of your skittish mind – or, even more likely, a small cry out for mercy to the gods who watch upon those simply caught in the trappings of circumstance. 

You were just a young girl, barely old enough to steadily hold yourself upright, when they’d placed the babe in your arms. 

Such a small creature. Fresh from the womb, the Septas had pressed him to your chest, murmuring you would be fine for a few minutes; that you had the wisdom of the Mother already, although you'd hardly seen three name days pass yourself.

His skin was so very soft – wisps of those paled curls, the very same that grow from the crown all your siblings, glinted so gently in the muggy heat of afternoon; little shining threads of gold caught in the glaze of sunbreath. 

And that violet gaze, locked up at you; an innocence so premature, so unassuming. 

It had arrested you, that gaze: Devotion, love, those pure things which he only just learned and had yet to truly understand. All because he knew not any other way; a warmth that had entrapped you within your mind, reeling to recall any similar expressions of affection from your mother nor father at any point in your small life. 

You’d come up with scraps: A half-prideful stare from your father, the whisper of Rhaenyra on his breath; your mother’s approving glance when you turned your nose at the presence of the boys wearing cloaks of blue and curls of deep umber. But Daeron - so little, so loving; it had sent such distraction through you that you noticed not as his skin grew rather flushed against the blanket, as his wails grew louder by the short-passing moment. 

Your mother wrapped him herself – that, you’d noticed; in lovely cerulean stitching, etched with small embroideries of towers and dragons – but in your admiration of such needlework, his cries became shallow gasps and wails. 

You’d known not what to do; entranced in such a calm, paralyzing shock – you’d never seen such light go out of a gaze, never heard such wails taper into pitiful whimpers. 

Fear slapping your spine rigid, a solemn beat of your heart as you stared helplessly, flooded with an arresting, unnatural calm. 

The Septas returned not moments later, and you still thank the Gods to this day that they did. 

Daeron’s breath had been faint – and later that night under the blanket of dark, you’d wondered with tears in your eyes if he’d gone and met the Stranger while still in your hands, if just for a moment. 

But the Septas returned.

The blankets had been ripped away and you’d remained in the corner, hands frozen still in the shape of his little bundle, eyes wide and fingers trembling. There’d been nothing within your mind as you watched the Septas scream for the Maesters, as they rushed to cool the expiring soul of your young brother – a wash of calm, in the fear that’d gripped you so tight. 

You’d not understood until much later - only when the Septas whispered while you hid behind curtains thicker than your hair. He’d nearly died. 

After all, one should know better than to trust children with children. 

“Princess.” 

And her voice comes to you in a song; or perhaps, a warm memory of silkspun silver tresses and a dreaming gaze – of gentle hums, of clicking legs, of fingers tracing delicate wings through golden cages. 

“Princess.” 

You swear, you could feel her fingers trace your spine now- 

“Princess.” 

Your eyes open; less than startled, though your inhale is sharp from your nose. 

The tub is warmed with water, and you are bathed gently within it. Your sister is beside you, her gown a deep charcoal; a shade of burnt ash, of rusted spikes somewhere far below where you sit.

Her vision swims in the reflection of your bathwater; You suck in a breath. 

“Helaena.” You whisper, blinking away the smudged drops of bathwater from your face.  

A quiet moment. 

“Pardon me, my Princess?” 

Your blink is languid – water sticks to your lashes, clotting your vision until your sweet sister beside you nearly looks like a spider; then, she is a snake – a strike of fear, and sharp spokes which jump up towards you at the end of a long path, and you’re falling – another blink, and you jolt. 

Helaena is gone; instead sits Elina, your handmaid. She watches with widened eyes as she tends to your tresses with a comb and soft hands. 

A gentle shake of head, the motion snagging a tangle within the spokes of the comb – but you do not wince, eyeing the girl beside you with a bizarre stare. The world is cloudy; not only the skies above, but your own vision, your foggy mind. 

“I’m–” You blink again, fighting a sheepish fluster from your cheeks – two other girls in your chambers attend to you, as well. One, scrubbing your nails, the other across the way, preparing evening tea – and they too have paused, hands slowing as they turn to watch you with owl-eyes. 

Your lips flounder for only a moment. “Pardon me. I thought… I was recalling memory, I suppose. Of… the Red Keep.” You admit dreamily – you’re unsure why you admit such foolish delusion, though the two girls beside you keep their eyes focused nonetheless. 

The maid across the way quickly turns her head away when you seek her; and with quick fingers, she pulls her sleeves over a glimmering spider’s silk scar. An inkling of recognition, slipping away in the afternoon breeze; she measures a dark red herb into a small steeper before the ridges of her spine straighten slowly. Outside, a bird calls. It sounds like a cry. 

“Have you slept much as of late?” Elina wonders from beside you, a wisp of blonde peeking from her tied hair. She is a sweet girl – the fondness you hold for her is one tinged with only a piling guilt these days, one which adds in each passing moon. You clear your throat, unoccupied fingers trailing through the ripples upon the water. 

A spiced aroma grows within the steamed room – the handmaid has begun pouring your tea, and it bleeds a crimson colour into the teacup. A flash of familiarity in the sweep of her face, though you blink and it is once again gone; It is not often you do not particularly recognize one of the members of household, though perhaps as of recent, such politeness has gotten away from you. 

“Forgive me,” your voice is a dream of a far away land. “The Queen’s council has left me…weary this evening.” You admit, sighing.

In the quiet passing of time, eventually your nails and body are cleansed; your mind troubled with thoughts of marriage – but more so with lips, cherry and bitten, with a voice low and murmuring; with a warm gaze turned sharp in the fall of eve; of whispered words and promises in a room floating with ancient dust.

With a quieted voice, you dismiss the maid to your right.

Only moments before the tea is set for you, its tendrils curling up viciously and out towards your open window; the scent is spicy, foreign. “Is this a new blend?” You wonder aloud - the girl with skittish eyes nods, a small squeak from her throat, “Yes, Princess.” She affirms. “A gift from the Queen herself. In congratulations.” Her voice warbles, fingers twitching – a vision of nerves in court, of fingers against a dress of gold.

And there, in the mirror of her anxiety, is that phantom limb once more; a memory lost to a life that is far gone now. 

You hum, transfixed on the steam which curls out in spools over the stone table beside the tub. A peculiar gift from the queen – the tea swirls opposite the steam of your bath, and its scent tethers you to the heavy pull of your spine. Your stomach rumbles in interest.  

She bows and takes her leave; it is not until you are once again alone with Elina that you speak once more. Through the peace of eveningfall, you ask her of her love again – and as always, she flushes like a rose. 

The island breathes in green, slowly blinking a sunset of orange and pink; Elina whispers of the boy she loves as tendrils of scented oils climb into your nostrils and soothe the aches in your muscles. It is a tale she has amused you with many times but one you have not grown weary of either. 

A fisherboy from the east coast of the island – a sweetheart since her age of ten, if there ever was such a thing; he has brown curls, an upturned nose, and a laugh like the raucous sea. 

Though times have indeed changed, perhaps just as much for the common folk as for you in your ivory castles; with the influx of wartime supplies to the island across the sea, she must only dream of him now; and her tales of youthful kisses and chivalrous walks upon a shoreline grow melancholy as you stare out the window before you, Moondancer’s shadow echoing in the rippled waves of the tides far away. 

In the dawn of her tale, she murmurs gently, eyes glancing to the shore. “He says he’ll marry me after the war’s end.” 

It is quiet for a long moment. You find nothing to say to her words.

It does not last long – after the final whispers of his name die on her tongue, she clears her throat, endeavoring to wrangle through the knots and tie back your hair. “Something troubles you, Princess.” There are more words waiting on her hesitant tongue; she does not release them. 

It is a moment of gathering thought in which you decide she is far more friend than anyone else upon this rock – and that, even without her station, perhaps she’d endeavor to listen to your troubles anyways. “It was decided this evening,” You inform her in a rather formal tone, “that I am to wed Prince Jacaerys after all. Our marriage will be quite soon, and before all of the smallfolk on the Island.”

And then, an afterthought as you gaze to the peeking wander of ships headed west, “perhaps Driftmark, as well.” 

Her hands slow in your hair, breath puffing upon the crown of your head. “-That is… quite wonderful news,” She agrees, though her tone bleeds through false words; she knows you all too well, it seems. “A royal wedding will bring a much welcomed recess from the times we live, my Princess.” 

Her words fall hollow into the empty chasm of your wounded heart. Sardonically, you smile to your sullen reflection in the pooled bath below. A wedding… while the kingdom prepares to bleed. 

Words, those buzzing pests of voices from the council not an hour past: “-And we are to assume that a royal celebration might distract the masses from the acts committed? From the war that brews?”

There’d been sharp looks shared at the news of you and Jace’s resurrected betrothal at council this afternoon; half-surprised, half-concerned glances from both your cousins across the Painted table, though you could not bring yourself to return their gazes. For Daemon’s stare, much too hot and much too amused, burning into the side of your visage; the slippery serpent he is, eyes glancing between you and Jacaerys, taking in the rigidity of your spines with a mirthful glee. 

It would have been more excruciating yet had not the discussion been propped by more relevant topics to discuss, as to the efficacy of your union having any effect at all on the tides of war. 

The realm watches, Lord Corlys had assured, many lords await the wind to tip the scale. Their marriage is not about turning heads. 

Indeed, it is not - and such a burden even in youth, your betrothal was: A thin bridge held together by the grasp of youthful hands that did not wish to touch, an abyssal gap fractured into splintered verdant and carmine shards. 

And in these more forgiving moments, when you may wish to let yourself down easy; what an inconsolably crushing weight on shoulders no older than ten and two. For all of those nights you spent lying awake upon sheets of down, wondering up at the swimming dark of the ceiling why the gods had chosen you as your mother’s branch of olives - as your father’s forgotten dove, the small creature who’d always been seen as the shadow of others. 

This marriage is not about turning heads, Lord Corlys is correct. Now, it is about swaying swords. 

And the thought had been floated – a fickle thing, some brush by way of wind through the chamber doors – boats, they’d said. Tidings. 

“-to cause a shift. The Sea Snake’s blockade at the Gullet strangles the trade routes. King's Landing starves, yet Aegon dines easily in the Keep.”

Indeed even now, in the syrupy aftermath of the council, you must admit it is a clever move. 

“Along the wedding celebrations, we send boats – as far as the Capital.” Though it’d been your own voice speaking such words, there coils such gripping guilt within you. And there’d been Queen Rhaenyra, nodding solemnly. The boats, to be laden with food - grain, salt, preserved meats; a gift from Dragonstone, tidings from a fruitful green and black union. 

Their rightful Queen’s heir; a gift from him and his new wife, the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone. 

In recollection, your brows furrow. “There is much more to be done than attend some wedding. It surely is not of much interest to the smallfolk in these times.” You sniff, brushing hair from your face in the swirling quiet. “Especially for the Usurper’s sister.” 

The hand within your tresses pauses at your words; for a moment, only the sea breathes.  “But the smallfolk love you.” She sounds nearly startled by your words, as if the sheep of thought had yet to cross her mind’s pasture. 

You’d laugh, if you had the gall - the smallfolk? The smallfolk have never had the luxury to hate you, nor to love you; never truly had much power to do anything but bend beneath your heels. It is how it has always been. 

In youth, a procession had spurred your urge to reach towards a commongirl who had called your name. The sun was high in the sky, and she, a girl of your age – it was then that your kinslayer brother had ripped you back into the cart with a sharp glance. They do not love you, he’d snarled; They are dogs at the foot of a table. Grateful, for scraps discarded from the hands that feast. 

As it is, you are incredibly discomforted by Elina’s words, and perhaps it shows on your face – for she falls silent, instead beginning a series of braids from the crown of your head. 

“The smallfolk endure us.” You murmur, “Because they have to.” 

She does not much respond, and in the silence you hear the voices of the council, reverberating in the breaths from your lungs. 

“In every tavern, at every hearth from here to Stoney Sept - the people will speak of your union, of your generosity. The Queen’s heir and his wife – gifting the smallfolk with life.” 

Perhaps it is the most prevalent way to avoid bloodshed – noble bloodshed, that is – though it sits incorrectly in your chest. “A gracious gift – the masses will surely remember the ones who saved them from the crimes of war.”

Moondancer flies across the setting wildfire of eve, and you grow more pensive and dreadful by the minute. 

“Your tea grows cold.” Elina observes with a concerned glance. 

You cannot help the faint smile that befalls your visage at her concern; though you have no interest in its contents, you see her lingering stare, the interest in a pursing of lips. Steam spills from the saucer – it smells of wonderful spices from Essos.

“You have it,” you decide after only a moment, eyes fluttering shut as she finishes the braid upon your left temple. 

You feel her hesitation in fingers, hear it in the surprised giggle she belies. “Oh, no, my Princess, it is for you.”

You smile at her uncertainty, keenly aware of her similarities to the golden-locked sister you left across the sea. “I insist, Elina.” You nod, gesturing to it, eyeing the tendrils of steam which rise from your heated skin. “Go, now. You must have it, it smells much too pleasant to be wasted.” 

Her grin is bright when she gives in – and with a giggle that you nearly reciprocate, she lifts the teacup to her lips; a long sip, one which heats her cheeks perhaps at the action of using utensils higher than her station. Her flickering eyes and giddy cheeks are endearing – the tea is red upon her lips for only a split moment as she pulls it away.

She enjoys her cup while you leave the bath – a preparation she aids you with while still reposed by the table upon your insistence; supper has been called, and you must meet your family once more for a rather excruciating celebratory feast. 

Despite your trivial woes, the evening falls in serenity; you, Elina by your side, sipping gently on tea and whispering about the beasts in the sky. 

YOUR GAZE FINDS HIM BEFORE HE IS EVEN AWARE. 

Jacaerys, with a templed posture down the flickering hall, a soft clinking of fine leather and metal. A set jaw, one that turns in his sweep – and then eyes of amber find yours. There is a light within them you can still yet see, like feathery papered wings, drawn to your own flickering flame. 

A less hurried stride – though no less purposeful than your own – Jace slows his pace when your eyes lock, far enough that his tousled curls blur around the edge of your vision. 

Beneath the sleeves of your mahogany gown, your fingers pluck at skin; you still your own pace, swallowing under the weight of silence heavy around you.

There’s a brief moment of recognition, some momentary breath from both parties – and yet after a glance from both pairs of skittish eyes, the hall is deemed empty of lingering stares. 

And quite rapidly, the distance between you and your betrothed shortens. 

It is bizarre, your pull – and yet you stop only a step away, closer than you’ve been since the Painted Table this afternoon in such heated fervor.

A twitch in his hands, a shift of his weight – he is rather awkward now, and you bite your lip as you both hover in the middle of the stoned floor. Your hands ache to feel his heat, though you linger in your yearning, waiting with baited breath and heated cheeks.

Your name, syrupy and unsure, is the only thing to fall from his lips. 

The Prince’s eyes flicker between your own, head declined just enough to stare straight into your own gaze. You’re arrested only momentarily before you snap back to the present, clearing your throat – a rush of heat through you at the soft turn of his gaze, the downturn of his brows that more than likely mirrors your own expression. 

There is so much to say. 

“Hello.” You select dumbly; though it is received with a small flicker of amusement, some repressed grin that yields a soft turn of dimple in his grin. 

“Hello,” He echoes, and it is too much at once – his soft echo of your own awkwardness, the huff of amusement you share. Your face turns hot under the memories of activities held in common between you just hours ago, at the stupidity of your hushed tones, the odd giddiness as if between childhood lovers finally permised to embrace: But that is, as ever it could have been, not the case. 

And then, in the groaning whispers of falling nighttime, in the empty hallway, you and your betrothed reach an understanding. 

Dark eyes turn upon yours and you sway just so upon your feet, unsure if speaking would worsen this feeling that dances on the tip of your tongue.

And when he is quiet, when he is just as unsure of what to do as you are, he is so very handsome. 

A curved jaw, the turned slope of grace he shares with his mother; and a fire within his gaze that sets you warm. Are you truly of the opinion that my actions are driven by nothing more than desire?

Your lips press tight as you cast your glance away, the chiding ramble of your mother in your mind: Rather hypocritical. You sin. 

Your inhale is sharp; the amber that flickers over your face, a look twisted in pity – you clench your teeth, clearing your throat. “Jace.” You perhaps plan on guiding your foolish jolts towards conversation in a certain fashion; though his brows lift, a flash of concern through his stare. 

His lips, glossy upon the light of torches, press together in some twistedly alluring mix between a smile and a frown. 

A hand finds yours; palm warm, soft against your own, and it sends your mind reeling; so delicate a touch. Your brows lift only slightly, fingers lacing with his own after your eyes flick over his tailored shoulder warily. 

“Are you…” He does not continue for a brief moment, instead urging closer with half-step — your spine straightens, swept in the woody scent of the forested Dragonmont that accompanies his presence, towered by his imposed height, charmed by the searching warmth in his eyes. “-are you alright?” 

He finishes his canvassing in a bent whisper, with knitted brows and pouted lips. After all, it is an odd question — one you’re unsure how to answer; and it lingers, heavier than perhaps it was proposed. Yet Jacaerys waits patiently, teeth worried within the cushion of his bottom lip.

The sting of embarrassment — of a hawkish stare from the rogue prince, the shame, the stupidity of limbs tangled in the dusty light of day — a spoil of some war of bodies upon a table, of fingers knotted in desperation. 

And your answer comes easy as ever in a nod and a forced, falsified fable, a lie so often told through your teeth. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Are you?” 

Perhaps it is this moment it hits the prince before you; with a gaze that trickles in a slow leak to the floor separating your pointe shoes from his own boots, he hesitates. 

“…I’m not sure.” 

It’s a vulnerability; a gaping wound, putrid flesh forgotten in the sun, that festers with each passing day — I don’t know, you agree — I don’t know, but I am scared. 

It has never done well to reopen a wound not yet healed. 

Your thumb runs over roughened knuckles, his fingers twitching within your grasp, jolting at your very faint touch, though you pretend not to notice. 

He seems to find words to fill the absence of sound in the halls. “It’s been some time, but I… tried speaking to them.” His eyes flick away as red lips press together. Your stare must be a breath too blank, for he continues, “–The gods,” He elaborates; your brows raise at his candor. “I suppose for some guidance.” He decides. 

His words find you with surprise; not particularly due to what he says but rather for the sheepish way in which he delivers the information, as if unsure how you’ll react. He searches for something, you realize; perhaps the same very thing absent in your own heart. 

His eyes are wide, specks deep through a ring of ambered honey – though some twisted thing, that same seed that unfurled and sprouted within your older brother; that envy – it blossoms in your chest, unruly and vicious. 

“The gods don’t listen,” you retort swiftly, a sardonic grin flickering miserably across your smile. 

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in faint surprise; it’s only now that you register your previous words, a slithering lick of shame curling up your spine. 

“No?” Jacaerys wonders – a flicker of surprise that you are not foolish enough to believe is any semblance of disagreement; rather Jace’s preconceived notion that you ring true still among the devout. 

Your cheeks are warm, and his eyes are low upon your face. Does he see your mother staring back at him? 

A clearing of your throat as you nod, “Not to me, at least,” the edge of your voice is mercifully smoothed by something almost playful; your fingers shift within his grasp, brushing over the calluses on his knuckles. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck, my Prince.” You smile – and though he delivers a less than skeptical look, you’re thankful for his restraint. 

And of course, the very dimple of his you so admire blossoms upon his smile when he looks down in the scarce light. “Let us hope then, Princess.” 

And despite yourself, a jump within your stomach at his tone, a skip in your heart. Some giddiness, perhaps in reaction to the dread which surrounds the castle, leaks through your chest.

As though deciding within his mind, he looks back to you, clearing his throat. “I know that– that we’ve not had much time to ourselves,” He starts, “Though I’d hoped we could–” 

But as his mouth opens once more, footsteps: A sharp laugh muffled only by the separation of stone walls; and then your cousins round the corner, their smiles bright. 

Perhaps through some instance of habit, your hands drop each other immediately – you, pulling back and Jacaerys taking a half-stagger towards the wall at the startle as if mere children caught stealing bread from a feast table – both of you glancing down the hall with burning visages. 

A weak breath from your lips as you clear your throat uncomfortably, nodding to them as they wave down the tunneled hall. 

But Jacaerys’s invitation, half-swallowed by the ignominy of unexpected company, still draws necessity from your gut. “We should, Jacaerys,” you agree with a murmur, sending him a small nod as you turn to him once more. 

He need not elaborate; you know well enough he wishes to speak in private. “Perhaps on the morrow?” You suggest, fighting the tension of strained courteousness. 

A press of his lips in a concealed, tight-lipped smile brings forth a dimple to the curve of his cheek; a flutter at the sight as he casts his gaze down once more, awaiting your approaching cousins as their conversation tampers to greet you. 

DINNER AWARDS NO REST OF TENSION FOR YOU AND JACAERYS. 

The hall’s table is set in a long stretch; The scrape of dishes against forks, the crackle of the hearth – you drown in it, not well used to such calm manners of gathering; more oft than not since you arrived upon the island have the feasts with the crowned family ended in sharp tongues and bitter stares. Such instances are, momentarily, absent from the dinner tonight. 

Candles drip tallow slowly from their silvered limbs across the walls, backlit and outshined by the bright licks of peat flames – and you, sewn together by the numb acceptance of change, resign quietly in your chair to be gawked at in some form as plans are proposed, rather casually, for the location of your upcoming union to Jacaerys. 

At the head Queen Rhaenyra sits – and with a fold of her hands, nods towards a proposed setting. “Perhaps we hold the ceremony here on Dragonstone," she suggests, “Once more, a Targaryen marriage on Targaryen soil.” 

It is a thought you’d given little attention – spare for this afternoon as Elina had sipped upon your tea and you’d laid your eyes to watch the free churn of silvery purple wings against the sun in the distance. 

And a voice from aside Queen Rhaenyra, slumped in the frame of his chair. “I might remind you that the sept here isn’t exactly grand. It gathers dust with each day.” 

The mention of the Sept bristles you; There is a rippling agreement through the table, though with a spare glance to your side, you find Jacaerys fixated upon the vegetables before him, eyes far-off and consumed. Rhaenys carries the same bemused practicality as you’ve always known within her as she begrudgingly agrees with your uncle. “Nor has it seen a ceremony in years. It could hardly hold enough folk for our intentions.” 

And the thought of the sept – its cold, hardly adorned walls which whisper in echo to your own quiet prayers; a place uninhabited by any besides the Septas and your own festering thoughts. 

The goblet in your hand is gilded with curves of thorned flowers along the base of the cup, your visage corrupted and warped in the golden reflection. You can only stare back at your warped countenance in hopes the conversation will soon end.

It is your cousin’s voice from across the way which gains your attention next, as the contents of your cup slip into your stomach. “It may gather dust,” Rhaena agrees rather gently, casting a quick glance at you, “But it’s hardly abandoned.” 

And if the many pairs of eyes were not already upon you, they find you then; Lord Corlys, sitting at the far end of the table, hums. 

“There is but one person who keeps that sept from falling entirely to ruin.” His eyes land on you not unkindly – and perhaps in desperation, you find some kind of warmth in his words, as if to acknowledge a quiet dedication he perhaps admires, or simply acknowledges. Your cheeks burn in the shadow of the woman left across the sea, who sits dowager and whispers prayers into the wind of your dreams. 

Though in turn of their intentions of setting you at ease, the thought sends a new wave of guilt swirling through you, well-aware of the true purpose of visiting the sept so habitually.

A faint smile curves on Baela’s lips, and she leans forward. “Perhaps it would be appropriate, then? Breathe new life into it, make it…” Though it seems any hope leaves as she trails off, aware of the tepid spirit that surrounds the wedding, of the uncomfortable breaths that fall in tandem from your lips and Jacaerys’.

 “...Sacred again, in a way.”

The thought is wholly unpleasant to you; perhaps in your mother’s stern voice in the back of your mind, whispering sharp daggers of criminality into your veins. 

Daemon chuckles softly, a sardonic smile tugging at his mouth as he glances at Rhaenyra. “Forgive me, but the future king and queen marrying in a sept nearly swallowed by time is hardly a fitting legacy.” His gaze flickers to you, as though assessing how you might take such a slight; you level him with a stare mirrored in equivocation. The king consort lifts a shoulder. “We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral.”

A needle carefully placed to sew a new line, red and thin. He aims for the eyes with his sharp point; some stirring amusement within his stare that causes your stubborn proclivities to roar, but you know better than to let temptation unravel you. People much worse than him have tried. 

We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral. 

“If it were more frequented, perhaps it wouldn’t feel as such.” You choose instead of the lash of tongue you reign in; the words are sharp and whipped relentlessly – a vision of your mother in green, spilling her words from your tongue as easy as letting a breath into your lungs. 

The table falls quiet at this, and in a cold wash of shame, your eyes fall back to the table.

Around you, wary eyes flicker; in a sickness bouting through your stomach, a youthful Jacaerys’ words follow your echoes: It’s like she opens her mouth and her mother speaks through it. 

It is a moment in which shame floods the features of your face; and you, awkward as a newborn doe, swallow back your pride. 

The room is quiet, but through your embarrassment you register a sudden pressure against your leg; A warm surprise of pressure against your calf. 

It is, in a moment of breath, merely a boot sliding against your gown and pressing against your leg under the table. A gesture of reassurance. It is your nature when your gaze flicks momentarily to the prince sat beside you – his jaw remains terse but his gaze has grown quite warm when he returns your glance. 

A small nudge from him in the quiet moment; and with a swallow of affinity, you nudge Jacaerys back. His lips twitch just so; you pretend not to notice. 

It is only a breath of a moment after that you realign your face into a more serene expression – and with that, you feel a tinge of pride, breathing through the ravaging sea of spite that crashes against the cliffs of your heart. The blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition, you’d once heard Lord Corlys say; perhaps, he is correct. 

The smile upon your face might be plastered, but it is radiant. 

“Apologies. Though I appreciate the dramatics as always, Daemon,” You address the man with a thinly veiled tone of respect, “Perhaps we should find somewhere… more large. Alive. To gather a larger crowd of folk.” 

It is the smallest of gestures — a soft victory within some inlaid battle of words — but you sense Daemon, for all his sarcasm and derision, recognizes it as such. His mouth curves slightly, but the tilt of his eyes does not soften, nor does the rest of Jacaerys’ foot against your own slide away.

There is a brief silence at the table as the meal is served; roast lamb, stew with wild rice, fish – and a few more cups of wine for you and your intended both – in which Daemon proposes a toast. 

“To the realm’s future,” He lifts his cup; the others follow suit, as you lift yours with a stare burnt into the man’s jaw. “And to the union of our future King and Queen. May you have a long, happy marriage.” 

The words from his lips have scarcely fallen before you see the tense ridge of Jacaerys’ spine, one which straightens your own in a rise of hackles. It is a harmful thing, really – and with a practiced grace, you and Jacaerys both receive the toast with smiles and kind words.

And it would be a lack of verity if you said you did not feel a growth of warmth through you when Jacaerys turns his cup to you, sharing a small glance and smaller grin. 

It is a private thing, a quiet moment: A hand, reaching across a tumultuous river. You grasp it back with a clink of your goblet to his own. 

The dinner rolls on; the sun is well past its set into the horizon, and even with the light of candles brings you a breath from the oppression of daylight. The food is hearty, enjoyable – it is unlike the many times you’d sat at this very table, surrounded by eyes which saw you a serpent. 

And the poison which drips from certain cups this evening is not that of distrust; nor those of old wounds well festered and sored: No, they are instead some foolish urge to prod a slumbering beast, to dangle a fool by his ankle atop a spire and laugh. 

In a shimmering glance away from your warped reflection in the boat of gravy before you, a voice brings you to the surface. “I’d assume it would,” Daemon agrees half-heartedly to some forgotten sentence from his daughter; he sits forward, “Though there is much to plan for beyond merely the smallfolk. We must gather arms from the Houses, as the Prince reminded us at council earlier.” 

At the mere mention of his title, a stiffness grows once more in Jacaerys’s gaze, though he tamps it down with a measured exhale; a rather thin line to thread now, as you stir your tea and watch its tendrils of steam crawl from its cup.  

 “All is merry to plan a wedding. Though perhaps some of us will find some plans to put our passion to good use beyond the Painted Table.” a glance to you and Jacaerys both, his eyes mirthful, “Yes?” 

A moment too late you register your own irritation; the gall of your uncle to believe he has any right to dangle such foolish deeds over your heads – as if he himself is any vision of the Father. 

The thread has been pulled; Jacaerys unravels shortly. 

“–If you have something to say, Daemon,” Jace’s voice is controlled in that threadbare way it can be, and his jaw is clenched sharp enough to reflect the light of the hearth behind you. “–then speak plainly,” His voice is low and volatile, “We all tire of your riddles.”

In a rush of shock – or perhaps worry, should Daemon take Jacaerys’s challenge in its face-value, your hand flies to the side.

You find yourself grasping Jace’s forearm below the table, a warning or comfort - Perhaps something in between. 

His hand flexes just beneath your grasp, though he does not shake it off. 

Murmurs and clink of silver slow around the table; your eyes meet the Queen’s, and with a helpless blink, you look away. In the wake of Jacaerys’ hiss, Daemon’s brows lift, eyes flickering deviously between you and Jacaerys. “Dare I?” He wonders, the sparred bounce of gazes at the table alarming you. “I merely remind us all, there are matters to consider besides the wedding. After all, some bonds are forged long before vows are spoken–”

“-Enough.” You snap; it is a sharp whistle of wind over a peak, though it does enough to quell the tension that courses through your betrothed’s muscles. 

“Right,” A voice deep from down the table, and Lord Corlys shifts upon his seat, “There are more pressing matters at hand than whatever game you’re playing.” 

Daemon chuckles under his breath, lifting his goblet again in mock surrender towards you, murmuring into the rim, “Pressing matters indeed.” 

Your blood boils; but in lieu of any burst of emotion, Jacaerys simply turns to you with a gaze more molten than honey atop a boilpot; an exasperated glance, one of disbelief and a vague sense of panic.

You respond with a subtle, helpless shake of your head – an acknowledgement of your shared misery, one that nobody else in the room is keen to. And then in some exasperated moment, a flicker of amusement in his stare, shared only with you. You share it in return. 

An odd thing, to keep close the simmering truth, a thing so wrong and iniquitous. Jacaerys takes your hand and squeezes it gently under the stone table before dropping it to reach for his cup. 

And though the conversation around you carries on rather rocky, you bathe in the silence for the remainder of the dinner. 

JACAERYS ACCOMPANIES YOU AFTER THE FEAST. 

Though not explicit, you see the glint in Rhaenyra’s eye when he offers his arm to you – and it is not until you’ve rounded the corridor away from the stone drum do you and Jacaerys drop the masks woven onto your visages, the tense square of shoulders – and your hand uncurls from the crook of his elbow as a cat would wake from slumber. 

A memory from a time so recent, though it feels ages ago – Jace and you, walking quietly towards your chambers; though tonight, you have warm cheeks from wine and not from the remnants of his lips.

It is not until you approach your doors, with your swordsman posted outside, that you slow to murmur, away from wandering ears. 

Your hand stops at the crook of Jace’s elbow, coaxing him a step closer as you sigh. “Daemon is…a vexing character.” You put it rather lightly, some form of apology or complaint lodged within your throat. “I often wonder if he lurks in corners merely in hopes of stumbling into matters that are not his,” You attempt a joke – though your heart thumps oddly at the word matters, and you ignore it steadfastly. 

Jacaerys huffs, clearly just as thorned as you are by the entire evening, though a direct tick of his lips lets a breath pass before his murmur. “Like flies to shit, that one.”

His bluntness chips away at the emotions swirling within you; and a surprised laugh escapes your lips, bubbling into something warm. 

Laughter pools from you before you can stop yourself.

Jacaerys, perhaps startled by your reaction, looks to you; at the sound his own face lights up – a genuine, bright smile. A smile which softens his features, which gives way to those boyish looks that are so often concealed beneath princely decorum and furrowed brows. 

And in a soft mix of laughter, Jacaerys’ chuckles murmurs as unfeigned as your own giggles – in the fading of the harmony, your eyes catch the sight of the guard at your door; his eyes flick away, and you swallow back the heat rising in your chest. 

There is a mountain of words unspoken between you and Jacaerys. Though it is a late hour, and there are many things to be done in the morrow; so Jacaerys, with a hesitant touch, takes your palm into his grasp swiftly, eyes glancing to the stone beneath your feet. 

A thumb brushes over your knuckles – and then he bends, his lips ghosting over the back of your hand; an earnest gesture, perhaps, as it heats your face more so than the wine did at dinner. 

Your hand falls to clutch your skirts when he steps away, amber pools of honey taking in your own gaze, searching perhaps uncertainly for your response. You smile in a poorly concealed heat of awkwardness, clearing your throat as if that might ease the moment. 

“Sleep-” He clears his own throat, “Sleep well, Princess.” 

You nod as he turns, watching the glint upon his glossy tresses in the torchlight. It is only as he’s taken a step away that you respond, calling to the rich slope of his shoulders. “–You too, Prince Jacaerys.”

THE PRESENCE OF YOUR DREAM IS IMMEDIATE. 

The wind is sharp in the lick of shadows; and you know you’re not in the realm of the living, no – you’re melded to the ground upon which you stand, stranded in a field of bones. A figure stands just ahead – a girl with pale hair that drips over a gown of gold; your sister turns to you.

Helaena’s eyes, painted in a flickering violet stare as you stagger; paled lips crack open,  though no sound escapes - only the flutter of wings, delicate, fragile, frantic. 

A butterfly, circling above her head. 

A deep unsettle leaks into your subconscious as the sky above, an inky chasm, shifts just so – and the butterfly flutters; climbing frantically upwards, yet looms above a monstrous, scaled form that growls with ancient breath. You cannot seem to warn the butterfly of the impending jaws above, and it strikes fear through your quivering breast. 

It is not until you’ve pulled your legs from the gnarled roots of ricages and spines which litter the ground that you reach Helaena; her eyes, slipped as dying stars anchored on a bright heat that rumbles in breaths high above. 

Wings turn to ash above you; they find your inhale, seeping into your lungs in one quick gasp. The butterfly is gone – its papery embers burning away into your blood. 

Hands, cold and spectral, shove you back into the darkness; you fall upon bones which crack in whispers of your name below your weight, and Helaena steps forward, her lips still moving in whispers you cannot hear. 

Her hands hold a chipped teapot; an old one, with etchings of flowers and dainty ladies washing against a peaceful brook.

It is cracked, though. And with her absent stare, you watch in horror as out crawl spiders from the teapot’s fissures – into her palms, skittering down her arms, crawling up her neck.

Your scream is silenced by an echoing crack of ancient stone; a tower in the distance, cracking in half as a shadow falls from high above where it kisses the clouds, a thunderous plume in the wake of its descent. The ancient breaths from above grow hot with unrest as ashy wings of butterflies fall to bless the decaying ground around you. 

“The girl,” Helaena mouths, her voice swallowed by the rising wind. There is a searing pain in your eye - the glint of a knife, a breath forever held by the crashing of some distantly cold waters. “The girl.”

You wake with a gasp, tangled in your sheets, the remnants of the warning still burning in your ears.

The girl. 

A jolt to the living realm brings a trickle of clammy sweat down your chest; the hearth across the way is surprisingly stoked and well alive.

And then, a strangled noise – a groaning mewl, some doe struck by a hunter’s bow, awaiting the mercy of a quick knife. 

The edge of the room stirs with movement and you’re jolted with shock – you blink sleep from your eyes with the gust of wind upon dust-blown streets, sitting up with a thickening pulse. You leap out of your skin when your vision adjusts to the light of the hearth in the room, a gasp flying from your lips in fear. 

At the foot of your bed, a spectre of a girl  – hair loose, her skin ashy in the moon’s whisper; a gasp from a mouth much too crimson as she sways upon uneven footing. 

“Elina?” You croak, heart within your throat – but that gasp, again; and she is doubled over, breathing in sharp gasps. Unease awaits you in the cavern of your chest. 

“What’s happened?” You ask quickly, rising from the sheets with a shaky fear. 

There is no response: but the girl stumbles forward, her throat beginning to pulse unnaturally – you leap to your feet, wider awake than ever before. 

“P-princess,” she chokes out, her body trembles - fingers fall against the post of your bed frame, her voice weaker still than her hallowed visage. “I– didn’t–” but her breath is not correct; it heaves out laborious, sickly. 

Her eyes meet yours, and your heart sinks below your stomach; a drop of crimson rolls from her nostril, and then a cough full of wet blood that sputters into her palm, darker than you’ve ever seen.

“S-something’s wrong.” her voice, desperate. Bare feet slap against stone as your hand grasps her arm; skin yields clammy. Panic pulses through you – her lips are a frosting purple, marred only by stretch of bloody string which pulsates from her nose and has begun to drip its way upon her dress. 

Your chamber doors are heavy, though you rip them open and spit into the hallway, shaking as the dredges of murky sleep are wiped away by alarm. 

Your shout is sharp as a dying hound, “Fetch Maester Gerardys!” You tremble as you nod to the guard, “Now! And alert the Queen– tell,” You look down the hall, unsure what to do, breathing ragged and sporadic, “Tell Jacaerys, tell–” 

A yelp, startled as a kicked kitten from behind you and you can only stop yourself, snapping back to your maid’s side, letting your chamber doors remain open as the guards rush down the corridors. 

Elina’s frame collapses as you reach her; you fall to your mattress, pulling her into your arms with shaking breaths – and she, with weak effort, presses her hand into your own. 

There is no such moment for you to do anything but sit; and so you do, a sense of numb calm washing over you as you coo to her, wiping hair away from a sheened forehead. Her head lolls heavy against your shoulder, tears soaking the sleeve of your nightgown – veins protrude, purple and ghastly, from her eyes and forehead, spreading down her chin under a trail of blood. Any offer of water is slapped across the stone floors of your bedchamber. 

“I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she curls closer to you, her breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. “It hurts.” 

Your throat tightens – her eyes are wide, terrified; a gasp of striking resemblance to that haunting stare from your dreams.

You can only hold her tighter, cradling her head against your chest as if you could shield her from whatever is eating away at her from the inside; though she has begun a series of horrifying convulsions, and you scramble to remember any such prayer for the sick in the recess of your cobwebbed mind. 

“I can’t… I can’t remember-” You mutter helplessly, fingers shaking as you stroke her hair, whispering useless comforts as her body shakes against you.

Her hands are tight; wrapped in a clutched embrace, her muscles spasm and kick, marring you with short bursts of pain as you hold onto her, your own tears falling onto her face as a violent foam of bloody saliva begins to brim through her paled lips. 

“No-” You hiss, palm cupping her cheeks – but the blood spreads, it taints; eyes have rolled back, her body convulsing as blood pours in a leak from her nose, drips of crimson tears from the corners of vacantly yellowed eyes. Trails of it foam over your grasp from her mouth – choking, she’s begun, and you’re helpless to watch, your breaths eerily calm in the wake of her gasping gurgles. 

Maester Gerardys enters first; followed closely by three pairs of feet slamming against stone, but still you rock gently, a horror encasing your mind as you stare at the girl, stilled in your arms. 

Your lips are still mumbling, though your chest burns in the need of breath that will not come; the small bird of a girl in your arms, her blood staining your pillows, her heart stilled after a rapid acceleration and a heaving rattle of breath through blood-stained teeth. 

You do not let go of her when Maester Gerardys arrives to your side; with a wail and a panicked grasp, you shoot daggers towards the man with a snarl; a cornered hound. 

Your name rolls gently from hesitant lips, though, and it arrests your panic. 

Jacaerys is just beside you – clad in a sleeping tunic and trousers, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in concern. Your grip loosens around Elina at Jace’s whisper; And when you back away, his arm is around your waist, pulling you away gently. 

Queen Rhaenyra, hand over her breast as she watches; and Daemon, eyes dark as he stares from the girl upon your bed to the blood that stains your hands. In the light of the hearth, Jacaerys lights the few candles beside the bed, and you watch with a hitched breath broken only by the sound of your quiet sobs. 

 Maester Gerardys pulls back from her figure, his voice laced with a gentle, perturbed sorrow. “She’s with the Gods.”

Time escapes you.

Your fingers shake in the fabric of Jacaerys’s tunic as he holds you steady, easing you onto the settee across from the hearth; he remains as Daemon and the Queen repose in succession. 

And when Rhaenyra’s palm finds the stillness of your knee, as your stare smolders into the roar of flames before you, Daemon’s voice is shockingly gentle, quiet. “What happened?” He asks – and you stir only then from your halted fear, glancing to where Maester Gerardys and the guards gather the body from your sheets. 

Your lashes flicker, and though the press of Jacaerys’ thigh upon your own is warm, you cannot look away from Elina’s stained blonde hair, tresses marred by a thick paint of blackened blood as it sways in the arms of the guard passing by. 

The girl, you hear your sister’s voice whisper. You swallow thickly, shaking your head faintly.

“I…” You croak, shaking your head, “She… woke me. Elina. She’d helped me prepare before I went abed – she acted rather normal, though she’d mentioned a stomachache…” Your brows furrow as a distant memory strikes you. “Her pupils were the size of saucers.” 

They had been, truly. Pupils blown wide, her lips slick with saliva she wiped with a sleeve – and a whisper, once more as she undid the hair she’d braided into place just hours before – we’ve kept the chambers quite sweltering this evening, haven’t we, My Princess? 

“Did she act any differently?” 

Your mind stumbles in its tirade down a dark staircase of trivial moments through the day; And then, some horrifying thought that pierces your stomach, paranoia rippling through you. 

“Tea.” You murmur, shaking your head, “The tea you gifted me, that’s all,” You murmur, eyeing Queen Rhaenyra. A blank visage flickers in the lick of flame beside her, though her countenance furrows in unfamiliarity. 

A slight shake of the head, a bewildered breath from her breast – she need not say it; the tea that was served was not from her. Three pairs of eyes watch you, though in your panic, you jolt upright, only aware of the sleepgown you wear once Queen Rhaenyra places a blanket upon your shoulders. 

“-I was served a new tea this afternoon,” You glance at the table in the corner of your chambers, where the odd girl had prepared it. “I- I was told it was a gift, from the Queen–” in a sickening memory, you exhale, “she drank it this afternoon. Elina. It was prepared by a new handmaid who said she’d come from the kitchens, though I swear I’d–” 

And it is as if the storm breaks.

In a flash of a moment, memories flood through you in a pounding horror; the girl with her wrist scarred, flickering eyes behind doors of the Hand of the King. 

A sea away, and moons ago yet – a green gaze that ducked away when you and your siblings haunted the halls of the Red Keep, and young, dutiful ears which listened to each word uttered by you and your kin. 

“She was there. The Red Keep.” You utter, eyes burning a hole through the stone table, mouth open. The shoulder that brushes your own tenses; a shared glance between the three that you nearly miss in your dissociation. 

Daemon is upon his feet within moments, voice barking at the men who crowd the room – an order of the kitchens to be torn apart in search of a tea, red and spiced; and to find the girl with the scar on her wrist. 

THE MORNING COMES. 

It always does; despite it all, the morning comes – and this time, it kisses your shoulders with a chill, seeping into bones weary and plastered heavy to foreign sheets. 

Not foreign, particularly – for you know the softness upon you as though a touch of a familiar palm, the quirk of a familiar boyish grin. And you wake slowly, eyes heavy enough to keep you asleep, but you wake smelling of him. 

You are not sure what weakened part of you reaches out – to find him, in the chasm of darkness that returns as you do to consciousness; but your hand drifts over the empty space where he should be, only to find a soft crumple of parchment left in his place.

Before your eyes open, you already know.

His absence does not surprise you, nor does the cold weight of realization that settles upon your chest. 

The girl. A poisoned cup; the last shuddering rattle of breath from a sweet friend. Dreams of the sister you left, of a thick thread that wound your wrists and tethered you to hands that wanted nothing; a murder of an innocent because of… 

Your eyes are weary, and they burn. 

Jacaerys brought you to his chambers last night when your shaking slowed; after Maester Gerardys checked upon your tongue, tracked the flickering motions of your eyes, heard the beats of your heart. Jacaerys had not followed Daemon out the doorway upon some warpath once the whisper of poison fell from Maester Gerardys’ lips – he’d remained instead with a hand hovering over yours, his eyes upon his mother, who had taken you into her side as a mother would a hurt child. 

You recall, as you stir under his sheets, how you’d heard his heart beat beneath your ear last night - too steady, too forced.

The rhythm, a caged fury for the sake of a girl who’d barely looked at him without baring her teeth; a buzzing regret for the unripened detestation harvested towards her over fields of youth past. Guilt can be a fickle thing. 

And it is indeed a frequent visitor at the doors of your mind; it slides in through the cracks when you sit up in bed, head pounding, aching for sustenance though the thought of food leaves your stomach hollowed in fear. 

The note is unfolded slowly; Jacaerys’ hand is scribed with no lack of care, though they are quick, speaking of duty and matters with Daemon.

Though he says nothing explicitly, you know. The handmaid who prepared your tea yesterday - they search for her, or worse, they have already found her; and what is left now is that cold calculation of the Father: of justice.

With a shiver, your fingers twitch to your sternum - some odd remainder of a habit formed in youth, watching your mother clutch her seven-pointed-star round her neck in times of strife. You come empty-clutched instead - a seven-pointed chain that’d been casted into the ocean  along with the ring your mother gifted you for your nameday many moons ago, now. 

Jace’s request sends a strike of warmth through you as you blearily read the scrawled words to send Ser Steffon to fetch Jacaerys when you wake. 

Maester Gerardys, too, is mentioned, and the thought of him fussing over your health makes your chest tighten; there is no such relief in the notion being tended to, not now – not when your heart crawls up your throat; a creeping spider up the spout of a teapot, a coil of serpent wrapping around your neck. 

Blood still clings to the gown you’d held Elina in, as it sits rumpled and untouched upon the floor of Jacaerys’ chambers – you wear a simpler one now, retrieved from your boudoir by the hands of your betrothed.

You leave the mound of furs and sheets behind in a slow slide towards the window upon Jacaerys’ far chamber wall. 

The fog still clings stubbornly to the sea, curling like a serpent over the rocks, refusing to retreat beneath the morning light. 

It is not the attempt on your life – that itself has yet to soak through the surface of your ever-porous skin – but rather the absence of the voice which rouses you from slumber each morning, who combs and styles your hair; who bathes you, who laughs with you, who whispers. She is gone. 

Along the distance, the fog eats at the fishing villages; mere dots, no larger than gnats even when you squint. You wonder where Elina’s love lies, and if he woke with the same emptiness in his heart that you did. 

Below Jacaerys’ window lies a glance at the Sept of Dragonstone; a pierce in your chest that calls upon the emptiness of your heart. 

You do not heed your betrothed’s wish to seek him when you wake; instead, you pull round the cloak draped along the table beside you, tying it doubly to account for its larger size; and you slip past Ser Steffon, who watches and trails behind you at a measured pace. 

IN SOME LINGERING SHAME, YOU’RE KNELT BEFORE THE GODS BEFORE DAY FULLY BREAKS. 

It is not until you step out into the bailey, wrapped in a cloak that is not your own, does the sky split and begin to weep. It laments its sorrow upon the walls as you blink hard ahead, hoping to cease the endless churning of torment spiraling in your mind. 

When you find yourself within the dry stone walls once more, the cloak remains upon your frame – a comfort, in its lingering scent; or a repentance, in its damp chill upon your shoulders. 

The gods watch as you kneel in silence; the storm blossoms, cackling at some ancient jest in the sky, and you keel over in your grief, sinking to the soil buried far below the stone.

The Maiden’s face watches you – and in her, you see Elina; in that sweet laugh, the ceaseless effort to remain your handmaid, your friend – despite it all. And the reward she was given for such trust, such loyalty: To die on a mattress of the one she served, one final breath sacrificed for the truth:

It hurts. I’m scared. 

“Elina,” You whisper with watery words, watching the candle before you light in flame. Your throat constricts. That sacred little lamb, taken upon the altar of your very own mattress. 

Innocence, a token offered to gods who never answer – and, mutedly, you wonder. That death was sent for you, after all – so how would you look, eyes wide and unaware of the sharpness of a blade descending towards you?

Across the hall, someone slinks through the shadows. Smoke swirls. A candle is lit with shaky hands. 

And there is the blue lamb, too, you think - the one I could not save either. Fingers shaking, pressing the flame against the wyck beside it; it catches with only an extra breath. 

“Lucerys,” You whisper, watching the candle flicker.

And nothing changes. 

The rain falls outside. The pit lingers within your stomach.There is a scuff – perhaps a Septa, crossing somewhere behind you. A heavy door drags open from the Bailey outside, and in a breeze of the world’s breath, someone enters. 

You duck your chin in prayer, that way you did in childhood under the watchful gaze of your seven-pointed mother. 

Today, you worry. 

Like some favored cup that you’d grasped too tight, afraid it would fall from your clutches and break into thousands of shards – and how instead you’d watch it shatter in your protective, ignorant grasp. Red rivers of disbelief from a trembling palm; pain, that naive version of love. 

Father - you look upon his statue, disbelief in your heart. I worry that love is merely a mirror of violence. 

That pathetic something – that yearning, an empty chasm that blossomed even in the days of your youth – with cheeks still cherubic and eyes still bright; five children, white of hair; youthful play, ruddy cheeks, fattened legs. Giggles and breathless yells from behind curtains – from a time when whispers were nothing more than a playgame. 

The Crone remembers – and you wonder, then, as you look upon stone shrouded in a cloak. What has become of them, now? Of any of you? 

And who are you, but the sister who fled? Who are you, but the one who haunts the halls of the Black Queen, with blood of emerald and a dragon that could turn on them in a moment’s notice? 

Fingers grasp the stone before you, and white wax drips in slow tears. Crone – you gaze into eyes carved in sorrow, of sagacity unreachable. I worry that wisdom comes only when it is too late. 

In your youth, you’d been gifted a plant in an achingly beautiful painted Braavosi pot; the joy of your nameday, you’d insisted upon tending to it. It’d been hours – each day, admiring its pebbled leaves, bursting with budding fruit from within. Hours curbing away the prying, destructive hands of your elder brothers and cousins, of sitting in awed silence watching the leaves change in the sunlight with your sister.

And then came the day you’d woken to its dead leaves. In your devotion, obsession, you’d given it too much water. Mother – you look upon her statue, disbelief sewn far into the creasings of your heart. I worry that my care only brings ruin. 

The face of mercy watches you, and it brings nothing but a tremble of hatred through you. 

A flash of your own resentment – and of the tarnished beauty which once beheld your own visage, marred by the presence of you upon his side. Despite efforts taken by others to ensure otherwise, you will still remain forever haunted; forever wondering how you could dare stand with Jacaerys when you so taint the memory of his lost brother. 

It is a horrible thing, the chain of fate. 

A fate written long before you two were placed into cradles as babes, far before you two were given each other’s name as a promise, then as a threat, then as a promise once more. Smith – your heart aches, and it aches for what is to come. I worry that I cannot shape what I wish to mend. 

It is the most difficult perhaps, to regard the young woman etched in stone to your left. 

In her face is each that you’ve ever come to know. Baela, the first and best of your friends upon this island; Rhaena, the girl whose company you seek with the knowledge that she will regard you as kin, not adversary. 

The humming of your sweet sister in her chambers; in quiet harmony with the buzzing of insects, needles pricking her fingers and singing softly to the blood that beads from her flesh. You’re nothing like Helaena, your mother said. And what tragedy, you think as you consider the draped innocence of the Maiden aside you, what a regret that is. 

 And your mother, for all that she isn’t – for all that she is. For the girl she lost in her youth; for the distaste, perhaps, in the aspects of you that much too echo the girl she once called friend – through some the absent admiration of a father who held you close, who whispered Rhaenyra instead of your own name when he spoke of his love and admiration. 

That name, too – still after these years a stinging sore of regret, jealousy; Rhaenyra, the name you cannot help but reach toward, hand forever extended into emptiness. Rhaenyra, the one you’d picture when you watched yourself in the mirror as a girl, tilting your chin as if there were already a crown upon your head. 

Rhaenyra – you’re just like Rhaenyra, your father would whisper, proud; and it is, indeed, why your mother watched you with serpent stares, why your family turned chin upon you each time you dared speak her name in years after.  

Perhaps there is no particular malice in the end. 

You are no fool to believe that Rhaenyra resents you for what has been done by the hands of your blood; but knowing you are bidden forgiveness is not the same as accepting it. And in that festering void within your breast, the one which vies for affection, for the love of a mother’s touch, for acceptance – there lies one small residual pool of envy. 

 Rhaenyra, Helaena, Alicent, Baela, Rhaena, Elina – your throat, tightening as you consider then your very own name, that cursed name that falls from lips spitting and serpentine; what are you, to them all? 

To the girls here on the island who wear red and black maid uniforms and speak with you like you are one of their own, just to die by the hand whose grasp searched for your own throat? 

Maiden, you wonder with worried eyes, I worry I will swallow the women I love. 

There comes no such reply, but still you remain in folded grief for some time.

The rain falls outside the stoned walls of the Sept, but in here you remain dry. The island is drinking – or perhaps it cleans itself.

It is a pity you are not there with it. 

A candle burns out, and in a shaky lump of grief, you move to relight the wyck. 

The doors behind you scrape against the stone, and a wet onslaught finds your ears as you shiver in the breeze. Your fingers shake against the stick, watching the flame dance. 

“Lucerys,” You say once more, voice less of a whisper and more a plea. 

The clink of metal behind you startles your focus – you turn to face the visitor with an open mouth and wide eyes. In a breath of panic, you start. 

A boy, shrouded in the swimming shadows of the Sept’s rounded columns – waterlogged breaths, curls that breathe with his chest, alive, sinking, but alive – and the slip of water rushing around him, swelling like the tide as he moves from the shadows. 

Luke, you almost call out – but the black of the tunic catches with the silver scars of a wettened sun  – and there, a familiar face, searching eyes, the lick of a tide in the slope of his nose. 

Jace. 

The pearls of lost memories sink to the depths and you are no longer with that ghost – but instead alone with the Gods and with your betrothed. 

There is no greeting, but instead the locking of your eyes to his in acknowledgement – and he approaches you as you turn back to the altar, hands clenched to avoid their shake. 

“–Do they listen today?” He wonders, breaking the shell of silence; a tentative thing carried through the space of the Sept, a ripple on a calm pool. And though he delivers the query with all intentions of seriousness, you cannot help the small blushing of warmth that floods your cheeks at his recalling of yesterday’s spite. 

The gods don’t listen.

You crack the first smile, toothless and small – but he almost eagerly follows suit; and in the small grins shared between you, there is a breath of peace. 

“Not any more than they have before, I’m afraid.” You affirm, brushing invisible dust from your sleepgown; it is only when his eyes dip over your frame do you register the cloak you still don, its embroidered sigils of red and black upon the nape of your neck and boyish scent still clinging in the aftermath of the dampened path to the Sept. 

You have made no motion to rise to him; though he indeed, still as a pole, has remained without effort to sink to you either, and so you stare up at him. Jacaerys clears his throat, eyes flicking to the two lit candles before you and back to your gaze. “I’d hoped you’d send for me when you woke.” He whispers, some kind of warmth blossoming upon his cheeks. 

You watch the flush stain his skin with some assurance; a live boy stands before you, swaying upon his feet, hands perched upon the pommel of a sword and eyes lit with some hesitant kind of hope. You nod absently, “I didn’t much feel like being poked and prodded.” 

You’d meant by Maester Gerardys; though in a moment, you see something almost like amusement reflect in Jacaerys’ eyes – though he nods, concealing his dimpled grin and a small laugh. “I cannot hold you to blame for that.” 

In the silence, a gap of beamed gray sunlight finds his tresses; and streaks across one amber eye of his, melting in warmth as he watches you warily. You swallow down the part of you that blossoms at a face so beautifully made, and you wonder how he sees you now. 

“Why do you come?” His question strikes you once more in the quiet walls. 

Perhaps a Septa crosses the way – though your sights are anchored on Jacaerys and his wandering tongue as he glances towards the stony faces staring down at you. He, with an absent voice, continues: “If it’s not for them?” 

You swallow hard, fingers knotted like roots within your lap. A ruminating silence, until your voice finds its quiet whisper. “The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside, I suppose.” 

His gaze follows your own to the statue of the Mother, looming before you; a shift upon his boots as rainwater slides down the leather to kiss the stone floor. 

“And I know here no one will disturb me.” You add as an afterthought, some attempt at humour in the dreary silence, “Some say this Sept is gathering dust these days.” 

Your words achieve their desired effect: The prince gives you one of those rare smiles, hands held in some mocking surrender. “I am not some.” He defends; to which you nod with a rare smile of your own. 

“No, you are not, Jacaerys.” 

It comes much warmer from your lips than expected – the moment passes thickly between you. A rusty memory, to converse so casually with each other – a talent perhaps still being honed, though you feel a birth of warmth in his presence, against the shell of cold that this day has woken. 

Still he steps closer, hesitant in footing but deliberate in air, and you tilt your head, curious. “Still,” he speaks, “I hope you might… Let me join you.” 

In the moment following, his gaze flickers to the altar; then rises uncertain back to you. His words are awkward, falling hesitantly from his lips, yet still genuine; with their insistence strikes within you a tenderness that must have been absent for far too long. An effort.

“You wish to pray?” you wonder, brows suspended in your surprise. 

He merely nods, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve; a boyish vision despite the burden of his station weighing around him – and your heart skips. 

“If you’d show me how,” he says, quieter yet; and a half step towards the altar so that you are nearly in line, you on your knees and he wavering in his height. “I’ve never been quite… good enough at it. Septa used to take me by the ear and scold me when I was young.” 

It’s a memory faint but easily recalled in your mind – Jacaerys and Lucerys, with youthful smirks plotting across the altar. A shove, a snort concealed in hands folded to prayer – a pious posture from you, though your eyes flickered so often to their whispered snickers, pressing your lips together when the Septas struck across the back of their heads. 

You take in the sincerity of his expression, the slightly placated feeling that has spread from the rare childhood memory so lacking in strife; and how he stands before you, as if asking permission for something far more intimate than prayer. 

Slowly, you incline your head, gesturing for him to kneel beside you. “Alright, then. Come.” You instruct shakily. 

The sword lies first upon the stone; then comes the sinking of his knees, slow to drop; you resist a squirm, the sight of him joining you sending a quiet warmth through your chest. 

It is quiet when he finds himself knelt aside you, hands loose and lips bitten. His tunic brushes your cloak – though you piously fold your hands, looking forward once more if only to avoid the heat that has inconspicuously grown upon your cheeks. 

A beat, then two. Slowly, through a glance, his hands fold like yours, though they shake in the reflection of the dreary sunbeams. 

Outside, the rain ravages the walls; your breaths fall in quiet releases, echoing each other in the dust. 

“I’m not sure what to say,” his voice is rough as it interrupts the silence; a cascade of shivers involuntarily tumble down the ridges of your spine. You’re struck with some spare memory of hands, warm against the line of your back as sleep took you last night; hands that have taken their own time to slide over planes of goose-prickled skin, that have held, and wished, and reached. 

Your eyes fall to the candles, unable to meet the gaze searing into your profile – it strikes you, the peculiar kindness of it; the bittersweet, stilted understanding that ties your heart to his own. 

There is that lingering feeling – that knowledge that, should last night have gone peacefully instead and you’d woken to Elina with comb in hand, Jacaerys would not be here; But still, he’d still have such warm, open eyes – such pouted lips, such a face carved by worry and patience. A change, rung through the effort made to be by your side; You scrub the thought from your mind and clear your throat. 

“I often start with a blessing,” you whisper into the air before you, “These days, it’s been for the realm.” At this, he says nothing; harboring a rather absent stare into the flickering candles. 

His hand drifts to the light; and soon, it wavers with the flickering flame of an incense stick. His hand suspends, hovering in apprehension, but then his voice comes in a quieted whisper. “For the realm,” he echoes your words. 

You do not dare glance at him; though in the corner of your vision sits his profile, softened by the gentle glow of flame and backlit in the torrential gray leaking from outside. Vulnerability drips from plush lips as he moulds over the words he endeavors to speak; and a moment of silence yourself as you shift, the emptiness in your chest warmed by the presence of his heat. 

He whispers his prayer quietly, and you do not wish to impose; you remain beside him, blinking hard against the rising guilt that crawls up your throat, that reminds you of soft girlish smiles and gentle boyish laughs. 

You do not hear his words, but you feel the gentle rumble of them from his chest to your own as you begin a silent whisper of prayer, Elina’s name falling from your lips.

And then comes the song of your voices, hushed and solemn in the Sept; it is in its way just as similar, just as reverent to choruses sung by your lips shared in the past – though for instances much different than now. 

“–For those I’ve failed,” his voice washes into your consciousness, head bowed low and words whispered for none other to hear. Your eyes open at this; pulled from the depths of your own swirling grief, your head bowed in a beat of regret and vision flashing with a blue lamb, submerged in the cold sea. 

Palms, damp and shaky, press to the stone altar. Your eyes find his, open and wettened with memory; it strikes your heart. “Now, I’d pray for the future,” Your voice, so quiet, faint. “That it might be more… kind than the past.” 

His swallow is silent, but you see his chest expand with a breath. The air, so heavy in the weight of shared grief. “For the future,” he echoes once more; and his gaze, though still fixed on the flickering candles, seems distant – seeking out a vision only he can see. 

His tongue swipes over his parted lips, brows furrowed in a soft emotion; you cast your gaze to the candles burning before you. He hesitates, his voice faltering before it firms again, quiet still in the empty Sept. “That I might be worthy of it. Of the realm, and–” His voice tapers off only momentarily. “ –And of those who are beside me.” 

It is in the breath that his small confession catches your breath almost imperceptibly; your chest tightens at his struggling tension of jaw, of that countenance so often set with the sternness of duty. 

There is a softening in his glance to the side, not nearly reaching you, but perhaps trying – something so close to vulnerability that it makes your heart lurch.

His gaze meets yours after a final moment, and in them you see your own reflection, your own yearning heart that beats against the restraints of awkwardness, of regret, of grief and of disdain. 

His gaze is yours, and it feels like it has been for some time. 

“That’s–” Your voice comes choked, uneven; you take a moment to gather yourself once more, cheeks flaring as you hold his stare. “A noble thing to wish for.” 

The tension between you hums into the heavy silence of the Sept. You should look away — ought to, even — but you don’t; for it is a miraculous thing, to gaze into one’s eyes and feel yourself stare back. 

Perhaps his hands fall first, but yours fall just after – and in the silence, your heart slams in your throat, mind hazy with the feeling of being seen and known. A furrow, gentle and longing, of his brow as he watches you; a ghost of his hand upon your arm, trailing along the cloak’s embroidered sleeve. 

Perhaps you lean first, or perhaps he does. 

It is not until your breath brushes his lips and his warms your own that you give in to the ache in your breast; And it is clumsy when your mouth finds his own. A kiss born not of passion but of some grief, some shared loss, some unbearable weight of what cannot be undone and what looms in the weight of crowns upon your heads and a war of fire and blood upon the weeping horizon. 

There is some hesitancy that, if ever before, has grown between you; a soft caress of his neck with your quaking palm, a warm presence of his hand upon your hip, turning you towards his kiss. Your hands grasp without thought, without purpose – a search for life in a crumbling plane of ruin. 

Salt upon your tongue, your nose slides upon his own; a fragile solace, this connection is. 

But the haze of such vulnerable intimacy is dissolved in a breath: Jacaerys stills completely, and his warmth is gone from you in the very next moment. 

“Jace,” You murmur as he shakes his head gently; a wet gaze between you, though you’re unsure whose it is. Perhaps both. “No,” His voice is strained in that quiet, pained way you recall – from early days finally released from your cell below the castle, from nights when the agony persisted in heated glares and serpent tongues.

He does not look at you before he rises, movements slow, deliberate – and you take the moment to gather your own mind, to swallow down the rush of surrealism that has fallen into lead upon your stomach. Seven stony faces watch you as you rise beside your betrothed at the altar, a slump in your shoulders that mirrors his own. 

“I shouldn’t have,” He admits, shaking his head as his hand tentatively grasps your own; his palm is moistened with the tremble of regret, and you swallow down whatever stab of guilt rushes up your throat. A squeeze in return; a flush of embarrassment upon your cheeks as the remnants of his lips linger upon your own in some dizzying breath. 

You shake your head as you brush nonexistent dust from your nightdress. “I shouldn’t have, I-” 

“Please,” He murmurs; a plea, true and genuine – and he tugs your hand just so. “I am sorry.” 

It is surprising to see such earnesty from him, though his words bring about a warmth to your chest. It goes unspoken, as so often things between you do – now is not a time for such recklessness; and though Jacaerys might perhaps be a sole comfort while the world weeps, you know now is not the time to escape in such securities. 

Your nod is gentle, as is the kiss you deliver to his warm cheeks. They grow even more red in the absence of your lips. 

“It's alright,” You agree, clearing your throat at the sudden memory of his lips, plump and warm, against your own. 

Though with his words dissolves any distraction you’ve sought in the previous moments: “There is something else,” He explains, “I come with word from the Queen and Daemon.” 

Despite his hand in yours, dread welcomes you once more into its embrace. 

“They’ve found her?” You wonder; and there once more crashes a bout of anxiety into your ribs. His eyes swim – pity, perhaps, hiding in the folds of gold, of reverence, of verity. 

He nods only slightly, eyes searching between your own.

“Yes.” 

A breath catches in your throat – some odd angst of mourning for your adversary, then; to the girl she perhaps was before your grandsire wrapped his talons tight around her. Jacaerys lifts his hand, and soon your hair is brushed behind your shoulder. 

“You do not need to go.” He promises, “I can have the dragons readied, or tea sent to the library. Or I could have a bath drawn–” 

Kind suggestions; though you shake your head sharply, glancing to the Father and then meeting Jace’s stare. “No,” You protest, hand dropping his own to gather yourself. “But will you–” A cleared throat, biting your lip at the pain that echoes through the empty caverns of your chest. The words do not come commonly; an odd thought, some secret in front of the gods - and so you whisper in that tongue you both share. “Kessa ao māzigon lēda nyke?” 

Will you come with me?

His lashes tangle in a slow blink, though he acquiesces immediately to your request. “Of course. Hēnkirī.” 

Together. Your swallow is thick, and the pit of your stomach eats at you. It is a slow march to prepare your leave; the beating of a heart not your own, faced upon the gates of some shadowy fate – but the hand in yours warm and guiding, and his voice is slow and quiet. 

Bells ring in the near distance, and in their warbled way, they sound of wedding bells. Some part of you blossoms reborn, a bud at the first breath of spring after years of winter; Jacaerys sends you a smile, and it is soon mirrored upon your own visage.

Fate is a peculiar thing, yes - but you are relieved that Jacaerys is the name of yours.  

And even when you and your betrothed pull up each other's hoods in preparation for the rainfall, you do not realize that you’ve just risen from below the watching shadow of the Stranger. You do not realize that the shrouded figure has watched over your every prayer; and when you turn, you do not notice as its shadow follows the train of your dress. 

You do not notice the snuff of the two candles, blown in the wake of your leave - and you do not feel as the Stranger watches you leave the Sept, arm in arm with Jacaerys. 

taglist; it has been so long, pls message me to remain on the taglist otherwise you will be removed to avoid unwanted tags: @annedub @feyres-fireheart @reyndaisy @glennussy @ladyofvelaryon @paasrin @kookjipao @miksde @falcvns @still-jon-snow @kitdjarin1 @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @chloe-petrichors @jottositto @uhnanix @knight-of-flowerss @lenadoerrer @saccharineseas @greenvita @honk4emoboyz @uniquelyabnormallyoriginal @darylspersonalwhore @taestrwbrry @withjinkoo @realporcelainkat @burningwitchobject @meowmeowmauve @bigolidioot @eleana-aerrin @miraakswhore @kenna-the-cosmic @softspiderling (hi elle i love u) @fluorescentadolescent1 @withlovenessie

[hopesworlld]

౨ৎ the first temptation ( one )

౨ৎ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 — one kiss is all it takes to set alight a fire that could scorch even the strongest of dragon riders.

౨ৎ stream a little death by the neighbourhood !

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — kissing, targcest, dry humping, grinding, corruption kink?

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prince jacaerys had always prided himself for many things. his skills with a sword, his loyalty to his mother, his determination. and yet there was one thing that always seemed to shatter through every vow he had ever made.

princess daenys, his only sister, and sweetest light of the targaryen dynasty. she was sunshine souled, completely and utterly targaryen in every way, with her long silvery curls that fell past her waist, her lilac eyes, and her pale moonwashed skin. she was proclaimed by all as the realms' gift. a present from the god’s who treated the small folk with a light and love that left everyone infatuated beneath her kind touch and silver words.

but she penetrated jace’s every thought, he found himself longing for the feel of her lips, of her hands upon his body, running along the lines of his chest, threading along the base of his neck and tugging at his dark curls.

they had shared many secret kisses, the first beneath a falling sun, the sky stained orange and gold on daenys’ name day. she had just turned four and ten, while jace was just passed six and ten, dae had captured him upon the bay at the front of the castle. pretty pink lips stained crimson and eyes blurry, she had pulled him in and placed a delicate kiss to his lips before giggling like a child.

“i wanted you to be my first,” the girl confessed with a giddy smile, sinking into his arms, allowing the young prince to sweep her from her feet and deposit her to her chambers.

“you should not drink so much, sweet sister,” jace scolded lightly, tucking the girl beneath her sheets but daenys only smiled teasingly, running her tongue along her bottom lip.

“i would drink gallons of wine if it meant i could kiss you again,” she sang and jace could only smile fondly, pressing a kiss for a forehead before leaving the room and allowing his sister to sleep off the wine.

their second kiss had been much sweeter, unsullied by the taste of grapes, instead the two had been training, jace’s arm slung around daeny’s throat, holding her tightly until she gasped for air and tapped his arm three times.

“you cannot best me,” jacaerys boosted proudly, but his eyes were drawn to his sister's parted lips, heavy breaths falling from them as she clutched at her chest. fingers running across the creamy skin of her breasts as she tried to suck the air back into her lungs.

“fine,” dae sighed in disappointment, “i will not break our deal, i promised you something if you were to best me, brother. what is it you desire?” the words were innocent, a simple play on the deal that they had made, if jace were to win daenys would have to do whatever he requested. she thought he would have her steal one of daemon’s daggers, or run naked along the beach, but instead jace drew her in, so close that she could see the flickers of gold in his deep brown eyes.

“you,” jace said slowly, eyes falling back to the girl's lips, “i desire a kiss from you princess, will you grant that?” he asked, watching as dae sucked in a deep breath before reaching up, cupping jace’s cheek and leaning in, pressing her pretty lips to his.

it was hardly a kiss, a delicate brush of skin on skin before she was pulling back. but jace slung his arms around her hips, drawing her in and kissing her again. kissing her like the sky was falling and she was his solace. daenys gasped against him, fingers slipping to his shoulders, clinging to him as she tried to match his pace.

“brother,” she whispered sheepishly, “is this really what you desire?” she asked him, lips still on his.

“it is all i desire,” jace answered. they kissed until their lips were dry and raw, and the air in their lungs could hardly stand to be deprived much longer.

their last was a tryst of passion, a heated argument, cruel words had been hissed, things thrown and then suddenly they were kissing. daenys’ body pressed against the wall of jacaerys’ chamber, hands tugging harshly at his silky curls, while jace held a bruising grip on the princesses hips.

“you are such a brat sometimes,” jace groaned, slipping his tongue along the seam of daenys’ lips, she parted her lips, shuddering slightly in his hold. he kissed like a man starved, desperate for the taste of her lips, of her tongue.

“you are a fool,” daenys replied, pressing her flush against him.

“a fool?” jace asked, pulling back and trailing kisses down the side of dae’s neck, suckling lightly on her pulse point and making her wine, “a fool for letting you give into your selfish desires, princess,” he said, slowly slipping one of his hands from her hips and instead trailing them over her clothes breasts, daenys gasped, bucking her hips against jace.

“you want this as much as i,” she argued, dragging jace back to her lips, kissing him hotly.

“what i want from you, sweet sister, i cannot have,” jace said, drawing back and looking at her with large blown pupils, “i will not disgrace you in the name of desire,”

“you wish too…” daenys trailed off. the life of a princess was a shielded one, but even now, with her mother sitting upon the iron throne, daenys knew that her greatest asset was her maidenhood. without it she would be disgraced, unwanted by any man who saw himself better, even if he had lost his own long ago. but she longed for jace, longed for him in ways she couldn’t even find the words to describe. a sort of primal urge within her body that called for him.

“dae,” jace whispered, suddenly softer, cupping the girl's cheeks and bringing her gaze to his.

“kiss me,” daenys pleaded, “kiss me until i am sick of it,” she pulled jace back in and he fell against her willingly, “i cannot bare the thought of you not,”

“spoiled girl,” jace said, running his thumb along her swollen lips, “do you even know what it is you ask of me? what you make me feel?” he questioned, pinching her bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger.

“i think i do, for you make me feel things, things i have never felt before,” dae confessed, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. “i wish for you to touch me, to stop the ache between my legs that only blooms when your lips are on mine,” her words drew a sharp groan from jace’s lips, head falling back and revealing his slender throat.

“fuck,” he hissed, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” daenys had never head such profanities fall from his mouth, but then he was wrenching her from the wall and tugging her to his bed, pushing the princess down before descending atop of her. he slipped between her thighs with a poise of elegance, pressing his leg upon daenys’ aching core and pressing until the princess gasped. dressed only in her nightgown she could feel the toned muscles of her brother's thigh pressed to her weeping cunt.

“jace!” the girl cried out, head falling back as jace began to rut against her, it was sloppy, weak thrusts as he ground his cock against the girl's pelvis. aching for relief but trapped beneath a layer of fabric.

“i’ll give you what you wish for, sweet girl,” jace said, tugging down her nightgown and revealing the supple skin of her breasts to the cold air. daenyrs’ whined when the prince grasped her tits in his large hands and squeezed, rolling her nipples between his fingers as her hips rose frantically to meet the stimulation of his leg against her. “it is not deflowering you if i do not enter you,” he reasoned, though he seemed to be telling himself that as he brought his lips back to hers.

the kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue, spit staining their chins as they gasped and moaned, lost in the feeling of the other's body against theirs, chasing the relief that was coming.

“jace… i feel,” daenys let out a loud moan as jace began to press himself harder upon the girl, his cock throbbing as he felt himself drawing in.

“it’s okay, sweet girl, let go for me,” jace prompted, sweat slicked forehead pressing atop her own as dae let out a strangled moan, coming for the first time all over the princess clothed thigh. jace was not far behind her, rutting against her hip a few more times before he himself spilled in his trousers with a heavy gasp.

“that was…” daenys struggled to say was jace rolled and lay beside her. “can we do it again sometime?” she asked sweetly and jacaerys laughed loudly, drawing her in for another kiss.

“there are many things we can do, sweet sister,” he promised, already feeling his cock swelling in his breaches.

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౨ৎ hope talks — this was so boring tbh, dw the next chapters will get far more exciting i just wanted to show how it all began 🤭

[starmocha]

Bride of the Dragon King :: Prelude

[Sylus/Reader ★ 465 words  ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Tonight, the wine tasted so sweet. A/N: I yapped on my tumblr about how I wanted a dragon!Sylus AU…so I willed it into existence. 😊 This is the prelude to a technically 3-part story. The main story will be a 20K+ word one-shot, so I feel justified in a shorter intro. I am still finalizing the main story, so I want to give people time to read the prelude first. While the prelude is SFW, the main story and epilogue will contain explicit adult themes, so it's best for MDNI. Influenced to varying degree by the Vietnamese origin myth, Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ, and the C-drama, Miss the Dragon…and probably a whole slew of other period C-dramas I watched in the past. Recommended Playlist Love and Deepspace - Wander In Wonder Shuang Sheng - 流转莹回 ☆ I can do a tag list for the main story once it's up. Just let me know in the replies, and I'll keep a list handy. ☆

Distantly, in the Celestial Realm where the immortals resided, the vast kingdom of the Dragon King was shrouded in nighttime for all of eternity, stuck within an eternal spring. Pink petals from the ever-blooming flowers of the magnolia trees were carried away in the warm breeze across the palace courtyard.

Sylus, the Dragon King, lazed under a grand magnolia tree with red blossoms overlooking a large koi pond, his solemn gaze lingering on the reflection of the full moon in the still water. He poured wine from a crimson porcelain bottle into the matching cup, and he took a swig of his drink, sighing.

The moon is lovely tonight… he thought, The wine tastes so sweet…

Red magnolia blossoms drifted down from the tree, landing in the water and startling the fish beneath, the immediate ripples distorted the reflection of the moon. Sylus kept his own crimson eyes on the floating flowers.

Little Snake, this is not much, but you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you would like!

He huffed in amusement, eyes drifting to a different flower.

You are so shameless. How can you ask a maiden to bathe with you?

He poured another drink, chuckling, but there was little joy in his laughter.

You are not allowed to get hurt! …Promise me you won’t get hurt again...

His cup lingered at his lips momentarily, a look of guilt flashed across his features before he tossed the drink back, sighing heavily.

Sylus…I don’t want you to leave…

He leaned back against the tree, eyes wandering to the moon. On the ground next to him was a necklace, its pendant pure gold with a jade border. Engraved on one side was the image of a dragon with wisps of cloud beneath it. When Sylus picked it up, his fingers caressed the other side, tracing the characters that formed the word, “Beloved.”

Another flower drifted into the pond, spinning slowly before it floated away.

…Who are you?

He closed his eyes, his hand tightening into a fist around the pendant as he made his decision.

He was going to rewrite their story. The red thread that tethered them together was going to unravel and lead her back to him.

All of it was going to be undone, and a new ending was going to replace all of the tragedies that were and were to be.

For her…

Heaven and Hell were going to bend to his will, he vowed.

For us…

As Sylus finished the wine, a white mist enveloped him, swirling before scattering and leaving nothing in its place beneath this red magnolia tree. In the night sky, among the millions of stars, a white dragon flew away, his scales shimmered in the moonlight before he disappeared into the horizon.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

Hellooo, could you write the reactions of G-Dragon, T.O.P, and Daesung when seeing the reader in her wedding dress for the first time by accident before the wedding?

🤍Here comes the bride 🤍

Character: Gdragon, Daesung, T.O.P

summary: Above✨️✨️

Warnings: None

Gdragon

Jiyong wasn’t supposed to be here.

The hallway outside the bridal suite was strictly off-limits, and he knew it. His manager had specifically told him—warned him—not to wander.

But he was looking for water. That’s it. Just water.

He didn’t mean to hear your voice—soft, laughing, talking to your maid of honor through the cracked-open door. He didn’t mean to glance that way, or to pause, or to see you.

But he did.

And the world stopped.

You were standing in front of a full-length mirror, bathed in golden afternoon light. Your dress flowed like silk water around you, delicate lace lining your shoulders, the fabric catching every sunbeam like it was stitched from stars. Your hair was half-up, pinned with the tiniest white pearls.

You looked—

He blinked.

You looked like a miracle.

Your eyes met his in the mirror before he had a chance to duck away.

“…Jiyong?”

His heart dropped. “Ah—wait—I wasn’t—”

You turned around slowly, the hem of your dress whispering across the wooden floor.

“You weren’t supposed to see me yet,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said, voice cracking like a teenager. He half-shielded his eyes with his hand. “God, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to! I swear I just—I heard you laugh and I looked and—”

“Ji.”

He froze.

You were smiling.

Soft and beautiful and just a little shy, but not upset.

His hand lowered, just enough to peek at you again—and then stayed right there, fingers hovering at his chin like you might vanish if he looked too hard.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, voice almost a whisper.

You shook your head. “Are you?”

“Me?”

He laughed, half-nervously.

“No. No, I’m…” He looked at you fully then, eyes drinking you in like it was the first and last time. “I’m terrified. But in a good way.”

You stepped closer. “Terrified?”

He pressed a palm to his chest. “I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did. And then I saw you like this and—” He broke off, breath catching. “I swear my heart just gave up. It was like, ‘That’s it. I’m done. She wins.’”

You laughed—this soft, glimmering sound that sent goosebumps down his arms.

“You look like…” He shook his head again, eyes wide. “Like everything I ever prayed for when I didn’t even know what I needed.”

The room was silent. You took his hands gently, your fingers threading through his, silk and skin and love wrapped tight.

“I think we already won,” you whispered.

Jiyong closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were glassy.

“Come here.”

You stepped into his arms without hesitation. The hug was soft and fierce all at once—his chin rested on your head, your cheek pressed against his chest, both of you swaying slightly in the stillness.

“Do you think it’s really bad luck?” you murmured.

He shook his head.

“No. If anything…” He pulled back just slightly to look into your eyes. “If this is what bad luck feels like, I don’t ever want to be lucky again.”

You kissed him. Brief, tender, enough to set his soul alight.

A throat cleared behind you. Your maid of honor stood in the doorway, clearly torn between scolding you and melting from how sweet it was.

“Okay, lovebirds. Back to your corners. You’ve got twenty minutes before vows, and I’m not letting this wedding start late because of a smitten groom.”

You both laughed—unwillingly separating, but your fingers lingered in his until the very last second.

As Jiyong backed toward the door, he grinned.

“I’ll be at the altar,” he said, voice warm and steady now. “Try not to outshine the sun when you walk in.”

You winked.

“No promises.”

Daesung

Daesung wasn’t trying to sneak.

He swore, on every fiber of his being, he wasn’t that kind of guy.

He was just… lost.

Really, who designed this venue with two nearly identical hallways, three sets of double doors, and zero signs?

All he wanted was to find the makeup artist for a quick under-eye touch-up before the ceremony. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes.

Because instead of makeup chairs or a bored intern with concealer, Daesung opens a door and walks straight into his own personal rom-com moment of doom.

There you are. In your wedding dress. Spinning a little in front of the mirror like you're in a fairytale.

And Daesung?

Daesung forgets how to breathe.

You don't notice him at first—too lost in the dreamy music playing from your phone, too busy adjusting the neckline and smiling at your reflection. The dress hugs you perfectly, light and lace and everything he never deserved but somehow still has.

And when you finally turn around—

"DAESUNG?!"

He freezes like a man caught stealing a sacred treasure. "I-I didn’t mean to! I swear! I took a wrong turn and then—bam! Dress!”

You groan, covering your face with both hands. "You weren’t supposed to see me yet!"

"I know, I know! Bad luck before the wedding—seven years of wardrobe malfunction or something!"

"That’s mirrors, babe."

"Okay, but still—!"

You step toward him, still half-laughing and half-exasperated. "Close the door. You’re letting the good luck out."

He shuts it behind him, sheepish. “Should I go? I feel like I’m ruining something sacred.”

You shrug, your voice softening. “Well… you already saw me. Might as well help me zip this up.”

His eyes widen. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not.”

“It feels like a trap.”

You smile. “Daesung.”

He walks over, careful not to step on the train, and gently zips up the delicate back of your gown. He tries not to look in the mirror again—tries to give you space, preserve the magic.

But you catch him.

“You looked again.”

“I couldn’t help it.” His voice is suddenly low, reverent. “You look… like everything I’ve ever prayed for. And then some.”

You blink back sudden tears. “Even if I brought the bad luck?”

Daesung pulls you gently toward him, careful of your veil and all the pins still in your hair. “If seeing you in this dress is bad luck, I hope it curses me for life.”

You laugh, burying your face in his chest for a moment.

From outside, someone knocks.

"Y/N? We’re almost ready! Don’t let Daesung near the suite—"

You pull away slowly. Daesung grins. “Should I climb out the window?”

You squint at the tiny opening above the vanity. “You’d get stuck.”

“Worth it.”

You sigh, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “Okay. Go. Act surprised later.”

He points two fingers at his eyes and then at you. “These eyes? Filled with tears. Every single one fake.”

You shoo him out with a laugh, heart hammering with love and nerves.

And when you walk down that aisle an hour later, veil trailing behind, Daesung’s jaw drops—again.

You both know it’s not really surprise this time.

It’s awe. It’s love. It’s the kind of forever that doesn’t care about luck, or timing, or tradition.

Only you.

T.o.p

The hallway is quiet.

Too quiet for a wedding venue buzzing with florists, coordinators, and relatives. Choi Seung-hyun tugs at the collar of his tux, his nerves humming louder than the string quartet echoing from the main hall.

He hadn’t meant to leave the groom’s room. He just needed a breath. A moment.

And okay—maybe he wanted to sneak a peek at the reception setup. Just one. Just to make sure the wine glasses weren’t crooked and that the napkins matched the invitation font (you’d rolled your eyes when he mentioned that yesterday, laughing softly, “You’re worse than me.”)

But somewhere between the champagne tower and the fire exit, he takes a wrong turn.

And finds you.

You're alone in a side room, back to the door, lit by soft light filtering through a dusty stained-glass window. The wedding dress hugs your figure like a secret, and the train flows behind you like a quiet exhale. You're adjusting your veil, talking to yourself gently under your breath.

He doesn’t mean to stare.

He doesn’t even mean to breathe.

But time stills.

His world shrinks down to the sound of your voice, the way your shoulders lift with each inhale, and the way his heart absolutely breaks with how beautiful you look.

“Babe?”

You freeze, turning around slowly.

Both of you gasp.

“Seung-hyun!” you whisper in horror, hands flying to your face. “No! You’re not supposed to see me yet—!”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” he stammers, eyes wide, already backing up a step. “I swear, I took a wrong turn. This wasn’t—”

“Turn around!” you squeak, waving your arms as if to physically shoo the sight from his memory. “Do a memory wipe! Close your eyes—!”

But he doesn’t.

He stays rooted in the doorway, silent now, drinking you in.

And then softly, almost like a prayer: “You look like art.”

You pause.

“What?”

He steps forward, slowly. His tux shoes make no sound against the rug, but his presence floods the room like a warm tide.

“You look like something I’d frame and never sell,” he murmurs, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “I know I’m not supposed to see you yet, and I’ll take the bad luck if it means I got this moment.”

“…You’re such a sap,” you whisper, but your voice is shaking. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

He reaches for your hand, careful not to touch the veil or the dress.

“I got nervous,” he admits. “Not in a bad way. I just… started thinking, this is really happening. And I needed a second. And somehow, I found you.”

You stare at him, heart clenching.

You want to scold him. You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Instead, you whisper, “What do we do now?”

And he smiles, full and real. “We forget this happened. You go back to hiding. I go back to pretending I didn’t just see the most breathtaking woman of my entire life. Then we get married. Like we planned.”

You nod slowly.

Then you tug him down by the collar and press your forehead to his.

“...You’re not off the hook. That’s still bad luck.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his breath.

And whisper, “Then meet me at the altar in twenty minutes, Choi Seung-hyun.”

His voice is a vow before the vow: “Always.”

[the-fiction-witch]

Little One

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Daemon Targaryen Couple - Daemon X Reader Reader - Y/n (Brothel Worker) Rating - 18 + brothel / sex work / nudity / blow jobs / full sex / fingering /pinv /cinv Word Count - 1235

Daemon sat in a pleasure house down the street of Silk. He was frustrated and wanted to engage in some depravities. But his usual whore wasn't here so he had to settle for a new girl. The master of the house stood offering some of his best girls for the prince.

“No.” Daemon barked girl after girl only taking breaks to sip his wine,

That was until… Y/n, she swore a long white dress with lacing down the front, the ties well worn,

She walked in and bowed to the prince playing with her hair,

"What do you think of this one, my prince?" The master asked,

“Ah, she's... intriguing,” Daemon says with a sly smile, his eyes locked onto Y/n's body. He raises an eyebrow, intrigued by the subtle hints of wear on her dress. “Tell me, little one,” he says, his voice low and husky, “what's your name?”

"Y/n, my prince," she cooed,

"She's very beautiful, never had a single complaint, very submissive, she always obeys" the master said,

“Beautiful, yes,” Daemon says, his eyes still fixed on Y/n's curves.“Come here, little one,” he says, beckoning her closer.

she nodded and stepped over to the bed and stood between his legs,

“Good girl,” Daemon purrs, running his fingers along the hem of her dress. “You're eager, aren't you?” He glances up at her face, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I like that.” With a gentle tug, he pulls her closer, his hands slipping under the fabric of her dress to cup her hips. “So soft,” he whispers, his breath hot against her skin. “You feel like silk, little one.” His thumbs dance across her hipbones, sending shivers down her spine. “Take off your dress,” Daemon orders, his voice firm but husky. “I want to see you, Y/n.”

The master of the house steps forward, a hint of a smile on his face. “Don't worry, my prince,” he says. “She's -.”

“I want to see for myself.” Daemon demanded, “Go on little one.”

Y/n hesitates for a moment before slowly beginning to untie the laces of her dress.

Daemon watched her with a growing smile,

Once it was unlaced she pushed it to the floor revealing her naked body, her breasts bounce a little as the dress is removed, and her cunt glistens from the excitement of the moment,

"A beauty is she not my prince?" The master cooed,

“Indeed she is,” Daemon agrees, his eyes drinking at the sight of Y/n's naked body. His hand slips between her legs, parting them slightly, his hand moving up to rub his thumb against her clit burying three fingers inside her,

She gasped throwing back her head with a little hint of a moan as he began to thrust his fingers at a merciless pace,

Daemon chuckled smugly at her, “Show me,” he whispers, his voice low and urgent. “Show me what you've learned here.”

She nods and she moves away slightly dropping to her knees, she unlaced his britches pulling out his half-hard cock, she took him in her hand and began lapping her tounge against him and gently suckling his head,

“Mmm,” Daemon moans, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, He feels himself growing harder, lengthening in her mouth as she sucks and laps at him. Her lips were warm and wet, and Daemon can feel the vibrations of her humming through every cell of his body. He threads his fingers through her hair, holding her head in place as he begins to thrust gently into her mouth. “Yes, like that,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Y/n's hands come up to grip his thighs, holding onto him as he fucks her mouth with slow, deliberate strokes.

“She will go just fine, now fuck off!” Daemon growled,

"enjoy her my prince, anything you need simply toll the bell" The master nodded leaving them alone together

Daemon's eyes never leave Y/n's face as he watches her work over his cock, He can feel the tension building inside him, his balls drawing up tight as he approaches the edge. But he wants to savor this, to enjoy every last second of it. So he slows down, letting Y/n set the pace as she continues to lick and suck at him. “Ohh your good little one, your very good,” Daemon finds himself getting lost in the sensation of her mouth on him. He starts to hum, a low vibration that builds in intensity as Y/n picks up speed. Daemon's hands tighten in her hair, his fingers digging deeper into her scalp as he starts to lose control… Suddenly, he freezes, his entire body tensing up as he holds perfectly still.

Y/n looks up at him, confusion etched on her face, but Daemon doesn't give her a chance to react.

With a swift motion, he spins her around, slamming her down onto the bed, Their mouths crash together in a fierce kiss as Daemon's cock surges forward, burying itself deep within Y/n's waiting pussy.

she moans in shock and surprise as he thrusts so suddenly, but she arched her hips up for him giving him the perfect angle

Daemon's eyes flash open, his pupils dilating as he buries himself deeper inside Y/n's slick warmth. He can feel her muscles contracting around him, milking him for more as he pounds into her with increasing ferocity.

Y/n's moans grow louder, as she wraps her legs around Daemon's waist, holding him tight. Her nails dig into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks as she clings to him for support. The bed creaks and groans beneath their combined weight, the sound echoing through the room as they move in perfect syncopation.

Daemon's chest heaves with exertion, his sweat-drenched hair clinging to his forehead as he drives himself deeper and deeper into Y/n's willing body.

“I'm going to make you scream,” Daemon growls, his voice low and menacing as he increases the tempo of his thrusts.

Y/n's eyes fly wide, her mouth opening in a silent scream as Daemon's cock pistons in and out of her, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her entire body. Her nails rake across his back, leaving bloody scratches as she tries to cling to him for dear life.

But Daemon doesn't care - he's too far gone, consumed by his own desire. He leans forward, his teeth bared as he bites down on Y/n's shoulder, marking her as his own. The pain mixes with the pleasure, creating a maelstrom of sensations that threaten to consume them both whole. And then, in an instant, it's over.

Daemon freezes, his cock buried deep within Y/n's trembling body as he comes with a roar, spilling his seed into her waiting womb.

she cooed softly stroking the muscles on his hips helping him to milk his orgasm and ride it out with her gentle hip shifts "Are you pleased my prince?"

Daemon's chest heaves with exhaustion as he slowly comes back to reality, his vision blurring at the edges. He looks down at Y/n, his eyes locking onto hers, “Yes,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper as he slowly pulls out, “Fuck,” He collapses down on the bed, “...what- what was your name again?”

“Y/n” she smiled,

“Y/n…” he nodded wiping the sweat from his brow, “Fuck… I am going to be seeing you again.” He growled pulling her into his arms and nibbling her neck, “Would you like that little one?”

“I very much would my prince,”

“Good girl,” He cooed pulling her into a sweet but still passionate kiss, 

[thebadboyfanclub]

Together As One (Daemon x Reader)

So this is more a twisted love type of hype, I hope you guys like the way I portrayed this request cause I wanted to give it more of a dark edge since Daemon is definitely a gray character. Hope you enjoy!

Mothers love their children, everyone could agree upon the unconditional love mothers held for their kind with no doubt in their hearts, songs, poems, plays, and any type of art one can think of have attempted to portray such devotion. None, however, could predict that some mothers have a certain type of fear for their child, like some whisper in the back of their heads warning them about the little glimpse in their eyes that was not like the stars but more of a scorching fire threading to burn everything.

That was the exact feeling Rhaenys had for her beloved daughter, the twin sister of Laenor, it would often baffle her how her husband could not see what was clearly there, (y/n) was always in competition with everyone about everything, the finest clothes belonged to her, she had to ride a dragon first, learn Valyrian faster.

Whilst Rhaenys prayed for her daughter's thirst to settle, the others praised her for her bravery, her determination, and her intellect, something that made (y/n) yearn for more.

“I would like to raise a toast to my dear brother, a married man to our future queen, may your wedlock be blessed with numerous children and a road paved with nothing but joy and success, Prince Daemon, hopefully you are next”

(Y/n) stood with a smile of triumph dancing on her lips before she raised her cup to gently take a sip, as she sat down Daemon's eyes followed her, he was well aware of her game, though he seemed unfazed and almost amused by her comment the truth laid somewhere deeper than the surface, not a single soul in this room would have been able to guess that the delighted twin of now future king consort was playing a game of cat and mouse with none other than prince daemon behind closed doors.

(Y/n) had been relentless in her ways to seduce Daemon, sneaking out at all hours of the night, sending people after him so she could know his whereabouts just so she could magically appear, the combination of sweet wine and her alluring voice was enough for Daemon to stumble and fall right on top of her, taking her for a ride to the addictive roads of lust.

She was stunning, flawless, a true Targaryen that screamed opulence and elegance with a face sculpted by the gods, the common folk would gush over the “oceans Angel” a nickname given by the realm for her angelic features, how would they know how dark her mind could get in order to make everyone yield before her?

-

“Mother”

“Dearest, how are you on this fine morrow?”

“I am well, the little one finally decided to let me get some rest”

“When I was pregnant with you I remember thinking you would kick your way out of my belly, the Apple does not fall far from the tree”

(Y/n)s daughter, Leora, leaned as much as she could to kiss her mother's cheek before she sat down next to her to break her fast, queen Alicent had already taken her seat along with her daughter Heleana and (y/n)s other son Elion, Alicent and (y/n) enjoyed each others presence, a mutual bond based on respect had been build over the years that was sealed by marrying Leora with Aegon and Elion with Heleana.

“The maester said you should drink more orange juice, it will help with the fatigue”

“As well as eat more meat, pregnancy is no easy task, you must be as strong as ever”

Alicent chimed, the birth of her second grandchild was one of the most important events, Alicent adored her first grandchild, beautiful Hael, a strong boy who was just now starting to learn how to walk, still, he had everyone wrapped around his finger.

“I appreciate your concerns but I am fine, healthy as a horse”

“It wouldn’t hurt, let us not risk it dearest”

“I thought once I get older I wouldn’t have to listen to my mother”

“Well I am sorry but that will never happen, drink”

(Y/n) had stepped up and appeared as the perfect mother, loving, kind, and caring, she did love her children, however, what she loved most was the things they could do for her, her firstborn daughter was now the wife of the king first born son, and her son was a strong, skill full knight that served the realm and came back in triumph, how could she not adore her perfect creations?

“How is the king?”

“I am afraid his health is decreasing, the maesters advise him to remain abed for the day”

“Rhaenyra will be questioned, he won’t sit this one out I am afraid”

“Ugh the precious Rhaenyra, I wish I could stay in my chambers until those god-forsaken days pass”

(Y/n)s smile was wiped from her face and in an instant it was replaced with an angry scowl, in a split second her hand had grasped her daughter, Leoras' eyes went wide with fear when they met the angry hues of her mothers.

“You mustn’t speak in such a way, I’ve taught you better”

Leora only nodded frantically, (y/n) had her own opinions over Rhaenyra, she however, knew better than to voice them, not even in such a secluded area of the palace, (y/n)s hold turned from forceful to a caress before she directed her eyes back to her friend and queen Alicent.

“Besides, the king will do as he wishes and if the gods bless him with the strength to stand he should be there, isn’t it right Alicent?”

“I couldn’t have phrased it better, my dear”

-

(Y/n) and Alicent were each other's shadows, one compelled the other and in the end one way or the other the result was one of their favor, (y/n) was disciplined and had mastered the act of a gracious and lovely princess, Alicent was strict and slipped under everyone’s nose as she cloaked herself with the act of a pious queen, the two of them had years up on the horse of being able to maneuver their way around the kingdom so the men would not suspect a damn thing.

Viserys had seemed to get worst which made him unable to attend even when Daemon and (y/n) went to his room to assist him, the king could not even sit up let alone walk, Daemon was disheartened, thankfully for him his dutiful and beautiful wife let him rest on her shoulder and like a soothing salve her encouraging words went over his wound of his beloved older brother nearing his end.

“My Love”

“(Y/n)? What- what has happened?”

“I apologize for waking you up my dear, it is your brother”

“Viserys? What about- no”

“My dear husband, you must be strong, I am so sorry”

(Y/n) grasped Daemon's hands tightly before she brought them up to her lips to kiss his knuckles, of course, she was one of the first to know, Alicent had rushed to her chamber and delivered the news herself, she had waited patiently as the king took his last breath, Alicent told no one, not even the maester, (y/n) had to know before anyone.

“Viserys”

Daemon had been taken over by his thoughts, they’ve always had their differences but at the end of the day, they shared the same mother and father, a bond that could never be broken, no matter how many times Daemon has run off he always ended up by Viserys side.

“My love, I understand that this is too much for you, however, we must prepare our daughter”

“What does Elora have to do with this?”

“She is to be queen, she needs her father”

“Queen? Have you gone mad?”

(Y/n) bit her bottom lip in combination with her head tilting to the side, as if nothing but a mere candle lit her face Daemon could still identify the features that he so adored but now he could not wrap his head around what was his wife suggesting.

“My lord husband, King Viserys has left us, it is only natural for his son to succeed him”

“It is expected for his firstborn, Rhaenyra, to do so, not Aegon”

“Where is the princess? But in a place where she could have visited if she wished, when has she even attempted to come and visit her beloved father who was in agony all these years? She only came when her privilege was at risk and then blamed Alicent who has served by the king's side for his illness”

“This is not a matter to discuss”

“But it is, the gods know I loved Viserys and he had been good to me, but let us not forget he killed his first wife in his desperate attempt for a male heir, he remarried and Alicent gave him an heir and a spare and still it was not good enough, he passed by you and his sons to bury his guilt by calling Rhaenyra the heir, it wasn’t because he trusted her or because he saw something in her, he passed the title on to her because he did not trust you and then because he wanted to wash the blood of queen Aemmas from his hands”

Silence fell upon them, (y/n) pulled away from her husband and headed towards the door, as his hand rested upon the handle she turned her head back to lord husband who was visibly shaken, (y/n) might appear disheartened but she could detect that her monologue had started to creep on to Daemons heart.

“I love you with all my heart, that is why I shall leave you to grieve, if you wish to run to her I will…. Understand, it is not like I ever doubted the unconditional love you have for the realm delight, now might be your chance to pursue it”

Her tone was drowning in sorrow leaving Daemon with an unwavering sense of guilt in a dark room as his wife had disappeared to place her hand over a war of fire and blood, (y/n) was correct, Daemon did love Rhaenyra, still, he did not place his flame for her over what he had built with his wife over the years.

(Y/n) walked away with a smile of triumph, she had done her part flawlessly and now she was certain that Daemon would be by her side before the crown was placed on Aegons head, however, she did not have time to waste, Alicent and (y/n) were the ones to wake the new king and queen, preparing them for what they had destined to be.

“You may enter”

“Prince Daemon is asking to see his daughter and wife, alone”

(Y/n) stopped brushing her daughter's head, carefully placing the golden brush down before she looked down at her daughter who nodded in approval.

“Let him in, do not allow anyone to disturb us”

“Right away”

The girl curtsied as quickly as possible before she disappeared only to be replaced by none other than Daemon. (Y/n) took a sharp inhale through her nose once he entered the room, preparing herself for a mental battle, surprisingly when her eyes scanned for his she was met with a certain lightness, an ease to him that caught her by a pleasant surprise.

Instinctively a small smile played on her lips, her Daemon was dressed in his black attire, leather suited him, and his hair was pulled away from his face the way she always told him to do it.

(Y/n) was not made of stone, she might play like she is though her heart skipped a beat every time she was near her lord husband, Daemon was one of the very few people that (y/n) would throw herself in the fire, even though their love felt like the flames licked her back, that sweet pain of admiration and devotion that the poets would sing and the common folk would go mad.

“My dearest loves”

Daemon declared, that their daughter rose from her chair and ran to her father, she was always the one known to succumb to emotions and this time (y/n) could not scold her over it, Leora was her father's daughter, (y/n) might not have spoken over the matter only to allow the young girl the solidarity of her feelings, inside Leora was always waiting for her father to walk through this door.

“You look beautiful, a perfect gown for the queen”

“Father I-“

“Before I handed you over to Aegon I made you a promise, do you remember it?”

“I will do anything to see you happy”

“I will put myself through war if you tell me that this is what you want, all you have to do is say it”

Daemon was no fool, he was certain that the second that crown graced his daughter's head a war would nip their heels, Rhaenyra would not go down without a fight and that meant that Daemon would have to face her in battle, a battle he was willing to put for his lovely Leora.

“I want to be queen, I want Aegon to be our king”

“Very well, I wish you a fruitful reign, may the Gods smile down upon you”

‘May the Gods have mercy on us’ he thought, with a smile he brushed away those dark thoughts only to place a kiss on his daughter's forehead, a small part of him screamed that this was the right thing, his brother never thought he was good enough, now his brother was on the ground and his daughter was crowned queen and would carry on the legacy of the Targaryen name.

“Go on now, I want to have a word with your mother”

“I will be waiting for you”

Leora informed them before she gave them the privacy Daemon desired. (Y/n) stood as still as a statue, her heart pounding on her chest as her throat grew dry and scratchy, she was the master of composure up until now, faced with the only person who could make her waver.

“My beautiful, sweet lady wife, you spoke harshly last night”

“I spoke nothing but the truth”

She threw back in a cold tone. Daemon only smirked as he started to approach her, she did not dare to move, (y/n) was comforted by his light-hearted manner though there was an underlying mischief, Daemon was playing something, and (y/n) was left trying to catch up before it is too late.

Daemon stood before her, his arm finding her forearms and giving them a gentle squeeze, his eyes gazing back at hers with a glimmer that (y/n) had grown to yearn for, she despised the fact that she had to manipulate him like this, she was left with no other choice but to do this, a side of hers cursed the day Rhaenyras and Daemons fates met, this would have been so much easier had (y/n) been the only women Daemon loved.

“You are so bright, I am almost disappointed that you didn’t foresee this”

“The war?”

“No, me, you think I have not caught wind of all the scheming against Rhaenyra? The upbringing of my daughter to become the wife of my brother's firstborn son, putting our son on the sea the minute he was born to have better knowledge of anything driftmark related to gain the favor of your father, every step you so amazingly calculated with Alicent so you can get our family here”

“You have gone mad”

“I saw behind the facade and that makes you nervous, I was there with you every step of the way you mustn’t be frightened, I let you do all this for only one reason”

“Alright, let us entertain this absurd claim of yours, what is the reason?”

“Because I love you”

(Y/n) mouth slightly parted in shock, Daemon had professed his love for her on multiple occasions but the weight on this one was different, he had pulled what she thought was the perfect cover, leaving her bare in front of him, uncovering her thirst that she had kept away from everyone.

“I love you so much that I will let my daughter become the target on Rhaenyras mind, I will go against the woman that you think threatens your position in my heart, I will put myself in the sword before I let her even get one strand of your hair because you and our daughter want this”

“And you don’t? You always held a grudge over the fact that Viserys never declared you as his heir”

“My brother is dead now and because of you our child wishes to be a queen, I picked you as my second wife because I saw your strength, your determination, you need to come on top, that is the Targaryen fire through and through”

“You truly mean all this?”

“You are my lady wife, you gave me a home, now it is time to show the realm that we are the rightful heirs of the throne, together as one”

(Y/n) reached daemons lips for a passionate kiss, his hands slid down to her waist and pulled her as close as humanly possible, sharing this moment meant everything to (y/n), she had him devotedly by her side, he saw her true nature and walked straight into her fire, surrendering in her and even shielding her and her family.

“Let us find out daughter, I want us to be the ones to place the crown on her head”

“I wouldn’t dare let anyone else have that honor”

Requests are open!

[black-dhalias]

hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol

can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !

I hope your day goes well <3

Until Dawn

Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader

The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.

Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.

You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.

“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”

“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.

“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”

You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”

The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”

“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”

You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.

“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”

You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”

He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.

As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight

You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.

When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.

“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”

They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.

You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.

“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.

You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”

“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.

Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.

“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”

You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.

“Don’t.”

His grin faded instantly.

“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.

“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.

“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”

A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”

You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.

“I know,” you said at last.

He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.

And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.

You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.

The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.

But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.

Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.

“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.

You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”

He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”

You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.

“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”

Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”

You paused again. Set the mug down.

“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.

You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”

Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.

“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”

That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”

“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”

A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.

Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”

You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.

“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”

“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.

You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”

And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.

“It always does.”

The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.

But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.

The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.

Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.

“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.

You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”

You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.

“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”

You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”

“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”

You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”

You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.

“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”

A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.

“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”

“I know.”

“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”

Silence wrapped the room again.

“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”

You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.

“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”

He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”

You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.

In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.

The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.

You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.

But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.

The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.

There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.

“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”

You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”

He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.

The warmth twisted.

Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.

Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”

You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.

You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.

Only silence answered you.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”

The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.

And yet...

There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.

And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.

The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.

You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.

As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:

“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”

You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.

The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.

Literally.

The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."

When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”

You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”

Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”

“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.

He was already watching you.

There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.

“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.

Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”

Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”

“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.

That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.

As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.

“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.

You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”

He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”

You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.

“Try to keep up, princeling.”

You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.

But this time, you didn’t face it alone.

The quiet had ended.

The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.

Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.

They were tombs.

Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.

Gimli had fallen silent long ago.

You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.

But none came.

And then you reached the Chamber of Records.

The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.

Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.

He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”

You froze.

Balin.

Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.

Your throat closed.

“He was the best of us,” you murmured.

Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”

Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.

“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”

He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”

You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.

“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”

A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.

“Thank you,” he said.

You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”

Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.

The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.

They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.

You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.

“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.

The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.

The drums of war pounded.

Dum. Dum. DUM.

You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.

And then came the heat.

A low rumble.

A deeper shadow.

The Balrog.

It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.

He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.

But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.

And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.

“You shall not pass!”

The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.

Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.

You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.

Resolve.

“Fly, you fools—!”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell.

And it screamed.

You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.

The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.

You stood apart from them.

Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.

He paused, his expression faltering.

You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.

“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”

Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.

“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”

He didn’t speak.

You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.

Balin, laughing over a campfire.

“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.

Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.

“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”

You had believed him then.

But now… now the fire only took.

You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.

Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.

The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.

The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.

The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.

Muted.

You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.

Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.

You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.

“Haldir,” you breathed.

The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.

“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”

You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.

“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.

“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”

There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.

With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.

Legolas watched from a few paces away.

He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.

You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.

Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.

“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.

“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”

Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”

You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”

There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.

“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”

“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”

You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.

“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”

He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.

You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”

And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.

•••

The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.

The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.

Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.

“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.

“No,” you replied simply.

“You’re meant to be with the others—”

“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”

“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”

“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”

He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.

“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”

You looked away, breath catching.

“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”

That gave you pause.

The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.

“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.

He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”

You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”

He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.

Still standing.

Still his.

The night deepened. The sky wept.

Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.

You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.

Then came the horns.

Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.

Hope.

The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.

Elves.

And at their head—Haldir.

You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.

He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.

You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.

“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”

“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”

A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.

He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.

Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.

He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”

You nodded. “There always is.”

“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”

You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”

Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”

Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.

He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.

Not because Haldir had it.

Because he used to.

The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.

And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.

The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.

But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.

The sun rose, but it did not warm you.

The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.

You stood where Haldir had fallen.

His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.

He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.

And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”

Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”

“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”

Legolas flinched as if struck.

“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.

You froze.

He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.

“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”

He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.

“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”

Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”

You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.

“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.

There were no promises. No healing words.

But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.

The final battle was chaos.

Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.

You had lost sight of Legolas.

Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.

You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.

Legolas.

He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.

A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.

You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.

There was silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.

You were shaking.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”

“But I didn’t.”

You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”

Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.

“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.

For once, it was not about loss.

It was about not letting go.

The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.

Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.

For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.

Just stillness.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.

And then he found you.

Legolas.

He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.

You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.

“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”

You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.

“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.

Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.

“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”

“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you *with me*.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.

No promises.

But something stronger.

A beginning.

[thy-golden-knight]

Knightly lifestyle ideas

• Carry yourself with confidence, keep your head high and your steps firm

• Always carry a pocket knife in case of emergencies

• Whenever you see a person struggling with heavy bags, especially women and the elderly, make haste to offer help

• If they refuse help, do not press further. Respecting boundaries is essential

• Decadent fur rugs in your bedchamber

• Become passionate about a sport of your choosing, be it a historical one or not

• Your home is your fortress, hence any good knight should be able to perform basic repairs to keep his castle running

• Forgo the plastic: drink your water, wine and other beverages out of goblets and glassware

• Be an example to your younger siblings on how to treat other people with respect, dignity and kindness

• Treat hardships in thy life as quests to complete and dragons to slay

• Attend self-defense classes. Learn to take down opponents twice your size

• A signet ring with your family's crest / other personal symbol

• If you have a dog, train it extensively to make it your guardian and a faithful companion

• Assemble a private library full of classical masterpieces and epic poetry

• Gather up your courage and intervene if you see someone getting bullied

• Lush bathrobe in rich burgundy / navy / emerald with a golden thread

• Volunteer to be the mediator in your siblings' quarrels

• Know your way around fine dining, whether it's uncorking a bottle of champagne or using the right fork and knife

• Learn how to play a musical instrument like flute or guitar

• Study different schools of thought, religions and cultures. You might find them not so different from yours

• And overall whenever you see an opportunity to do good, take it at once. Knight's ultimate purpose is to serve, be of service to others, be it friends and loved ones or complete strangers

Part 2 here

[happilyhertale]

A Dragon’s Respite – Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: It took a lot of persuasion and teasing to convince Daemon to spend an evening without distractions or work. But of course Daemon manages to add his personal touch to the evening.

Pairing: Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut, masturbation (w and m)

Author’s note:

English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.7 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The snow falls gently outside the wide glass windows, blanketing the world in a serene hush. The streets of King’s Landing—now an upscale urban sprawl rather than the medieval bastion it once was—twinkled with Christmas lights. Every building, tree, and street corner is adorned with shimmering bulbs and festive cheer. Inside the penthouse suite, Daemon sits on the plush leather sofa, his silver hair catching the soft glow of the fireplace.

You watch him with a mixture of amusement and affection as he swirls the mulled wine in his glass. He’d reluctantly agreed to this—your idea of a quiet, stress-free evening. No office calls, no high-stakes business deals, no planning his next move in the corporate battlefield that he dominated. Tonight, it is just the two of you.

“Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself,” you tease, sinking into the couch beside him.

Daemon smirks, his violet eyes—striking and sharp—narrowing at you. “It’s tolerable,” he replies, the faintest hint of a chuckle in his voice.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Tolerable? You’re sipping wine with me, surrounded by Christmas lights, and you’re warm for once. That’s more than tolerable.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But it’s not my usual kind of evening.”

“That’s the point,” you say, grinning. “You work too hard. Even dragons need to rest.”

Daemon chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that always sends a shiver through you. He leans back, draping an arm over the back of the couch. “You’re lucky I like you, or I wouldn’t tolerate being called a dragon.”

“You love being called a dragon.”

His grin widens, and you can‘t help but smile in return. You reach for your own glass of mulled wine, taking a generous sip. The spices dance on your tongue, warming you from the inside out. You sigh contentedly, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in your veins.

Daemon’s gaze lingers on you as you drink, his thoughts evidently wandering. The soft curve of your lips as you sip the wine seems to hold his attention longer than usual. He isn‘t the kind of man to relax easily, but tonight, something about the atmosphere—and you—has him loosening the iron grip he usually kept on himself.

“You’ve had more than me,” he observs, his voice low and teasing.

“It’s Christmas!” you declare, setting your glass down. “Or close enough. I’m allowed to indulge.”

Daemon raises a brow. “Indulge, huh?”

You nod emphatically, the alcohol giving you a playful confidence. “You should, too. Stop pretending you don’t like this.”

He leans closer, his face inches from yours, his smirk turning wicked. “Oh, I like it,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

The firelight dances in his eyes, and you suddenly feel the air between you shift. His hand, warm and steady, brushes against your thigh as he adjusts his position. You are acutely aware of how close he is now, how his scent—spiced cologne mixed with something inherently Daemon—wraps around you like a silken thread.

“You’re blushing,” he points out, his tone dripping with amusement.

“I’m not” you protest, though the warmth spreading across your cheeks betrays you.

Daemon’s smirk deepens. “Liar.”

You can‘t answer with words. In one fluid motion, he leans in and captured your lips with his.

The kiss is everything you’d expect from Daemon —intense, passionate, and completely consuming. His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he deepens the kiss.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he chuckles softly. “This,” he murmurs, “is why I agreed to your little evening. You always know how to make me forget everything else.”

You smile, your fingers trailing through his silver hair. “You deserve it,” you whisper. “Even dragons need someone to remind them they’re human sometimes.”

Daemon laughs, a rare, genuine sound that makes your chest swell with affection. “Careful,” he says, his voice laced with amusement. “You keep saying things like that, and I might actually start to enjoy Christmas.”

You grin, pulling him back into another kiss. “That’s the plan.”

His hand lingers on your thigh now, his thumb drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your skirt. His touch is light, teasing, but his gaze is anything but.

"You know," he begins, his voice smooth and low, "for all your talk about me being human, you seem to forget just how easily I can make you prove it."

You blink at him, your breath catching. "Prove it?"

He smirks, that dangerous, knowing smile that always makes you feel like you are walking into a trap—one you don‘t mind at all. “You like to think you’ve tamed me tonight, dragging me into this cozy little scene, mulled wine and Christmas lights. But I’m still me, love. A dragon doesn’t change its nature.”

His fingers trail just a fraction higher on your leg, enough to make you shiver. You try to mask your reaction, but his smirk told you he notices. “Daemon..,” you begin, trying to sound admonishing, but the way your voice wavers betrays you.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence, though the playful glint in his eyes says otherwise. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You said I’m only human. Don’t you think I deserve to feel like it tonight?”

You swallow hard, your heart racing as his words sink in. He isn‘t even trying to hide the teasing edge to his tone now. “And how do you propose I do that?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

Daemon chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “For starters,” he says, his fingers toying with the hem of your skirt, “you could take this off. It’s distracting.”

You shoot him a mock glare, though your cheeks were burning. “Distracting? You’re the one who can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

He grins, unabashed. “Can you blame me? You put so much effort into tormenting me with this little thing,” he says, flicking the edge of the skirt playfully. “It’s only fair I return the favor.”

His hand lingers, his touch still maddeningly light. He is watching you closely, clearly enjoying the effect he is having. You can feel the heat rising between you, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Daemon,” you say again, this time softer, more breathless.

He tilts his head, his expression softening just a fraction, though the wicked gleam in his eyes remains. “What?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. “You’re the one who wanted me to be human tonight. This is me, being very... human.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He has a way of turning every situation to his advantage, always one step ahead, always in control. And yet, there is something disarming about the way he looks at you now—like you are the only thing that matters in the entire world.

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

Daemon laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Oh, love,” he says, leaning in until his lips are a hair’s breadth from yours, “you have no idea how smooth I can be.”

You just stand up and start to slide down your skirt.

“Happy?” You ask, but before you can sit down again, Daemon's hand is on your hip.

“Not quite yet,” he says, and his finger slides under the waistband of your tights. He slowly begins to pull them down. You look at him, “That's not fair... why should I be the only one to take off all my clothes?“ you complain, but you do him the favor... after all, he is also spending an evening with you, without any distractions from work.

“Who says you're the only one?” Daemon suddenly says, and you look at him as you hear his belt open.

You smile slightly as he pulls down his trousers. When your tights are on the floor, you sit down next to him again, grinning. He sits there in his boxer shorts and a small bulge can already be seen.

“Someone is happy,“ you say teasingly and giggle as Daemon pulls you closer.

“Careful,” he grumbles as his lips meet yours. His hand slides up your thigh and he grabs your ass lightly as a gasp escapes your lips.

“Don't be shy, help yourself,” Daemon says teasingly.

He doesn't hesitate and lets his fingers glide over the already damp fabric of your panties.

“Mhm... someone is happy,“ he grumbles and you bite his lip lightly in response. Suddenly he pulls you closer to him. This sudden movement makes you gasp again, your hand slides to his thigh, gripping lightly to support yourself.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, but your desire wins out. Your hand slides to his crotch and he growls slightly as his hips twitch slightly. A sound of arousal escapes your lips too as Daemon pushes your panties aside and smears the wetness along your folds.

You grind against his fingers lightly and whimper as you cup his balls lightly through the fabric of his boxers. He growls again and you feel his cock twitch. Slowly, you let go of his balls and slide your fingers up his length while his fingers lightly circle your clit, making you whimper.

Your hand pulls down his boxers and his length springs free. You bite your lip slightly and feel your pussy clench around nothing at the thought of what awaits you. But at that moment, Daemon pushes his fingers inside you and you moan out. Immediately, he feels your walls clench around his fingers.

“You like that, don't you?“ he grumbles, but only a whimper escapes your lips. Yet your fingers grasp his length, pumping him gently. He stutters out a shaky breath, a groan choking in his throat as he desperately tries to regain his composure.

”Fuck... look how hard you make me,” he grunts, and his face contorts with pleasure as you continue to stroke him. You don‘t mind that he has stopped his movements, breathing heavily.

You lean into him again, kissing him as your hand moves faster, gripping him tighter. He grunts and you smear the precum along its length. Your pussy flutters around his finger as he adds another finger, moving again and stretching you further. His fingers thrusting in and out, his palm rubbing your clit with each thrust.

When he suddenly pushes you onto your back. You gasp but you let him. Your fingers let go of his cock as you lay back on the sofa, taking off your panties and spreading your legs for him. You whimper as he hovers over you, pumping his cock. Your fingers glide to your clit, rubbing it, and Daemon growls as his hand slides faster up and down.

“Yes... rub that perfect little cunt for me,” he grunts, as his other hand slides back to your folds and he slides his fingers back into your cunt. You moan as he fingers you – his movements encourage yours to speed up.

Daemon growls, his hand pumping faster, his eyes fixed on your pussy. Drop after drop of precum drips onto your folds. Your fingers rub the precum along your cunt. Your wet walls clench around his fingers, the smacking sound of his penetrating fingers filling your room. Your moans get louder and you feel the pressure in your abdomen as his fingers push into you. The lewd, wet sounds increase your arousal and your back arches as his fingers curl against your spongy inner walls.

“Daemon,” you whimper, and he growls.

“Yes... come on my fingers!” He growls, and you cry out.

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, trying to pull them deeper. Daemon feels his balls tighten and he moans. He pumps faster, watching his fingers thrust into your spasming pussy. And then he grunts loudly. He pulls his fingers out of your pussy before he cums on it. He grunts, pumps his length and milks it completely. As if in a trance, he watches wave after wave of searing hot cum cover your pussy and abdomen.

You lie in front of him, your eyes closed and breathing heavily. Daemon pants, trying to catch his breath and enjoying the sight of you.

“Maybe we should have more relaxed evenings like this,” he murmurs, and you giggle slightly before he leans down and kisses you.