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whataperfectwasteoftime · 2 months

Text

The Gift

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: Period typical sexism and treatment of women, period-typical ideas of virginity and virtue, Marcus is a bit rude at first but he comes around quickly, attempted assault that is heavily implied to be sexual, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, wound care, yearning, virginity loss, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, mushy endings :)

Summary: The Emperor of Rome has given his most valued General, Marcus Acacius, a generous gift after his recent successful battle. Rather than the gold he’s hoping for, Marcus is stunned when a young virgin is delivered to his chambers. At first, he refuses to entertain the idea of stealing the virtue of a scared girl, but their lives become entwined when he learns that refusing his ‘gift’ puts her in even more danger…

A/N: The art in the header is by @norththelemon and is inspired by Paulo and Virginia by Alessandro Puttinati. Thank you so much for letting me use this artwork for my fic!!! <3 The artwork does not necessarily reflect the appearance of the reader character; rather, it is a reflection of the original artwork. The only physical description I included of reader is that she has long, curly hair (color and texture are never mentioned). Marcus’s pet name for her, bellatora, very loosely translates to “little warrior.” Thank you to the lovely @leslie-lyman for the beta! **NOTE: as attempted SA can be triggering to some people, I have separated out this section with asterisks (******). You can quickly skip this scene and you will not miss any significant plot. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to send me a DM! Be safe <3

Masterlist

Marcus rides through the streets of Rome, the cheers of citizens ringing in his ears and the white petals being thrown from above him sticking in his curls. The populus is joyful, but he cannot help but think of the cost of the battle, about the sons and husbands who he knows are not returning home.

He longs for a bath, to wash the grime, dirt and blood from his body. He longs to strip off the heavy, soiled armor and lay down on his bed, naked and warm and full of bread and wine, and sleep for several days.

First, however, he must endure the long procession up to the palace, where the Emperor was surely waiting for him–where he would have to play all the little games that come with positions of power: smile, nod, say the right words and act in the ways that other people expect of a General.

The horse whinnies nervously as the cacophony swells, and Marcus gently pats its neck, sending a cascade of petals to the ground to be trodden underfoot by so many hooves.

The Emperor waits at the top of the Palace steps, surrounded by all of his court and Roman nobility. Without allowing any of the contempt he feels to show on his face, Marcus Acacius dismounts from the horse and slowly ascends the marble stairs. When he reaches the top, the Emperor pulls him into an exaggerated hug, slapping his back and cheering loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.

“Congratulations to you, my friend, for your triumph and victory over the vanquished,” the man booms, slapping Marcus's pauldron again for good measure and causing another great cheer to rise up from the crowd.

Marcus does not say anything, but he turns to face the onlookers and unsheathes his sword, raising it over his head victoriously, knowing that's what they all want him to do. The resulting din seems to rattle the very stones of the palace.

“You must be weary, good soldier,” the Emperor tells him. “Go now and rest. A gift will be sent to your chambers to show your Emperor’s appreciation for your prowess in battle.”

Marcus nods and bows deeply, indicating his gratitude for his Lord's generosity. He's most thankful, however, for the quick dismissal.

The General’s quarters in the palace are spacious and outfitted with all modern amenities Marcus could ever think to ask for. He quickly lights a fire under the basin to begin heating water for a bath. He begins removing his armor, leaving it by the door where he knows it will be collected for cleaning and polishing. He discards the filthy underclothing and retrieves a clean cloth with which to wash.

It is only now that Marcus is able to take sock tock of his injuries; as the grime is wiped clean from his body, he can finally see where the blood was his, and where the blood was not his. His arms are peppered with bruises and superficial wounds, but nothing that requires any dressing.

He is lucky.

Marcus dresses in loose robes, luxuriating in the feeling of being free and unencumbered by his armor. With a deep, satisfied sigh, he settles himself down on the bed, surrounded by the ornate pillows that come with Palace trappings, and closes his eyes.

They’ve barely been closed for a few minutes when a knock sounds at the door.

Marcus frowns. All his joints and muscles protest when he reluctantly rises from the bed again and opens the door. He’s greeted by one of the Emperor’s personal guard, who is roughly holding the upper arm of a young girl.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus asks hesitantly, taking in the girl’s simple, white shift that clings to her breasts and hips, her trembling lips, and her wide, terrified eyes.

“The Emperor, in his generosity, presents you with this virgin as reward for your duty to Rome,” the guard announces. He pushes the girl forward into Marcus’s chambers and shuts the door behind him.

“What in the Gods’...” the General murmurs under his breath as you are shoved unceremoniously into the room.

You curtsy deeply, remembering, despite your fear, what you have been instructed to do. “M-My Lord,” you whisper through trembling lips. You can only stare at the floor, unable to look at the man to whom you have been gifted.

“I had been hoping for gold,” the man grumbles. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He sounds angry. This terrifies you more.

“I am f-for your… p-pleasure,” you try to explain. “My Lord.” You deepen the curtsy, until your knees nearly scrape the floor. If you please him, perhaps he will not be unkind.

“Stop that. Get up.” the man snaps. “I’m not in the mood for deflowering virgins.”

“S-Sir?” You don’t understand. You weren’t prepared for the man to say no. You were bathed, dressed, and told that you were to be a gift for a mighty general. You were to please him, let him bed you, and serve him until he tired of you. You were instructed to kneel, to address him as only “My Lord,” and to do whatever he asked of you. Only then would the debt your father owed to the Emperor be paid in full.

You were not given instructions on what to do if the General refused his gift.

“D-Do I not please My Lord?” you try again. Terrified of being turned away, sent back to your father, where they’d surely kill you both, you begin to cry.

“By the Gods–stop, come here,” the General says, sounding exasperated. He gently leads you to a chair and indicates you should sit. You do. He crouches on his heels so that your heads are level, and examines you. “Who are you, girl?”

“I… am the only daughter of Proculus Opilio,” you sniffle. “I am a gift for his Lord’s pleasure.”

The man’s fingers take hold of your chin; his hands are gentle as he guides your eyes up to his. “Why are you a gift,” he presses.

“M-My family owes a great debt,” you whisper. “I am to be payment for our transgressions against the Emperor.”

“The Emperor sends me a frightened child,” the man growls as he quickly stands and paces away from you, “and calls it a gift.”

“You must accept,” you say frantically, hopping up from your seat and following him. “They will know if you do not, and we will be punished for it.”

The general scoffs. “What, they intend on checking?” he asks, as if such a thing is too ridiculous to be spoken aloud.

“Yes,” you whisper. They told you as such.

“Girl,” he says sternly. “I am not going to enact such violence on a scared child.”

“I am not a child,” you argue, sticking your chin up. “I have seen nineteen summers, almost twenty.”

The General seems to find this funny. He huffs, shaking his head and turning away. “Go home, girl.”

“I cannot go home,” you say, and start to cry again.

“Stop. Stop,” the man entreats. He turns toward you again and cages your face in his hands, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs. “Okay. Do not worry, I will… Gods, I will help. You and your family will come to no harm.”

“Thank you,” you say emphatically, your hands coming up to your shoulders in preparation to unclasp your shift.

“No! Stop!” You freeze again, eyes wide.

The General softens, and gentles his words. “Please stop. I am weary from battle and I need to sleep. Please… let us both rest, and after that we may discuss this with level heads.”

“Of course, My Lord,” you nod, curtsying again.

“Marcus.”

“...My Lord?”

“Call me Marcus. I am no Lord.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” It comes out automatically.

The General–Marcus–raises one eyebrow.

“...Marcus.” You watch as the man pads over to the bed and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh.

“You may sleep here, you may sleep elsewhere, it does not concern me,” he mumbles, eyes already closed. “I am not long for this world and will be unconscious for quite some time, I imagine.”

His words are correct; within a matter of minutes the man is snoring.

Alone and scared, you sink back down into the chair, and begin to cry again.

Marcus wakes with something tickling his nose. Opening his eyes, he’s greeted by a mass of curls on his pillow, framing the angelic face of…

Oh.

He had forgotten about you. At some point, you had clearly decided to sleep as well, because you are curled up next to him, your hands clasped under your chin and your lips slightly parted in sleep. This is the first time he’s seen your face not terrified, and he realizes that you are really quite beautiful.

He does not know what to do with you.

Marcus has never had a shortage of willing partners, and he is uninterested in the alternative. You are pretty, young, and soft, but he is not the sort of man to force himself on a woman. Even if you did ask him in no uncertain terms to do so, it would not be for the right reasons.

He needs to find a way out of this situation, ideally with his life, your life, and the lives of your family still intact; he did not wade through the blood and mire of battlefield just to condemn an innocent woman to death.

“Girl,” he says lowly, and your eyes open quickly. They go wide at his proximity, and you scramble back a few inches, creating more space between you.

“H-Hello,” you greet him shakily.

“Good morn,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

“Well-rested, My Lo–Marcus.” You offer him a small, timid smile.

Marcus glances toward the window. “It must be almost midday,” he says, noticing the angle of the sun. He’d fallen asleep yesterday in the late afternoon, slept all night, and through the morning. He hopes you did the same.

“I am famished.” He gets up from the bed–Gods, his muscles still ache–and pads toward the door to his chambers. “With any luck, this morning’s breakfast will still be outside.”

It feels like the only act of providence that has happened since his return to the Palace that the breakfast tray is still there, laden with fresh bread and fruit. He carries it inside and sets it on the small table in his chambers. He grabs a piece of bread with one hand and beckons you over with the other, too hungry to be polite and wait for you before tearing a piece off with his teeth. He finishes the bread in a few bites, but you still stand near the bed, unmoving and watching him with wary eyes.

“Come. Eat.” Marcus grabs another piece of bread and a handful of grapes.

Hesitantly, you approach the table, looking like a wild animal unsure of whether the human offering you food can be trusted.

“I do not bite, girl,” he grumbles.

You snatch a loaf off of the table and retreat backwards a couple of paces, breaking off small pieces and popping them into your mouth as you continue to stare at him.

“What will you do with me?” you ask.

“Do with you?” Marcus laughs humorlessly. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” you repeat, beginning to sound angry. Good. Marcus would rather you be anything but the timid, scared girl that was shoved into his chambers. “So you would condemn my family to death?”

“I am not going to take an unwilling woman to bed,” he growls, taking more grapes from the tray and popping them into his mouth.

“Most people would do far worse to save the life of a loved one,” you argue.

Marcus scoffs. “I’ve seen and done things you could not imagine, girl. If losing your maidenhood is the worst thing you can conceive of–”

“It is not,” you snap, stamping your foot in a show of exasperated petulance. “If you are not going to help me, then… I—I hope the gods curse you!” you finish lamely. You spin on your heels and retreat to the corner of his room, sitting down on a chair and crossing your arms with a huff.

Marcus closes his eyes. He is being too harsh with her, too cruel. He has spent too long shouting orders at his men of late, and not enough time offering comfort or kind words. He grimaces and approaches you with caution. You glare at him, and he doesn’t blame you, but he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you before speaking.

“I have been unkind,” he says softly. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

He watches as your pretty eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again as a number of emotions seem to flicker across your face. Your lips part, but you don’t respond, and Marcus forges on.

“I did not ask to be put in this situation, and neither did you. I made a promise to you last night that you and your family will come to no harm, but we must work together to keep you safe.”

“Would it not be easier to simply take your ‘gift’?” you sniffle, jutting your chin out and trying–unsuccessfully, he thinks to himself–to be brave.

Marcus chuckles softly, reaching forward and gently grasping both of your hands. “I have committed enough violence in the name of Emperor and Country to last a man several lifetimes. I may not have been as kind as I should have been to you, but I will not take the innocence of a scared girl who is being used as a pawn in the evil games of powerful men.”

You sniffle again, wiping your nose on the back of one hand. “Sometimes I wish I could just be free of this cursed ‘gift’ of innocence and lose all value to men like that.”

Marcus huffs in amusement. “Do you, now?”

You sigh, turning and looking out of the window. “How nice it would be to be valued for other qualities, instead,” you murmur, speaking more to yourself than to him. When you turn back to look at him, you ask, “How will you–we–subvert the wishes of the Emperor himself?”

Ah. He was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask, at least not yet. Truthfully, he has no idea; all he can really hope to do is attempt to sway the Emperor in some way, or at the very least, buy him some time.

“I will request an audience,” Marcus tells you. “I must go soon to debrief with the other generals, and he will be in attendance. I will speak to him, garner favor…” he trails off, knowing how vague and uncertain he sounds.

“You would really take such a risk for me…?” you ask hesitantly.

“The Emperor, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon me a gift,” Marcus says sardonically. “And as I see it, that gift is now mine, and is under my protection.” He gently cups your cheek, letting his palm rest against the slightly damp skin. “We will use his… generosity… to our advantage.”

He stands, letting his fingers trail across your jaw before pulling his hand back. “I must go. Do not open the door to anyone while I am gone.”

In the General’s absence, you finish off the rest of the breakfast tray, which was plentiful. With a full belly, you wander around the man’s chambers, exploring the space that will also be yours for the foreseeable future. You wash in the basin, splashing cool water on your face and sighing in relief. For the first time in over a day, you are finally able to breathe and take stock of your situation.

You should be grateful, really. The General Marcus, although gruff and tactless at times, seems to be a caring, even kind man. You believe him when he says he will protect you, protect your family, even though you have nothing to give him in return. Nothing he wishes to take, at any rate.

Your eyes fall on an ornate dagger sitting on a table near the window, and you cannot help but think of the way his hands–the same hands that would fiercely wield a weapon to slice through skin and bone–so gently touched your face.

A loud knock on the door to Marcus’s chambers startles him out of your reverie. A soft noise of surprise escapes you before you are able to clap your hand over your mouth to stifle it. You can tell that whoever is on the other side of the door has heard you, because they pause, listening, and then knock again.

The handle rattles as someone on the other side turns it back and forth, testing the strength of the lock, and your heart pounds with trepidation.

They cannot get in. They cannot get in. They cannot get in. You repeat the phrase over and over in your head, but then you hear the distinct click as the lock is bypassed or picked, and the door swings wide.

“Well, well, well,” a man in ornate robes sneers. “It appears the rumors are true.”

**********************************

Another man in similar garb pushes past him. “Our beloved general has a new toy.” The words are dripping in sarcasm.

You back up against the wall, and the table next to you rattles when you bump it with your hip. Quickly, you pick up the dagger and point it at the intruders.

Both men guffaw loudly, slapping their knees and shoving each others’ shoulders in their apparent mirth. “She has teeth, she does!” one of them jeers.

“Tell us, did you bite the General when he stuck you?”

The men lunge forward, and you slash with the blade. One of them howls, clutching at his arm, where red is already beginning to well up between his fingers, but you are unused to wielding weapons and the second man rips it from your grasp easily.

“You little bitch,” the injured one spits, and slaps you, hard, with his good hand, the blood from his injury splashing your face and your white robes. You crumple in an instant, clutching your cheek, as the two men close in.

“I bet she squeals nice and loud,” one of them growls menacingly as he reaches for you.

*************************************

A loud bang from behind the men makes them startle. You look for the source, and see the General standing in the doorway with fury in his eyes. He wrenches another dagger from its scabbard and, with no warning, lunges forward and plunges it into the neck of the man who had reached for you. With a sickening gurgle, the man collapses instantly, and red blood begins to pool underneath him. Marcus rips the dagger from the man’s neck and points it at the second man as he shoves him against the wall, who immediately begins to whimper and shake his head.

“Sniveling cur,” the General spits. “I would happily kill you both, but you are going to deliver a message for me instead.” At the man’s frantic nod, he continues. “It seems that some need reminding that I am not to be trifled with,” Marcus snarls. “And the next person who disrespects me by harming my property will be dealt with in the same manner as your friend. Now. Go.”

The man bolts, clutching the wound you had given him.

Marcus’s demeanor immediately changes. He drops the dagger on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands again… hands that are trembling.

“They hurt you,” he murmurs, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth over your face, seeing the blood that had spattered on your robes.

“It isn’t mine,” you manage to say, although your voice shakes and your chest heaves with leftover terror. You can’t keep your gaze from landing on the dead man in front of you, his eyes still open and staring sightlessly ahead. “I–your knife I–”

“Okay,” he nods, his thumbs still caressing your cheekbones. “Okay. Shhh. Don’t look at him, look at me.” When you manage to pull your gaze to the General instead, you’re suddenly captivated by his wild, dark eyes. They’re so full of fire, yes, but with that fire brings warmth. He stares at you as if you are a precious object, not some scared little girl covered in blood and cowering against the wall. “Come here,” Marcus says softly. “Let me help you up.”

You surprise even yourself when you automatically lean forward and into the General’s arms. He stiffens, seemingly just as stunned by your trust in him, but he recovers and carefully stands, pulling you up with him and gently turning your body away from the dead man. He leads you forward, and you follow blindly as he guides you down onto a chair.

“Let me fetch a cloth,” Marcus says, his expression stormy and troubled, “to clean you up. Do not move.”

You nod, watching as he fills a little bowl with water from the basin and comes back to crouch at your feet. “Your cheek,” he murmurs. “Is it very painful?”

You nod again, a few hot tears escaping from your eyes and stinging the small cut in question.

“I will be as gentle as I can,” Marcus promises. “But it must be cleaned.”

You shut your eyes as his fingers carefully grasp your chin, using his hold to tilt your head and grant him easier access. The cloth is cold against the burning skin of your cheek, and you cannot stop the soft whimper that leaves your lips. Gently, the General dabs the little wound, dipping the cloth in water over and over and soothing the tender skin as he wipes it clean of dirt and blood.

Once satisfied with your cheek, he cleans the man’s blood off of the rest of your face and neck, as well as the few droplets that had landed on your hands from the other man as he was stabbed.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely as he gently turns one hand over and dabs away the last remaining spot of blood on the inside of your wrist.

“You should not be thanking me,” Marcus says, voice tinged with bitterness. “It is because of me that you came to harm.”

“Yet it is also because of you that I was not harmed further,” you tell him quietly. Your eyes dart toward the body in a pool of blood still lying on the floor, and quickly look away again. “You killed a man for me.”

“You are under my protection,” Marcus says solemnly. “I do not take that vow lightly.”

As your heartbeat finally begins to slow, the deep terror that had been swirling inside you leaves, replaced with bone-weary fatigue. Your vision swims and your head sways slightly as you suddenly feel that you must fight the urge to fall asleep right here in this chair.

“Something ails me,” you say, alarmed at your darkening vision.

“Battle fatigue,” the General says matter-of-factly. “When the fog of war lifts, sleep often takes its place.”

“I am no soldier,” you protest tiredly. The world shifts–Marcus has scooped you into his arms and is carrying you to his bed, carefully laying you down on the blankets.

“You are now,” he teases gently. “Victorious little soldier, bellatora, wielding a General’s weapon with ferocity. You even have a battle scar.” His finger gingerly brushes your cheek.

“Will others come?” you ask, struck with a sudden pang of fear even as your eyes threaten to close.

“No.”

“What if they do?” It’s a silly question, and you aren’t sure why you even gave voice to such a childish fear. Warmth envelops you as Marcus covers your form with a blanket. Your eyes finally close, and the General’s last words seem to come to you through a dream.

“Then I will fight the entire Roman army to keep you safe.”

Marcus Acacius did not want this “gift.”

He did not want a virgin to deflower, nor a scared girl to comfort, or even a servant that inexplicably tidied his rooms while he was away.

He did not want you.

But here you are, sitting by his window with a book, eating all of your dinner and a good portion of his, and leaving long, curly hairs on his pillows, by the basin, and even on his armor–something he had discovered during a drill one morning, pulling the offending strand off of his pauldron with a bemused shake of his head.

He does not want you. He doesn’t want the comb and mirror that now lie on the table by the basin, nor the extra rags he had to ask a servant for–ears burning bright red–when your… er… monthlies arrived. He does not want to spend his wages on new robes for you, but he hardly has a choice, not when your thin white shift became filthy with blood the night that he–

Gods.

The night that he almost lost you.

If his meeting had gone just five minutes longer, he would have been too late. He would have arrived to a much different scene, and he knows he would have killed every inhabitant of the palace in retribution.

This is how he knows that he cannot trust his own feelings when it comes to you. What should be an unwanted inconvenience in his life has quickly become much, much more. He acts like a man in love, the way he buys you trinkets and brings you sweets, but no matter how he twists the story in his own head, he cannot deny the truth: you are a captive. His captive.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, a wealthy merchant crosses his path in the bustling market, followed by another man carrying all of the man’s wares for him, purposely walking several paces behind as is the custom for slaves.

Marcus can dress you in all the finery his salary can afford, but that does not change the fact that you were intended to be a slave for his pleasure.

He already has his intended prize from the market–a parcel containing two pieces of sweetbread tucked under one arm–but perhaps it is guilt over your imprisonment that causes his head to wander to the stall of jewelry to his left.

“Trinkets for a special someone,” says a middle-aged woman wearing kohl eyeliner and almost as many beads around her own neck as are displayed in her stall. She shoots Marcus a knowing smirk as his fingers reach out to graze a length of beads of palest pink.

“Rose quartz,” the woman tells him. “For love, compassion, and emotional healing.”

Rose quartz. He cannot help but picture the pretty, pale beads glowing, luminous against the soft skin of your neck.

“How much?” His voice is rough and thick.

The woman’s smile widens.

They cost almost an entire weeks’ salary, and he’s never spent such a sum on anything for himself, let alone something so frivolous, but he’s already reaching for his purse.

You grin widely at Marcus’s return–a sight that makes his heart swell when he remembers how frightened you were of him on that first night. You make little grabbing motions with your hands, causing him to laugh as he hands over the parcel of sweetbread. You take your piece and hand him the other, hardly waiting until he’s taken it before you’re biting into the sweet dough with a sound of pleasure that goes straight to his nether regions.

He thinks of the necklace, wrapped in cloth and hidden in his robes, but he is struck with a moment of uncharacteristic cowardice, and he leaves it where it is.

“Tell me about the market,” you say wistfully.

“Too crowded,” Marcus grunts before taking a bite of his own sweetbread.

You seem to find his cantankerous nature funny, for Gods know what reason, and the pretty sound of your laughter fills the room–and his mind.

“There are a number of visitors for some play at the amphitheater tonight,” he explains further, shrugging slightly.

You suddenly exclaim in delight, startling him a little. “I love the amphitheater,” you say emphatically. “My father often had to punish me for sneaking in to see plays against his wishes when I was a little girl.”

Marcus chuckles, picturing a smaller version of you, but no less fiery.

“It was worth it,” you laugh. You pop the last piece of sweetbread into your mouth and suck each finger clean of the sticky dough in turn. Marcus should look away, but he’s entranced by the way your lips close around each digit, leaving clean, shiny skin in your wake.

He blames this momentary onset of utter madness for the words that leave his mouth next.

“Would you like to go see it? The play?”

The pure delight that washes over your face is enough to make Marcus want to take you to a different play every night, but after too short a time, you are frowning warily.

“Would that be wise?” you ask. “Is it not dangerous for me to leave your quarters?”

“You would be seen as my consort,” Marcus answers. “No harm will come to you, bellatora.”

“Your… your consort?”

“You cannot be a prisoner in these walls for the rest of your days,” he tells you softly. “If we play the parts we have been given–the General and his consort–no one will question it. They wouldn’t dare, not after my warning. The entire palace knows that I will gladly kill anyone who threatens you.”

You duck your head, looking down at your hands. Marcus wonders if you’re frightened of him, still.

“Everyone will see my act as one of possession,” he says. “Of territoriality. If we allow them to draw that conclusion, they will never suspect any different.”

You nod, biting your lower lip and giving him a timid smile that slowly spreads across your face and turns into something bright and joyful.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“The play will end before we even arrive, bellatora,” Marcus grouses from the main chamber.

“Patience,” you snap from the washroom. The stupid elaborate hairstyle that you keep trying to braid your hair into keeps falling out, and you’re beginning to feel frustrated. With a heavy sigh, you settle for a simpler plait that falls over one shoulder. You’re wearing one of the nicer gowns that Marcus has gifted you–robes of deep emerald green, but you still worry that you look far too common to be an appropriate consort to a General.

Since when has such a thing become a concern for you? Despite the roles you are forced to play, Marcus is not your consort, nor your lover. He has made it clear he will never touch you, so why are you hiding in the washroom, worrying over your appearance?

With a pained sigh, you shake yourself, square your shoulders, and turn to face the General.

“Ready,” you announce, and the man in question looks up.

His lips part slightly, a little crease forming on his brow as his eyebrows raise. He fixes you with that look–the one he keeps giving you lately. It’s as if he’s in a constant state of surprise every time he sees you, as if you aren’t a permanent fixture in his rooms and could disappear at any moment.

“What?” you finally ask.

Marcus seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “It is missing something.”

The statement confuses you. “I–I have nothing else to–” You cut yourself off as the man seems to be digging through his clothing, looking for what, you do not know.

“I thought this would suit you,” he says quietly, as he retrieves a small parcel and holds it out for you to take.

You hesitate, frowning. “What is it?”

Marcus huffs softly with impatience and opens the parcel himself, revealing the prettiest strand of stones you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you gasp.

“Do you…” the man in front of you clears his throat and shifts in his stance, “Do you like it?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I like it.”

Wordlessly, he removes it from the cloth and moves behind you to clasp it at the back of your neck. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks across your face at the feel of the cool beads resting against your throat. Gently, you touch the necklace with your fingers and turn to look at Marcus. “Does it look pretty?” you ask, still grinning at him.

The General’s face is almost pained when he returns your gaze. His eyes don’t leave yours when he softly answers, “Yes.”

Marcus Acacius has never been much for plays, but never before has he experienced seeing one with you. He can’t help cracking a small smile himself every time you let out a joyful peal of laughter, which you do often, as the story is a humorous one.

The necklace suits you just as he thought it would, but your beauty almost makes the stones appear dull in comparison. If anyone were to ask him, Marcus would say that your smile could outshine all of Rome. Pretending that you are his consort is far too easy; your delicate fingers find the crook of his elbow without prompting when he offers his arm to you as you walk through the streets when the show ends. Your eyes always seem to find his, your face bright and hopeful and oh so lovely as you look up at him.

“Marcus?”

He’s been lost in his thoughts again. He grunts and nods to you as the two of you walk back to the palace, when you suddenly stop.

“I want to tell you…” you begin, wringing your hands together nervously.

“What is it, bellatora?” Marcus asks with concern.

“I want to tell you that I am… very happy,” you say, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze.

“I am glad that you enjoyed the play,” Marcus says hesitantly, wondering what is making you suddenly be so… shy.

“With you,” you add quietly. “It’s not only the play, it’s… it’s just you, Marcus.” The final word is almost a plea, with how earnestly it leaves your lips. “I–I want you to know that I would. I would be your consort, i-if you wanted, and I’d–”

Marcus closes the small distance between you and presses his lips against yours. You yield to him immediately, your small hands moving up the planes of his chest and coming to rest at his jaw. You kiss with the slight timidness of someone unfamiliar with how to do it, but oh, he’s happy to guide you. One of his hands gently cups your neck, the other caresses your cheek and it’s all he can do to keep the kiss chaste and not frighten you by backing you up against the wall of the alleyway and opening his mouth to you.

When he releases your lips, you chase him–leaning forward with your mouth still pouted and your eyes closed, as though you cannot bear to be parted from him, and it takes a herculean effort not to indulge.

“Come,” Marcus murmurs softly, his thumb tracing back and forth over your cheekbone, watching as you flutter your eyes open and look at him with an expression of such open trust and want that he feels as though he’ll burn from the inside out. “Come, let us go home.”

You are ablaze.

Marcus’s hands seem to burn with heat as he guides you hastily through the palace and to his familiar quarters, but their temperature still seems to pale in comparison to the heat that rises within you.

Once inside, he kisses you again, and you swear your knees could simply buckle and give out just at the feel of his lips on yours. You crave it again and again; your hands grip at his robes to hold him close to you, hoping he’ll never stop.

“Sweet girl, little bellatora,” Marcus murmurs, his lips dragging from your mouth across your cheek to the side of your neck and oh, you like that even more–your head falls to the side and your back arches as you all but beg for his lips on your skin again. His hand on your lower back guides you even closer until your bodies are pressing together and you gasp softly at the feeling of his body against yours.

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, his lips grazing the shell of your earlobe and causing a cascade of shivers to course through you. “Tell me that you want this. If you do not, deny me now, and I promise I will never touch you again.”

“No,” you whimper automatically. “No, please don’t stop, just–”

“Shhh, bellatora.” Marcus seems to crumple with relief, leaning forward until your back hits the wall and his lips ravish your neck once again. “I won’t stop, just tell me you want me like this.”

“Yes,” you gasp, as the General’s hands cage your face and his mouth meets yours once again. “Yes, yes, yes–” You repeat the word over and over into his mouth, until he groans softly and parts his lips too, deepening the kiss and tasting you with his tongue.

His hands caress your neck, fingertips running up and down before settling on the clasps on your shoulders. “Let me see you,” he whispers. “Please, let me–”

You pull back, looking in his eyes as you nod slowly, giving him permission. He carefully undoes your dress, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The necklace is still around your neck, and he touches the beads lightly as he stares at the sight before him.

“Oh, Gods…” Marcus murmurs to himself, shaking his head in awe. “What a divine gift you are, bellatora.”

His eyes rake over your breasts, your hips, the swell of your stomach, and the fire burning within threatens to consume you. With one more soft kiss, he whispers, “Come to the bed, so I may worship you properly.”

You let him lead you, keeping your eyes on him as he takes your hands in his and pulls you toward the bed. You are too consumed with flames to feel fear of this moment, but a pang of nervousness thrums within you despite yourself.

Marcus guides you down until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. You begin to scoot backwards–you might not have much experience, but you know you’re supposed to be lying on the bed–when he stops you, and instead sinks to his knees in front of you.

“I–” you begin, unsure of what to do.

“I want you to watch,” the General whispers, looking up at you in the same way an acolyte may look up at a temple. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid of spooking you, he guides your legs open until you’re splayed out in front of him. You would be embarrassed, but for the hungry look in his eyes, how his chest seems to heave in anticipation, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips as if he’s about to enjoy a feast.

When he leans forward, his mouth moving toward you, you gasp and stiffen, and he pauses.

“Trust me,” he soothes. “It will feel good, I promise.”

You swallow thickly and relax again, watching as Marcus comes even closer, until he’s able to press a kiss right on–

“Oh,” you whimper softly.

Emboldened, he angles his mouth against you and licks. The sensation of his tongue through your folds causes you to collapse backwards on your elbows, your head falling back and your eyes closing as you gasp toward the ceiling.

“Watch,” Marcus reminds you.

With you half-sprawled on the bed, your legs fall open even further and his hands wind underneath your hips as he pulls you even closer onto his mouth. His tongue, his lips… oh, it’s so decadent; you’ve never felt pleasure like this by your own hand. He thrusts his tongue into you, and you can only whine and babble wordlessly, your eyes wide as you dutifully watch him please you. He alternates between these deep, overwhelming strokes of his tongue and little licks right on the little bundle of nerves above, back and forth, back and forth until your entire body shakes.

“Exquisite,” Marcus rasps, his voice rough with exertion and pleasure. His lips close around you and he sucks gently, and the fire within you burns until it reaches a crescendo, until finally, you fall.

“Bellatora.” The endearment is laden with affection, and when you slowly blink your eyes open, the General is smiling down at you. “Are you with me, mi bellatora?”

You giggle. “I think so.”

He must have disrobed while your eyes were closed; you stare at his slightly golden chest, at the light dusting of hair and freckles, and further down, where–

Oh, Gods.

Marcus hangs thick, heavy, and proud, and you swallow in trepidation at the thought of all of that inside you.

“Don't look at that; look at me.” The words are soothing, but tinged with humor, and you can see the mirth sparkling in his eyes when you do as he asks and look at him.

“Let us just lie down together,” he says, smiling. “Nothing more.”

You scoot up until your head rests against the pillows, and Marcus crawls over you with a smirk, pressing little kisses up your body as he goes, until he lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms.

With your back against his chest, you can't exactly forget about the hard length of him, as it's currently pressing insistently against you. You wiggle, arching your back and trying to soothe the empty ache that still seems to reside within you.

“Feeling greedy, mi bellatora?”

You whine softly and push back against him harder. His arms are wrapped around you, but somehow, it’s still not enough. You want him everywhere, you need everything.

“What have you done to me?” you laugh softly.

“Nothing you have not also done to me,” Marcus murmurs, nipping your shoulder playfully.

“I have done nothing,” you say airily, leaning further back into his embrace.

“Oh, you have,” he growls. “You have invaded my quarters–”

“That is hardly my doing–”

“–and shortly after, invaded my heart,” Marcus continues, ignoring your interruption. “You have made me crave as I never have before.”

“You have made me feel the same,” you whisper. “I have never… felt anything like this before.”

“Mi bellatora,” he breathes against your skin, sending shivers up and down your spine.

“Do not be cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“You are denying me.”

At your playful accusation, Marcus suddenly shifts, rising up from beside you and pinning you to the bed with his body. “And it is taking the effort of every bone in my body, more challenging than all twelve labors of Hercules.”

“Then stop,” you tell him softly, reaching up to palm his cheek. “Stop denying us what we both want.”

Rather than answer, the General lowers his mouth to yours.

Kissing might be your new favorite thing–you thought the feel of Marcus’s lips was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt when he kissed you in the alleyway, but here, in his bed, with the weight of his body pressing deliciously down on you, his kisses feel even more profound. His hips roll gently against you, and you instinctively wrap one leg around his thigh to try and relieve your desire for more friction.

The action causes Marcus to groan and bury his face in your neck, his light beard scraping against your skin. Your hips cant upward unconsciously, and the skin of his cock catches and rubs against your folds.

With a little moan, you press against him harder, wanting more, more–

“Bellatora,” Marcus groans. He props himself on one elbow over you, spits on the other hand and rubs the wetness onto the head of his cock. He repeats the motion again, and then gently rubs the remainder onto you, making you arch back with a surprised gasp.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs. “It’ll be easier like this.”

He lines up the thick head of him with your entrance and pushes the tip in ever so slightly. Your eyes widen as you feel him, your mouth falling open as you stare up at him in awe.

“That’s it, just look at me,” Marcus murmurs. “Just keep looking at me.”

His face is so close to yours that your breaths mingle as he slowly slides in. You expect it to hurt, but you’re so soaked from his earlier attentions that it’s almost easy for him, at first. When he’s only about halfway in, though, you start to feel unbearably full–too full–and it makes you whimper softly and squirm against him.

“Breathe for me,” Marcus reminds you. “Breathe, mi bellatora.”

In between more kisses and soft praises, he pushes forward, bit by bit, until you can feel his body fully pressing against your core.

“Oh,” you whisper, smiling shakily. “I can feel you.”

Marcus chuckles. “And I, you.”

He stays just there, unmoving, stroking your face, until you begin to squirm with impatience again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bellatora,” he says softly. “Please, love, tell me if I do.”

You nod, wide-eyed and enraptured by the feeling of being utterly filled. With one last gently kiss to your cheekbone, Marcus carefully begins to move. His cock drags slowly back and forth against your walls, and each time he buries himself to the hilt once again, it sends sparks of pleasure all over your body.

Your exhales turn high and breathy, little whimpers and gasps escaping every time Marcus reaches the end of you. You cling to his shoulders, the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his curls, eliciting a deep groan and a change in the rhythm of his thrusts as he gains confidence that you aren’t in any pain.

The faster Marcus’s hips move, the more it seems to send you into a frenzy. Your legs wrap around his hips and your grip on his upper body tightens as the fire within you starts to build again.

Your lips seek any available skin they can find, pressing open-mouthed against his jaw, his neck, his upper arm, anywhere you can reach. One of Marcus’s hands gently cups the back of your neck for leverage as he grinds against you; the other wanders up and down your body–gripping your hip, squeezing your breast and pressing his thumb against your nipple, stroking your cheek as he kisses you again and again.

His kisses become more and more messy and frenetic as he loses himself in the pleasure of your body. He pants softly, his voice catching on every exhale, quiet little noises deep in his throat that only you can hear.

Your bodies move seamlessly together, aided by the light sheen of sweat that beads on your skin. Marcus hand slips in between you, his fingers finding the little bundle of nerves and gently rubbing circles into the skin there.

“Oh, I–I–” you whimper brokenly, drunk on the sensations of pleasure that he’s pulling from your body. “M-Ma–”

“Say it,” he rasps in your ear. “Please, bellatora.”

“Marcus,” you manage to gasp.

“Again.”

“M-Marcus, Marcus, oh Gods, I–”

Your body arches off the bed as the strongest wave of pleasure you’ve ever felt courses through you. You convulse against him, hands scrabbling for a hold on his broad shoulders, gripping him for dear life as though he is the only thing keeping you from being pulled under by the waves.

Your cries reach a crescendo and Marcus gives you everything–his hips snapping roughly against you as your core continues to flutter weakly. Finally, when your body feels boneless and the fullness of him begins to ache, his thrusts falter and he finally stills, his cock twitching inside of you as he finishes.

He slips out, frowning slightly with concern when you wince, but continues to hover over you, his eyes sweeping over your face as your breathing slows and your heart quietens. He stays there, stroking your hair and kissing you until his shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding himself over you.

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm in Marcus’s arms.

[Several moons later]

“Must we really go?” you wheedle as you watch the General fiddle with the clasp on his ceremonial robes.

“It is the most effective way to make our little statement, bellatora.”

You cross your arms and make a show of pouting, although you know Marcus is right. You raise your arms, which are currently holding half of an unfinished braid. “Help me with my hair?”

Marcus sighs loudly, although you know that, like your feigned petulance, it’s also an act. He takes the braid from you and finishes it before moving to the next section, plaiting it together the way he knows you like.

“Tell me the statement again.”

He huffs. “You just like hearing me say it.”

“Yes.”

“An act against one of us is an act against both of us,” he murmurs dutifully. “And tantamount to an act of war, to be met with a swift and disproportionate response.”

“You always say that–‘disproportionate response.’ I do not understand what you mean by it.”

“Mmm. An opposing force sends one arrow into my army, I send one back. Proportionate response. Someone sends an arrow into my army, and I reign fire from the sky, burn every building to the ground, kill every citizen and remove them from every map. Disproportionate response.” Marcus finishes your hair and gently drapes the long braid over your shoulder.

“If ever you ask why I was scared of you when first we met, I will refer to you to that statement,” you say wryly.

“You did ask, mi bellatora.” He picks up a belt and scabbard–similar to his, but smaller, more delicate, and ornate. He fastens it around your waist, cinching your dress and making you feel not only more alluring, but powerful.

You do a little twirl and turn to him. “Do I look like the consort of an esteemed General?”

Marcus leans in and gently captures your lips with his. “You look like so much more. Now let us go into this den of wolves.”

With your head held high, you walk proudly through the halls at the General’s side, your hand tucked neatly against the crook of his elbow, until you reach the banquet hall, where the Emperor is holding a great feast. In your wildest imagination, you cannot think of a single place you want to avoid more, but you hold Marcus’s earlier promise in your mind as the heads turn to look at your entrance.

This is the last time.

The Emperor, surrounded by his entourage, raises his glass with a shout and a laugh as he sees the two of you. “The good General,” he grins wolfishly.

“Taking his little plaything out for a walk,” one of the other men sneer.

“Letting his little pet out of its cage,” adds another, snickering.

Calmly, you unsheath the beautiful, ceremonial dagger that Marcus had given you as a gift and hold it at your side, just as he’d told you. A powerful warrior does not brandish their weapon or wave it under people’s noses, he had said. A powerful warrior does not need to. They simply remind their enemies that the weapon is there.

“You disrespect me,” you say, keeping your face even and your eyes stern. “And you disrespect my husband.”

Silence falls around the room. The Emperor’s men look at each other, to Marcus, and back to you again, unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them laughs loudly.

“General Acacius is going soft,” he cackles. “Letting his little toy play pretend that she’s the wife of a noble.”

You fight to keep your expression free of malice or hurt, continuing to face them down calmly, your sword resting at your side.

“Your gift to the General was far more valuable than you knew,” you say evenly, speaking only to the Emperor. “My family’s debt is paid in full, and I am therefore free to leave the palace at my leisure.”

The Emperor of Rome stares at you with befuddlement, his eyes wide, seemingly completely at a loss for words.

“We take our leave,” you announce with a flourish of a bow.

“Leave?” The man sputters. “You are my finest General, you cannot–”

“I have given the Empire more than my fair share of years in service,” Marcus says quietly, standing resolutely next to you and placing his hand around your waist. “I find I have seen all I care to see of war, and the rest of my days will be filled with peace.”

Marcus turns to the other generals, who are all watching the confrontation with the Emperor. Without speaking, they draw their swords and hold them aloft in a silent salute to your husband–who solemnly returns the gesture. As you are still holding your dagger, you copy the gesture. This seems to please both him and the other Generals, who all smile.

Marcus turns to you, beaming with affection and pride. “Let’s go home, bellatora.”

Epilogue

In a small hamlet south of the big city, a villa sits on a small hill overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

There is a rumor among some of the residents of the town that the man who lives there used to be a General in the Emperor’s army, but most of the inhabitants agree that this is a ridiculous notion.

He’s too soft-spoken, you see; his gentle demeanor is unlike that of a soldier. He often likes to sit with his wife and watch the color of the sea change as the sun rises in the morning, savoring the moment of peace before his children wake up.

There are five of them now–with a sixth on the way. His wife jokes that should she find herself with child for the seventh time, she’s going to feed the man’s privates to their goats.

Their life is modest, but by all accounts of those who witness it, they are blissfully happy. Their home always seems to be filled with joy, laughter, and no small amount of chaos that always follows young children. They maintain a small farm, raise goats and chickens, and they sell their extra eggs and vegetables at the market every week, accompanied by their five children, who are helpful… to varying degrees.

Sometimes, late at night, the odd passer-by will see the silhouette of a couple standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea, wrapped in a tender embrace.

They have few visitors, but those who have been inside their villa have noted that two swords are mounted above the front door. One is large, utilitarian, but expertly crafted–with signs of wear that might indicate it has seen more conflict than most. The other is small and elegant, the hilt decorated with precious stones.

No one has ever dared to ask about them.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

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jiminiecrickets · 4 months

Text

HEAVEN'S SHEATH. KTH / M!READER

summary. a wealthy lord's pacifist son finds friendship and affection in a poor soldier, unremarkable except for the fact that he is the lone survivor of a massacre. fate has different plans for them.

wc. 10k

tags. smut | top!reader, bottom!tae, virgin!reader with a big dick (lol), reader is described as tall/strong, descriptions of blood/injuries/death, sex while injured (reader), riding, multiple orgasms, 2/3rds is only worldbuilding oops im just like that!!

a cloud of dust billows beneath the heavy black hooves of a friesian stallion, sturdy and strong-chested. the well-travelled dirt path swings over rolling green knolls, past flocks of white sheep herded into valleys and heavy brown cows grazing along the hillside. the untouched countryside is marked by clusters of tall green trees along the road and they shade the large river snaking through the vale.

amongst the verdant growth, throned between the river and the hills, lies a large manor built strong with stone and brick. other buildings lay scattered around its feet, and life is most evident here – servants hurry about, ushering goats into their wooden pens and their young ones out of the way of the black horse's brisk high trot. the little children stare with big eyes up at the regal stallion's wavy mane, watching how it falls softly over its long neck with each step. it is a horse that carries great presence and elegance, and its rider is no different.

at the manor's grand front entrance, an older man stands in wait, both hands resting on a cane tipped at both ends with gold. his hair is almost fully grey. his steely eyes track the horse and the dust and pollen dirtying its fine feathering on the lower legs.

"you've been sorely missed, son," he says in an unreadable tone, light enough for politeness but darkened by his heavy gaze. "does wartime make for a better view?"

the rider dismounts, hushing the horse as it snorts and tosses its head, hooves stamping. it yearns for the freedom of the run. he pets its soft mane. his voice is deep and monotone with disinterest. "certainly. it's quieter."

the man's eyes narrow. "you left all the kitchen girls alone, who i know you've a fondness for. you should be at home to protect them, taehyung, not gallivanting off to paint your pictures."

silently, taehyung passes off the reins to the stablehand, and turns to stare up at his father from the bottom of the steps. he tugs off his kid-leather riding gloves and places them in the pocket of his navy blue coat. "what do i know of war and fighting? you were the general, not i. i'd say you are much better suited to protecting these frail women from suffering under the hands of conquerors."

"you are the son of a general," he replies sharply. "the youth must carry on what their fathers forged."

"hate and subjugation, of course," taehyung sighs, shifting his bag of paints in one arm and his canvas in another. "humanity's pinnacle."

"stay your wit, boy. you'll find no friends with it."

he slips past him through the open doors of the manor, his paints clinking in its leather saddlebag. "yes, my lord."

upstairs in a large, sunlit room, he sets it all down with a soft huff. he glances around at the canvases lining the walls, leaning against cupboards and drawers full of paint thinners and varnishes. portraits of one woman dominate most of them – slender, pale, with dark hair, full lips, and a soft curving nose. in some, she sits primly on a chair amongst vases of flowers and goblets of wine, and in others, on chaises in simple dresses with a needle and thread in her hands, glowing with the early summer light blooming behind her.

these are the ones hung up or placed atop chests of drawers. not one touches the ground – that place, on the edge between floor and wall, is reserved for simpler landscapes and still lifes.

"i remember i told you to take down those portraits. do you find joy in antagonising me?"

taehyung turns. his father stands on the threshold, cane by his side. after he returned from the last war with a limp and new scars, he has not worn any other colour but black.

he turns back to his saddlebags, indifferent as he slowly pulls his paints and brushes one at a time from the bag. "no. i find no joy in speaking to you at all."

his father's expression tightens. "i did not make her ill. it was chance and nature. your hatred of me will not bring her back, no matter how intense. it is time to move on, son. lingering on it breeds only worse things."

"'worse things'?" taehyung snaps, gripping a put of paint so tightly his knuckles turn white. "i am not one of your soldiers, so don't speak to me like one. i don't need your pragmatism, your war-bred heartlessness. all she wanted was you. all she asked for was you, and you never came."

he has had this argument many times over since that winter. it festers hot fury in his chest just thinking of it, and it has not burned dimmer with time.

he turns and approaches his father, eye-to-eye. he is not a boy anymore. he surveys him for a moment. "war may have reforged you, made you richer and cleverer, but it burned away all that she loved. you never once held her again, felt her breath on your cheek." taehyung brushes his knuckles over his jaw. he shakes his head and begins to walk down the hall. "don't touch those portraits."

back for only a few minutes and taehyung already cannot stand the solemn weight of the air within these walls. he pushes open the front doors with more force than necessary and wanders through the large, walled estate, stone brick encompassing the major centres of activity.

mindlessly, he travels past the cowherds and shepherds leading in the meat for supper, and the stablemaster tending to his friesian, and the beekeepers. he passes the wall and almost reaches the wheat farm.

hushed whispers float up from the riverbank. he stops in his tracks.

by the water, the girls and women who work with the granary from the farm are crowded around something on the bank. the linens of their dresses are dark with water up to their knees, where they hold it back.

he notices the expressions on the girls' faces – bright with nervousness and fear, but tinged with… curiosity? they whisper amongst themselves behind their hands.

he approaches, ducking under a branch of the oak they shelter beneath. "what is so interesting?"

they startle, several sets of eyes turning towards him. one of the older girls, about his age, drops into a fumbled curtsy. "oh, young master—! we weren't doing nothin' bad, sir, but we was hiding from the sun when we found something the lord sir might need know. we found 'im caught up on the root branches here."

him?

taehyung steps past her. his eyes widen.

a young soldier, skin tinged grey, lies on his back on the riverbank, the water lapping at his calves. his boots have come off somewhere in the water. he wears an unfamiliar uniform: a mixture of thick fabrics to stave off the cold adorned with a strangely-patterned leather jerkin.

it is a poor man's armour, he realises, made of what he can scrounge up and what fits from the garrison's armoury. despite his lack of wealth, taehyung can tell he is a big man – tall, strong in ways only a life of hard work can create. he is fair of face, too, handsomer than many young nobles taehyung has met. perhaps a blacksmith's apprentice, or a baker's boy?

"which… which army is he from, master taehyung? can you tell?"

the question awakens him from his daze. he blinks. "ah – bring him higher on the bank, get his legs out of the water. let me closer."

he crouches by the body, pulling at the heavy cloth draped over the torso. at the neck, where the cloth is bunched and rolled to pack in heat, he finds a small red patch.

taehyung sighs and presses the soaked cloth back into place. "this man is very, very far from home."

the girls glance at each other uncertainly. "what does that mean, master?"

"many years ago, his homeland was seized, and now his people are under southern rule. he was an infantryman. simple cannon fodder." with a soft exhale, he leans over the torso and pulls him onto his side to reach the lashes holding together his water-heavy coat. "perhaps i can bury him someplace high, so that his soul may be reminded of home."

the body jerks and chokes out a lungful of water with a ragged groan.

the girls yelp, stumbling back. taehyung would have had he not already been on his knees. his eyes widen as the soldier's face pinches in pain, eyes still shut. taehyung reaches for the oldest girl, gesturing frantically towards the manor on the horizon. "find my father and tell him what you've found! you've my permission to leave the farm and all of that – he's alive!"

—

it is dark. everything hurts. this is hell – this is punishment, eternal and unforgiving. this is deserved for desertion.

then – light. light rings against bone and flesh.

velvet. mahogany. silk and down.

there is a girl beside you, leaning over you. her linen dress is plain but clean with a white apron over it.

your side explodes with pain. you launch upright with a violent shout, gasping and clutching the hot ache under your ribs. cries of shock throb in your skull.

you blink, hard, eyes adjusting dizzily to the brightness of the room. your torso is wrapped in cloth, which you can feel flat and taut against your skin. your hand comes away clean, and for several unthinking moments, you wonder why. your thoughts are slow and heavy.

"you ought to relax, master," echoes a soft voice beside you. her vowels are round and elongated, the accent so different from your own that you barely recognise it, much less understand it. you stare up unseeingly at her youthful face, framed by dark curls held back by a bonnet. she steps forward, a damp sponge in her hand. that is why your limbs feel cold. "your injuries are quite severe."

"where am i?" you mumble, your tongue thick in your mouth. words are unfamiliar. "who're you?"

she glances up at the other maids, huddling by the door. she sets down the sponge and extends a hand, though you flinch from it. she does not try again. "you are in the northern highlands. hadria. my name is aemma."

"aemma," you murmur. the sounds are soft and round, like a river pebble. like a river, you realise, you are damp and naked, save for a single sheet of folded cloth across your lap. you feel your face grow hot and you clutch it close, folding your legs towards your body for security. "m-may i – where are my clothes?"

aemma gestures for one of the other girls, who quickly scoops up a folded pile of clothes from atop the chest at the base of the lavish bed. the rest of the bedroom is similarly luxurious, with a dark palette that soaks up sunlight to warm its wood. the walls are pale, though framed by polished wooden frames embracing the room.

"here," she replies. "the lord father has gifted you some riding clothes to wear in their stead. they were to be given to the young master when he turned of age, but…" she pauses. she shakes her head and curtsies. "you're to meet the lord father and his son shortly. we were to inform them when you were to wake eventually."

"eventually…" you trail off. "how long have i been here?"

"two days, master."

your head begins to pound. you cradle it, wincing, and reach for the offered clothes. they are clean and soft under your callused fingertips. "ah… i'm no lord, miss."

aemma smiles briefly, folding her hands over her stomach. "the lord father requires it, master."

you have no heart to push. in fact, you would much rather lay down for another two days, though knowing you are under the roof of a lord churns up too much fear to do so. if northern men were anything like southern ones, you would do anything to keep your name clean.

"i'd like to dress," you say softly, glancing briefly at the maids watching you from the corner of the room. "alone, if the lasses would allow it."

with another curtsy, aemma ushers the other girls out of the room and closes the door after them. you do not miss how they sent you curious glances as they left. she now stands where they once were, watching you with badly-disguised intrigue.

you clear your throat and feel your cheeks and neck blaze, folding the cloth around your hips tighter. "i'm sorry. i meant entirely."

perhaps it is your imagination, but you think you spot a tinge of pink wash over her features. she finds sudden interest in the knots and grain of the floor. "the lord father instructed that you were not to be left alone in case you required immediate medical attention. you are evidently still in pain, so i must protest."

"ah." you swallow, and your mouth is dry. "p-perhaps… you could turn around, then?"

she glances up, as if to say something, but eventually nods, bobbing in a small curtsy before turning to face the wall.

as quickly as your aching body will allow, you shuffle off of the bed and dress yourself in finer clothes than you have ever worn before. the cloth is soft and sits finely against your skin like a baby's breath. you are so used to abrasive linens that you almost feel more naked than before.

"you found my boots."

aemma turns around – she almost regrets it, spying the last sliver of skin before white cloth falls over it like the pull of curtains. it is more titillating than seeing the entirety of you bare. "o-oh – yes, one of the servant boys found them downstream."

"ah, thank you. and my uniform, miss," you glance up at her, leaning heavily against the bed poster to slip on your boots, "do you know what happened to it?"

"they're with the hold's tailor. i heard it took quite the beating."

"that could be said," you mumble, straightening up at last. your side twinges with pain, but you attempt a smile. "well, s'pose it's time to meet your lord. i've got to thank my saviours."

it is just turning to twilight, and the hazy golden sun on the horizon feels like little more than a memory. candles light the path past gold-spun tapestries and gleaming windows. aemma leads you to a grand dining room, reminiscent of castles and times long gone. she halts by the entrance, curtsies to you, and hurries away without another word, which you find strange as she had been a pleasant conversationalist when helping you through the halls and down the stairs.

"the soldier awakens at last. how do you feel?"

you glance away from aemma's retreating figure. at the head of the long dining table is an older man with sharp eyes and a natural severity about him. seated beside him is a younger man, around your age, staring into his plate with his hands folded in his lap. you step forward cautiously, and a male servant pulls out a chair on the older man's other side. the lord gestures at it, watching you carefully.

"well, milord; thank you," you answer, taking a seat and quietly thanking the servant who readied it in the first place. he bows but does not otherwise acknowledge you, his gaze on the ground as he slinks back into the shadows of the dining room.

"you were asleep for quite some time. my son doubted you would live." he gestures to the young man across from you, whose romantic dark curls are loose over his forehead. "i am glad you are feeling strong enough to join us for supper. i trust that the girls took care of you?"

"yes, milord," you reply, glancing over the table almost longingly. you swallow the saliva building in your mouth. silver platters are laden heavy with dark ox roasts, honeyed lamb shanks, roasted salmon fillets, sausages and baked potatoes, and braised vegetable stews steaming hot. ruby wine is poured into silver goblets. you have never seen so much food at once in your life.

"the war has yet to touch us. we have plenty to share," the lord informs, his voice almost kind. "how long has it been since you have last eaten, soldier?"

your throat bobs before speaking. "ah… four days, maybe, including my time spent here."

the man's brow arches. "your general did not feed you before battle?"

"no, milord. they ambushed us before our rations were due." you glance at the young man. he has yet to look up, or indeed even move. "we… had issues with our supplies. weevils in the grain, rats in the captains' meat. we turned from two meals a day, to one a day, then one every two." you pause. "i don't think one more meal would have saved us."

the room falls silent, with only the crackling of the fireplace breaking the stillness. green wood pops in the flames.

"well, don't wait for me to begin," says the lord suddenly, shifting comfortably in his seat and reaching for a leg of ox, stabbing it with a knife and lifting it onto his plate. he piles his plate high with potatoes and mash. the action seems to spur on his son, who jolts into motion like a creaking old waterwheel, movements slow and measured. "tell us your name, soldier. i'd like to know the name and story of our guest. now, news comes to us slowly in this isolated place. how fares the war effort?"

glancing down, you realise exactly how many pieces of cutlery there are. knives and forks, spoons and little spoons, all slightly different in shape or size. you pause, hand hovering over the knives, nerves tightening in your chest.

a soft cough. you glance up.

across from you, the son rests his delicate fingers on the outermost knife and fork, using them to carry a richly-glazed steak onto his plate. he chooses a large spoon, fingers lingering on it where it sits on the table, and places it into his bowl of stew.

his gaze lifts to meet yours and just as quickly, a butterfly's flap of wings, he glances away. his cheeks are dusted pink, the rosy colour like gold on his sun-warmed skin.

you copy him. you take a slab of steak from the dish right in front of you. you are starving, but everything about this manor makes you feel small, and you fear taking more than you are offered. you give them your name, for it is the only thing you truly own in these foreign lands.

"the war?" you continue, trying to shake the tremor from your voice. "i wouldn't know, milord. the captains don't tell us much. it's all the same – i've fought in three different battles. this was the third. they give their speeches about king and country, and then we fight. it is noble," you say hastily, "but i am not a warrior. not many of us were. the enemy outnumbered us, outskilled us, and when the poppy fields lay silent, they piled the bodies of all our fallen and made pyres out of us."

"such would explain the scorch marks on your clothes." the lord nods. he leans in, and you fight the urge to lean away. "i shall ask the question we all ask ourselves, if you would not mind. how did you survive such a massacre?"

you glance at the son. he eats quietly, forking small chunks of meat into his mouth. you glance away. "i remember a spear. it was tipped… with a blue and white flag. it waved in the black sky as i looked up at it." you frown. "i'd never seen one like it before."

"the temerian lilies," he replies, almost approvingly. "you must have been some opponent – if the flagbearer loses his flag, it is a great shame to the army. it must be held aloft at all times. he would rather die than lose it to the enemy."

you lift a shoulder. the other aches too much to try. "they pulled it out of me after, then dragged me to a pile of corpses. i… don't remember much, but i remember them squabbling over another soldier's brooch for a while. i only wanted to escape the stench of death." you survey the feast laid out before you. "i s'pose i have."

"then we shall celebrate that," hums the lord, lifting his goblet of wine. "my son was the one who found you floating down the river. he said you were cold as ice and only recognised you from the flag you had sewn into your coat. it is brave to carry your homeland's colours when fighting for their conquerors."

"it was a small creature comfort," you respond as nonchalantly as you can. "they could punish me all they liked, but could never kill me. they needed every man in their ranks."

the lord raises his brows, and something like admiration crosses his features. he glances at his son and that admiration turns into a tiny downturn of the lips. he turns back to you. "not a warrior, you say, yet you stand with the united courage of a battalion. who was your father?"

you notice how his son stills, holding the steak on his tongue behind his lips for a long moment. he closes his eyes and with a deep inhale, resumes eating, as if unaffected.

"just a farmer," you say, diverting your gaze. "dead, long past. my ma raised the rest of us – six boys. i was their second. when the army came knocking, askin' for sons, i went, gave them my name. my older brother knew how to count, how to run the mill. i couldn't let them take him, especially not from the little ones – after da died and ma got sick, he was all they had." you tap the edge of the silver plate with your finger thoughtfully. "i imagined i'd either die or be done after one battle, so i'd be brought home quick regardless. now… it's been four years."

then, the servants bring out a round white cake, slices set down around the table – what a perfect intermission. you have made it rather impossible to return to frivolity with your story, and you gaze down at the cake in front of you. you assume this is their dessert, so quaint and pretty on its little silver plate, but you have little idea of how to go about eating one. something so small must require a similarly-sized utensil. is it the tiny spoon? the tiny knife?

you lift your eyes to the young man across from you. he is already watching, eyes large and dark. he picks up a small three-tined fork from the inner edge, tilting it towards you to show you its appearance, the little notch on the left prong. this time, he doesn't look away, and you have enough time to offer a grateful smile, however brief. he blinks owlishly, almost in surprise, before lowering his gaze again.

it is unfortunate. you would not mind looking at him more. he is undoubtedly beautiful, almost pretty, the sort of face people would immortalise in myths and paintings on temple walls – a kind of elven face, like those that turn goddesses to jealousy and gods to obsession.

you spend the rest of the meal stealing glances at each other when you think the other is not watching. he is far more successful than you.

—

from behind a balcony's closed doors, taehyung gazes up at the crescent moon hanging high in the sky, surrounded by pale stars glittering in the blanket of darkness. he cannot stop thinking about the shy farmer's boy, his accent unfamiliarly pleasant – the vowels are soft and blurred, with each consonant crisp and clear. it makes for a bouncing sort of melody to his voice, one that draws taehyung deeper into his song.

he sighs softly and turns away from the night's landscape, uncrossing his arms and meandering through the empty halls. most of the servants are already tucked away, and his father drowns himself alone in old letters and wine.

in loose trousers and a looser white shirt, the vee of the collared neck laced with string, he finds himself in his library, rich and warm from a hearth already lit. curious. he shuts the open double doors behind him quietly to keep the heat from dissipating into the night.

his silent feet carry him through the aisles, where the shelves brush the ceiling with books and ladders. a walkway surrounds the room, essentially giving it a second level.

silhouetted black against the white glow of the moon beyond the arched window, a familiarly unfamiliar figure stands in silence, gaze turned up towards the heavens beyond the lines of books and old tomes.

standing in this still and quiet room, statue-esque in the way of classics, taehyung cannot help the journey of his gaze wandering up and down the planes of your body, painting to himself the sturdiness of your shoulders, the perfect balance between your booted feet. there is a severity about you he recognises in his own father – he sees it in your arms, tucked behind your back, and the practised way of standing that arches the spine just so to emphasise the broadness of the chest. yet, he knows gentleness when he sees it, and he finds it in the almost childlike awe in your expression, aimed up at his personal collection.

he steps out, the shadows melting from him like the shedding feathers of a raven. "what are you doing in my library?"

you startle, and taehyung almost regrets interrupting you. coward that he is, he would rather watch from afar than bring you out of that handsome serenity.

"f-forgive me, sir," you stammer, twisting your hands together as you incline in an awkward half-bow, half-stumble, evidently having forgotten the extent of your injuries as your expression tightens and your hand brushes over your side. "i didn't know it was yours. the – the doors were open, and i—"

"invited yourself in," he finishes.

"i – yes, sir…"

before you, he stands perfectly still. you could fool yourself into thinking his heart does not beat, for he is pale in the moonlight and beautifully dark-haired, with eyes like midnight lakes and lips like a rose.

you tear your gaze from his, breaking your trance. you begin to move past him. "forgive me, milord. i shan't interrupt you."

his hand darts out, wrapping itself around your wrist. serpentine, it slides up your arm and grips your bicep, forming creases in the cloth.

"you shouldn't move so quickly. you're injured." he turns his gaze on you. "you'd leave so soon?"

"ah…" you flounder, helpless. "if the lord wish it so."

his searching gaze strips your body bare. you feel it prod your soul when his eyes meet yours. his eyes scan your face, and he reaches up with his other hand, brushing it lightly against the slope of your jaw. his skin is warm and tender-soft. your breath hitches.

"the maids missed a spot when shaving," he mutters, pressing his fingers against the patch of half-shorn stubble left on the soft underside of your chin. "a man would do it better."

all at once, he drops his hand and looks away. "i am no lord," he replies, his low, rich voice like waves lapping at the sides of a ship, almost careless. "just his son."

you hesitate, your heartbeat still in your ears. "th-then what should i call you, sir?"

he glances down where bandages hide the hole in your body. "just 'taehyung' will do," he says softly, eyes lifting again. he unravels his arm from yours, turning fully towards you. "you may stay – as long as you are quiet."

he moves away, so graceful he may as well have floated. his fingers glide over the covers like bumps of the spine, and they pluck a small yellow book from the shelf. he opens it, already turning to the first page even before he finds a chair to sit in. he curls up in front of the grand fireplace, the furry hide of a brown bear thrown across the floor in front of it.

for a while, you simply watch him and listen to the crackling of the fire. his slim fingers glide across the pages to turn them, the edge of the page caught gently on the pad of his thumb.

bathed in the yellow and orange hues of the fire, the lord's son is every bit as regal as northerners are said to be – hair like calligraphy ink, cheekbones fine, slim bodies tall and lithe. you could lose yourself in his cold, gentle darkness.

that burbling feeling of being out of place rises to the surface, worse than when you sat before the lord at his table. you and your callused palms, your worn and labour-worked body. you should not be here.

"you know you can choose a book, yes? i don't mind." he glances up. "forgive the mess. i can help. what do you like to read?"

"i'm sorry, sir," you murmur, averting your gaze. "i can't read."

it seems he'd forgotten your roots. he blinks. "oh. my apologies. but if not to read, what interested you about my library?"

"ah," you chuckle, scratching your head. "i've just never seen so many books in one place. travelling merchants would display some, but never like this."

"i see." he surveys you intensely, then glances away and clears his throat. he shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. at last, he says stiffly, "if you'd like… i can… read to you."

the silence is thick with more than just the fire's heat. it is hard to know taehyung's hot face is not because of the fire, and he is grateful.

"if milord wishes to," you reply quietly, watching him for any twitch of his expression that may give him away.

"of course. i wouldn't offer it if i didn't." he gestures to the chaise beside him. "sit."

you step into the semicircle of light afforded by the fireplace, licked by tendrils of warmth, and ease yourself into the chair with a soft grunt, holding your side. "milord is as kind as he is beautiful."

his eyes flicker down to your lap. "i wish you wouldn't call me that," he says suddenly, a little sharper. "can i not be called my own name in my home?"

your mouth opens and closes. after a moment, you reply softly, "i meant no offence. it just feels… wrong."

slowly, he exhales, closing his eyes and his book. he places a hand over its cover. "all of my life has felt wrong. everything is wrong no matter what i do – who i wish to be, the company i keep, the fears i carry… the love i desire." he pauses, opening his eyes to your earnest expression. he diverts his gaze to the yellow-gold cover of the book. "what more can one last wrong hurt?"

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "perhaps i can start over." you straighten slightly, offering a crooked half-smile. "what do you want to read to me, taehyung?"

he does not disagree that his name sounds strange coming from another's mouth, but he cannot remember the last time it was used by anyone else. he hums and rises to his feet, coming to stand over you in front of the fire; his shadow cast over your body deepens the maturity of your features.

"when you said i was beautiful," he asks, "did you mean it?"

staring up at him, you can do nothing but tilt your head in bewilderment. "yes. you are fair and handsome."

taehyung chooses his next words carefully. "if… i were a girl," he decides, clasping his book over his stomach with straight arms, "would it be a different sort of beauty?"

you frown, shaping an approximation of a girl with taehyung's features in your mind. "maybe. but she would still be beautiful if she was you." you shake your head, dispelling morphing images of regal dark-haired daughters. you hide your warm cheeks behind an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry. i don't know much. i don't usually deal with such thoughts."

but it was enough for taehyung. slowly, as if not to frighten you, he lowers himself, grasping the chaise's rests and draping himself gently over your lap. he watches your face all the while, his heart beating faster at the shock and nervousness that cross your face in a single second.

"is this… is this alright?" he whispers, placing his hand against your chest.

your adam's apple bobs, your hands hovering an inch off of his body as if he is made of glass. gently, you place one on taehyung's knee and the other behind his back, and glance up at him.

"perhaps you can sit closer," you murmur, eyes wide and searching, "so you may not fall."

taehyung smiles, then – the first smile of his you have ever seen. it is sweet, and crinkles the corners of his eyes. it makes your heart swell.

he hides his smile in his chest, his knuckles brushing the corner of his lips. he lifts his eyes, and a sliver of hope twinkles in them. "shall i read to you, then? i will give you a synopsis of each story so you may choose your favourite."

"please," you murmur, settling back in the chair and sliding your hand higher up taehyung's thigh so he may be more comfortable. "do whatever you wish."

"'whatever'?" he hums, and with a flippant little kick, throws off his boots to the ground, where they thump carelessly. he meets your eyes and falls into a nervous smile, tucking his bare feet against your leg and resting his temple against your shoulder. his hair is still slightly damp at the ends from his earlier evening bath. "then you wouldn't mind this, would you?"

"of course not," you whisper, biting back a shy, embarrassed smile. you are too old to be acting like this, especially with the only son of a wealthy lord, but the rush of excitement from seeing such a reticent man blossom and show his petals to you is too much to keep you away. "i am only a farmer's boy, taehyung. anything with someone like you is… a dream."

at the mention of his name, his smile widens slightly and a pinkness warms the apples of his cheeks. he busies himself with opening the book and flipping through its contents to find the correct page. he presses his thumb against the spine between the pages.

"here." he taps the words on the page. "this story is one my mother used to read to me. a princess is trapped in a tower, guarded by a dragon in an ever-changing thorn maze, and a brave, handsome knight rescues her. they are married and live happily ever after."

he looks up at you, searching for a reaction, and you can only give a breathy laugh in return, still dizzy with the idea that someone like taehyung could ever be interested in someone like you. "are you sure you should be telling me these stories? i'm not a princess or a brave knight. i'm plain."

"perhaps. but do you know who else was seen as plain?" he taps your chest. "the dragon, disguised as a statue. and you, strong dragon, will protect the princess," he taps his own chest, "from all the boredom and politics of castle life."

"don't you have other, richer boys chasing you?" you ask, because you know your place. "your own knight? i don't see what i offer that they can't."

he licks his lips, setting aside the small book on a round side table and swinging his legs over your lap to straddle you. reading it is the last thing on his mind. "i do, of course. but it is like you said – they are boys. when their wooden sword chips, they get a new one." he trails his fingers lightly down the centre of your chest, wide and strong, and tentatively cups what is between your legs. he leans in, long-lashed brown eyes flickering down to your lips. "i want more than that."

"i—" your breath hitches as he squeezes gently, learning its shape and heft with deft fingers. "a-are we allowed to…? i am a stranger in strange lands with nothing to my name."

he chuckles, pressing his forehead against yours. his soft hair curtains your eyes. "allowed? no. but when a handsome soldier from far away falls into my lap, what else is a man to do?" he draws his thumb over your jawline, stroking your cheek. he lowers his lips to yours, hot breath sweet with honeyed treats. with the faintest thread of a breath, he whispers, "may i?"

with your heartbeat thudding in your ears, your head inclines, and taehyung wraps his arms around your shoulders and pushes his lips to yours.

his moan is sweet and starved as you kiss back to the best of your ability, your hands falling naturally about his waist. his lips are plump and warm, pillowy, and slicken with saliva as he deepens it, cupping the back of your head and pressing himself higher onto your body. he is desperate and dominating, sitting in your lap and rolling his hips into yours. you can feel his excitement through the cotton of his trousers.

when you part regretfully, gulping down air, he cups your face, his eyes dark yet gentle. he licks his shining lips, parted to pant. "you seem apprehensive. have you ever done this with a man?"

you wipe your lips with your thumb, tongue swiping over them in an almost bewildered motion. your eyes are wide. "a-ah… no. not with… anyone…"

"not even a girl?" he cannot help the surprise that coats his tone.

you shake your head, face aflame. "i never… my older brother had my father's charm. he was the one they all wanted, strong but lean. i was too much of a bull. they had fantasies of princes, and he was closer to it than i."

deeply and tenderly, he kisses you again. "it only means i won't have to fight anyone to call you mine." he brushes his thumb over your lips. "that suits me just fine. i was never the fighting sort."

he sits up on your lap, thighs bracketing yours. his bare feet tuck beneath him under his knees. when his palm grazes the front of your trousers, your breath hitches in your chest, and taehyung gives you a soft, if coy, grin. "i'll be gentle," he promises. he tugs slightly on the laces of the waist. "may i?"

mutely, you nod, your words sinking into the whirling depths of his eyes. his deft fingers undo the laces with ease and he pulls the thick cloth down your waist, tracing the vee of your hips with a pleased breath. he reaches in, lifting his gaze to gauge your expression. your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your knuckles are tensed on the chaise's armrest. the other arm is tucked tightly by your side.

"don't be nervous," he whispers, stroking you gently in your trousers. it twitches in his palm. "place your hands on my waist, darling. good. very good."

hesitantly, your hands graze his hips, sliding up to grip his slender waist. you splay a hand beside his waist, measuring it against him with fascination. he is slim and lovely… like the city nobles' soft-palmed daughters. you had noticed his hands during supper but hadn't the room to mull over them then, though now you do. they are square, masculine, but slender and fine-veined. his nails are clean and cut short, with a thin crescent of white at the ends.

he could not have been more perfect if he tried.

he slides his fist up to the tip of your cock, rubbing his thumb against the slit and the smooth skin. you are mostly soft, but still impressive – the number of taehyung's clandestine trysts have lent him a certain experience when it comes to men.

you have reinforced your place as his favourite.

"i see why they call you a bull," he says slyly, squeezing your shaft as his fist sinks down on it. "they just don't know how to tame you."

your face floods with heat as you stutter meaninglessly. your grip tightens on taehyung's hips and a single slant of a thought marvels at how delicate he feels in your palms.

"be still, my darling," he murmurs, "and be at ease. you are no longer at war. you can close your eyes and hold me without fear. nothing will happen unless we want it to."

his voice, like syrup, melts the frantic whirlwind of thoughts in your head. you cannot help but want to believe him. "you make it sound so simple. i want to believe you."

"why can't it be?" he tilts his head, glancing down and stroking you contentedly. he swipes his thumb over the slit, where a bead of precome bubbles. oil – from a small bottle you only now spot in taehyung's palm – smooths each stroke of your shaft. "the world is so complicated. affection can afford to be simple."

he lets go for a moment to step back, sliding his trousers down his hips and calves and tossing them aside on the chaise. he flicks his dark hair and tucks a lock over his ear as he reassumes his place on your lap, pressing his chest against yours and tugging your cock to throb against the curve of his ass. the silk of his white shirt is cool and light against your hot skin.

his lips ghost over the shell of your ear as his hips roll languidly. he whispers, "do you want this?"

do you want more? the question is unasked, but you hear it anyway.

"i do, yes. please," you reply immediately, your voice rough with desire. your hands trail over his hips and tuck beneath the long hem of his shirt to caress his warm, creamy thighs, a feeling that traps your breath in your throat. you force out a sigh, shaky, and rest your forehead against taehyung's shoulder. he hushes you and cups the back of your head, reaching with his other hand behind himself to ease you inside his warmth.

taehyung's head tips back with a slow exhale, shuddering as you pulse with heat inside of him. he watches you closely, committing to memory the way your brows pinch and your mouth falls open as your grasp tightens, trembling, around his waist.

"do you like that?" he whispers, breathy. he bounces shallowly, grinding his hips into yours. "how do you feel?"

"good," you choke out through a groan. your hand slides down to the dip in his back, trying not to seem too eager as it cups his ass. "oh, fuck…"

"don't hold back for me," he murmurs, hips quickening. he moans in surprise as you buck up into him, thighs meeting his ass. the slap of your balls against his ass is obscene, and he scrambles to cling onto your shoulders for balance.

"wait – wait, wait," he gasps, lashes fluttering as your cock kisses that spot inside of him that burns pleasure through his guts.

you stop immediately, sliding your hand up his side. "i'm sorry! are you alright?"

he huffs a laugh, panting softly, and nods. "you're injured, darling. don't waste the good work we put into putting you back together. sit back – i will take care of you, understand?"

"a-ah…" your face burns with heat. "all right. whatever milord desires."

"very good." he presses down on your hips gently, his hands between his thighs. he lifts himself off of your cock until only the tip rests against his hole, then sinks down on it in one smooth motion. a strangled noise escapes your throat as you scramble to hold onto him. his heat grips your shaft like a vice, gummy walls clamping down around you with each drop of his hips.

he moans when your fingers dig into the sensitive skin of his hips, sweat gathering in the small of his back. the fireplace crackles softly, the air warm and sweet with the smell of sex.

he gathers his shirt in his hands about his ribs, revealing his dusky cock, swollen with need. he takes your hand and curls your fingers around his shaft, his eyes fluttering and lips parting as you tighten it. your callused palms drag deliciously against his veins and he grips your wrist with a soft groan, bouncing on your lap in such a way that he thrusts into the warm tunnel of your fist.

carefully, you stroke his cock, cautious about rubbing raw or tearing his skin. wealthy boys are a different breed – so much softer, easier to hurt. the smell of him, sweet and musky, hangs in the air around him, enveloping you when he draws close – crushed petals, herbs, leaves. it seems foreign, or at least the mixture does, for you cannot quite place your finger on it – then again, what do you know of luxuries like this?

"you are doing well," taehyung praises, gasping as you flick the head of his cock with your thumb. "oh, yes… f-fast learner, hm? oh!"

a jerk of your hips has him jolting forward, his cock spurting a sudden white rope onto your stomach. he purrs, bracing against your chest and slamming his hips down on your cock to slicken him with your pleasure. it works, and he seems unduly proud of himself when your cock throbs and leaks, forming a white ring around the hilt that thickens with each bounce of his ass.

"milord – milord," you gasp, a tiny pathetic noise that does not match your appearance, "please – i'm—"

"let go," he demands, a breathy moan escaping his lips. he closes his eyes and lets out a punched groan as your cock carves into his insides, deeper than any other man had ever touched. his reddened cock throbs, slit pouring precome over his belly and thighs. the pleasure curls around his thoughts, his head spinning from it, and he feels your stomach tense under his palms.

you spill into him with a deep, satisfied growl, head tipping back as he arches against you. your hips roll up against his and the coil tightening in his belly snaps at the sight of you so wrecked from so little. he cries out, ropes of white streaking across your shirt, and his hips stutter and roll, milking your pleasure for his own like a succubus. he presses his ass into your lap, white teeth sinking into his plump lower lip, and his eyes roll as the thick warmth fills him up to the brim.

at last, he slumps against your chest, thighs trembling and tensing as he hums softly into your neck. he buries his nose in the soft, warm skin, and cups your cheek to place a soft kiss on the corner of your jaw.

"mm… good," he purrs, smiling with tender satisfaction. "i – i shall bring you to your… mm… room. it is just down the hall from my own... should you wish to see me, you only need to knock." his breath hitches as he raises his hips slowly, hole twitching around your shaft, and when it pops out, a steady stream of come leaks from him, staining his tanned skin. he sighs, closing his eyes to the slowing of your heartbeat. "but i think i will stay here for a time, if you don't mind. just until i – until i regain feeling and control of my legs."

"is that… is that normal?" you ask, a tiny panting tremor in your voice. "to lose feeling like that?"

taehyung laughs into your neck, eyes crinkling. "sometimes, when i feel overwhelmed. it is no fault of yours – you are just… big. don't worry. i liked it."

he shifts in your lap to get comfortable but pauses as something pokes his thigh. a sly smile spreads across his fine features, his fingers lifting to trace your jaw and tip your gaze to his own. he purrs, "is that for me, love? excited again?"

you gulp, unable to tear your stare from his despite the embarrassment clawing at your throat. "i – i…"

"handsome and energetic. i'm a lucky man." he laughs softly, reaching behind himself and groping your hard cock with a low moan. "i myself have been told i'm rather voracious. perhaps you will be the first to keep up with me."

he lowers himself on your cock, head tipping back as he teases himself with the thick head. his dick twitches.

"what say you to a change of scenery?" he asks coyly, perfectly content with your ragged-breath silence. every word you might have said disintegrates on your tongue when he turns around, arching his back and pinning your cock to your stomach. shining precome smears along the cleft of his ass.

his body, carved out of shadows by the fire, rocks and rolls like a ship in the harbour when all its crew are asleep. with an encouraging smile, he takes your hands and places them on his hips, pressing on them to guide you to control his body. he hums softly as you squeeze his hips and spread his asscheeks, your breath shaky as he angles his messy hole against your leaking tip.

he watches your face with gentle eyes as he sinks down on your cock, his warm, wet hole swallowing up your shaft like he was made for it. you jump slightly when his ass firmly meets your lap, taking you hungrily until the hilt, and if he were a lesser man, your expression alone would have been enough to tip him over the edge. he sears every line of your face, every edge and plane, into the backs of his eyelids. it will make for fine company on lonely nights.

you speak for the first time in a while. "p-please…" you whisper hoarsely, blunt nails digging into his smooth, unmarred skin, leaving crescent moons in your wake. "please, move."

"ah, but you are badly hurt… i must take my time with you. mustn't alert the servants, either, for they'd certainly report to my father what they've seen." taehyung giggles to himself, gnawing on his lower lip in an effort to subdue his grin. he grinds down into your lap in circles, relishing in the pleasured, impatient groans that escape your throat. "he'd toss you out in an instant, and we cannot have that! i haven't yet had my fill of you."

"a-are you always so… playful with your men, taehyung?" you ask, voice slightly strained. you watch your cock vanish into him, over and over again. the sound that is made when he bounces on your lap is obscene and filthy. your heart stirs with desire.

"mmh – no. my past conquests have not been as – as alluring as you," he gasps, wrapping his hand around his throbbing cock, thumb rubbing circles over the ridge of his tip. "mostly, they bore me. you, however – you're more than a cock i can use to please myself, if i may speak so crudely."

"i – ah – th-think i should be grateful, then…?" you reply uncertainly.

"yes. unless, of course, you enjoy that sort of game… but tonight is about simplicity," he breathes, his skin tingling where your rough palms glide over his thighs, soft as cream. "we have only so long until the sun rises and the servants wake. i want to spend that time with you – learning your homeland's ballads and epics, your favourite flower, where i can touch to make you melt…"

he looses an airy laugh as your grip tightens on his waist, his shirt folded up between your fingers to reveal the curve of his spine and ass. you drag him down onto your cock roughly and he keens, eyes rolling back briefly. "ooh, y-you like that, don't you? ah—!"

already he is so sensitive. nowhere else has he felt pleasure like this – where his body is treated as more than a means to an end. he had been completely content with that when he entered this library, agreeable to the idea that you might like him only for what he can give you. but he swears – he swears on the old gods and the new – that the way you press your nose into the curve of his neck, the way you stroke him thin and thick tight and loose – caring, properly, for his own high – means your attraction is more than fleeting.

years of ending up alone in empty beds have made him soft. lonely. desperate. perhaps he is reading into things too deeply, as he always does – poor boy, always a poet. the backs of his eyes sting with hot tears as his tightly-controlled leash snaps, making him cry out, writhe, and shudder, knees and elbows buckling under the weight of his orgasm.

you catch him in your arms before he can slip, pulling him backwards towards your chest. it is warm, your throat shining with sweat, and he can feel the burning fever of your body through your clothes. still, you do not let go, push him away – you cradle him close, your heart thudding through your ribcage and into his own.

one of your hands tugs languidly at his cock, milking his pleasure from him. you watch quietly as it spills over your knuckles, your lips pressed against his sweat-slick shoulder, and help him lift his hips off of your cock.

for the first time in what feels like hours, taehyung takes a deep, full breath of air. he cups your face in a hand and smiles, wide and content.

"i didn't believe you could be more beautiful," you murmur, words slightly clipped at the end from a lack of breath. "i've never been happier to be wrong."

he opens his eyes with a flutter of lashes, pleasantly surprised. "haven't i already let you take me?"

"what do you mean?" you ask with a frown, tilting your head. your thoughts are foggy with warm laziness. the fire's heat does not help. "taehyung?"

the sound of his name almost startles him. he sits up, and a pleasurable ache sparks up his spine. he sucks in a deep breath. "you really… truly think that of me?"

you blink slowly, like a cat, and the fire's flames dance in your eyes. "i am a simple soldier. lies are above a man like me."

"you're more than that," he replies immediately, turning around on your lap to face you properly. "if you were just a soldier, you would have died on that battlefield. forgive me, but you had all the time to die on your way down the river. still, you survived." his voice softens, and he fiddles with your collar, straightening it and folding it down. "i am glad you did. i am glad to have met you."

"ah…" gently, you tug his shirt down, allowing him the return of some of his dignity, though he does not seem to care. "that reminds me – i shouldn't waste much time here. i should report to the general."

"for what?" taehyung scoffs, and it sounds… hurt. he glances away. "am i so repugnant you would rather march thirty miles a day in mud-soaked boots than stay here with me?"

"no!" you protest, sitting up as best you can with the growing ache in your side. you had been too caught up in the moment to remember it, and now your body reminds you jealously. "t'ain't that, taehyung. you are intelligent and kind and if we were in my homeland, i wouldn't hesitate to ask your hand. but surely you have a girl you're supposed to marry?"

"no, not at the moment. despite what he says, my father still grieves my mother. it will be a while yet before he'll allow another woman into the house." he traces shapes into your skin. "i will free you from the servitude of the evil king who bound you, and together, princess and dragon will live freely, with the wind in their hair and the sun on their backs."

at first, you smile at the newfound softness of his voice, but freeze. "free… of servitude?"

taehyung watches you, draping his legs over the other side of the armchair, kicking his feet lazily. his eyes are dark and watchful. "as i know it, the king's oath swears that you are only relieved of your duty when you give your blood for his and fall in battle against his enemies. have you not satisfied these requirements?"

"i may be no scholar, but i'm near certain that to 'fall in battle' means to die in it."

"have you not satisfied these requirements?" he repeats, firmer. "our doctors and priests said you were dead when i brought you to them. they said you may have been alive when i found you, but somewhere between the riverbank and their stone table marked the spot where you died. as they proclaimed this, you coughed again, and nobody could deny me this time when i said you were very clearly alive."

"you are telling me that i died… and returned? like a saint?" you ask sceptically.

"i only tell you what our doctors told me."

for a while, you are silent. determination creases taehyung's brow, and you cannot hold in the disbelieving laugh that erupts from you, though it morphs into a groan of pain in the middle. taehyung sits up and presses his palm to your cheek, his eyes so vivid and certain.

"you have already died, and thus retain no obligations to the crown," he whispers. his gaze scours your face. "you are free. free to stay here. live here…"

with me.

your heart drops into your stomach. you grip his waist, shifting in the velvet chaise. "i'm…"

"agree. agree to it. even if i cannot bear your children, we will sleep in the same bed, take walks in the wheat fields, eat and drink every meal together. you won't fear for your life every day. and as soon as the war ends and they open the trade routes to your home, i shall book passage on a ship and take you there. you may stay, if you wish. i won't deny you."

"then why offer at all?" you ask quietly. "if you think i'll leave you the moment i can, why would you even try?"

"i can hope, can i not? by all accounts our kings have no desire to cease any time soon. perhaps you will learn to love me in time." he smiles, faint, and averts his gaze. "otherwise, i will be glad to help another soul. you will survive the war and return to your family, whole and healthy. out here, away from people, i have little chance to do something so good and noble."

"and if i grow restless? if i want to do something with my hands?"

he tilts his head thoughtfully. "how is your aim?"

"fair, i s'pose. haven't missed when it's important."

"the lord's hunter grows old," he proclaims. "he can teach you what he knows, and if you like, you may take up the title once he can no longer ride and shoot. besides that, there is always work to be done in the fields and granary – perhaps you'll find some comfort in the farms?"

you think about it, long and hard. in essence you would be a prisoner at his beck and call, though if taehyung tells the truth and is as earnest as he appears, perhaps you'll find freedom and enough work to fill your days with…

you give your answer, and taehyung's smile is like the sun.

#top male reader #x male reader #male reader #dom male reader #dom reader #top reader #bts x male reader #bottom bts #bottom taehyung #taehyung x male reader #kpop x male reader #bts x reader #kpop x reader #bts smut #taehyung smut

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tobitofunction · 2 months

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The Pact of Fire and Ice part 7

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part5 part 6

Spoilers for the future of house of the dragon, not a 100% accurate to the book

after a thousand years it updated again

You tighten your flight jacket around your body, "It's still not too late to stay here" Cregan said, "It's a fight of dragons, as a dragon I need to fight" you said turning towards him, he was in his armour his fur coat currently missing, he hummed and cupped your cheek,"I love your flight gear so much" he said placing his other hand around your waist, "You should walk around like this more often" he added kissing you gently, "I could say the same thing for you, the fur cloak his hiding to much of your armour" you said against his lips, kissing him again gently pulling at his locks "Don't tempt me now wife, we won't leave the bed for another week if you continue like this" he said as his lips ghost against yours,"My Lord?" a servant said gently," What is it" he said closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against yours," Aemond Targaryen took over Harrenhall and killed everyone within the walls" he said straightening his posture”Any word from Dragonstone?”,” They are preparing to use Aemond absent as advantage to take over Kingslanding and they want you to march as soon as possible” Cregan hummed,” Are the troop’s ready”,” Yes Lord, the Greyjoy and Manderly ships are also deployed to strengthen the sea snakes and help out to invade Kingslanding and destroy the Lannister fleet ” you turned to Cregan and patted his chest,"Well my Lord husband it's time, send worth to my mother that her army is coming" you said making the servant nod and bow before leaving. Cregan sighed and wrapped his hand around yours,"Off to war then".

You ended up deciding to ride your horse alongside Cregan. Tyraxes was flying alongside the winter wolves, high in the sky, she was just a blop in the bright white sky. “The roads are treacherous,” you said,” The north doesn’t have the privilege of the west wife, our harsh winters just keep destroying the roads so we don’t fix them, as it a waste of resources we rather put them elsewhere to good use” Cregan explained riding closer to you,” My men don’t find it a good idea to bring you along,” he said after a while,” Why not?” you questioned,” They believe you should stay in winter fell, swollen with a child,” he said softly, you sighed,” I suppose that was the deal of our marriage. I provided you with heirs in return for your help to get my mother’s crown back,” you said,” It’s different now however, our first born won’t be the Lord of Winterfell but heir to the Iron Throne,” he said,” Or daughter” you added making Cregan nod after a while,” Or daughter,” he said with a smile which you returned," I'm not bringing a child into this world until the war is over, I don't want to be pregnant while the danger of being assassinated by the greens is an option" you said which Cregan nodded at,"I agree with you on that one, also I'm scared of you carrying my heir" he said," My first wife died on the birthing bed with my son following in the days after",he said softly remembering the pain of losing his childhood love and first born child, he felt like dying in months after,"I'm scared too, losing children during pregnancy is common within my family, maester stated that each one of them had dragon like deformities, my sister had scales and a tale when she was born, I guess our blood is cursed" you said,"The Stark blood line isn't any different, I guess we can be cursed together" your cheeks heated up at that comment,"I guess we could". "My Lord it's getting dark and the men are tired" Greyjoy said,"Than we set up camp for the night".

You sat in front of the fire with Cregan sitting next to you, he was drinking some ale and talking to his men while we waited for the food to cook. You looked over your shoulder and saw Tyraxes, you excused yourself from Cregan and walked over to the large beast," Ao merbugon hāedar? (you hungry girl?)" Tyraxes lifted her head and pressed it against your body gently,"Nyke find nykeā tīkor hen ōtor syt ao hemtubis nyke kivio (I find a flock of sheep for you tomorrow I promise)" you said rubbing her scaly head,"You need to teach me Valyrian" Cregan's said from behind you, one hand found it's way around your waist.While the other rubbed Tyraxes forehead," She still seems to like me which is good" he smiled,"Or tent is ready if you want to sleep" he added after a second, "I will, I just wanted to check on her, we need to find her food tomorrow, she will need all the energy when we fight the greens" you said, Cregan hummed.

You shed your riding gear and got into something more comfortable,"If you are looking to take a bath there is creek close by" Cregan said sitting down on a chair,"A creek?" you lifted a brow,"Yes, my dear wife we are off to war so we won't have our usual luxuries but you are always welcome to fly home" Cregan said,"I know what you are trying to do and it won't work, I'm coming with you. I will be in the creek....fish don't live there?" Cregan chuckled and stood up,"I protect you from the fish, I will go with you" Cregan said,"It also will stop my men from spying on you","Spying? Aren't most of them married?","Even a married man will stop to take in the natural beauty surrounding them" you licked your lips.

The water was freezing against your skin, you wrapped your arms around your bare body, you turned to Cregan and saw that he was unfazed,"Aren't you freezing?" he chuckled,"I'm a northerner darling, and you are a dragon" he said wrapping his arms around your body and pulling you closer,"Can i be honest with you?" Cregan's brow furrowed but he nodded,"I feel useless in this war so far, so many people have given their lives and I just hid in a castle for the majority, I didn't know my brother died, I didn't even know he went to battle, the same with my grandmother Rhaeny's. My mind is filled they could have been alive if I assisted them. Cregan listened carefully, his hand cupping your cheek,"You might not have fought with sword in hand but you forged alliances, you proved to the other Northern houses that your mother's side deserves their alliance when you faced your Uncle when he took our men hostage. Don't disregard yourself my dear wife" you sighed,"But they still rather have me back in Winterfell than fight alongside them" Cregan sighed as well,"That's different, men usually range wars while the women stay at home. Times have changed something I needed to realise too" he said before kissing your forehead,"You and your dragon will bring an advantage to us," he said pressing you closer to his body,”You look so beautiful, standing bare in nature” he said softly kissing your neck,”Cregan” you whispered softly,”Ever dreamed of making love in the wild” he said his fingers tracing your skin,”The men could see or hear us” Cregan hummed against your skin,”They won’t come near the river bank, I told them to stay away and for the hearing part that didn’t seem a problem back in Winterfell Princess” he said making your cheeks darken,” Than my Lord Husband, ravish me like a wolf does”

You spend days riding your horse, Tyraxes becoming more restless with each day, she was feeding of your energy , you nearly reached Harrenhall, even though Kingslanding is your goal a jab of taking it back is planned. “We will reach Harrenhall in two days time we set up camp here” Cregan explained as he stopped alongside his men, he helped you off your horse Tyraxes landed in the open space which made the ground shake a bit,” From now own I want you to ride your dragon, if Aemond is at Harrenhall by chance we need air support but if it gets to dangerous I want you to promise to fly away, back to Winterfell” he said grabbing your shoulder,” Cregan I can -“,” Promise me” he cut you off,” I promise” he nodded, caressing your cheek with his thumb gently and kissed your forehead,”My Lord your camp is set up”,”Let’s rest wife, we have long days ahead of us” Cregan said holding his hand to you.

“Aemond one eye is still at Harrenhall, we should avoid it and go around it to get to Kingslanding” Cerwyn said,” We need all the men we have to keep the city under our control”,” We are here so we should take over Harrenhall while we have the chance” Lord Bolton said leaning forward in his seat,” How would you suggest doing so? Aemond has Vaghar” Cerwyn says,” Even though, I didn’t agree with her presence first, it be to our benefit having the Princess here, she is the heir and a girl, they would assume she be hiding in the north-“,” her dragon is not even half the size of Vaghar” Lord Frey son interjected,” Tyraxes might be smaller but she is quicker and Aemond had the chance to kill me but didn’t, if we draw Aemond out on dragon back, we can surprise attack him with Tyraxes and me” I defend,” My brother promised you Harrenhall didn’t he? I thought you be eager to take it back from Greens my Lord” I said,” Than we have a plan, we take over Harrenhall beforehand we continue to Kingslanding” Cregan said and his tone didn’t leave room discussion.

I changed into my nightgown while Cregan read the letters of the Greyjoys and the Manderly’s,” Any news?” you asked walking towards Cregan,” They haven’t reached the Lannister fleet yet but they are ready and that’s all what we need to hear” Cregan said pulling you on his lap,” I need you to promise me something” you hummed and moved a piece of stray hair from Cregan face,” If Aemond tries to kill you, fly to Winterfell, Tyraxes is faster as you mentioned use it to escape if needs be” he said his hands on your belly,” Cregan-“,”Promise me” you sighed,” I promise….if I have to flee I want to make love to you, I don’t think be able to live long without your touch” you smiled

The next day you saddled Tyraxes, she gently nudged you with her snout making you smile,” Ready my girl?” you asked patting her neck,”Try to keep up with us, I know it be tempting to fly head first to confront your Uncle” Cregan said placing his hand on your waist,” I can’t believe everyone who called Harrenhall their home is dead now”,” Aemond will repent for his sins, he won’t survive to see the end of the war. He will die, but the hand he will die on is still in the stars” Cregan said cupping your cheek, you looked up at Cregan, you pecked his lips gently,” Let me help you” Cregan said helping you on Tyraxes,” Be careful and remain what you promised

#house of the dragon #jace x cregan #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x female reader

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princessaxoxo · 1 year

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Angered Infatuation

Enemies to lovers

Geralt x reader

Summary: Since the day you and Geralt met, the two of you couldn’t stand one another. But fate seemed to always bring you both together. One night at a feast, you both release the anger you share.

Word count: 1.9+

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only, rough unprotected sex (p in v), angst, fingering, cussing

You’ve been the king’s royal advisor for the past few months, helping with decisions when needed and healing. Taking a walk through the village, you were on your way back but stopped short once you heard the words “ride, witcher, ride”. You could recognize the bard’s voice anywhere; walking into the tavern and playing his precious lute is Jaskier.

You watched and waited entertained as he sang, prancing around the tavern, infuriating the individuals. Their faces screwed up in annoyance, which had you in a fit of laughter. Once his last song ended, he gathered his lute and walked out the back door. You followed distantly behind him.

Sneaking up behind him, you tapped his left shoulder, making him jump in his shoes. “Why must you scare me each time we meet?” You chuckled, and the two of you went in for a hug. “I’ve missed you as well, Jaskier."

Out of all the places he could be, he was here, and you wondered why. “Jaskier, what brings you here?" His face instantly paled at the question. “Just passing through." He wasn’t telling you everything. His answer was partially truthful. You squinted your eyes at him, then looked over at the black horse next to him. You were trying to figure out why you had this sense of familiarity with the animal.

It clicked in your mind; the horse is roach, and you knew what that meant. “Only you? No companions?” You gave him a curious look, knowing the truth already. “Most certainly not,” he said, his face beginning to flush. "Jaskier, if it’s only you, then why is roach here?” he laughed awkwardly as his eyes looked past you.

Geralt’s husky voice rang through the air: “Jaskier, let’s go." You turned to face him. His white hair was pulled back, and his cloak covered the rest of him. His swords cross his back.

He felt your eyes on him. "Witcher," you remarked, dragging out the word. Geralt grumbled at the sound of your voice and choice of words. “Always a pleasure," he said sarcastically.

“What is your business here?” He turned towards you, giving you a brief overall look. He wasn't going to answer you; you would find out on your own later tonight.

Jaskier felt uncomfortable interrupting the stare-down, Geralt, and you were having “I know you two would adore to cut each other's heads off, but shall we go?" He chimed in.

Geralt got on his horse, and Jaskier grabbed his things. You watched as they both left. You found yourself wondering when you would see Geralt again and, in a sense, looking forward to it.

Both you and Geralt enjoyed the back-and-forth with each other; he found you infuriating, and you found him insufferable. It made the two of you hot, with significant sexual tension for one another.

The feast had begun, and you heard the music growing through the hallowed halls of the castle. Entering the great hall, you were surprised to see that Jaskier was providing the entertainment for tonight. The local villagers are drinking rich ale and laughing. "Y/f/n,” you heard the king call for you.

Walking over to him, you bowed, “My king.” He put his finger underneath your chin, making you look at him. His touch burned, and he disgusted you. You were hoping he couldn't tell by the look in your eyes.

“We have a special guest this evening; I would appreciate it if you’d accompany him." You smiled. “Of course, my king,” you said, making a come-here motion to the man you assumed he was speaking of.

Geralt spoke, “Thank you for having me.” His words were sour; you knew he wanted to be anywhere but here. He looked handsome; you never thought you would see Geralt dressed for such an occasion.

Geralt and you walked around the great hall without saying a word to each other. He walked away to receive some more ale, his long strides making it hard for you to keep up with him.

He leaned up against the wall. Geralt secretly liked this; knowing you had to stay with him, he decided he would make it hard on you. You were trying to appear calm, giving a proper smile to the villagers who passed by you.

However, you did want to kill him in front of everyone. A smile was on your face when you reached him. “Just because you’re an important guest tonight does not mean you get to disrespect me.” The response you received rattled you. He brought his drink to his lips, took a sip, and didn't say a word back.

Two drunken villagers began to brawl, making you turn your head toward the ruckus. It gave Geralt enough time to slip away from you. When you turned back, you huffed, realizing he had left. Your eyes were scanning the room for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Geralt watched you from afar, delighting in the joy of seeing you stressed. Once your eyes reached him, he raised his goblet at you.

Geralt found his way into the halls of the castle, and you started taking long strides to get to him. “I have had it with you this evening,” you said. “You look lovely, y/f/n," he replied. His eyes were on your gown; you inspected it to see if anything got on it, and he was being funny. But it looked exquisite, just as it had earlier that night.

He continued to walk, going into the dark spots of the halls. No one was here but us; everyone had gathered for the feast. You grabbed him by his arm, which stopped him. He looked down at your hand, then to your eyes, to tell you to let go of him.

The look in his eyes and face became serious. “Last time we saw each other, you were trying to kill me with that pathetic chaos of yours; that’s what you mages call it, correct?” You snarled at him, “Yes, and you as well were trying to kill me. It seems we have one thing in common."

“Don’t be modest; you know we have more in common than that.” He became closer. “Whether you want to admit it or not, our bickering, this back and forth, you like this just as much as I do."

“Why would I enjoy this?” His yellow eyes seemed to have darkened in this light. “The simple reason? It makes you want me even more."

“I would know because I feel the same way.” His confession gave you a shiver.

Goosebumps appeared on your skin, and he moved the hair from your shoulder, touching your neck. Geralt could tell your heart was accelerating; his heart was calm as always. Never wavering from its steady beat.

He moved his large hand to your hair, grabbing a hold. “Tell me you don’t want me, y/f/n, and I'll let you go and walk back to the great hall,” he growled. “Do it,” you simply said, and he roughly brought his lips to yours. His moves were so aggressive that you thought your lips would tear.

The two of you found the way to your bed chambers, ripping your dress from behind. He pushed you down on your bed, tearing off your undergarments. You tried taking off his clothing, but he didn’t allow that.

Geralt didn't care if another man had made you feel good, if another man had touched you, or if you'd even seen another man naked. He was far more interested in pouring out all the anger he felt for you tonight.

You raised the front half of your body to get a better look at him.

His body in its pure form was godly, and his muscular arms had faded scars enclosing them. You wanted them to suffocate you in the best way possible. His thighs, which were buff, looked delicious. And his cock, which was upright and standing against his stomach, had a pink tip. It made you drool; you licked your lips thoughtlessly.

He stalked toward you, smoothing his rough, large hands up your legs and thighs.

You looked into his eyes, waiting for his next move. He moved downward, lifting your legs near your head, and took a long lick from your ass to the top of your pussy. His tongue was glorious, moving diligently against your clit.

He directed his left hand to your pussy moving his fingers between your folds. He entered two of his thick fingers into you roughly and expeditiously.

You looked at him, his yellow eyes pouring into you. It didn't take long for your thighs to begin to shake, and you felt yourself coming.

He raised his head, his mouth glistening from your juices.

His hand wrapped around your small neck, pushing you down, taking out his digits, spreading you apart with his large girth, and slamming into your cunt.

The feel of his large hand around your neck made you wetter. As you wrapped your small hand around his "harder,” you saw a bit of shock in his eyes. He tightened his hold, your legs wrapped around his body, his medallion swinging over you as his movement fasted, and his hips slammed into you harshly.

“Ah fuck,” you dug your fingernails into his back, making him grunt out. He moved his thumb, smoothing over your bottom lip, and went to grip your jaw, his mouth moving brutally over yours.

The selfishness of him and keeping you down made your anger resurface; you flipped the both of you. He tried reaching for you, but you pushed him back down onto the mattress.

Your hips began to move on his cock; he dug his nails into the sides of your hips. You knew you would have bruises in the morning. “You ride this cock so fucking well," he praised you.

His hands reached up and fondled your breasts. He wrapped an arm around your back to hold you in place as he circled your nipple with his tongue, pinching the other one. You threw your head back in pleasure.

“Stay still,” he growled as he held your hips in place and pounded into you at an accelerated pace. “Yes, Geralt, yes."

Hearing his name fall from your lips made him rigid. “I’m going to make you full of my cum; that’ll be the only thing left of you.” You started to bounce on his cock savagely.

“Just like that, bouncing on my cock beautifully,” his encourging, husky voice brought you closer to your orgasm. You pulled at his roots, kissing him deeply and sucking on his tongue.

He put you on your back again, turning and pushing your face into the pillows. Your loud moans were covered. Your thighs began to shake, and he felt them, “Yes, come all over my cock.” You called out Geralt's name, your orgasm hitting hard, your head dizzy as you saw stars in your vision.

With a few more snaps of his hips, Geralt exploded inside of you, pulling his cock out and a few more spurts of his cum landed on your stomach. He watched as you swiped a finger through and licked his cum off.

He clenched his jaw. “On your hands and knees now,” you challenged him in ways no one had. It made him loathe you and love you at the same time. He planned to show you that for the rest of the night.

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superprincesspea · 5 months

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Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 15 - Forfeit

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

When your mother and sisters break away to join the queen in the wheelhouse, you’re taken to the stable where the horse waiting for you is a chestnut mare with a little white patch between her eyes.

“Flare,” the groom calls her, and she does not look pleased to see you.

In fact, she snorts when you offer her your hand, her foot stamping on the hay, and you think the only thing worse than a long ride to the Kingswood, was to do it on a horse that already hated you.

Still, it wasn’t really the riding you minded so much as the company, Aemond’s company to be precise, though you had not yet seen him.

“Your saddle, my lady,” the groom says, interrupting your thoughts before presenting you with a fine brown side-saddle, its leather work embossed with dragons and ivy.

“I shall be riding astride this morning,” you tell him, deciding there was no way you would ride an untested horse without the complete control of both your legs.

“But this saddle is a gift from the Queen!” The groom retorts, looking completely aghast at your suggestion, his brow knitted and his words curt despite your rank.

A gift? Surely not.

Yet , the brass work is all shiny and new, the leather without cracks or marks to sully the pattern. But the most startling detail, which you’re not quite sure how you��d missed before, is the pommel, where the first letter of your name entwines with a dragon.

For a gift, it’s certainly an extravagant one and hardly fitting for the third daughter of Borros Baratheon.

You’ve never even had your own saddle before and refusal feels so awfully rude you hardly dare to say it, yet, if Alicent wanted you to travel to the Kingswood with the men, then you should be free to ride like one too.

“That may be so,” you say, chin up, defiant , “but I shall be riding astride or not at all.”

And to be perfectly honest, you didn’t want to be riding around on a lavish gift detailed for a Targaryen either.

What would people think?

What was Alicent thinking?

“You heard the Lady,” Aemond’s voice causes you to start as he appears by your side, his presence enough to force the groom to submit to your wishes without another word.

But you don’t thank him, you’re too busy trying not to think about how he’d asked you to marry him the last time you’d spoke. Yet you can think of little else.

“This is the horse they have given you?” he says, his foot easing onto the bottom rung of the fence, his tone enough to confirm your fears.

“Is there something wrong with her?” you ask, a sinking feeling pulling at your stomach.

“Not if you enjoy unruly beasts.”

You meet his eye, and a smile twitches at his lips before he glances over your shoulder.

“Boy ,” he calls to the stable hand hovering in the background, “is there no other horse to saddle for the lady?”

The boy shrugs, his attention darting around nervously before finally admitting, “the queen requested Flare personally , my prince.”

“Hmm ,” Aemond’s jaw tightens, his finger drumming on the fence as the groom returns with a new saddle. This one black with yet more dragons.

“Have my lady saddled on Ōños and I shall ride Flare,” Aemond tells him.

“But -” the groom half protests, neither wanting to disobey his queen or his prince.

“You'd rather my lady was thrown from the horse?” Aemond says, and it's not a question, his tone is sharp, commanding.

Aemond gets what Aemond wants.

“You need not switch horses with me,” you tell him, when the groom scurries away again, thinking you do not wish to have a prince of the realm thrown from a horse on your account.

But he shrugs, unconcerned, “I am the superior rider, so it only makes sense for you to have the easier horse.”

You can’t help but laugh, amused by the utter certainty of the words coming from his mouth and, even if you were quite sure they were true, it was such an arrogant thing to say that you felt compelled to refute it.

“Tell me,” you say, eyes wide, “is there a reason his grace already considers himself superior when he has never even seen me ride?”

“You have seen my dragon, yes ?”

“Briefly , but this is not a dragon, it's a horse.”

His eye slides to Flare then back to you, “I trained on horseback every day of my childhood before acquiring Vhagar then three times a week after that. How often do you ride, my Lady?”

"Six times a week, when I am home,” you answer, with so much confidence you almost believe it. But you would not be bested yet again, and you were certainly no novice since your father, who’d always longed for sons, had insisted on frequent practice.

A fresh smile quivers at Aemond's lips, his brow raised, "is that so? Then perhaps my lady will need to come to my aid when I am struggling to keep up with her?”

You picture Aemond on a wild bucking horse and can’t help but laugh, “I must say, it shall be difficult to aid his grace if I am too busy making fun of him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt in that regard, Lady Baratheon,” he says, seeming to almost enjoy the prospect, before the groom returns with the new horse, all saddled and ready, and certainly not what you expected.

The horse Aemond had ridden at the tourney was a destrier, strong, fierce and entirely black. But this one is smaller, a palfrey perhaps, with a pure white coat and mane, so bright and unblemished, he almost looks as though he cannot be real.

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, words formed with a gasp.

“Ōños.”

“Is that Valyrian?”

“It means ‘Light’,” he answers, his hand pressing to your lower back, guiding you closer, “he was a name day present from my Grandsire when I was a boy.”

“Hello Ōños,” you whisper, stretching your arm to offer him the scent of your hand and he nuzzles into you, allowing you to stroke the spot right between his big dark eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, moving to pet his neck and run your fingers through the wiry bristles of his glossy mane. “And such a good boy...” you add, admiring him more with each pet, “so gentle... so calm...”

“You offer more praise to this horse than you have ever given your prince,” Aemond says and you’re not sure if he’s scolding you or teasing you, as he moves to ensure your saddle is tight around Ōños waist.

“Are there not ladies enough at court who praise his grace?”

“None that matter .”

“Very well ,” you say, clearing your throat as though your heart isn’t fluttering, “I believe my prince has the most wonderful horse.” Then you laugh, petting Ōños again, “or is that just further praise for you, sweet boy?”

Aemond snorts and you look back at him with yet more laughter.

“If my lady offers crumbs, I shall eat them heartily,” he says, extending his hand to help you mount.

“I have no need for assistance,” you decide, thinking you were finding his company unbearable enough without the touch of his hand, as you take the reins and secure your foot in the stirrup.

But Aemond grasps your waist to help you anyway. Easing you up and over, the skirt of your gown rising to the very top of your thigh with the motion, so you feel the coolness of the air as it hits the bare skin above your stocking.

Gods .

You look down, just in time with Aemond, who reaches eagerly for your hem, as though he is a gentleman.

Yet , as he pulls the skirt back down the length of your leg, his progress is marked with the delicate touch of his fingers in a way that cannot possibly be accidental.

Gods. Gods. Gods.

He meets your frozen stare, his eye dark, and you should say something.

Anything !

But your breath is trapped in your chest, and you can only give thought to the almost unbearable rush of tingles which have hurried excitedly to some deep, unreachable place in your core.

Then he smiles, and it's not a wicked smile, its content , satisfied , and you hate it, almost as much as you hate the way he takes hold of Ōños’ bridle, leading you out into the yard as though nothing is amiss.

Yet, what was the alternative? For him to gloat? Or worse, for him to say one of the thoughts which seemed to race behind the look in his eye?

You didn’t want that . What you wanted, was for you to say something. To react. To scold him. To remind him you were a Lady of house Baratheon and not to be treated as such.

With all of this in mind, and the tingles subsided enough for you to breathe, you shift forward in the saddle, so your words can reach him despite your hushed tone.

“Do not imagine you can take such liberties with me again,” you say, and Aemond stops before he turns to look at you, his smile more wicked than you have ever seen it.

“You give me little credit, Lady Baratheon, my imagination is far more creative than that.”

You frown, not quite understanding his meaning, then understanding it all at once and your gasp is quickly followed by a glare.

“If I told my father what you just did, he would have your hand!”

“If you told your father,” he begins, the wicked look on his face turning decidedly smug, “he would give me your hand, and I’m quite willing to test the theory if you are, my lady?”

He's right, of course , and that only adds more fuel to your temper, though in a yard brimming with people, you can only seethe in silence. Looking at anything but the prince as the morning sun beams down so pleasantly you could scream.

Seven Hells!

You’re beyond grateful when the groom arrives with Flare, providing you momentary relief from Aemond’s unwavering attention, as he moves to inspect his own saddle, before mounting her in one smooth motion which she does not take kindly to.

She stomps in protest, and Aemond pulls at her reins, his hand on her neck, his words low and inaudible in the busy yard, as he gets her under control.

“We should leave before everyone else,” he says when she has calmed, reaching for Ōños’ bridle again and pulling him in time with Flare.

“We should wait,” you insist, glancing to where Ser Maurin is talking with some of the other men, none of them yet mounted on horseback.

"And get stuck trudging through the droppings of a dozen horses all morning?”

Your nose crinkles at the idea and, when Aemond smiles, you imagine he’s thinking something along the lines of, ‘that’s what I thought’ , as he continues to lead you towards the open gates.

When you make it as far as the wheelhouse, you peek in through the slatted windows, catching just a glimpse of your sisters talking excitedly with the queen before Aemond releases your bridle and kicks his horse into a trot.

But you don’t follow, you pull on the reins, stopping Ōños since you’re in little doubt that following Aemond will be a mistake.

Yet, you can’t deny the part of you that wants to do it anyway. Because despite what you like to think about yourself, or honour and decorum, there’s a thrill to Aemond’s company that you find irritatingly compelling.

Why was that? You wonder, thinking how safe and easy a ride would be with Tyland Lannister by your side. But he isn’t even invited, you realise now. It’s only your family, Aemond’s family and the guards.

Drawing your hand across the reins, you half-heartedly tell yourself to turn back towards Ser Maurin, where you will be safe from any further improprieties or proposals of marriage, but that’s not what you do.

Perhaps you can blame Ōños, who reacts quickly to even the slightest hint of pressure from your feet. But that would be a lie.

It's your decision to chase Aemond, and Ōños is only too happy to gallop through the yard, as you were sure he’d done countless times before. And it's reckless to ride like this, with so many people in your path, but you seem to have left all common sense in the stable, so why stop now?

You jump a cart filled with apples, overtaking Aemond’s lead, and he was right . You didn’t want to spend the morning trudging behind the wheelhouse. You wanted to fly, and the Kings Road stretches ahead with barely an obstacle in your path.

Ōños, seeming to sense your excitement, picks up speed with little encouragement, dashing through the gates, his hooves pounding the earth so hard you can feel your hair slipping from its pins.

Your horse at Storms End could never run like this , he’s far too old and far too lazy. But Ōños is so powerful he feels unstoppable, yet you must stop, knowing you will quickly leave the procession behind entirely if you keep going.

You tighten your legs, pulling at his reins and he comes to a halt quickly, obediently, turning when you pull the rein again, so you can look back, and see that Aemond’s horse has barely run half the length of yours.

Instead, she’s picking at the brambled hedges which flank part of the path and Aemond is trying desperately to coax her back into his command.

You stifle your laughter, trotting closer.

“Does his grace require my aid so soon?” you tease, more than a little pleased by the look of frustration on his face.

Aemond bites back a grimace, his words laced with exasperation and spoken in High Valyrian as he pulls tightly on the reins. But Flare gives into his insistence at her own pace, taking one last bite of the sun ripened fruits before moving on.

“Perhaps you should ride at the back of the procession after all?” you tease again, noticing the wheelhouse is now ambling its path through the gate.

“Or perhaps I should abandon Flare with a squire, and we can ride pillion as I’m sure my mother intended?”

“Ha ,” you scoff, your eyes narrowing with a dare which should not be coming from your lips, yet you’re feeling so pleased with the situation that it sneaks out anyway, “you’ll have to catch us first.”

Aemond’s eye darkens, his hand snatching to grab your wrist before missing entirely, “is that a promise?”

You don’t answer but you enjoy the adrenaline which pumps in your veins. Yet, why not enjoy it? For once, you’re the one with the upper hand and it feels good, you want to toy with him like he always toys with everyone else.

Unable to contain your smile, you lead Ōños in a circle around Flare, careful to keep just out of reach before you kick him into another gallop which Aemond tries, but fails, to keep up with.

Yet, as always, Aemond is not interested in losing. So, instead of chasing you for miles of road, he turns, heading back to the gold cloaks who are leading the procession before dismounting to switch horses with what looks like Ser Willis.

His new horse is a deep hazelnut brown and much more obedient than Flare, so now the chase is really on, as he seems to fly towards you without any hesitation on the horse's part.

“Come on,” you say excitedly to Ōños, adrenaline still beating in your veins as you kick him into action, charging down the road and leaving Aemond to race through clouds of dust instead of the ones you’re sure he’s more accustomed to.

You keep your lead, all the way to where the road splits into a fork, and you’re forced to slow into a trot, unsure of which route to take.

“Caught you,” Aemond says, grabbing Ōños’ bridle so he can pull you both towards him and you roll your eyes.

“You didn’t catch us,” you tell him, allowing yourself to feel as smug as Aemond usually is, “I stopped.”

“A promise is a promise, Lady Baratheon,” he tries to remind you, your horses turning in a tight circle to keep you together.

“I don’t recall promising you anything .”

His jaw tightens, frustrated, but his eye smiles, “you’ll deny your prince his reward?”

“I’ll deny a cheater ,” you retort, nodding to the horse between his legs, “you were supposed to be riding Flare.”

He releases Ōños’ bridle, a long breath blowing through his nose, “I did not wish to lose.”

“Nor have you won.”

He laughs, his gaze scraping across your lips, “how about a race then? First to the camp shall choose a forfeit for the loser.”

You scoff, feeling a little uneasy at the prospect.

You were already too far ahead of the wheelhouse and feeling quietly certain that there would have been some raised brows at the way you and Aemond had raced ahead of the procession.

Yet, that’s not what you say, or what’s really holding you back, “I do not know the route.”

“It’s only one road from here to camp and Ōños has done it a hundred times.”

You give him a pointed look, “as have you .”

Aemond bites back whatever expression wants to grace his face, “you’re afraid I’ll win? You have the better horse.”

If you refuse him, it would be as good as admitting you thought he was the superior rider after all, and you were not about to do that . “I’m not afraid.”

“Then prove it.”

“Well...” your heart pounds, “what exactly is the forfeit?”

His smile fills his cheeks, his eye looking as blue as the sky behind him.

“When you win, you can tell me,” he says, and you pretend you’re only half considering the bet as you line Ōños up, so it will be a straight shot when you kick him into action.

“See you there! ” you call over your shoulder, racing ahead and unable to contain the burst of laughter which cackles mischievously from your chest.

Now was your chance to best him once and for all and you were not going to squander it, except , Aemond doesn’t follow behind. He jumps the farmers fence, racing his horse through the field and you really should have known better.

In Cyvasse he was always ten steps ahead, so why should this be any different?

Yet, instead of giving up, you only push harder, pressing Ōños to go faster, leaning into every turn as tightly as possible and trying to keep your eyes ahead instead of searching for a dragon. Perhaps that's what he wanted, for you to lose focus, for you to assume his victory. But he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed winning.

You can see the clearing in the distance, see white tents and staff already milling around to ensure everything is prepared for the queen’s arrival. But you can’t see Aemond and that makes you nervous.

You shift your weight forward, almost crouching to gain momentum, just as Aemond’s horse jumps through the trees, landing mere paces ahead of you on the road.

But, while his horse must slow to right itself after such a jump, you and Ōños are only moving faster.

You speed ahead and you can feel him tight on your heels as you make it right into the centre of camp.

“Woah,” you tell Ōños, who seems intent on charging straight through the clearing and beyond, and you're grinning from ear to ear when you circle back to meet the miserable expression on Aemond’s face.

Victory had never felt sweeter, and you intended to gloat.

“You look quite unhappy, your grace,” you say, panting as you try to catch your breath.

Aemond doesn’t reply, and you suspect he is a sore loser of the worst variety, as he kicks his leg over the horse with a frown, before handing the reins to a groom whose probably been standing around since dawn.

“I only wish everyone was here to see how I beat you,” you add, determined to salt the wound but Aemond’s frown is soon smoothed into a reluctant smile.

"Congratulations,” he says, taking your waist and pulling you from the horse so you’re securely in his embrace.

“Though I must admit,” he whispers, still holding you tightly, “I would much prefer my lady to be the one doing the forfeiting.”

You’d forgotten about that part, winning had been pleasure enough alone but a fresh smile brightens your face before you push his arms away.

“Hmm ,” you say teasingly, strolling through the small stretch of camp with Aemond as your shadow, “what's a good forfeit for the most repugnant man in the world?”

He coughs out a laugh, and you already know precisely what his forfeit needs to be, if you are to make it through this picnic with any sense of decorum, but you don’t say it, not yet .

You keep walking, and quickly make your way past the clearing, to where the forest grows beautifully lush and dense, and if you were to choose a picnic spot, it would be this . Not the cover of a tent with servants to bend to your every whim, but here, where the trees tangle with the undergrowth and the only thing you can hear is the unmistakable chorus of the woodland.

“Are you going to tell me or not?” he says, and his impatience makes you want to hold your tongue for as long as possible, but you take small comfort in knowing you’re just about to annoy him.

“Your forfeit,” you say, turning to look at him, “shall be to stay at least 20 paces away from me for the duration of the picnic.”

It might not be very exciting, but it was the only forfeit which made any sense if you didn’t want to spend the entire day wrapped up in his company.

His eye narrows, his head tilting, “and if I don’t?”

You laugh, half amused, half annoyed, "then you shall be obliged to complete an even more humiliating feat!”

Aemond’s jaw ticks, “such as?”

You glance to where the river rolls lazily in the distance and think of all the times he’s mocked you for that day on the beach, “how about a dip in the water, since you like suggesting it so much?”

Aemond snorts, moving closer, “my lady only wishes to punish me when I think she would have found her forfeit very enjoyable indeed.”

Now it's your turn to snort, “if my forfeit was to marry you, then you are mistaken.”

He grins, his eye meeting yours, “I cannot marry you in the Kingswood, but I do find it interesting that you would conjure the idea so readily.”

“I -” you start, your cheeks reddening but he was right. He hadn't said anything about marriage, that was all you .

Seeming to eat up yet another portion of your embarrassment, he unclasps his cloak, letting it fall to a pile on the forest floor.

“What are you doing?” you say, confused , though your gaze holds a keen interest in the way his long fingers begin loosening the buttons on his doublet.

“You said so yourself, if I cannot stay away from you, then I must take a dip in the river.”

The blood drains from your face, your heart stopping just as you meet the determined look in his eye.

“Because I didn’t think you would do it!” you gasp, and the smile that fills his face is made up entirely of mischief.

“Do you not take your bets seriously, Lady Baratheon?”

“Apparently not as seriously as his grace!” you exclaim, reaching to swat his hands away from his chest and dissuade any further progress along the buttons.

But Aemond is resolute and, as each button comes loose, he steps closer, forcing you to back away.

“My lady must believe I would have ensured she took her forfeit very seriously indeed,” he says, his doublet falling open to reveal the stark white linen of his tunic, the strings bound tightly at his neck.

You take another step away from him, your back colliding with the rough bark of a large tree.

“Do you want to know what it was? Your forfeit?” he asks, slowly loosening the long strings with a single pull.

“No.”

A smile quivers at the edges of his lips, and he inches right into your personal space, while the tree holds you still. And you can’t move, only watch, as his tunic unravels enough for you to see there are no bandages across his chest, only the bruise. Faded to a bloom of green instead of purple and so striking against his alabaster skin that you inhale a sharp breath.

Yet, you’re not looking at that . At least not for too long. You're staring at his hands, as they sink downwards to slide the end of his belt through its loops, each click of his buckle making your heart jump.

“This is absurd,” you whisper, your body tensing.

"Really ?” Aemond’s voice is low, seductive . “When I watched you undress, I found it quite mesmerizing.”

Your eyes flick to meet his and he must see the puzzled look on your face.

He had found you in the water, had he not?

“I was on the clifftop, resting Vhagar,” he says, answering the question which had not yet left your lips, “and just before I turned to leave, there you were. Wearing the black and yellow of house Baratheon.”

He pauses, letting the information sink into your bones, and you can hear the tightness in his breath before he laughs softly and continues, “I already thought it unusual for a high-born lady to be alone, so imagine my surprise when you began to take off all your clothes.”

He watched you. From the very first moment. He watched you.

You remember the way your chemise had billowed from your hands, forcing you to chase it down the beach. On the cliffs, he had certainly not been close enough to see every detail, but he had seen you. Your freedom, a moment that had felt so pure, so private .

Your temper burns and you push him with all your might, the action not surmounting to much considering the man you’re trying to repel, and his strength only serves to frustrate you further.

“You really are the worst man that ever lived!” You say and you mean it, but Aemond only smiles, enjoying the suggestion and possessing not an ounce of shame in his actions, past or present.

“I'd say there’s hardly a man alive who could have resisted watching you.”

Perhaps he was right. But he was the man who had been there that day and, though he could have left without saying a single word, he chose to fly closer, to stand where you could see him. To humiliate you.

Still, that is the least of your concerns as his belt comes free and his hand moves to rest beside your head on the tree, the hairs on the back of your neck pricking to attention.

“You’re out of your mind!” you tell him, thinking there was no way you were going to stand around while he took off all his clothes, and when you push him again, he doesn’t budge. He inches closer, his other hand tangling in your hair.

“From the moment I saw you on that beach, yes, ” he concedes, a spark of warmth flickering across your chest, but you ignore it.

“I hope you jump in the river, and it carries you out to sea!”

Aemond bites back his laughter yet he’s so close you can feel the echo of it rippling across his chest, and smell that all too familiar scent of his skin.

“It would be most unfortunate if I were to die without first kissing my lady, do you not agree?”

“I am not your lady.”

“But you have no objection to the kiss?” he shifts slightly, his nose brushing with yours.

“Yes ,” you’re barely breathing, “I have an objection. I- ”

But Aemond doesn’t want to hear what you’re about to say, he wants to kiss you, and you anticipate the touch of his lips with more desperation than you thought yourself capable of.

Yet , as his head tilts, and you feel the heat of his lips searching for yours, you come to your senses and turn away, his kiss landing on your cheek with a low groan.

Still, it is a kiss, Aemond’s kiss, and even if it hadn’t intended to land as such, it was still warm and delicate on your skin, and you couldn’t ignore the way your body reacted. Wanting more, wanting so much more that you were afraid of your own desires.

“I think his grace is forgetting himself,” you scold, your words no louder than the flutter of a butterfly wing, but really, it is you who is forgetting yourself .

“If I am forgetting anything,” he argues, his breath hot on your cheek, “it is why I did not kiss you sooner.”

“I'd say it’s because I do not want you!”

“Need I remind my lady that she has the most terrible face for deception?” His voice is strained, a single finger pushing along your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"Need I remind his grace that I still find him the most repugnant man in the entire world?”

Or was that just another lie to crumble under his scrutiny? Surely not. No, you find his behaviour mostly smug and sometimes downright appalling. Yet that didn’t stop the way your skin ached for his touch; it didn't stop it for a heartbeat.

“You can remind me every day when we are married,” he promises with a slow, easy smile and, just as you think he might try to kiss you again, you hear a noise. Both of your heads flicking towards the sound.

It’s the wheelhouse, you realise, innocently ambling its way towards the clearing, while you’re standing hot and breathless, pushed up against a tree with Aemond’s clothes half undone and decorum fully discarded.

This was madness! Complete and utter madness! And you only had yourself to blame.

“I’m never marrying you!” you say, resolute , before his gaze returns to yours and he stares at you for a long moment.

“Then my lady must allow me the honour of proving her wrong,” he vows, stepping back so he has room to refasten the strings on his tunic.

You scoff, trying not to look at anything but his face, “I have quite made up my mind on the matter.”

“As have I.”

“This is not a game Aemond, you will not win.”

He pauses, surprised, delighted , “ what did you say?”

His name, you realise. You said his name. Not his grace or my prince or even Prince Aemond, just Aemond.

Your fingers press across your traitorous lips but it's too late to take it back now. So you don’t try. You don’t even dare to say another word.

You’re free to move and you do so assuredly, hurrying back towards camp with your hands brushing through your hair to hide any evidence from your little misadventure in the woods.

Seven Hells!

If Alicent had contrived to force you into Aemond’s company, then she had succeeded entirely.

You’d made one bad decision after another from the moment you’d laid eyes on him in the stable, and if you were being completely honest, you didn't trust yourself not to make another one.

No, what you needed to do was find Cassandra and stick to her ladylike manners for the rest of the day. Perhaps she would even switch places with you in the wheelhouse? Yet, as you think this, you remember how you’d insisted on riding without a side-saddle. Of course you had, because you were just as Septa Orella had always told you. A defiant, ill-tempered girl.

~~~

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tj-dragonblade · 3 months

Text

[FIC] Until We Meet Again

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 2677 Tags: pre-relationship, introspection, mild angst, Dream of the Endless has low self esteem, most of this is just Dream talking circles in his head, happy ending, brief appearance by Lucienne, brief appearance by Matthew

Notes: For my @dreamlingbingo card, square A1 'Trapped in the Frequency', which begged creative interpretation given the centennial frequency of their meetings

Summary: Dream frets over whether or not he could (or should) permit himself to visit Hob more often

On AO3

Dream of the Endless has fumbled a possibility.

It is tormenting him ceaselessly now that it has passed.

"A hundred years, then?" Hob had asked, as their evening at The New Inn had drawn to a close. "Or perhaps we adhere to our original schedule, and meet again in '89?"

Dream, who had been debating internally the past hour as to whether he could alter the story he'd set for them by offering to meet with greater frequency, had faltered. Would Hob even want to meet more often? Perhaps once a century was enough for Hob to partake of his company, to set aside time from his joyously-lived life to entertain Dream's less-than-joyous presence.

To. Tolerate him, for the sake of the story between them, the friendship he so easily proclaimed to Dream as he did to all and sundry. Perhaps more frequent meetings would be an imposition that Hob would not appreciate; Hob had only offered a hundred years or continuing to meet in '89, after all. No matter his own wishes, Dream had stumbled in the moment; he had doubted, and second-guessed, and not spoken of his own thoughts. He ought not to ask for more, he had known, but the idea of waiting another hundred years to see his friend again had also been. Painful.

"Let us keep to our original schedule, and meet again in 2089," he had decided, and Hob had smiled in answer.

"Until 2089, then." His tone had been warm and easy, but there had been tightness around his eyes and a waver in his voice that now, later, makes Dream wonder. Was Hob disappointed by the answer? Had he wished to meet with greater frequency, now that 'friend' was an accepted status between them? But he had said nothing of convening more often; was he perhaps displeased by the nearer date? Ought Dream to have kept to the hundred-year interval and shifted their story to accommodate an altered year?

No. No, he decides, gripping the stone rail of his balcony, staring out over the grey cloud cover shrouding his realm. He and Hob Gadling meet in the White Horse every hundred years, the seventh of June in the year '89. The story has suffered a derailment in Dream's thirty-three year tardiness and the closing of the White Horse during the interim; Dream will put them back on track by meeting again in 2089, even if the location must shift.

That is how their story goes.

Dream will not change it further, no matter his own wants.

~ Dream cannot stop thinking about changing it.

His delayed meeting with Hob Gadling had been an unexpected boon of peace and welcome. In the aftermath of retrieving his tools, in the midst of repairing the realm and trying to regather his subjects, his sister's reminder of the missed appointment had filled him with a certain trepidation. He had parted from Hob abruptly and unpleasantly when last they met. Hob had issued a challenge, to Dream's retreating back in the rain, and through no choice of his own Dream had been unable to meet with him as next scheduled and admit the truth of Hob's accusation. To Hob, it must appear that he had still been wroth, had refused his challenge and stayed away out of spite. He'd had little reason to believe Hob would still wish to see him, little reason to believe Hob would be found at the White Horse these decades later; every reason to dread finding him, every reason to fear that he never would.

But he had steeled himself for unpleasantness and disappointment and set out, and finding the White Horse shut down in disrepair had hurt in ways he was not prepared to articulate. A connection lost, a tie severed, another relationship ruined by his own hand. Except there had been wisps of dreams clinging to the fence about the old pub, steeped in red paint and the passing of years, dreams of hope and stubborn patience and second chances. Dream had followed the arrow they directed him to, hope buoyed slightly despite himself, and had found the New Inn where Hob, indeed, was waiting for him more than three decades past the appointed time.

And Hob had greeted him with a smile, had beamed even brighter to be called 'friend' by Dream, had set aside his work and given Dream his time. To be met with such warmth and welcome was more than Dream had expected, more than he deserved, but he had been. Grateful, all the same.

Never before had he taken such pleasure in one of their meetings, never before had he realized how much he truly enjoyed them, how much he. Enjoyed, Hob's company. He had lingered, listening to Hob's stories, longer and longer, Hob indulging him far past the afternoon and evening, well into the night.

He had been reluctant to call their reunion to a close, to relinquish the warmth and peace that had settled into him over the course of it.

He longs, now, to experience it again.

~ His missing arcana and the existence of a dream vortex and the damage to his realm, they wear on him. He is stymied in his function, faced with questions and reminders of his absence at every turn, authority slipping through his fingers unexpectedly and leaving him off-balance, overly-harsh in his insistence that he knows what is best. When he discovers a ghost living in his realm and a child conceived of its presence, he is tired. The emotions that rise in the aftermath of evicting Lyta Hall and her dead husband, of Rose denouncing him, they leave him aching for some unspoken solace, and it is Hob and his welcoming smile that rise in his memory again.

But that is not their story, to seek comfort in one another's presence during hardship, and he has other matters still to attend to. He owes an apology to Lucienne; he has been intractable and unkind in his dealings with her, undeservedly. She is gracious in accepting, and brings with her good news in the form of Fiddler's Green returned, and then he is left with one more wayward nightmare to deal with and a vortex whom he must kill.

He is grateful, that it does not come to that; grateful that Lucienne and Unity Kincaid bring him an alternative solution at the very last moment. Their solution brings answers that enrage him, that wound deep to the core of him, and once more, he finds himself wishing, when all is said and done and his sibling has been warned, to sit with his friend and share his tribulations.

It is an absurd wish, for again—that is not their story. Why does he yearn so strongly for a thing they have never had?

Hob would. Commiserate, in his displeasure, he is somehow certain.

But it is not yet 2089.

~ He yearns, inexplicably, to tell Hob the full truth of his last hundred years. He had not given it when last they met; it had still felt shameful, humiliating, an illustration of his failure in his duty and his function. Yet now, somehow, the thought of telling Hob…it appeals, to unburden himself of the story, to borrow the sturdy strength of Hob's shoulders to halve the weight of it from his own.

That is never how their meetings have gone. Hob regales him with tales of his century and Dream listens. He has volunteered so little each time, content to collect Hob's stories and confirm his wish to continue.

That is their story. What right has he to ask that it change?

"Stories are not static, my lord," Lucienne reminds him gently, when he confides to her the outline of his dilemma. "A story is different to every listener who hears it, to every reader who reads it; a story grows or changes or turns inside out with every retelling. A story need not be exempt from these truths simply because it is yours."

Lucienne, as she so often is, as he has seen more and more clearly since his return, is correct.

He had seen fit after all to change Gault's story, quite recently.

Perhaps, should Hob be amenable, their story might change as well.

~ Surely Hob, who had named him 'friend' long ago, who had seen his loneliness and dared to comment upon it, surely Hob would not be opposed to seeing him outside the established schedule of their meetings? Hob had been glad of his visit, when so few would take pleasure in his company. Surely Hob would be glad again, if he should seek him out before the appointed time?

But perhaps Hob was only pleased with his company because it was so infrequent. Perhaps greater familiarity would inevitably breed contempt; meeting more often would provide more and more opportunity for Hob to discover and observe all of Dream's many flaws and shortcomings, to find him lacking, to cool the warmth of his friendship into indifference and finally dislike.

And Dream. Would not lose, what he has only just gained.

~ Hob had still been waiting three decades past the appointed time, when Dream had come late to their meeting. Hob had fought to keep the White Horse open, had acquired and maintained the New Inn when that failed, had ensured signage that Dream might find his way. Hob had made an effort.

Hob had deemed Dream worth the effort.

Hob, who does not know any of his names, nor who he is.

Hob, who loves life, who loves living it, however he chooses. Would he choose to meet more often, to spend more hours of his precious life in Dream's company, if he knew it to be a possibility?

"I mean. You could just ask him?" Matthew suggests, as though it is the obvious choice. He hops a little sidestep on the rail of Dream's balcony, fluffs his feathers, settles them again. "Look. Boss. The guy waited thirty years and he was happy to see you, right?"

"Yes," Dream agrees, glancing sideways at his raven, weary of the grey landscape spreading before him.

The clouds have not lifted in weeks.

"So what's the harm in stopping by to see him off-schedule, find out if he'd like to meet up more often too? My gut says he would."

"Your gut?" Dream lifts an eyebrow, does not hide how the corner of his mouth quirks up in turn.

"Yeah." Matthew ruffles his feathers again, gives a little caw that would have been a cough, were he still human. "Usually steers me right, and I think that, uh. I think it'll steer you right, too."

"Thank you, Matthew." Dream turns his gaze back to the gloom-shrouded sweep of his realm, pondering.

~ Matthew's advice is sound. Lucienne's advice is sound. Dream knows this. He hesitates still, unwilling to voice the concern at his core to either of them. Is Hob's pleasure in his company solely due to its infrequence? Will Hob, who had dared to name him friend before Dream had been ready to admit it, grow tired of Dream's foibles and failings if given the chance? As so many others have?

There is only one way to find out.

~ "My friend!"

The brilliance of Hob's beaming smile washes over Dream, a deluge of warmth, and he can feel the sun breaking through the clouds back in the Dreaming.

"Hello, Hob."

The yearning at the very core of him for the peace and warmth he had known in Hob's company has at last eclipsed the uncertainties he still holds. Perhaps Hob will tire of his company in the future. Perhaps he will not. In the meantime, perhaps Dream might have another taste of that which he craves.

"I did not expect to see you again so soon! Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

The way that concern—concern. On his behalf—blossoms in Hob's face, his voice, has Dream hastening to assure him.

"All is well, Hob Gadling. Only. I am given to understand that friends may meet more often than we have been accustomed to."

Hob's face blooms in a slow journey from surprise to delight, his eyes wide and shining, joy in their depths. "True enough, true enough." His grin is a helpless thing, automatic, a pleasant softness underpinning its brightness. "My friend."

He clearly takes great pleasure in saying it, in being permitted the claim.

Dream is assured of his welcome at this point and avails himself of the seat across from Hob, settling comfortably. He is considering how best to broach his topic, but Hob is already speaking.

"I'm glad you dropped by," he says, his smile reined in but sincere, eyes warm and earnest. He had been marking papers again—a habit to do so here in the pub, he had told Dream last time—and sets them aside, giving Dream his full attention. "You're welcome any time, I hope you know. Friends definitely get together more than once a century, if they want." His hand has strayed to his ear, toying with it absently. "So, uh. If you want. I'd be delighted to see you more often."

How easily Hob gives him the answers he seeks; he need not even pose the question. He is pleased, relieved, happy in the affirmation he has received, and offers up his own decorous smile. "I would be. Agreeable, yes."

He is graced yet again with the bright warmth of Hob's smile. "Wonderful!"

It is, indeed, wonderful. He had spent so long debating over whether to allow himself this…indulgence, whether Hob would want this; it would be easy now in hindsight to berate himself for wasting the time but here in this airy corner of the pub, in this space he already thinks of as theirs, the self-recrimination is not quite able to take hold.

Hob leans forward conspiratorially. "Would you like to hear the absolutely brilliant theories my students have been spinning about old Billy Caxton?"

"I would," Dream decides, for listening to Hob's tales is a pleasure, one which will put him at ease before offering his own.

Hob slips easily into his role as storyteller, regaling Dream with anecdotes pulled from the days he devotes to shepherding young dreamers in their waking hours, guiding their minds in pursuit of knowledge. He is animated, enthusiastic, expressive; it is a joy to watch his face, his hands, and Dream is pleasantly aware of his own smile as Hob winds to an end.

"Anyway, I love that I can just say 'I was there!' when I get a little too specific in my lectures these days and they'll think nothing of it, laugh it off, 'dear old Professor Gadling he's such fun!' Definitely makes my life easier." He shakes his head with a fond smile, takes a draught of the beer at his elbow. "Christ, there I go again. I think we both know I'll talk all night, given the chance, so please tell me to shut up if you've got something to say, or if you just get tired of it."

"Your stories are a comfort," Dream assures him, smoothly taking hold of the opening afforded him. "One I sorely missed in 1989." He can feel the way that Hob goes still, at that, and he steels himself, dreading and anticipating his own words in equal measure. "I would tell you, Hob Gadling, of why I was unable to keep our previous appointment." He glances up, into the warm brown of Hob's eyes. "It is. Not a pleasant story."

A myriad of emotions flicker in Hob's expressive face, eager curiosity, wariness, old hurt and new worry; he schools them quickly, holding Dream's gaze with earnest and sober intensity. "If it's something you want to tell, then I. I should like to listen, to hear it."

Dream is grateful, for everything about this man who has dared to name him friend; it is time he is shown the regard he is due.

"Yes. But. First, I would tell you. Who I am."

= Started: 6/10/24 Drafted: 7/4/24 Posted: 7/7/24

#TJs Fics #Dreamling #Sandman #Dreamling Bingo 2024 #wip: frequency

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heartthrobin · 1 year

Text

catch me if you can

hobie brown x female!reader

wc: 1k

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, a questionable attempt at british slang, Miles' pov (it makes sense i promise), established relationship, Miles is a little baby boy angel, implied chubby/thick reader, Miles' 'jealous of Hobie' dynamic

an: this idea popped into my brain as i was trying to sleep last night so here it is :) it's actually funny cause i'm a hobie brown girl first and human second but have been working on so much miguel content. go figure. remember to reblog and comment to support your favourite writers :) THIS IS A REPOST! i woke up this morning and the original post literally disappeared from my page :( sorry y'all

summary: you and Hobie are absolutely incorrigible.

Miles didn't like the sound of Hobie Brown.

and now that he's faced with the man in question, he doesn't particularly like the sight of him either.

the spider-society foyer is a menagerie of characters, different suits and capes and hairstyles and --horses? but Miles can't move his line of sight off Hobie's back where he just bumped his too tall frame against Gwen's much shorter one.

she stumbles sideways and laughs, and Miles wants to throw a fit right there.

Hobie stops walking. his figure tightens and his shoulders draw up.

Miles frowns in confusion and follows his gaze.

under the archway of the door towards where he assumes is this Tio Miguel's office stands some spider-women, three in varying outfits.

there's one in a forest green suit, your eyes have found Hobie's. they're wide, round in something Miles can place most akin to fear.

you're beautiful, he can tell that easily: all full-bodied around the edges and soft in the face.

you surprise him when you turn on your heel, running out only three wide steps before spitting out a web onto the nearest ledge of those that lingered above his head and hoisting yourself up.

the green suit blurs, swinging over hundreds of spider-people and you glance back over your shoulder in panic.

more surprising than that, Miles finds that Hobie is chasing you.

his long thin legs stride down the walkway, abandoning Gwen when he too sends a thick white web at a tall pillar and flies across the foyer. he sticks to another dais and climbs wildly along walls after your escaping figure.

Miles jaw is loose, face dripping in concern.

somewhere behind him Jessica sighs. "those two are incorrigible."

his head is flicking back and forth between his companions, unsure if he's the only one who can see what's unfolding. your figure is climbing desperately up the side of the wide window, you're fast but Hobie is gaining ground.

Gwen and Pavitr are walking still ahead of him, arms swinging by their sides. he steps quickly, eyes never leaving the chase in the air.

"is nobody seeing this?" Miles' hands motion up to the air, they're frantic. "Hobie is chasing s-some ... poor woman!"

glancing back over her shoulder, Gwen's eyes finding the two colourful blurs, she draws to a halt. "i guess we should wait for them. they're so annoying sometimes."

Pavitr's head lolls to the side, an endeared expression twisting into his face. "i think they're adorable."

your grunts can still be heard echoing down the chamber, Hobie's too. you yelp as Hobie just misses your leg, escaping his clutch by swinging low over a random spider's head. the spider grumbles up at you.

"he's ..." Miles shakes his head, fingertips twitching against his web shooter. "is nobody gonna help her? i-i'm gonna help--"

"help?" Gwen and Pavitr were looking at him like he'd grown a second head.

there's a sharp shriek from above, he finds you mid-air. a wide web has enclosed over your shoulders, locking your arms against your side and you're hoisted back against Hobie where he's perched along a wall.

Miles hand jumps up to web his way to you when Gwen's hand closes over his wrist. she just shakes her head at him. "chill, Miles."

he looks back up.

you crash against Hobie's chest with enough force to jostle him off the wall. your joined figures slide down the side of the wall to land a few feet from where Miles stands.

your shoulders are shaking. if you weren't so low on the ground, he might not have recognised that you were ... laughing?

"got'cha, luv."

Hobie's forehead meets yours gently. you wriggle in the webbing that's bound you.

"took you longer than this morning." your voice crumbles out between giggles.

a ring-clad hand finds your chin, tilting your face against his. you press up on tippy-toes, teetering like you're drunk with his kiss. Hobie's hand is creeping over your waist and dipping you backwards under the influence of his height.

"i mean, we've barely been gone a couple hours." Gwen mutters at the sight. Pavitr is holding his hands up to his chest and lets out a soft "they're so cute."

confusion is still tugging on Miles' mind but it's drowned by the waves of relief coursing like coffee down his gullet and warming his stomach.

"they ... they do this often?" he asks tentatively.

"every damn day."

his gaze flickers between Hobie and Gwen. "so they're ... dating?"

Pavitr nods. "Hobie doesn't like labels. but pretty much."

"so," he is feigning nonchalance as far as he can carry it. he speaks at Gwen. "you and him ... you're not--?"

she's affronted. "me and Hobie?"

Pavitr is laughing.

"no!" she clarifies, clearly put out. "that's so weird ..."

Miles is practically blind with relief.

you've clearly been detangled from Hobie's webs when you bounce over to where Miles is standing amongst the others.

"Gwendoline!" your voice is light and animated, you're panting slightly from your chase.

Gwen grumbles like she hates the name, but smiles sideways under the weight of your hand ruffling her hair. you bump into Pavitr's side and he greets too.

they smile like they love you.

your eyes find him. "you must be Miles!"

he discovers you're as keen on physical touch as your boyfriend, hoisting him tightly against your chest before pulling back: holding him at arm's length to examine him.

"you're taller than I thought you'd be."

"you should see mans fly, babe," Hobie's hands slink into his jacket pockets. Miles thinks he's referring to him. "wicked with the webs, i tell ya'."

he blushes at the compliment. you're smiling at him like you're proud. "oh, yeah? maybe boss will put us on a mission together and i can check these moves, hey Morales?"

Miles nods. "sure."

you let go of his shoulders, eyes finding your boyfriend's.

skipping ahead of the kids, your hand slips into Hobie's and he leans down to kiss your temple. "how was your day, rockstar?" he hears you ask.

Gwen slides in beside Miles. they start walking again and she smiles at him.

he returns it. ahead of him, you're teetering on your toes so you're walking completely pressed against the side of your boyfriend.

Miles finds that maybe he doesn't dislike Hobie as much as he thought.

comment and repost if you enjoyed <3

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#hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown atsv #hobie brown #hobie x reader #hobie spiderverse #atsv hobie #spider punk #spider punk x reader #spider punk x you #spider punk x y/n #spider punk smut #hobie brown smut

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getinthecar-elizabeth · 1 month

Text

Pairing: Geralt × reader

Title: Solace

Summary: Geralt shows up at your cabin after a long time. (Fluff)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been so busy this week that I haven't had the time to do anything. An outbreak of a cold hit the town's children and I was going up and down treating them since I was a herbalist, a trade learned from my mother. I didn't live in town but in a cabin outside of town. It sat in an open field surrounded by trees. I was in the small barn that housed my only horse. I also used it as a storage room for tools and firewood. I was checking how much wood I had left and it was not much. The remaining bundle would last me about two days. I haven't had a chance to gather wood and I used a lot to prepare medicine for the town's people.

I exited the barn and approached Nisy, my horse. I normally let her roam around during the day knowing she won't go too far. Even if she left she always came back before sundown. I brushed her golden brown coat as I spoke.

"We're almost out of firewood. Only about two days' worth left. This cold has taken up a lot of my resources. I'll have to go gather more soon, and some herbs too."

Nisy whined as if she understood me. I spoke to her often. She was the only companion I had out here unless I had a visitor. As I was focused on Nisy I felt a tingling sensation run down the middle of my back. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and goosebumps appeared on my forearms. There was only one person who could bring out this kind of reaction from my body. It's how I could tell he was close. My hand stopped mid brush and my heart skipped a beat.

I slowly turned around and my eyes landed on a tall figure clad in black standing on the edge of the forest in front of my cabin. The first thing that confirmed that it was him was his white shoulder-length hair. He stood next to his horse, Roach. His hand held the reins of the horse.

I was frozen where I stood, unbelieving of what I was seeing. It had been almost 5 years since I last saw him. He left when I was still asleep last time, to avoid saying goodbye.

He tugged on Roach's reins and started walking towards me. He stopped a few inches in front of me. His height towered over mine. My head barely reached the top of his shoulder. His amber eyes did not leave my face. I could see remorse, regret and adoration in them.

I was at a loss for words. I was overcome by emotions: disbelief, anger, and hurt, but the dominant feeling was the fact that I missed him. A single tear ran down my cheek and I walked into him. His arms immediately incased my trembling body as I silently sobbed into his chest. My hands grasped the sides of his shirt. His chin sat atop my head.

"I missed you too," his deep raspy voice said.

We stood in our embrace for a long time. When I finally had my wits about I pulled back and looked into his eyes. I cupped his cheek and then brushed my fingers through his dirty hair.

"You smell so bad," I sniffed.

His lips lifted into a small smile and he chuckled. "I know," he said.

After admiring his face and convincing myself that I wasn't dreaming I grabbed his hand and led him into the cabin. He sat down on one of the dining chairs as I made him a meal. I put a lot of effort into it, knowing he didn't have home-cooked meals often. As he ate, I prepared a bath for him. I filled the large tub to the brim with water and poured bath salts into it.

After he finished eating I led him into my bedroom and the conjoined bathing room. My bathing room had two doors, one led into my bedroom and another into the passageway that joined most of my cabin. I waited as he stripped naked in front of me. I gulped as my eyes drank of his amazing physique. Geralt was built like a god. He stepped into the bathtub and sat down. He groaned as the warm water engulfed his body. I picked up his clothes and placed them in a washing basket by the door. I was about to leave when he said, "Stay."

I grabbed a stool and sat by the bathtub. I grabbed a sponge and started washing his neck and back. I could feel him melt into my touch. I then gave him the sponge so he could wash the rest of his body as worked on washing and detangling his hair. Once he was clean and the water started to look like swamp water Geralt stepped out of the bathtub. I handed him a towel to dry himself and I drained and washed the tub.

He followed me back into the bedroom, and I gave him a set of clean, fresh clothes. For some unknown reason, I always kept clothes for him. I guess deep down I always hoped he would come back every time he left, which he did, no matter how long he would be gone.

He looked strange in the home clothes. They were not like the leather amour he usually wore.

"These are quite comfortable," he said observing the clothes.

"I made them myself," I said.

"Thank you," his amber eyes landed on my face.

"You were gone so long this time," my voice cracked as I spoke. He would be gone for 2, maybe 3 years at a time. But now he had been gone for almost five years.

Geralt sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. A lot has been happening lately," he apologized.

I found myself lying next to him on the bed. My head lay on his chest, and his arm wrapped around my back as he drew patterns on my side. He told me the story of how he saved a knight and now had a baby on the way thanks to the "Law of Surprise." He told me about Jaskier, the bard. I'd heard stories in town of a bard who travelled with a witcher but never took them seriously. I was not one for gossip after all.

"Jaskier sounds like fun," I said looking into his amber eyes with a cheeky grin.

Geralt rolled his eyes at my words, "I'm sure you two would get along quite well," he said.

Geralt was not the type to let people in, so this bard must have been quite special if he let him tag along.

When I first met Geralt, he was in town looking for a place to stay, but no one was willing to take him in because they feared or rather, hated him. I had just lost my mother to an unknown illness when I saw him outside a bar with his horse. I was low on many things, including money.

"A storm is coming. You should find shelter," I said to him.

"No inn will provide lodging to a witcher," his raspy voice answered me.

"How much are you willing to pay?" I asked him.

He raised an eyebrow at me. He probably thought I was joking. A young girl like myself, talking to a witcher.

When he realized that I was serious he brought out a bag of coins. I nervously took it from his hand and looked inside. The money was enough to hold me off for a month considering I lived alone now.

"Follow me," I said to him.

He silently followed behind me as I walked to the blacksmith in town. He stood outside as I entered the shop.

"I've come for my horse," I said to the man.

"You just sold her to me. You don't have any money remember?" He sneered.

"I do now," I held up the bag of coins.

"16 pieces of silver," he said.

"What? That's twice the amount I sold her to you for," I said appalled.

"She's mine now and I can sell her for however much I want. I'm sure someone is willing to pay that much for her," he shrugged.

"You know I just buried my mother," I pleaded with him.

"And I'm sorry for your loss. But business is business," he shrugged.

I pressed my lips at the smug look on his face. But soon the smile was replaced by terror as he looked behind me.

"Witcher," he said causing me to turn around. "What are you doing here?" He looked ready to piss his pants.

"I kill monsters," Geralt said. "And I'm pretty sure men who take advantage of innocent women in need are considered monsters." He gave the blacksmith an unimpressed look.

The man gulped.

"8 pieces of silver," he suddenly said.

I was about to agree when Geralt spoke up again, "The girl just lost her mother."

"6 pieces of silver," the smith looked at me nervously.

I smiled at him, "deal."

He hurried to the back to get my horse and I counted out the money for him. He came back with the horse trotting behind him and handed me the reins. I gave him the money and then exited the shop, Geralt behind me.

"Thank you," I said to Geralt.

"Hmm," he hummed and nodded slightly at me.

We got on our horses and rode out to my cabin. At that time I was looking for a means to survive while Geralt was just looking for a place to lay his head. Neither of us had any idea that we would find solace in each other.

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#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher x reader #henry cavil x reader

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lunajay33 · 7 months

Text

New World🍂Part.4

Summary: Things go wrong when you’re stuck on the highway and Daryl has been acting strange ever since you told him you loved him

Part.3

•Masterlist•

Along the way we had to ditch Daryl’s truck and now he was on his motorcycle leaving you to ride with Shane, but you all had to stop due to the road block and the RV breaking down……again

It’s been a hard few days the drive was tiring, a heard of walkers came threw and now Sophia was missing and people have been out looking for her for a day now, you were now out with Rick, Shane and Carl helping look when you came across a beautiful deer

You held carls hand as you both slowly approached the deer as we got closer he stood infront of you admiring the little magical moment as Shane and Rick watched

Then a bang was heard and you felt a boiling pain in your side, you looked down seeing blood quickly seeping from your shirt

You fell to the ground as Rick and Shane ran over putting pressure on your wound, you were so confused everything was a blur, the shouts your vision, everything

“What’s hap…happening?” Dazed you faintly heard another man approach then everything went dark

Feeling shaken you opened your eyes seeing Shane frantically running with you in his arms

“Ya hold on, we ain’t losing no one else ya hear me?”

You couldn’t answer nothing felt right

~~~~~~~~~

You woke up feeling hot, hair sticking to your face you tried to sit up but screamed out in pain

“You need to stay down dear” an older man said as he gently pushed me back down

“What happened, where am I?”

“You were shot, this is Hershel he’s gonna help you” you looked to your right to see Shane sitting by the bed, maybe Shane wasn’t that bad after all

“I need Daryl, please” you pleaded scared something might happen and you won’t have him in your finally moments

“I’ll find him” a girl in the corner said as she left the room

Then everything felt cold and you passed out again

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daryl’s pov

We were walking out in the woods lookin for Sophia when we heard a gun shot, there was a feeling in my chest that something happened but she was with Shane and Rick she should be fine and it was only one shot

We kept walking when a girl came riding up on a horse knocking out a walker

“Who’s Daryl?” She asked in a hurry

“Who’s askin?” How the hell did she know my name

“Y/n’s been shot you need to come with me” usually I wouldn’t trust this but she knew her name and I couldn’t risk it, I threw my bow over my shoulder and hoped on the horse

We rode off for a while till we came to an old farm house, rode right up to the front door where Rick and carl came out

I jumped off and tried pushing past to go in but Rick held me back

“What the hell happened?” I asked feeling angry, scared

“We were looking at a deer and Otis was tracking it, bullet went straight threw, grazed my shoulder and went right into her side” Carl explained

“She’s been in and out” Rick said as he led me inside to a room where she was laying, pale as snow, a sheen of sweat covered her skin

I sat my crossbow down and sat on the bed next to her, Shane was in the corner and a man with white hair was coming in

“Will she be okay?” I asked pushing her hair back

“She’s getting weak, her blood pressure is dropping, I’ve gotten a few fragments out but I can’t get some she’s lost too much blood”

“Giver mine, we’re the same, take it” I said ripping my shirt up readying for it

“Are you sure?”

I nodded as he came over and put the needle in, making me think about what’s happened between us lately

She told me she loved me, I didn’t say it back, don’t know why she’d say that, why would she love me she could hold out and wait for anyone, someone good she can’t love me…..no one can, and now I can barely look at her without feeling a tightness in my stomach, my heart clenching when I see her eyes full of worry

When the walkers came through the highway I couldn’t find her, all I heard was a scream and I thought she was gone and she would’ve died thinking I was…..well I don’t know what I feel but I know I can’t lose her

Hershel went on with the surgery now that she had the blood transfusion and stitched her up now I was just waiting for her to wake up….if she’d wake up

~~~~~~~~~

Normal pov

You woke up with a thumping headache and a sharp pain in your side, all the memories of what happened came flooding back, you looked around frantic but still so weak

No one was around so you got up slowly trying to maneuver yourself without ripping open your side, you managed to to get up and walk out to the front door, the fresh air was nice

You sat on the top step of the porch and let the air blow across your face cooling you down as you felt a lump in your throat

It’s been so hard lately, one thing after another keeps happening and you didn’t know how much longer you could take it

Tears slide down your cheeks and dropped onto your thighs, someone must have changed you cause you were in baggy shorts and an oversized shirt

You just felt like a burden to everyone now, you were looking for Sophia and you got injured and maybe she was out there dead now because everyone was too focused on you

You wiped your tears as you saw Daryl come walking towards the house, seeing tents were set up near by everyone must be here now

“The hell are ya doin out of bed?” He asked with a bit of anger to his voice

You didn’t answer, too tired mentally and physically you respond

“Y/n? Are ya okay?” You just shrugged finally looking at him

“Come on ya need to stay in bed” he said picking you up slowly and bringing you back inside to the bed

“I missed ya” he said as he sat next to you

“Why?” After his treatment and avoidance of you lately felt like he didn’t care anymore, he’s never done that to you before

“Why? Cause yer my best friend, yer all I got” he said confused

“Didn’t seem like that the past few days” you groaned as a pain shot from your side

“ ‘m sorry”

It was silent between you both as the tears welled again

“I’m tired Daryl, I’m so tired”

“Told ya, ya need to sleep”

“No, I’m tired, I should have stayed at the CDC with Jacqui, I don’t wanna do this anymore” you whined

“Don’t speak like that, I ain’ lettin ya give up, ya can’t, yer my person peach, please don’t leave me” he whispered as he felt a pain in his chest, seeing you like this for the first time trying to give up made his heart hurt

“I’m sorry D, im just scared, when I got shot all I could think about was you, how if I died you wouldn’t be there, how you were ignoring me and that would be our last memory, I just don’t wanna hurt anymore Daryl, I love you too much for you to ignore me” he wiped you tears away and held your cheek

“I luv ya too, I should’ve said it ‘fore, just never had someone love me like you do” he said as he leaned forward and placed a quick gentle kiss to your lips

It was a small kiss but a big step for him, he pulled back and you were both smiling

“Ya promise to never give up” he asked pleading

“I’ll try Dixon, for you I’ll try”

—///—///—///—///—///—///—

Part.5<-

If you wanna be a part of the taglist lmk in the comments and what you’d like to see more next in the story

Taglist: @thebadbatch2022 @deansapplepie @writer-ann-artist @ghostboneswrites

#daryl dixion imagine #twd daryl #daryl dixon #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #twd fluff #twd rick #twd michonne #twd negan #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon smut #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x reader

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calummss · 4 months

Text

Miss | Nell Jackson

masterlist

summary: kidnapped your top priority was to make your way back home. meeting nell jackson wasn’t one

pairing : lesbian! nell jackson x wlw reader

words: 1.6k

a/n: first fic on anti depressants so if it sucks take it up with my doctor lmaoo. NOT PROOFREAD

I had a good life. Franky, nothing to complain about. I lived a life others would play dress up as and pretend. I put on the same clothes, only more expensive, and was not allowed to show flaws in my performance. However I never planned on fucking up this bad.

☆‬

The door was left unguarded. Both the men as good as dead if it weren’t for the snoring that could wake up a lion’s den. It was the first time in weeks that they had made a blunder, their ego so high they forgot how low their intelligence was.

‘Come on, Y/n. Come on!!!!’

The chair you sat in let out a squeak as you slowly lifted up your body so that you were standing, bringing your arms to your front by popping your legs through the hole.

‘This will do until now. Can’t fucking untie myself. Why? I can’t waste time on this knot, can I?’ You shook your head, pressing your lips together, lifting your foot and gently shifting your weight. You scrunched your face with every move, so tense with fear you might never leave that room like you had planned over and over in your mind. It was now or never. Your parents surely already alerted everyone. That their daughter was missing. That the heir to the throne had been taken from her castle.

Carefully you put your hand on the door handle and steadily pulled it open until the slit was big enough for you to slip through. Just as carefully as before, you pulled the door shut, breathing out as you heard the door lock. But as you turned around you stood face to face with a woman. She was dressed as a man, her big eyes capturing you as you felt your escape plan crumble.

“What are—“

“Shhh.” You quickly covered her mouth, feeling her hot breath on the back of your hand as your heart began to pound, your chest rising and falling against hers. You pulled back until you saw her eyes again and just as you were about to fall into them you retrieved your hand, bowed your head and apologised.

You raced down the stairs of the tavern, facing the floor as you made your way through the crowd of dirty men, laughing at the jokester. As you went through the door and saw the grey sky, you pondered which way led to the capital, eager to get back to your family. Choosing to go left, your feet snake in the mud. Just as you were going to take another step you heard that familiar voice again.

“Miss!”

You ignored her. Did she know who you were? Was she going to bring you back? You couldn’t risk it.

“Miss!”

You refused to turn around.

“Miss.” You felt her presence next to you as the legs of a white horse appeared next to you. “Are you going to continue to ignore me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you heading?”

“Capital.”

“You mean London?”

You stopped in your tracks, “What other capital could I be talking about?”

“I can take you.”

“I’m sure you can .”

“London is a two month ride from here. You, Miss, are on foot.”

“I am very much aware,” you stomped ahead.”Wait a minute.” You turned around, standing face to face with her horse before looking up. “You look familiar.”

“So do you.” She fired back, her quickness of it making you unsure if she was trying to jest or if she was speaking the truth.

“I don’t.” You gave her a petty smile, her most remarkable shade of brown eyes never leaving your face as her softened eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“You look like that princess.”

“And I think you are Nell Jackson. The famous highway woman everyone’s been talking about.”

“Have you?” She asked.

“What?”

“Talked about me?” She smirked ever so slowly, her elbow resting on her knee as she leaned forward.

You cleared your throat. “Until recently I suppose I have, why?”

“Just making conversation, Princess Y/n.”

‘I am not the princess.”

“Yes you are.”

“God you are so aggravating, Nellie Jackson.” You spat at her, hoping your nastiness would let her take the hint and leave you alone, even if your journey ahead would be made easier with her help, you couldn’t risk it.

“Don’t call me Nellie.” She sat the same as she had minutes ago. Barely moving a muscle as she sat on top of the carriage that seemed to carry a few more people since you could see more than one pair of eyes glance from behind the curtains.

“Don’t call me princess.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Good day.”

You lifted your shoes out of the mud and continued treading down the path but the faint sound of wheels and a breathing horse spied your every move. You refused to let her win. After all she was in fact a highway woman. You were a princess. A royal never gave up.

“You sure are stubborn, Y/n.”

“Fine,” you mumbled to yourself before stomping towards the carriage and onto the front seat, sitting next to Nell as she eyed you up and down with that same smirk that made you want to grab them and rip them off. “Take me to London then, Nellie Jackson.”

“As you wish, mi lady.”

☆‬

It had been around three weeks since Nell had offered to take you to London, her accent having indicated to you that she knew the place very well. You didn’t want to admit it but you grew fond of her. You caught yourself taking prolonged looks at her. Whether she was doing some heroic things or simply nothing. She had captivated you. Whenever you made dinner it was the two of you having fun whilst the others kept busy. She taught you how to shoot a gun. You could still feel her body behind you, her arms guiding yours.Her breath clashing with your neck. You stopped calling her Nellie the day you met her, she really disliked it for some reason. Occasionally you would call her Nellie to strike a playful fight that always ended with her hands on your body. Your heart was warming up to these memories. You knew you couldn’t like her but your heart wasn’t in the mood to discuss.

As you were riding through the forest the sudden sound of guns fired into the air, holding your carriage. You pulled back the curtains to see three masked men nearing themselves. Nell jumped straight into action and fought them off one by one but didn’t notice the concealed weapon from the man beside her.

“No!” You shoved her away from your body just as the bang sounded.

Then everything went silent. It was cold, wet, quiet, and so very dark.

“Y/n, wake up. Fuck.”

Nell had nothing but commands aimed at you like arrows ever since you decided to let her take you home. But this request wasn't a demand. It was a need. You had to wake up.

“Why the fuck would you do that, Y/n?” She growled with a deep rasp. “WHY?”

You could sense the shakiness of the carriage as you saw the scenery pass your eyes.

"You're not a god,” you whispered, your throat tight as you struggled to get words past your adam's apple. “I didn't want you to take that bullet just so you could protect me again.”

She stared at you with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something else you couldn't quite make out. If you could roll your eyes at that present moment you would've. “You don't get to sacrifice yourself for me. Do you understand?”

Why was Nell allowed to let you live but not her? Nell had a purpose in this world and it just got started. Why on earth were you not allowed to die? You shook your head. You didn’t understand.

“Then let me make it clear for you,” she said, the darkness in her eyes fuming. "You would survive without me. You would move on. Her tone roughened. “I can't imagine a world where you and all of yourself doesn't exist. So if you die, you'll take me with you. Your sacrifice would mean nothing.” Her voice became quieter as tears started to pool in her eyes.

Your chest tightened as a tear escaped your eye. It was still so cold, you could feel the trembles that had taken over your body.

“I'm so cold, Nellie.” Your eyes felt like they weighed a ton each, so you closed them, an instant wave of relief washing over your barely conscious mind.

“No," Nell growled, grabbing your face with both of his hands. “Don't fucking close your eyes.”

“I’m sorry I called you Nellie,’ a breathy chuckle escaped your lips. “Nell. Nell Jackson. Nell, nell, nell…”

“It’s okay,” her hand stroked your head. You could see her red stained hands shaking as your vision began to blur. “You can call me Nellie.” She sniffed. “I like it when you call me Nellie. I only pretend to hate it because I like your laugh and sneaky jokes when you thought you were getting under my skin. Don’t die on me, Princess.”

“I feel a bit tired, Nellie.”

“No, no, no. Go faster!” She yelled.

‘Come closer,” you said, Nellie’s face inching close enough so you could kiss her. ‘In case something happens.”

‘Nothing will happen, baby. Nothing. Just stay awake, okay.”

‘Okay. I will try.”

#nell jackson #renegade nell #nell jackson imagine #nell jackson imagines #sapphic fanfic #lesbian fanfic

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justporo · 1 year

Text

A Night of Song and Laughter (Part 6)

In which Astarion basically says "Murder is okay, but it's not okay to disrespect my wife". A lot of swearing in this one, be warned - also Astarion's bares his claws.

So - ARE YOU READY FOR ANOTHER ONE?? I'm honestly so tired, at the moment, it's doing my job at day, being a fanfic writer and servant to the fandom at night. Which results in poor sleep schedule and eating habits. Didn't even get to keep playing for a few days. But I love all the things happening, all the content people create and people liking my content as well - after all I am just as prone to flattery as Astarion is.

Also I should make a post where I will link all chapters - I will do that probably tonight or tomorrow - depending on how quick writing the next part will be.

You know the drill by now, you can already continue reading on AO3!

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

(Gif from here!)

Astarion quickly made to take everyone’s drink orders. When Daegin opted to get off his stool and get himself another beer and almost fell off it, Eodin just about caught him and convinced him to take a round of water. So the dwarf complained and made to rest his head on the table.

Before Astarion left for the bar he threw a quick questioning glance at you, with it asking if it would be okay to leave you for a few moments. You nodded slightly and smiled reassuringly at him but in fact you were dreading to be alone with these people even though they were your friends.

When Lira offered to go with him to help carry everything your heart sank even deeper. Closing your eyes for a short moment, you steeled yourself for the words that would definitely be had once Astarion and Lira would be out of earshot. At least they would think that, when you were pretty sure Astarion would use every one of his heightened vampiric and elven senses to not miss a single word.

When you opened your eyes again you saw how Lira practically beamed at Astarion who was much taller than her. She didn’t even reach his shoulders. Lira had always been your closest friend in the group, she was truly a sweetheart – you had wondered how she did make such a formidable thief though since she seemed so honest and soft. You were more than sure Astarion already had a place in her heart, and she would use the moments she had to completely obliterate the vampire with many more questions about him and your relationship. The thought made you smile.

Astarion swiftly and elegantly managed to navigate through the now much bigger crowd to the bar while making sure the much smaller half-elf wasn’t pushed over by anyone in the pretty drunk crowd. You could barely make a step without bumping into people, so he softly touched her shoulder, kept his hand there lightly and motioned her to walk in front of him, so she wouldn’t be elbowed in the face by accident. She was completely oblivious to his show of polite chivalry since she had started bombarding him with questions about himself and Tav.

“Have you been together long? Did you save her like a hero on a white horse and she inevitably fell for you? Wait, you said, she saved you, what happened? Are you staying in Baldur’s Gate? We have to meet again some time, I need to know absolutely everything. You two are such a beautiful couple, Gods, you would have gorgeous babies! Does she make you happy? She seems so happy, I’ve never seen her this happy, you have to take good care of her for me, promise?” Astarion kept softly nudging her to get her to move to the bar while she basically kept walking backwards and blabbering. Since he was also trying to focus on the conversation that no doubt was going on at the table he had just left, he only gave pretty short answers to Lira: “A few months now. Once or twice, no horse needed though, they bite too much for my liking. Much longer story. We are. I’m sure we can. Uhm, thank you.” But the last few things Lira had said and asked made Astarion focus entirely on her. He looked at her expecting face and replied: “She makes me very happy and in a way, I didn’t think I could ever feel. And if I truly make her only a fraction as happy as she’s made me, I can be considered the luckiest man in all of Baldur’s Gate, nay, Faerun. And I’ll promise you I will do anything I can to keep her happy and safe as long as she’ll want me by her side.” The sudden change in tone and sincerity in his words stopped Lira in her rambling. “Wow”, she simply whispered silently and looked at Astarion. Then she suddenly jumped to give him a quick hug. Astarion almost made to step out of reach before her arms went around his waist, but he let it happen. The concept of hugging was still pretty new to him, except with you of course. And since he didn’t quite know how to react correctly in such a situation, he just kind of went to awkwardly pat the adorable half-elf on the back. This was still new, but he was pretty sure that it was nice and warmth filled his chest.

Lira let go off him, seemingly also surprised by her sudden outburst: “Sorry… I’m just so happy for her… and for you too!” She smiled warmly then turned around, since they were finally at the bar. “Soooo – I am certainly invited to the wedding, am I not? Can I be Tav’s Maid of Honor?” Astarion would have probably blushed would that have been possible for him. Did anyone ever make him this flustered in a matter of hours since meeting? Well, you probably, but other than that? He was released from questioning though when the barmaid came over and took their order. As they waited, Astarion decided he definitely liked this one of your friends and decided to be his best polite and interested self and asked Lira to tell him about herself.

You watched the two of them wander off into the crowd. Then you remembered the two rather grim faces in front of you and the one, that was already much too drunk to actually really notice anything.

Eodin had crossed the arms over his chest again, dropping the façade completely: “You have some nerve, Tav.” His tone was bitter. You see Miyena’s lip slightly curve into a smirk. “You disappear for months, leave us with a load of jobs, we can’t finish because we need your goddamn elven ass, since you are the best with sleight of hand and all. Which made us not only miss out on said jobs but also caused us to lose most of our clients, because now we seem to be the most unreliable band of thieves this city has ever seen! And then you reappear with this fucking elven twink and basically let him take you right on the fucking table like a slut!”, Eodin’s voice rises more and more during his rant while Miyena’s malicious smirk grows bigger. At least you can tell who it was who spewed so much venom into his ear. Daegin didn’t seem to react even though Eodin was practically shouting, in fact, you could hear some soft snoring.

You are completely dumbstruck. Had you expected a verbal ass-whooping? Absolutely! Had you expected this? Absolutely not! The feelings of guilt you had for abandoning your friends albeit there hadn’t been anything you could’ve done about this vanished in an instant. His words were pure venom and you could feel rage slowly rear inside you. Being angry about all of this was the one thing but it was the way he said it, especially with the intonation of your and Astarion’s elven heritage and calling you a slut? You were done with the niceties and you started to feel murderous.

You sucked on your teeth and mimicked Eodin’s aggressive stance, looked him straight in the eyes and asked: “Mind telling me, what exactly changed in the past months I wasn’t here? I get being angry and wanting an explanation. What I don’t get is you insulting me and Astarion – who you’ve never met before today, might I add – making a scene here in front of everyone and especially, what specifically makes this about me being an elf?” You saw how Miyena side-eyed him and raised an expectant eyebrow. “And you certainly didn’t think of me as slut, when I jerked you off and you were too drunk to get it up properly! You disgust me!” He winced at the mention of this particularly embarrassing night you had shared, which incidentally had been the last. You were disgusted by the memory. Bile was raising in your throat, making you gag – why did you ever think this guy deserved you at all?

“Well, I thought you weren’t like them – all fleeting attention, mysteries, riddles. I thought I knew you, Tav, I thought you were my friend… and I even thought you were more for some time. I thought you were one of us, so sweet and nice… So… indeed, Tav, what has changed?” You couldn’t believe your ears. Never had your elven heritage made any difference at all, especially since you’d grown up on the city streets and hadn’t had the comfort of a sheltered childhood far off in the woods in some elven enclave. His words hurt. You might’ve never seen him in the way he once wanted you, but he had been a close friend, an understanding friend. This angry and obviously jealous side was not only new but disgusting to you. Your eyes wandered over to Miyena who was still smirking. “Well, for starters”, you said “thinking really ever wasn’t your strong suit. You should leave that to the others. Ah, but seems you already handed that duty over to Miyena here.” You turned to the tiefling and threw her a death glare: “Don’t think I don’t see how you’ve been smirking and side-eyeing Eodin the whole time, you bitch. You always wanted everything for yourself. Go ahead, you can have him, his limp-dick and all loot and coin you get from your jobs, I don’t care.” The tiefling woman looked ready to throw daggers at you. Eodin opened his mouth, now having at least the decency to look the slightest bit guilty, but you lifted your hand before he could speak and continued: “If all it takes for you to turn against me and discriminate me is being away for a few months, then consider everything – our work friendship, our work arrangement – separated. You were always very impressionable, but never would I have thought you were so easy to turn into a hot toxic pile of garbage. Go right on with Miyena, but be careful, she was already eyeing Astarion, because she always wants what others have.” And with that you ended your spiteful little speech.

The man and the tiefling looked at each other for a second, then continued to stare angrily at you. A year back, you ‘d never would have called them out on their bullshit, you had indeed changed. Back then you would have eaten up the shame and would have given in to your strong people-pleasing tendency. But you were done taking the world’s and everyone’s shit and be thankful for mere scraps they threw you, you deserved better than this – something your vampiric soulmate had taught you. “Now, you can fuck off or you can stay and be nice for the night because I don’t want to spoil the evening for Lira and Daegin”, you added when neither of them said anything.

This suddenly seemed to get Miyena and Eodin out of their stupor. Miyena simply hissed at you, when Eodin spat: “Why don’t you fuck off, you and that arrogant elven prick. Who is he really anyway, did you sell yourself off to him as a plaything or mistress or something? You don’t belong…”

A glint of silver and there was a blade at each Miyena’s and Eodin’s throat. Astarion was standing impossibly close behind them both, his arms around each of their shoulders. He’d masterfully had sneaked up behind them. To others, it would have looked simply like a drunken hug from afar – only the two daggers pressing against their necks were distracting from that. “I’d advise you to hold very still or you’ll find out exactly how prickly I can be”, Astarion whispered to them in a voice that was actually rather made for candle light and dark bedrooms, his red eyes were glinting with fury. The tiefling slightly hissed at him but tensed, Eodin just whimpered.

“Now, I really did not appreciate your tone and how you spoke to my partner. But seeing as I was enjoying myself so much tonight, I’m giving you one more chance. You can be nice little puppies now and be polite and graceful for the rest of the evening. And after tonight I never want to see a shred of you again”, he whispered to them hoarsely, his mouth wandering from Eodin’s ear to Miyena’s and back again. The daggers pressed slightly harder against their throats now.

“Or”, Astarion drawled and smiled wickedly “you can fuck off right now, just as my lovely lady here proposed. Choose as you wish but behave or I will splatter you all over the walls.” You swallowed hard, did he have to be this threatening and with that tone in his voice. In a very twisted way, you enjoyed what was happening way too much. Gods, you loved when Astarion became all protective. And something wild and dark in you enjoyed his threatening, predatory demeanor. The softest gasp left your mouth and you squeezed your thighs together – hard. This was not the time to get aroused. Astarion heard though and his eyebrow shot up, his eyes flicking to yours for a split second and his signature smirk found its way back on his lips.

“What will it be now?”, he then whispered to his two captives again “I wouldn’t want to end the night in bloodshed – well, maybe a little.” He grinned baring his fangs and licked over his lips slowly. Eodin turned completely pale and Miyena’s eyes widened.

“Go… let us go”, the man whispered and started to struggle against Astarion’s hold while trying to not get knicked by the knife at his throat.

“Then have it your way”, Astarion sneered and in one swift movement withdrew his daggers, turned them around and pushed them off into the crowd - hard. They stumbled away, bumping into the people around them but quickly made their way away from you.

Astarion rolled his shoulders and sighed dramatically, then looked at you grinning: “Ah, darling, so good to be alone with you again, don’t you think?” His eyes wandered down your body and he licked his lips again. “Nothing like a little drama and knife play to spice up the night, am I right?” His red eyes turned even darker with an impossible hunger shining in them. You gulped, Daegin snored.

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forestkniight · 5 months

Text

I'll Be Seeing You

✯ Chapter 1 ✯

Okay, it's been a while since I've written a fic that wasn't a one-shot, so I'm really hoping that it's something I can keep up with. I currently have about four chapters planned, but they are still developing. Even in this chapter, I changed a few things to make the story flow better!

Pairing: Fizzarolli x reader (still debating if I want to make it a polyamorous relationship eventually)

Warning: Swearing

Word Count: 3K

When you’re a kid, the sky's the limit regarding your dreams. No one expects you to have it all figured out, and for the most part, a little voice in your head tells you that you’ll make it out of your situation. Little did you know, it would come at a cost.

Clutching your chest, you quickly sit up as you try to calm your frantic heartbeat. Several weeks have passed, and you keep having dreams of your past and all the choices that got you where you are today. You take a breath as you look at the slivers of red that pass through the opening of your curtain.

How long has it been since you fell asleep?

You sigh as you reach for your phone to catch up on anything you might have missed while sleeping, which wasn’t much. Nothing new there. You lay back in bed and stare at the ceiling. These days seem to be going by slower, and you blame it on the lack of sleep due to the dreams.

Flashes of red and white.

Of horses.

Of black and white horns.

You shake your head as you check the time. It was still early, and you wouldn’t have to check into work until later on. You currently work as a singer at a live music club in the Pride Ring. You didn’t live an expensive life, but you were content for the most part, especially when you got to sing. When you were a child, all you ever wanted to do was perform in front of people and make them feel something. You never got that opportunity as a child, though. You wince as a memory enters your mind.

“Blitzo! I have to clean that up,” you pouted as you picked up the garbage your friend tossed everywhere on the floor.

“It’s not my fault you got me a gift and made it impossible to open,” Blitzo says while trying to untape the gift box that was previously in another taped-up gift box.

You couldn’t help but smile widely as you waited for Blitzo to finally get to the actual gift. You glanced at Fizz, who was just as excited about the gift as your other friend. As if sensing your gaze, he looked up at you and stuck his tongue out at you.

“This is low, even for you! You know Blitzo can’t resist a gift,” Fizz teased.

You giggled as you saw Blitzo’s frustration at opening the gift box and finding yet another gift box inside.

“Well, I couldn’t make it easy for him,” you said, reaching out to grab the discarded tape Blitzo had thrown to the side. " Besides, his gift is in the next box.”

Fizz smiled and shook his head at you. He looked back at Blitzo's hand, and he was close to opening the final gift box. Once he managed it, he removed its contents.

“No way,” Blitzo’s eyes lit up as he took out a little gold figurine of a horse and a heart-shaped locket.

“I was walking around some shops in my free time and saw it in the window. I knew right away that it was meant for you,” you said as Blitzo launched himself at you, nearly tackling you.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he said as he hugged you before releasing you to admire his new figurine some more.

“It’s no problem, Blitzo! You deserve it and more. Now,” you turn and take another gift box from close by, “I couldn’t forget a gift for my second favorite clown!”

Blitzo giggles as Fizz slightly frowns.

“Not funny.”

“Awww, come on Fizz. I’m just joking. You know you’re my favorite,” you giggled as Blitzo’s jaw dropped.

Fizz instantly beams at the use of the word favorite.

“Anyways, I saw this in the window, and I-”

“What’s going on here?”

The three of you turn towards the voice belonging to Blitzo’s dad, Cash.

“Look, Dad! It’s a gold-”

“Shouldn’t you be cleaning the bleachers,” Cash turns to look at you, “They’re not cleaning themselves, girl!”

You felt your face flush in embarrassment at being talked down to in front of your friends, especially when they had acts in the circus. You were just a janitor for all intents and purposes.

“Sir, I was just taking a little break with my friends,” you said with a tiny voice.

You hated feeling so small—not in a childlike way, but in a way that made you feel like your life was worth less because you were there to clean everybody else’s mess.

“If you want a break, how about I fire you now, and you get all the breaks you want, huh? And what did I tell you about distracting my star,” Cash snapped at you.

You felt your eyes tear up as you looked at Blitzo, whose head hung low. You felt bad for him. His own father preferred another boy as his son. You remembered the time his father had sold him for such a low cost and made him steal. That felt like so long ago now.

“I know, sir, but we’re kids too…We just want-”

“I don’t care! Fizzarolli, do you think that big clowns get to where they are because they spend their time talking to the help,” Cash said cruelly.

You turned to look at Fizz. He looked down at the unopened gift box in his hands before setting it slightly off to the side.

“Fizzy?”

Your voice cracked as you realized he wasn’t going to respond. You looked up at Cash and saw the shit-eating grin he had on his face. You couldn’t help the tears beginning to pool in your eyes.

“I’ll get started right away, sir. I hope you enjoy your gift, Blitzo. Sorry for distracting you from your work, Fizzarolli,” you said bitterly.

Cash watched as you picked up the last remnants of trash from Blitzo’s gift. You stood up and were getting ready to leave, but not before quickly snatching the letter attached to Fizz’s gift. You could see Fizz’s distress at your action, and you watched him throw a random piece of trash he had been playing with in front of him. Still, you walked forward. You wanted to walk away with some dignity.

“Aren’t you going to pick that up,” Cash barked at you, looking at the scrap in front of Fizz.

Blitzo and Fizz looked at you as you slowly walked before him and picked up the scrap of trash, a tear running down your face. You couldn’t even bear looking at either of them at this point. You sprinted out of the small tent to head to the main tent and begin your work.

Your heart tugs as you push the memory out of your head. It was bad enough living through it. You don't need to be reminded of it anymore, considering you’ve seen commercials of Blitzø and Fizzarolli as adults. It hurt seeing their faces, especially after the way you left. Still, you wouldn’t allow yourself to dwell on it for longer than a few minutes. There was no point. Thinking about it wouldn’t change what happened.

After lazing around all day, you finally begin walking to work. You could take a car there, but it was so close, and you enjoy the time it gives you to mentally prepare. While performing was always your dream, it still got you nervous, especially if the crowd in the club was bigger than usual. Some days, the line would stretch outside the club door’s entrance.

As you walk down the street, looking at the sights, you catch sight of a locket in one of the shop windows. You stop as you instinctively reach up to your locket tucked away under your shirt. You feel a ghost of a smile as you remember the gift you had given Blitzo and Fizzarolli. Your locket had pictures of a young Blitzo and Fizzarolli, Blitzo’s had a picture of you and Fizzarolli, and Fizzarolli’s had a picture of you and Blitzo. You sigh as you wish you could have seen Fizz’s reaction to the locket (and the letter, but that was neither here nor there).

You see the club fast approaching and notice people already arriving for the night. So much for practicing on stage when you arrive. It must have been one of those nights when they would open the club a bit earlier.

You quickly step to the side entrance and are let in by one of the bartenders on break. You shoot them a quick smile before finding your way to your dressing room. You always need a moment to take a breath and warm up. You begin humming as you apply minimal makeup. You just required enough so that the spotlight wouldn’t wash you out. You hear faint music in the background as you look at the door of your room through the mirror’s reflection, another memory sneaking back up.

After cleaning the main tent, you decided to retire to the secret location you went to when you felt sad. You would typically watch your friends perform, but you didn’t want to talk to anyone about what happened earlier. You figured you could stay there until late at night before sneaking back into your tent.

You finally made it to the location, which consisted of a lot of open space and a giant tree you liked to sit under. You softly threw yourself under the tree as you looked up at the sky, which always seemed to be the same shade of red despite the time. You closed your eyes as you tried to find a way to pass the time. However, your eyes shot open when you heard a tree branch rustling. Before you knew it, something, or more like someone, swung down from the tree branch to sit next to you.

“Heya,” Blitzo said, throwing his hands out and laying beside you.

You rolled your eyes at how he seemed to have forgotten what had transpired earlier.

“Blitzo, I told you to stop coming here! This is my secret place,” you whined.

Blitzo turned to look at you, and it was his turn to roll his eyes.

“It’s not exactly a secret if people can easily walk to it from the circus.”

“Still…”

You wanted to be alone, but Blitzo always had a way of showing up when that was the case. Some part of you was glad. Even though you wanted to be alone, it didn’t mean that was what you needed, and being around Blitzo always made you feel better. You were content to stay silent, but that wasn’t what Blitzo had in mind.

“Oh! Fizz wants to see you after the show. He wants to talk to you and get the complete gift,” Blitzo said as he sat up, looking down at you.

You quirked your eyebrow as you sat up as well. The complete gift? He must be on about the letter.

“I wouldn’t want to distract Fizzarolli from all the important stuff he has to do,” your words are filled with sarcasm.

“He’s coming here whether you like it or not. My dad can’t be the reason your friendship goes down the drain,” he plays with his hands, “he can’t ruin anything else.”

You feel your attitude drop at that last part. You make eye contact with him and nod to confirm that you will give Fizz the complete gift. He smiles slightly, and your eyes catch the locket around his neck. You feel a smile start to spread. He follows your gaze and rolls your eyes.

“Yea, yea. It’s not a big deal,” he stands. " Anyway, I've got to get ready for the show, but I’ll see you after, okay?”

“Alright,” you respond hesitantly as you watch him start the walk back to the main circus tent. Eventually, he walks into the tent, leaving you alone again.

You reach down to your pocket where you had folded up the letter you would give to Fizz. You had spent so much time ensuring everything was perfect, only for the moment to be ruined. You sigh and throw yourself back again, allowing the tears to reappear. This was a safe place to do so.

The wind was blowing slightly, and you couldn’t help but reflect on your life at the circus. You had joined after you were left alone due to…circumstances. Luckily for you, Fizz and Blitzo found you on the street and asked if you were alright. If only little you could see where you were now. Would you have taken their outstretched hands?

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but you did know it wasn’t long until people started flooding out of the tents. You felt your stomach do flips. Were you ready to tell Fizz what the letter said, especially after his silence today? Your love for him was unconditional. You only ever saw Fizz, your best friend, not Fizzarolli, the performer. You cared so deeply for him and Blitzo. They saved you and made a home in your heart that would never disappear, but you were dreaming if you thought they would ever forget your place at the circus.

But what did that mean for you? Would you be willing to stay in a place that would lead to you yearning for something that would never happen? Were you willing to stand by and watch your friends move on in life without you? Fall in love without you? Watch Fizz fall in love with someone?

You sat up as tears began flowing faster down your face. Your heart was in your throat as years of self-hate and pain started pouring out. Your sobs become audible.

No, you wouldn’t become the pathetic friend who fell in love with someone they couldn’t have, the pathetic friend who thought that what they did didn’t matter as much as who they were.

You looked up at the circus, a decision being made in your mind. You stood up and quickly ran back to your tent. You tried to listen to the performance and realized it was two acts from the end. You quickly grabbed your backpack and packed only the most valuable things you owned. The rest could be replaced, but things like gifts from your friends, items from your past before the circus, and even a hoodie from the circus were something you couldn’t part with.

The final act was beginning—Blitzo and Fizz’s duo act. Your heart pounded as you thought about what you were doing. It wouldn’t hurt to try to see just the beginning, so you left your backpack hidden by the circus’ entrance. You snuck into the main tent and climbed to a location where only Blitzo and Fizz could see you. They still hadn’t dropped down, and you saw them messing around from across the space. Blitzo saw you first, and he beamed at you as he waved. You couldn’t help the smile that automatically appeared as you waved back. Fizz turned to see what he was waving at and saw you. He gave you a soft smile with a hesitant wave, and you felt your smile falter.

Your first love. That’s what it was. Boy, was it frightening. But you wouldn’t fuck up his life. You knew he would make it far without you. You gave him a sad smile and noticed both of their concerned expressions.

‘Why?’ You see Blitzo mouth, and your eyebrows raise. He mimes tears, and you reach up and feel them.

You quickly wiped them away and chuckled to yourself. You’re terrible at leaving, but you had to, and their entrance was fast approaching.

‘It’s fine, I’m okay,’ you mouth back with gestures to match.

They look at each other before turning to look at you worriedly. They can’t do anything, though. They won’t. They have their jobs to do. You watched Fizz grab the rope nearby that he would swing down on, but not before turning to look at you again.

‘See you after,’ he mouths before raising his voice to ask Blitzo if he is ready. You begin making your descent, and you walk out of the tent. You quickly grab your backpack and take off at full speed towards the tree.

FIzz was the one who showed you this tree. You liked pretending it was a secret space just for you, but it was all of yours. You stared up at it, and you felt the tears come back. You were okay, though. This was for the best. You pull out the letter you wrote to Fizz and place it at the tree's base. You didn’t bother weighing it down. If it flew away, it’d probably be a sign. Part of you hoped it would blow away, just like you. You turn towards the main tent and notice the early leavers are already spilling out.

“There’s the rest of the gift, Fizzy. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed getting to know you—the both of you. You saved my life in more ways than you know. I know you’ll do great things,” you whisper as you turn to leave. You hear the sound of people getting louder, and you run—for the second time in your life.

Your eyes focus on your figure in the mirror, and your mascara was running a bit.

“Damn it,” you move to get tissue papers, “I need to stop thinking back. We’re all better off now.”

You look unconvinced in the mirror and try on a smile to trick your body into believing it is okay.

“It’s fine, you’re okay,” you whisper.

You hear a knock on your door, followed by the stage manager’s minute warning. You take a deep breath and look at yourself in the mirror again.

You looked like a proper singer. You smile gently and head out to the club's backstage area. The curtains are closed, and you can hear the hum of music and people having fun. You hear the emcee announcing your act next, and you can’t help but think about how far you have come.

You did it. You made it out.

The curtains open, and the spotlight lands on you.

I hope you all enjoyed this first chapter! I'm really pumped to get the rest of these chapters written and published. I don't have a set timeline since I'm currently in college, working a job, and performing in a theater production, but I will try to work on this whenever I can!

Also, just a little spoiler: in the next chapter, we will see someone from our main narrator's past (outside of flashbacks)!

Edit: The original name of this fic was "Dream a Little Dream of Me," but I have decided to change it to "I'll Be Seeing You" since this song fits the story a bit more!

#fizzarolli #fizzaroli helluva boss #helluva boss fizzarolli #fizz helluva boss #blitzo #blitzø #blitz helluva boss #helluva boss blitz #blitzo helluva boss #helluva boss blitzo #fizzarolli x reader #fizz x reader

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