#winter lights shawl

[roboticchibitan]

I finished my gf's winter lights shawl at 3:30pm on the day of her birthday (This was supposed to be a Yule gift btw) but hey, that counts as finishing it in time. The 700ish stitch icord bind off took 4.5 hours and there were 40 ends to weave in but by the gods I finished. It needs blocked but we're moving some stuff around so I'll use our bed to block it tomorrow. There's one major mistake in there I'm really hoping will block out.

Now I'm going to dye some alpaca lace yarn "hot fuchsia" (that's the name of the Jacquard dye I am using) and look at the beads situation because I think I'm going to make another Sapphira shawl if I have enough beads. The last one was fueled by spite and trauma. This one will be fueled by joy and flamboyance.

[fionacreates]

Soooo because 90% of what I'm drawing right now is under NDA (exciting but very boring cos I can't share) here's some yarn projects.

Earlier last year I found an indie dyer who makes DnD themed yarns. Chromatic Yarns. When browsing (at the time) I found 4 amazing yarns that were the exact vibe of my current bird baby. The titles were Spectre, Kenku Friend, Poison Resistance and Gift for Lolth. My beloved baby is poison immune, undead-ish and birdy. It seemed to fit. (The current collection is based on DnD books, you should check it out if you're yarny!)

I had been wanting to Knit Winter Lights by Stephen West for ages and these 4 just fit the kind of vibe I had in mind. The shawl is about halfway done, and I have a whopping 350+ stitches per row and growing! It's not going to be quick but I love how it's pulling together!

Then... I found this pattern. Dead of Night by Hannah Mann, and you can see why I just HAVE to knit it.

So I ordered myself some more poison resistance, and a LOT of black, and off I go. (pastel white for another project after I finish this one :P)

I am a serial WIPer, do not expect to see these finished anytime soon, but my progression is great! I try to craft a little every day so that one of my projects is always going forward. (These are not the only WIPs I have.)

Also... here's the colour combo for the colourwork I want to do next :P The rule I have is only one project of each "type" at once. So if I want to knit the next jumper I have to finish this one. Then I get neon pastel epic.

(Still colour obsessed even with yarn.)

[pseudowho]

Fire and Iron

Forced to stay the night with Nanami Kento, the town's blacksmith, after tending to his wounds, you find yourself smouldering in his irresistible flame.

Warnings: 18+, fluff and smut, loss of virginity

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Your boots cracked through the ice-topped slurry puddles scattering the mud path in the village. The shawl bundled over your shoulders was not enough, and the biting cold wind whipped your cloak back, stripping its usefulness off your shivering shoulders.

Townsfolk waved to you, nodding, smiling; greetings for a familiar face, many of them grateful for your travels to their icy town over the years, lacking even a basic healer of their own, let alone one so talented.

Passing by the blacksmith's hut on your way, you paused out the front, feeling the heat bellowing forth like dragon's breath. You tipped your head back, the smell of ash and steel filling your nose. As you paused, moments after, so did the clang of hammer on anvil.

You opened your eyes, stinging in the brutal cold and smoke. You, once more, like a hundred times before, had caught the eye of the blacksmith. He, whose name you did not know. He, who looked but never touched. He, to whom you had passed so many thousands of hours of your life, and his life to you, through gaze alone.

Stood proud at the anvil, shadowing the forge like the door to hell behind him, his broad shoulders wore only an open-chested white linen shirt, and a thick brown leather apron. With his ashy blond hair, and the lines of his face filled with soot, he was ageless and unknowable. He looked to you, his sharp face quiet and impassive; expression always somewhere between fury and tranquility.

Your lips parted once, as if to speak, and it jumped the blacksmith to life. With a barely perceptible nod, and a grunt, he swung his hammer back, brought down in beautiful accuracy, shaping smouldering steel. The clang rung through you, your chest jolting with a short gasp, and you collected yourself, stepping onwards. You were sure you could feel his cool gaze through the back of your head.

Another patient; another healed. Another grateful family; another life prolonged. The days were short now, and as you stepped out of the house of rough-hewn wood and stone, the forest pines were bathed in dying light, netting the low winter sun above the horizon. It was a punishing journey home, on foot, and the horses were long since put to bed.

The blacksmith's hut held its own sunset, the forge open but unattended. You heard stamps, heavy feet and cursing. You paused in the burst of warmth, illuminated, listening. Curiosity carried your feet into the hut, the heavy wet hem of your skirts collecting ashes, absorbing the blacksmith's domain.

"Are you...are you alright?" You called, uncertain, "Sir?" The footsteps, the swearing, had stopped. You stepped further in, feeling the forge belch at you, almost excruciatingly hot now.

"Get away from there!" The bark, deep and commanding, made you squeak and stumble. Darting through the side door, the blacksmith looped one thick arm round your waist before you fell towards the forge, effortlessly lifting you round, his back to the furnace, his face in shadow.

He was close; close enough that you could smell the soft sweat, the tang of fire and metal. He hissed as your hands dropped to his forearm, and you felt a cold dripping cloth draped over it.

"Do you often wander into places uninvited?" He snipped at you. You recognised the cadence in his low voice-- pain.

"I-- ...you're hurt," you insisted, voice barely above a whisper. Looking up, your eyes tried to gauge his unreadable face in the gloom. You felt him huff, warm air across your cheeks. His arm loosened, releasing you. As he stepped back, turning away to close the forge, you saw the blacksmith's mountainous shoulders tense, twitching.

"It's nothing," he retaliated, brisk. You stepped forwards again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. At first, he flinched, then begrudgingly allowed you to turn him, and lift the damp rag covering his forearm. A thick welting burn, running the length of his forearm, lay weeping and angry on his skin, already nicked with so many little scars. You heard his teeth grit as the air hit his wound.

"Nothing," you scoffed, "this needs dressing. Let me help you." You felt him flinch beneath your hands, hesitant. He felt his skin prickle under yours, finding such curious pleasure in your touch alongside his pain. Your beseeching eyes took him the rest of the way, and he found himself accepting you.

"I...not here," the blacksmith toned, his eyes flitting to the town around him, "if they believe me injured, I'll lose business." You nodded, rummaging in your overburdened satchel, until he took you gently by the hand.

"My home," he began, hesitant, your hand so soft and small in his broad calloused palm, "you'll...you are welcome. It is clean. Quiet. I...I will not harm you. I promise."

Aware of his size and strength, aware of the air of mystery surrounding him amongst the townsfolk, the blacksmith was quick to reassure you. Your eyes softened, and his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles at your words, electricity crackling up your arm.

"I know you won't," you assured. The briefest smile graced his severe face when you offered your name. You felt it warm you from the belly downwards. As he pulled encouragingly on your fingers, leaving the forge to die naturally with the approaching nightfall, you were led through the back of the hut, seeing a newly revealed sprawling cabin of wood and stone, at the edge of the forest. You felt the first kiss of snow upon your cheek.

"Nanami Kento," the blacksmith replied, welcoming you over the threshold. You smiled up at him, taking in his home; barely lit, at first, until he struck a lantern to life. You placed your bag upon a table, rummaging for salves as Kento began to build the fire, skilled and efficient.

You basked in the homely room; autumnal tapestries lining the walls, skin rugs on the floor and furs on the chairs, hanging herbs above a countertop, circled with hung skillets and pans. You relaxed easily into the sincerity of Kento's welcome. A frigid wind slapped the windows, rattling the door.

Before long, an enormous cast iron pot boiled with water, and you knelt before Kento, appraising his wound in the orange glow. Cleaning your hands, wetting a rag with clean water, you moved to clean the ash from his arm before pausing.

"This will hurt," you apologised, looking up to him. Kento's heart stuttered; how many hours had he spent, imagining those sweet eyes, those gentle fingers? Too long. Too many words unspoken over too many years. He was not used to such tenderness.

"I am used to pain," he hushed, smooth and barely audible above the crackle of flame, "my job has certain...hazards, after all." You hummed, swiping the cloth gently, removing dirt and debris.

"Still," you hummed, "I don't like to hurt a friend." Kento chuckled, and you felt yourself blush from hairline to toes at the rich mirth of it.

"We are...friends, are we?" His voice was low and conspiratorial, and you felt it stir a hunger deep within you. You smiled back, mulish as you dabbed salve onto his burn. His knees were parted, with you knelt between them, and your elbows rested on the thick muscle of his thighs. You felt safe, warm, held.

"All those years, passing back and forth," you sighed, teasing, "and not one hello? Just lots of nods," your stomach swooped as Kento laughed again, "and our friendship is just that. An accumulation of nods."

"Would we have stopped at 'hello'?" Kento retaliated. He caught the brief pause in your bandaging, before you continued. You spoke, uncertain again.

"Well," you hummed, testing the water, "offer me one now...and we shall see where it goes." Looking up, you gasped to find your face just inches from Kento's. He smiled at you, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips and back up again.

"Hello," he whispered, quiet and mischievous, "and thank you."

Your breath fluttered out; Kento could feel it against his lips, beckoning him.

"I...it's getting late," you started, and Kento blinked out of his reverie, glancing to the inky black outside his windows, "I should go."

Kento grasped your fingers once more, rising with you as he stood, your shawl shushing against his chest, barely covered by his soft linen shirt. Kento hummed, sounding grave, stepping to the other side of the room.

"It is night," he said, hands cupped around his eyes as he squinted out of the windows, "and the woods are barely safe in the day. I...I cannot allow you to travel. Alone, in the snow. You must stay."

His tone broached no argument, yet still you tried, packing your bag, your cheeks aflame.

"I...it isn't..." you stuttered, and Kento turned to you, chin inclined to the floor, one fine eyebrow raised. You took a deep breath, certain that if you didn't leave now, you may fall too deeply into Kento's insistent heat. Yet...you knew he was right. The path was treacherous. The snow would take you before the dawn.

"Would you like a bath?" Kento offered, turned away to save you your blushes; a gentleman.

"I-- please don't go to any trouble--" Kento swiftly ignored you, beginning to grasp the enormous iron pot, lifting it with stunning ease. His voice didn't even hitch.

"It's no trouble. I bathe every night. You can go before me." Kento carried the pan, stepping behind a folding wooden screen, and you followed him as if to argue, watching him begin to fill an enormous copper bathtub. Your hands shook as you began to remove your shawl, still blushing, so briefly overwhelmed before squashing it down.

Kento glanced up at you, pausing as he poured hot water, "This will take me some time," he said, apologetic, "please make yourself comfortable. I'll call for you."

You nodded, clearing your throat, hands twisting in your removed shawl. Kento chastised himself for admiring the soft curve of your breasts into your waist, the hidden delight of the swelling of your hips beneath your heavy skirts. He did not see how the steam rose fast, dampening his white shirt, how you could see all the way to his navel as he leaned over the bath. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

As you walked the length of the room, your fingertips brushing tapestries and grazing over warm furs, your curiosity drew you to a wide, flat trinket box, inlaid with mother of pearl, the colours an aurora in the rolling firelight. You stroked the box just once, before lifting the lid.

Your eyes crinkled immediately with joy at the treasures within; the box was full of lovingly crafted necklaces of gold, silver, pearl and gem, the chains finer and softer than any you had ever seen. You did not feel Kento approach as you admired them.

"I'd like for you to choose one," he offered, sincere, as you spun to face him. He raised his hands placatingly, a smile at the edge of his mouth, "not in lieu of payment, of course. A gift, I...made them with no real aim as to who should receive them."

"You made these?" You gaped, unable to fathom how such enormous hands crafted such intricate delights, "Kento, I-- they're beautiful, I couldn't possibly..."

If Kento had held any reservation, after hearing his name tumble from your lips, he was filled with the burning certainty that the jewellery should be for you, and you alone. His hand closed over yours as you moved to shut the box.

"Please," he breathed, so close, "choose one, or I shall give you them all." Swallowing, your hand hovered over a fine chain of silver and emerald, your fingertips brushing the gem. Kento hummed his approval, before picking it up, his calloused fingers all softness and grace.

"My favourite, too," he rumbled, brushing your hair off the nape of your neck as he clipped the necklace into place. You shivered at the feeling of his fingers on your neck, and almost ran as he whispered beside your ear, "Your bath is ready."

Stripping behind the wooden screen, hearing Kento amble around the room beyond, you sighed as the hot water enveloped you. Washing yourself with a soft sponge, cleaning off the grime of the day, your hand wandered absentmindedly downwards, fingertips grazing through your folds, naturally moving to relieve yourself of the building tension--

"I've left you a shirt." Your hand darted upwards with a guilty splash, Kento's voice only meters away behind the screen.

"Thank-- thank you," you squeaked, blushing, before climbing out, so naked apart from your exquisite new necklace. Drying on a soft towel, your hand hesitated over the shirt draped over the screen, before pulling it on over damp skin. It reached down your thighs, but left little else to the imagination.

Kento remained outwardly stoic, unreadable, averting his gaze as you crept out, arms holding yourself and squashing your breasts together, the colour of your nipples as faint as a ghost under the white linen shirt. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly before skirting past to the bath. You felt heat creep up your neck at the gossamer hush of his clothes hitting the floor, the shifting water as he stepped in, the way he sighed in relief, almost as if--

"I shall sleep in the chair tonight," Kento said, slow and considered, "and you shall have my bed." You felt indignation roll within you.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scolded, "you're injured, and this is your home--"

'-- and you are my guest," he grumbled.

"I won't allow it," you insisted, almost forgetting yourself as you approached the wooden screen, "I'll put some furs on the floor and--"

"You believe I would let you sleep on the floor?" He growled, furious at your suggestion, "I should rather you have me share the bed with you over that--"

"Fine. Then we shall share the bed. And there will be no more argument." You clapped a hand over your mouth as the words tumbled forth, unbidden. Mortified by your own suggestion, you removed your hand to speak again.

Kento stepped round from behind the screen, his towel draped lazily round his waist. You gaped up at him, stunned. He was...younger than you thought, his blond hair now soft and floppy, the ash removed from the lines in his face, taking ten years off him. You faced him, his towering form, the practiced rolls, peaks and planes of muscle belonging to a working man, his forearms so thick--

"Then...we should get to bed," Kento insisted, stepping past you, through a doorway to his bedroom, where you heard him rummaging for clothes, "it is late and I am up with the lark."

You hesitated where you stood, feeling your heartbeat between your legs, desperately curious, but paralysed.

"I don't bite," Kento called out, and you gulped down the sounds of soft fabric dropping over his body, still crippled with indecision and embracing yourself as he stepped out to put out the fire. You were lost momentarily in darkness before he stepped to you, the lantern between you, a beacon in the dark. You felt his hand close around your fingers again. You heard him whisper.

"It will become cold quickly, now the fire has died. Come. Stay warm."

You allowed yourself to be led to Kento's bedroom, hypnotised by the small swinging lantern. Kento led your hand downwards, placing it to the edge of the bed for you to feel your way, your fingers gliding through soft fur and cool sheets. With shaking hands, you crawled across to the head of the bed. Kento waited for you, flipping down the sheets, flipping them back up to your chin as you both slipped between them.

You heard nil but your own heartbeat. Kento faced you, the torch light embering behind him leaving him only just visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. The sheets had not yet warmed from your bodies, and you shivered. You felt Kento shift beside you.

"You...are cold," he stated as if in question. You remained quiet, gripping your hands to your chest lest they reach out for him.

"I'm...I'll warm up. Soon," you reassured yourself as much as him. You heard one doubtful grunt from him. Five minutes passed, and still, Kento felt you shiver against the sheets. Pulling a fur up to your chins, he felt prickles up his legs as one of your feet reached hesitantly out to touch him. He felt rather than heard you sigh.

"So warm," you whispered, your little voice soft with comfort in the dark. Kento's breath caught in his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside his soft trousers.

"Do you...need me?" He offered. He felt your other foot reach out in answer, cold toes wiggling against the downy hair on his leg. He felt a dangerous, needy arousal thread through him.

Reaching out his uninjured arm, he hooked it round your waist, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed against you. You hummed in pleasure at the heat rolling off him, basking in his warmth, forgetting your awkwardness for a moment. Kento and you lay intertwined like that, with you softening like butter in his arms.

After a few minutes, you shifted against him, about to drift off to sleep. Kento must have been near sleep as well, groaning into your hair as you shifted, reflexively clinging you closer to him. Your bottom, completely bare with his shirt shifted up your body, pressed back to his groin. His clothed cock was hard and barely restrained in his loose trousers, and pressed between your thighs.

You felt a jolt run through you, feeling a warm trickle of arousal, so alien to you, seep out between your thighs. Kento almost saw stars as it dampened the trousers over his cockhead, and he frowned, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade in apology and embarrassment.

"I-- I'm sorry, I--...it's been so long...since I've felt a woman-- shit, I'm--" Kento rested his nose against your neck, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips there. You dropped your head back to him, and he growled in appreciation, nuzzling your neck, feeling your thighs clamp around the tip of his cock, your arousal seeping through his trousers and mixing with his own.

"I've never--" you whispered, blushing furiously, drunk on the feeling of his body against yours, feeling so curiously empty and aching to be filled. Kento understood immediately, and moved to pull back.

"No!" You squeaked, holding onto his arm, pushing yourself back to chase him along the bed, "Please, I-- I want--...you. I want you." Your words sat heavy in the air. Kento shifted behind you, at war with himself.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, fighting against you to remove his arm, "I am no boy."

"And I'm no girl, nor stupid," you reassured, "I'm not ignorant."

In an instant, Kento moved above you, on all fours, his arms caging you in, corseting you to his bed. He stared down at you, enormous chest heaving, eyes roving down your body, quickly intoxicated by your peaked nipples, beneath his shirt, the hem of it barely covering your sex, still feeling your arousal dampening his cock.

He leaned down, nestling his mouth against your neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting you. He felt you still under his lips, just a little mouse, in the jaws of a bear.

"And yet, all that knowledge is just academic, until you're crying out that my cock is too big for you," he growled, warning you away, barely able to stop himself. He felt you squirm beneath him, his head swimming with you. He was lost, then, to your tiny whisper in the gloom.

"Show me-- please." Kento shuddered, a drop of pre-cum seeping out of his cock, soaking through his trousers and your-- his-- shirt, to dampen your belly. You shivered, desperate to know Kento biblically, desperate for this fabled ecstasy.

Kento raised his mouth from your neck, reading your eyes, seeing such certainty in them. Tangling his fingers with yours beneath the sheets, he pressed the length of his body down against you as he kissed you, his other hand framing your jaw, gently encouraging it open to slide his tongue against yours. Your soft little moan was like music to his ears.

Kissing you deeply, learning your voice and your mouth, letting you learn the peaks and planes of his body with your free hand, Kento kept your other hand plaited with his own, fearful of leaving you to take this journey alone.

He felt himself shudder with the unbridled privilege of being able to worship you, jealously grateful that you had not been left to some boy. He was overwhelmed by the need to set your standards high at the first hurdle.

"Let me taste you," he murmured into your mouth, and you hesitated, unsure of what he meant. Swiping his thumb across your palm, Kento's mouth ventured downwards, sucking the skin of your neck, nipping before soothing the skin with his tongue, feeling you become pliable, supple as water. His fingers danced over the laces holding your shirt together, giving you opportunity to stop him, before untying them, freeing your breasts.

Laying his tongue flat over one nipple, Kento allowed it to curve to the shape of you, to know you, before drawing it into his mouth, sucking on your nipple while his hand toyed with and kneaded the other. He revelled in your whines, a high, keening mewl as you arched off the bed into his mouth. You felt his licks and sucks, curiously, between your legs, and you could not help but buck up against him.

Kento grunted at the feeling of your pussy pressing against his thigh, and moved one hand down to hold your hips still.

"Slow down-- let me show you," he ordered, gentle in his insistence. You trembled under his fingertips, your hips settling back to the bed. He rumbled his approval, rolling your nipple under his tongue again until you sighed, breathy and ecstatic, "Good girl."

In reward, his mouth continued to trail downwards, and your eyes fluttered closed, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, your fingernails scratching through his damp hair. Kento shivered at the sensation, feeling his cock leap against his thigh.

When his mouth reached your mound, you squeaked out in alarm, flipping the blankets down to see Kento, illuminated in the orange light.

"What are you-- your mouth, Kento--" Kento's eyes crinkled up at you, and two arms came to loop round the top of your thighs, pulling you down the bed towards him, your shirt being rucked up against the drag of the mattress to completely expose your glistening pussy to him.

Maintaining eye contact with you, you trembled with anticipation as Kento poked his tongue out into a point, first grazing your folds, before stroking from side to side to ease in between them. The sound that broke out from you as his tongue stroked over your clit, hot and wet, was one Kento masturbated to for years to come.

You felt as though you had been lifted from earth and dropped amongst the clouds as he licked at you, sucking, stroking, tasting, the pleasure so otherworldly compared to what your own hand could achieve, that you felt yourself being rushed towards your peak at speed.

Twisting and squirming against his mouth, you reflexively tried to pull your pussy away from Kento's attentions. His arms tightened around the tops of your thighs, growling into you, pulling you back as you tried to scoot away. Your hand tugged at his hair as you arched, whimpering, coated in a fine sweat. As Kento groaned into your cunt, you watched his hips roll and hump against the bed, the sight alone enough to send your orgasm crashing through you, and you worshipped his name in a long, keening cry.

Kento let his laps and sucks become softer, languid, letting you float through the haze of your pleasure. Nuzzling at you, tasting you as you trailed lazy blissful fingers through his hair, Kento planted soft kisses to your inner thigh.

Moving back up, stroking his nose against your neck, Kento felt your hand move down his shoulders and back, before coming round to ghost over the front of his trousers. Kento shuddered, kneeling above you to remove his shirt, skin prickling with the need to feel yours against his own.

Gazing down at you, his eyes like whiskey in the flickering light, he grazed a palm from in between your breasts, down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one swift tug, exposing you completely to him.

Your hand still trailed over his groin as he knelt, and you were captivated, obsessed with the shape, weight and length of his cock in your hands, blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. As you grasped the lace at the front of his trousers, undoing it, and squeezing the head of his cock between your fingers, Kento moaned, ragged, leaning one hand sideways to support himself.

"Fuck-- I haven't-- not for so long," he moaned, low and husky, feeling your inexperienced fingers explore his cock and balls in a way that felt almost abusively naive. As your thumb glided beneath his foreskin, collecting the wetness of his pre-cum, exploring his slit, Kento hissed, panting and grabbing your hand.

You broke out of your reverie, blushing with mortification, tears pricking in your eyes as you began to apologise. Kento interrupted, shushing you, one hand still gripping your fingers around his cock, the other coming up to cup your face, his thumb swiping across your cheek.

"Not you," he huffed, stroking your cheek, smiling down at you with fevered eyes, "me, it's-- I-- I'll cum in your hand if you carry on." Your eyes glimmered, hungry to see how he looked as you pleasured him, and you moved yourself, leaning close, squeezing him again beneath his own hand, and he cried out in pleasure. You felt another drip of his arousal across your fingers, and you gulped, your tongue darting out across your lips.

As you lowered yourself to his lap, Kento's eyebrows raised in shock, and desperate awe, as you licked the weeping cockhead sticking out from your joined enclosed hands.

A low rumble ebbed through Kento, his eyes suddenly dark and hungry as he looked down at you, wordlessly using your hand inside his own, to pump the length of his cock. Feeling the intoxicating glide of soft skin over woody hardness, you let him use your hand to masturbate himself as you took the head of his cock into your mouth, licking, tasting the musty pre-cum there.

Every instinct screamed at Kento to chase his orgasm, to press your head further down his cock so he could use your little hand to jack off into your mouth, and he felt overwhelmed by the innocent licks and sucks you gave him, eyes cast upwards to see what effect they had on him. Kento moaned desperately, twisting on his haunches, fingers in turn tangling into your hair and coming away, clenching and unclenching at speed.

He felt the approaching rush of divine ecstasy, thrumming up his back in waves, his balls tightening up against the base of his cock--

Snapping, Kento pulled your hand and mouth off him, heaving you up the bed and back onto the pillows, before pinning you down with his body, panting into your neck, trying not to spill his seed over your belly. You were thrilled, ecstatic with Kento's pleasure, eager to see more of it.

You crept your hips up to his, trying to ease his cock into you. Kento huffed, his hand shooting down to press your hips down again.

"--going to kill me-- I swear-- no idea...you have no idea what you're doing to me--" Kento panted, quaking above you, one forearm planted above your head. As his peak ebbed away, Kento plaited his hand with your own again, above your head. He felt his cockhead resting against the smooth resistance of your entrance, and he suddenly felt so responsible for you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he huffed, aware he was bigger than average, but knowing from the fevered look in your eyes that he could not dissuade you-- not that he wanted to, at this point, his cock throbbing with urgent need.

"Please," you begged, "please." You felt Kento's hips press forwards into your soaking wet heat, feeling a slight sting as it met resistance. Kento rested his nose to yours, his eyes still feverish, his body still smelling of iron and ash and smoke.

"On one condition," he pressed, authoritative as his cockhead pressed deeper against your stinging resistance, breaking past thin membrane, gripping your thigh up to his hip as you trembled, biting your lip, tears in your eyes as you nodded-- anything, you thought, anything.

"Marry me," he whispered against your lips, and you squeaked as you felt a twang of pain, his cock suddenly nestled deeply inside you. Kento rocked his hips gently, shushing you, soothing you, his thumb stroking your palm. Not moving, just holding you as you adjusted to feeling so full, Kento waited for an answer.

"Y--yes...yes," you mewled, and Kento growled his approval against your neck, slowly pulling out of you before rutting back into your wet, tender pussy again, so intimate and deep that you cried out for him.

Kento rolled his hips, like a boat on the waves, whispering into you, certain he wouldn't last long; "First-- I'll cum inside you-- then I'll treat you like a queen...haaah...for the rest of my days."

You clung to Kento, lost in the ecstasy of him plowing into you, delighted by his rumbling groans in your ears, blissfully proud of being able to make such an unflappable man fall apart inside you. When his grip on your hip faltered, his shaking hand dropping to stroke quick little circles around your clit, Kento growled and bit into your neck to feel you rock your hips upwards to meet his own.

The sting almost completely eased, you felt quick pangs of pleasure, rising with every beat of your fast little heart, completely carried along by the eroticism of Kento's frantic groans and mumbles into your ear.

"My love I-- you feel so good...so good...god, I need to cum, need you to cum I-- aahhhh, fuck--" Kento felt your pussy clench around him, and he came inside you as you drank down his moans, fascinated by how they matched up with the bounding twitch of his cock, how his hips juddered into you involuntarily, how his face contorted, jaw clenched, somewhere between rage and serenity.

You were famished, starved of him, immediately desperate for more, and you felt him crumple into you, caging you in, shoulders heaving and spent. Kento chuckled as you peppered him with kisses, gripping your thighs round him and rolling him over so you lay above him, straddling him as his cock softened within you.

With his chin on his chest to look down to you, and a lazy lopsided smile across his face, Kento played idly with your hair, stroking your nose, your cheeks. He proudly fingered the beautiful necklace, resting against your breasts, squashed and plush against him.

"You meant it?" He asked, eager, concerned.

You hummed in delight, pressing a tender kiss to his chest as you nodded; "You had me at 'hello'."

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Would the anon who requested Blacksmith!Kento PLEASE STAND UP so I can credit you for breaking my brain.

[shavacreationswitzerland]

Let there be Light

[satellite-evans]

Hi! I saw that you’re taking requests..I wholeheartedly believe that Benedict is one of those ppl who are always warm like a human furnace sooo do you think you could write something about him keeping the reader warm when it’s cold outside (i.e, holding hands, hugging, etc.)

Much love😇💜

Warm Embrace

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: You find solace in the warm and comforting presence of your husband <3

Word count: 874

Warnings: just pure fluff

A/N:

Thank you so much for your request nonnie, You guys make me the happiest girl in the world when you sent in not only request, but also asks or questions, it honestly and truly makes my day🥹🥹🥹

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The chill of the early winter morning seeped through the cracks of the old country house, the wind howling softly outside. You shivered, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you looked out the window, watching the first snowflakes of the season dance gracefully to the ground. The room was dimly lit, the pale morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a serene, almost magical glow over everything.

"You're awake early," came a familiar, warm voice from behind you. You turned to see Benedict, his hair tousled from sleep, standing in the doorway of your bedroom. He wore a simple nightshirt, the soft fabric clinging to his well-built frame, his presence comforting and reassuring.

"I couldn't sleep," you admitted, smiling at him. "The cold woke me."

Benedict's eyes softened as he walked over to you, his presence immediately warming the room. "Come here," he murmured, pulling you into his arms. His body radiated heat, and you sighed contentedly as you nestled against his chest, feeling his warmth envelop you. His embrace was familiar and secure, the perfect refuge from the biting cold.

He led you back to the bed, pulling the covers up as you both slipped underneath. Benedict wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His body radiated heat like a human furnace, and you felt the chill melt away as he held you tight. The sensation of his warm skin against yours was incredibly comforting, a stark contrast to the cold air outside the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his lips brushing against your temple.

"Much better," you replied, resting your head against his shoulder. "You always know how to keep me warm."

Benedict chuckled softly, his hand gently rubbing your back. "It's a husband's duty to ensure his wife is comfortable," he said, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Especially on such a cold morning."

You smiled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your ear. "Well, you're certainly excelling at it," you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. You felt the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, each exhale a soft whisper of warmth against your hair.

Benedict shifted slightly, pulling you even closer, his hands roaming your back in soothing circles. "Stay here with me," he whispered, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We don't have to get up just yet. Let's just enjoy the warmth and the quiet."

You nodded, closing your eyes as you relaxed into his embrace. "There is no place in the world that I would rather at than to be here with you."

The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in your cozy cocoon. The wind continued to howl outside, but you felt safe and warm within Benedict's arms. His fingers trailed up and down your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

After a while, Benedict began to hum softly, the deep, rich sound vibrating through his chest. You recognized the tune – a lullaby his mother sang to him and his siblings when they were children. Violet told you that it was the only way her children slept, especially Benedict, who always found it difficult to fall asleep. The melody was soothing, and you felt yourself drifting off, lulled by the warmth of his body and the gentle sound of his voice. You couldn't help but wonder if Benedict would sing it later to his own children too.

Benedict continued to hum, his hands never ceasing their gentle movements on your back. He was like a living, breathing source of warmth and comfort, and you felt incredibly grateful to have him by your side. His warmth seemed to seep into your very bones, driving away any lingering chill.

As the morning light slowly brightened the room, you opened your eyes to find Benedict watching you, a tender smile on his lips. "Good morning again," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The look in his eyes was one of pure adoration, making your heart swell with love.

"Good morning," you replied, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were warm and soft, and you felt a rush of love and contentment wash over you. The kiss was slow and tender and felt like a warm lasting hug that you never wanted to break.

"Shall we get up and start the day?" Benedict asked after a moment, his forehead resting against yours.

You shook your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Not just yet. Let's stay like this a little longer."

Benedict chuckled, his arms tightening around you. "As you wish, my love," he said, settling back against the pillows with you still in his embrace. The sound of his laughter was like a warm breeze, filling you with happiness.

And so you stayed, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring the quiet moments before the day began. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, all you felt was the heat of Benedict's love, keeping the cold at bay. The world outside could wait; for now, there was only the two of you, nestled together in your own private haven of warmth and love.

[inlovewithregencyera]

My Fair Lady: Late Baroque Era Set

(no fancy thumbnail this time, sorry) ♫ < baroque music

Please READ ALL OF THIS before downloading. I will not answer an ask if it was answered here. Read.

This is a late 17th-century/early 18th-century Baroque Set. You will get 25 items for women, girls, and toddlers! Towards the bottom, I will give you tips to start a Baroque Era Save (people to find on gallery and men/boy attire).

I would like to thank @the-melancholy-maiden @linzlu @sychik @batsfromwesteros @vintagesimstress @cringeborg @acanthus-sims @stereo-91 and sims 2 creator maya40 for the stuff I've used to make all of this. I'm sure there are more creators but I cannot recall their names off the top of my head. DM me if you see a piece of your mesh here so I can give proper credit. I would also like to thank @belleophile for testing these items for me.

The stuff in this set can work for the late 1660s-early 1710s.

WHAT YOU GET: You will get 3 hat hairs, 1 for each age I listed above, 2 Fontanges for adults that work with the hat slider mod, 4 adult hairs, an adult baroque hair comb piece, 1 adult baroque sash accessory used for court and portraits, 1 ribbon hair piece to go with a hair, and 13 dresses (2 1670s/1660s mantuas, 1 1680s-1710s Habit used for Hunting or Riding, 1 1690s-1710s court dress used for court occasions, 1 1690s-1710s jeweled portrait dress and 1 1660s-1670s portrait dress with sash, and finally 7 1690s-1710s mantuas used for everyday, formal, and seasonal wear. I've included 1 dress for a child and 1 dress for a toddler as well).

SMALL NOTICE ABOUT THE PIECES: The hairline on the hairs will not behave correctly if you have head shape presets on the sim. I've tried fixing that but no luck. If I manage to fix it, I will update it. The Hat Hairs are found in the HAT category and are not compatible with hairs you MUST download the hair files that I'll be including with them. This being said, if you remove sim clothing while they have the hat hair on, it removes the hair override too. It's strange, but just put the hat back on and it should fix. The comb, and ribbon accessory are also found in the hat category. The Sash is found in the GLASSES category. The 1660s-1670s Mantuas are not compatible with shoes, leggings, or socks. I've removed these options in CAS tools so you shouldn't have to worry about clipping. The Barbara 1670s Dress has a sash meshed onto it, and because of this does not behave well with bigger bodies. The same applies to the Henrietta 1670s Dress, as the pearls don't behave with bigger bodies. Same with the Sarah 1670s Dress jewels. The 1690s-1710s Mantuas will have small gaps if the sim is plus-sized. I have tried to fix these issues, but no luck. The hat hair fontange looks a bit gray without reshade or a lighting mod. @northernsiberiawinds has some good lighting mods. Other than that, it's fine. Below, is how it will look white with a lighting mod.

Everything has AT LEAST 20 swatches. Some things have more. There are only a few things that don't have this many swatches.

Here are some pics up close of what you are getting.

Here are some pics/fashion plates from this era.

Did I forget the 1680s mantua..? Oh no! Luckily, I've included this surprise 1680s dress you'll be getting as well for reading all of that. So 26 items! (here you can see hat hair fontange without lighting mods installed)

BAROQUE SAVE TIPS: These dresses will work for winter, summer, and traveling wear. Just add a fichu for summer wear or a shawl. For winter wear just add some long gloves and a cape. For men's stuff from this era, @stereo-91 has recolored some acanthus outfits which can be found here. I'll show you how they look below. I also recommend going to his gallery (ROTAMETERS91) as he has AMAZING builds for this era. For a little boy, @acanthus-sims has some stuff that can work.

DOWNLOAD

[gtgbabie0]

-Finnick Odair x reader

{Quiet moments between you and Finnick when you can’t sleep}

I hope you enjoy my lovelies! 💕

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Winter was in full force, with harsh winds that nipped at your skin. Not even the fireplace could fend off, let alone the fluffy covers that you’ve layered upon your shared bed. Perhaps it was the cold chill in the air that prevented sleep from capturing you, or maybe it was something else entirely… you decide to not let your mind wander to what that could possibly be.

You sit up wrapping your cotton shawl around your shoulders tightly as your eyes scan across your room, dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that peaks behind the curtains and stretches across the floor trailing along the wall.

Finnick doesn’t stir with your movement which means he must be exhausted because he’s often a light sleeper, although you’re not surprised with the busy day he’s had. You smile softly down at him, the way his cheek is smushed against the soft pillow. You gently push his hair away from his closed eyes as you admire him, you’re glad he’s found comfort beside you.

The thought crosses your mind to wake him up, he’s always told you that if you can’t sleep to wake him up, he wouldn’t mind. But looking at him now, you just can’t bring yourself to do it, you’d feel far too guilty.

Instead, you decide to make your way to the kitchen, but not before putting on a pair of thick socks, after all, the tiled floor always felt much colder in the dead of night. Perhaps a warm drink would help lull you to sleep? You think to yourself as you fill the kettle.

You cringe slightly as the water begins to boil, squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden loud noise. Finnick had brought all types of different teas with the hope that one of them might help you get a good night's rest, he’d do anything if it meant you were happy.

You remember when he brought them home, two whole bags full of boxes with different kinds of ‘sleep treatments’ it brought tears to your eyes.

Finnick was always sweet to you, it shows in the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, and the sweet nothings he whispers to you whenever you feel down. You start to miss him, even though he’s only in your shared bedroom, the room next to the kitchen, fast asleep.

You pour the hot water into the small ceramic mug, the same one Peeta had gifted you as a congratulations for your engagement, he had hand painted them, beautiful flowers that swirl around the cup.

Soon enough the sweet smell of the tea reaches you, soothing the restless feeling that builds up within your chest. You take a small sip of the warm beverage as Finnick wanders through the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep.

“It’s freezing out here honey” his voice is rough despite the softness of his tone, exhaustion hangs on his every word. he shuffles closer to you, bringing his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as if he’s trying to protect you from the chill that lingers within the air.

A sigh falls from your lips when he presses a kiss to your forehead, his hands soothing against your back as you rest against him. Even in the safety of his arms the guilt still bubbles up within you, “Did I wake you up?” You ask, pushing your face against his shoulder.

“No, was already awake” he’s lying but you decide not to fight him on it, far too distracted by the warmth of his hands as they slip underneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your lower back. “Can’t sleep without you anyway” he says, pulling back to get a better look at you, the truth of his words are shown through his eyes.

“M’sorry” you mumble into the soft fabric of his shirt, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” The words come out much heavier than you’d like and it strikes a cord within Finnick, one that pinches his heart.

He tuts softly as he leans back slightly, holding your chin with his finger and thumb. “Hey,” he whispers, tilting your head to look at him. His eyes immediately soften as yours find his, “Don’t apologise, honey, it’s what I’m here for, yeah?” He smiles, seeming more awake than he was just mere minutes ago.

“I know, I just- I don’t want to be too much” The words feel silly as they escape your lips but your chest feels lighter for it. You know deep down you shouldn’t feel like this, Finnick has never made you feel anything but loved.

“Too much?” He repeats after you as if you had just said something that had completely baffled him, and it did. “There’s no such thing, sweetness,” he tells you, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you- so much” he whispers against your lips before kissing you, not letting your mind wander elsewhere for even a second.

“I love you too Finn” you exhale, eyes closing as he rests his forehead against your own, your noses bumping against each others slightly.

“Come on, it’s warmer in bed,” he says, unwrapping his arms from around you as he picks up the tea you had made, “I got this, you go get into bed honey” he smiles and you know better than to fight him on it, so you do as he says, climbing back into the cosy bed with Finnick following shortly behind you.

He hands you the warm beverage before joining you, his hand slipping into your own as you take small sips of your drink. He talks about the market, how they're starting to sell that one specific seasonal bread you like, and he even begins to make plans for the weekend with you. his voice clams your nerves, it brings peace.

"Thank you, Finnick" you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder as he pulls the blankets over your legs.

He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, “Always for you” he says, voice heavy with sleep once again. You set your mug on the bedside table before turning back to him, and for the first time tonight, you start to feel yourself drift off as you lay in his arms.

Finnick could admire you forever without wanting anything, study every ‘imperfection’ and fall even more in love with you. He would pour his heart out to you right now if he wasn’t so tired so instead he settles for a simple, “G’night beautiful” with love dripping from his tone, and soon enough you both find sleep.

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[dhampling]

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom. 

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen. 

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat. 

“You’re so cold” 

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.” 

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun. 

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you. 

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm. 

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow. 

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

-

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.” 

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow. 

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork. 

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.” 

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

[dearharriet]

About Time | Chapter 1

james potter x reader time travel au | 3k words | contents

page 1 | next

00:00 — 1 JANUARY

James waited until he’d fallen into his childhood home, half-plastered and sad and staring himself in the eyes through his bathroom mirror. His gaze seemed colder, lonelier than usual, and when he splashed his face with cool water it chilled him to the bone.

He’d never been unsettled by solitude, never minded much retreating to an empty bed at the end of a long day. Until then.

That’s when he knew he had to go back.

+

“Pardon me.”

The voice from behind you was so sudden and deep that you jumped, whipping around clumsily to meet it.

“God, you startled me!”

Laying eyes on the man responsible, you instantly released any ill-will you had.

“Hi, sorry,” he said, and you were already quite smitten.

He was young, though surely not any younger than you. Handsome too, in a dismantling way, like he might take you apart if you were an old clock, just to see what made you tick.

And if he wasn’t young and handsome, he’d still gain a little credit just in looking so guilty for spooking you.

“Hi.”

This was January, and you were out on the veranda, so your breath escaped you visibly. You were aware of it trickling upward as the handsome man smiled shyly and introduced himself.

“I’m James.”

Leaning up against a white banister, you snuggled further into your shawl, watching him. He was a few steps above you, and taller by a lot anyways, so it posed a bit of a strain.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely name,” James commented, not missing a beat. It surprised you, but you rallied easily.

“And yours.” You sipped your drink, and when he hadn’t formed a response, decided to elaborate. “Classic.”

James ducked his head in a dashing sort of way, adding a little humility to the lethal mix of attractive traits he contained.

“Yeah, but don’t let it take any precedence. It's strangeness across the board for the rest of me.”

Your lips curled up at the corners.

“For some reason I think that’s true,” you teased, eyes shining with mirth.

There were lots of ways to be flirted with, several of which left a bad taste in your mouth and a loneliness that felt unquenchable in your chest, but this you liked.

James spoke like he was on his toes, constantly steeped in anticipation. If possible, he seemed to savor every moment while simultaneously rushing into better, deeper territory.

He came further down the steps then, and you appreciated the relief on your neck. The smell that drifted off of him was like honey and biscuits, perpetually warm on your senses, even in late winter.

“So how do you know Marlene,” James asked, and you felt the tightness of excitement in your chest realizing that he was going to stay and talk to you.

“Work,” you told him, “she’s a madwoman. Flirts with all the customers.”

James kept a polite distance from you, gravitating toward a patch of light from the windows. He wore a tailored suit that was primarily night blue, which somehow fit him with both strict lines and a charming rumpled messiness.

You wondered if he’d get any easier to look at.

“That sounds like Marly,” James agreed, looking fond. A tiny needle of jealousy pricked you, which was ridiculous, because if this were Marlene’s boyfriend she’d have been shouting it from the rooftops.

Clinging to that affirmation, you asked, “you two are familiar?”

Each of James’ hands held the opposite bicep in a half-hearted cross, aiding a small shrug.

“We went to school together.”

You nodded, growing envious for new reasons.

“That seems to be the theme around here. I’m sad I missed it.”

James smiled warmly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Would it make you feel better if I told you it was boarding school? We had to share dorms all year.”

Fiddling with a ring on your finger, your gaze skipped to the square orange portal that led to the party inside. The window was one on the back wall of the parlor, and it became devastatingly easy to pick out the school club from the others inside. Marlene lounged beside other sharp girls and well-dressed guys, all of them laughing and bickering like siblings. You craved to be at the heart of it more than anything.

“Co-Ed?” you asked abruptly, tearing away from the vibrant crowd to see James’ face contort.

“No,” he laughed. “I roomed with Sirius, Remus and Frank.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Four to a room?”

James’ laugh thickened, his spectacles glinting white as his head tossed back. His amusement was acerbic, corrupting your bewilderment until it was lost to a goofy smile.

“I do feel much better, thank you,” you said. “Private school sounds awful.”

“Well, don’t rub it in, now,” he chided lightly.

An army of wind marched around the corner of the estate then, fighting through your thin shawl. James’ eyes traced your shivering frame as he stepped ever closer.

“Erm, hey, I was wondering—”

The patio door opened, delicate glass inlaid with iron, and yet your moment with James seemed the thing to shatter. A fair-skinned man stepped out, a hunt in his eyes, and you hoped whatever it was for wasn’t James.

Nyx-dark hair moved like shadows over the night sky, reflecting the party inside glossily. His head turned, and then he was laying eyes on your companion.

“James!” The man said, his poised effect splitting down the middle, revealing a collie’s energy. He motioned for James to meet him up on the landing. “C’mon mate, Remus has a plan.”

James shook his head simply.

“Do it without me, yeah?”

Something territorial swept over James’ friend’s face, and he suddenly looked you over. You were embarrassed to only warrant a millisecond of his attention.

“Bollucks,” he declared, challenging James to disagree. “Let’s go.”

Then he returned swiftly inside, leaving both French doors and your chest swung open. James sighed, the weight of a lost battle on his shoulders, and found your eyes again.

“Sorry, that’s Sirius,” he explained, and you supposed that would make sense.

“The roommate,” you provided. James nodded.

“I swear he’s nicer.”

You wouldn’t say you found him rude, just unfriendly. He certainly seemed warm, as did everyone at the party, but to a select few people. A select few that didn’t include you.

You said, “I’m sure.” If James thought someone was nice, they probably were. He seemed a good judge of character. Unless you had very poorly judged his character, which you wouldn’t put past yourself.

James winced. “I have to go. But, um—”

“James, mate, come on,” Sirius called from inside, and then he and another, taller man poked their heads out to check his progress in detaching himself from you.

“Alright, one second!”

You’re not sure why you said it, perhaps the people pleaser overriding your system, but you said, “it’s alright, James. You can go.”

It didn’t make him look any less torn. His head whipped back and forth between you and his friends, trying to find a solution.

Of course you wanted him to stay, but you didn’t want to hold him hostage, so you tried your best to look supportive of whatever he chose.

In the end, he stepped close to you, brows pinched with regret.

“I won’t be long. Will you—would you stay?”

You pressed your lips together in a tight smile, choking back the clawing barrage of disappointment.

“‘Course,” you said.

James blew out a breath, relaxing his tense posture.

“I really swear it. Back before you can say ‘private school,’ yeah?”

You laughed weakly, taking a long look at him for memory.

“Yeah.”

Reluctantly, James backed away from you, then turned to climb the steps toward his friends. They were sagged with impatience, hanging onto his every step the same way you were, except for different reasons. In a way, you were more jealous of these two than you were of Marlene, because they were like James’ brothers. They knew him better than probably anyone, you guessed.

James hopped up onto the landing and glanced back to you, frowning slightly. The light from inside caught his lenses just so, hiding his eyes from you, and that small detail alone felt like the end of all things.

Then, Sirius and his accomplice took each of James’ arms and hauled him inside, shutting the doors behind them.

Shivering again, you watched the three of them appear in the window, heads bowed together in conspiracy. James looked different there, like something out of a movie. He snapped right into place with the rest of them, glittering and masterfully made.

It was clear he had a world of his own—one that you would likely never penetrate, no matter how badly you wanted for it, no matter how long you waited in the cold.

Marlene would forgive you for running off, but you’d never forgive yourself if you got sick for a silly dream, so you left the party and made peace with the what-if that was James.

+

James fell headfirst out of the cramped coat closet, cursing as his legs tangoed and lost to a tall pair of rain boots. In his fall, he took down with him three raincoats and a hanging organizer (six hats, a bucket of gloves, and five and half pairs of sandals).

He was already tired and fuming when he entered the closet, and now he felt he’d completely lose it any second. Disengaging from his fight with evil clothing, he scooched on his bum to the scrunched up hall runner that paved the Mckinnon’s entry.

Near the end of it someone cleared their throat, and James looked up to see Fabian and Gideon Prewett, the nosiest blokes in the world. Fantastic.

“Look who we have here,” said one twin, the other smiling wickedly, ready to pick up the second half of their routine snooping.

“Off for a snog-sesh with someone, are we, James?”

Battling to his feet, James let out a long-suffering sigh, already moving their way.

“Yeah, your mum,” he snarked.

As they both laughed, James prepared to push between them, but they parted before he had to. He walked through their flank, relieved yet nervous—the typical reaction those two elicited.

Leaving them behind, the narrow hall forked off into several different rooms, offices and kitchens and a library. James played here even before he was in school with Marlene, so he knew every corner like it was his own home. He headed for the parlor.

Even for someone who had never been in the house, finding James’ destination would be easy. All they had to do was follow the music.

In the parlor, chaise lounges were hardly visible under old school friends and their families, the walls lined with business partners and gossiping aunts. Smaller children ran amok, like birds weaving between a forest of mingling adults. The hearthfire hissed and spat, bound to take down at least one fashionably dressed lady before the year was over.

James swept his gaze over the bobbing heads and flying hands, looking for someone in particular. Sirius’ thick black hair beat like a raven's wing near the back of the room, so that’s where the bespectacled boy went.

On his path, Remus stood glued to a wall, looking very antisocial. He pinged from one crutch to another, taking up new residence at James’ side.

“Where’d you run off to?”

“Had to take a piss,” James said casually. He’d grown accustomed to small lies like that, since no one knew about his little habit.

Remus didn’t question it, just picked through the crowd to where Sirius was.

“Padfoot,” James called, and he didn’t have to say anything else. Sirius excused himself and met the two of them without question, a silent understanding that forged the undercurrent of their friendship.

James led them all into another hall, one closer to the crystalline patio doors.

“I heard,” James started, “that Marlene has a pot stash somewhere ‘round here.”

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other, and James knew he had them. Even if they came up dry, the two of them would snoop just to snoop, and Remus obviously wanted away from the party anyways.

“Whereabouts do you think it is,” Sirius asked, looking at a mounted painting like it might be involved.

“Dunno,” James said, “but if we split up I bet we’d find it before the new year.”

Sirius grinned, and it spread onto Remus’ lips.

“I can take downstairs, and you and Pads can go up,” Remus said.

James shook his head.

“No, you two can go.” The two of them gave James skeptical looks, but he shrugged. “I have heavy footsteps, they’d hear me up there.”

Sirius’ expression cleared, and then he was nodding along. “Right.” He took Remus’ arm in his grasp and pulled him along. “Let’s go, Moony. I bet we can find some before Prongs.”

James heard Remus object that, “it’s only in one place,” before their conversation was lost by distance. Then, he turned around and pushed through the back doors, praying you were where he left you.

You were. Just like last time, your back was turned to him. You were staring at the clear sky, gripping your wrap close to your chest. James remembered that he’d startled you before, so he latched the doors as noisily as possible. You still didn’t come around.

He supposed that was for the best, actually, since he’d changed something already. He crept down the steps, feeling terrible for sneaking up on you, and wondering what you might’ve been thinking about that kept you so distracted.

“Pardon me,” James begged, and you spun around in shock.

“God, you startled me!”

James smiled, and your eyes trailed all over him. He couldn’t say he minded, since he was doing the same.

You reminded him of a mouse—shy but necessarily bold, holding yourself up outstandingly well as a stranger in a roomful of friends. That was, until you dipped outside and didn’t return.

“Sorry, hi,” he apologized, really meaning it this time. As expected, you smiled shyly, golden champagne tilting in the glass you held.

“Hi.”

A swath of mist escaped your mouth with the exhaled greeting. James had to remind himself that you didn’t remember the first time this happened, so you wouldn’t know his name.

“I’m James.”

You leant back, neck craning to keep his eyes. James stepped down to accommodate you, and your brows smoothed.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“That’s a pretty name,” James said, getting bolder. It was hard to hold himself away from you.

You dropped your head then, smiling primly at the stone steps.

“Thank you,” you said, instead of complimenting James in return.

James blinked. What happened?

“Yours—”

“I’m—”

James paused as you both spoke at the same time, looking at you the way someone might look at a tricky puzzle.

“Sorr—”

“You can—oh.”

Fingers pressed to your mouth, you looked at James, a tentative smile in your eyes. James sighed, and then laughed strangely. He motioned for you to go ahead, only to find your hand unfolding into the same gesture. Both of you stared at each other for a beat before falling into a fit of giggles.

“You go,” James said finally, smiling. You just shook your head.

“I don’t even remember.”

James squinted at your rosy cheeks, his lips picking up at the corners. You could lead a horse to water, he supposed.

The temptation to learn more about you began to win him over, so he bent a few rules.

“So you work with Marlene, I hear,” he spoke, fibbing ever so slightly.

You smiled a bit, none the wiser. “I do, yeah.”

James looked inside, checking for dark hair or an itchy sweater, but Remus and Sirius were still missing. Good.

“What’s that like?”

Brows furrowing, you followed his gaze.

“It’s…interesting. She’s really nice, but she—”

“Flirts with all the customers?” James supplied, peeking at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stared at him for a tick. “Yeah. You must know her?”

“Childhood friends,” James decided, nodding. When he turned back to you, you were raking your eyes over his dressy outfit, lip caught between your teeth. Your eyes found his, and you looked away. James thought he saw a flush to your cheeks.

The wind whipped around the corner then, and James began shouldering his thick jacket off, finally doing what he’d wanted to do before.

“You must be crazy,” he said, coming closer. “It’s freezing out here.”

You braved a look at him, and alarm sunk into your features.

“No, James, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be polite, lovely, you’re shivering. Here.”

James slowly held his coat over your shoulders, leaning back to watch you carefully. He saw the moment you accepted his offer, sinking back into the warmth the garment still held.

“Thank you,” you breathed as James pulled away. He shoved his cold hands into his pockets, now looking to conserve heat.

“‘Course.”

Though his hands weren’t on you anymore, James stayed just as close as he was moments ago. He could smell the champagne in your glass. He glanced around to the garden, to your feet on the step, just below his.

“D’you want to head inside?” he asked. “It’s almost midnight, I think.”

Your lips turned up, and James hoped to God he’d get to kiss them.

“That sounds lovely.”

+

James flipped his phone open, the small screen giving off just enough light in his dark room to make him squint. He was wondering what you’d put for your contact—a smiley face, maybe, or a heart? He hoped you put a heart. It took his brain far too long to catch up to reality.

With a shock of gut-twisting dread, James realized he’d been so wound up over kissing you that he forgot to ask for your phone number. Your phone number.

He groaned, glancing at his bed longingly, but he knew he wouldn’t fall into it very soon. He’d go back a hundred times before he slept that night if it got him one date with you.

thank you for reading! xx | masterlist

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[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 90

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 90: The Mother's Prayer

AO3 - Masterlist

Dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of an impending deluge. The scent of rain permeated the air, carried on a chilled with that made Daenera shiver. The light fabric of her gown offered little resistance to the growing chill–summer was truly over, and winter was coming. She gripped her skirts, rising a few steps towards the doors of the Royal Sept before stopping. Turning, she glanced down at Mertha, who trailed behind her with the usual frown on her face. Mertha halted when she noticed Daenera had stopped, lifting her murky gray eyes to meet the princess’s gaze.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl?” Daenera asked, her tone carefully threaded with a semblance of sincerity, masking the deliberateness of the act. 

Mertha’s expression settled into a scowl, her brows knitting into a tight frown, “You ought to have heeded my warning when I told you to bring it, Princess.”

“Yes, I realize now it was a mistake. I should have listened,” Daenera conceded, carefully smoothing any hint of condescension from her voice. “But could you please fetch it now?”

“I should let you feel the chill, perhaps then you’ll learn to listen to me,” Mertha grumbled under her breath, her steps deliberate as she headed past Daenera towards the doors of the sept. She seemed almost inclined to leave Daenera to endure the consequences of her supposed heedlessness. 

Daenera lifted the hem of her gown slightly to facilitate her movement and quickened her pace to match Mertha’s. With a calculated ease in her tone, she suggested, “It would be rather unfortunate to fall ill now, wouldn’t it?”

Mertha stopped abruptly and turned to confront Daenera, her height accentuated as she stood two steps above on the staircase, a deep scowl etching her features. Her left hand clutched the skirts of her dress, while her right firmly clasped her well-worn, leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star–a tome from which she often instructed Daenera to read. 

With a stern expression, Mertha asserted, “I mustn’t leave you unattended, Princess. I will not allow you to make a mockery of me again or cause another spectacle.”

“The princess isn’t unattended,” Finan interjected, stepping up to join Daenera on the same stone step, his posture relaxed yet alert, thumbs hooked casually on his belt. “It wouldn’t bode well for the princess to take ill, especially not with the wedding so close. I doubt the Prince would appreciate his betrothed being sick to say her vows, nor would the Hand find it acceptable.”

“Then you should fetch the shawl,” Mertha retorted sharply, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Finan, who met her gaze with an amused calm, unconcerned by her scorn. 

Daenera stepped closer to Mertha, her expression one of slight dismay. “I’d rather not have a man searching through my belongings. You know which one I mean–the thick, green shawl with the small blue flowers on it.”

Mertha’s lips pursed as she seemed to consider the situation, her eyes flicking between Finan and Daenera. She seemed to realize the implications of allowing Finan into Daenera’s private chambers–a space where the guards, typically stationed outside the door, seldom entered. 

With a reluctant huff, Mertha finally acquiesced. “Very well. Ensure that she remains within your view and that no one approaches her while she’s in prayer.” Stepping down another step, she handed Daenera her book of prayers with firm instruction. “You may start with the Mother’s prayer.”

Daenera nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on Mertha as she made her way down the steps, her figure gradually diminishing as she crossed the vast expanse of the courtyard outside of the Sept, moving down the path leading to Maegor’s Holdfast. The Keep buzzed with activity as though the world hadn’t turned upside down. Servants scurried across the cobblestones and dirt paths, their movements swift and determined, some clutching linens, others hastily covering baskets and removing them from the impending rain. 

As her eyes roved over the scene, she noted the guards patrolling the high walls, their presence a reminder of the new regime–their uniforms had been changed to a striking green, each emblazoned with a golden, three-headed dragon that seemed to gleam even under the overcast sky. Even the servants' uniform had become a subtle forest green. It struck Daenera how quickly the fabric of the Keep had been altered; the seamstresses and tailors must have worked through the nights to provide the Keep with their new uniformity–or it suggested premeditation, one she wouldn’t put past the Hightowers. 

Daenera’s voice was a low murmur, her eyes remaining cast out over the courtyard as she spoke, “I’ve secured Fenrick’s release. He will be freed the morning after the wedding.”

The weight of the concession she had made hung palpably in the air between them. There was no need for words to convey what was understood in their shared silence: she had bartered her obedience and compliance for his freedom–a substantial sacrifice on her behalf. 

She could have resisted, could have continued to balance precariously on the edge, with Fenrick’s and Patrick’s lives dangling like a sword over her head, vulnerable to any misstep she might make. The wedding was unavoidable–a fact set in stone–and she had chosen to leverage what little power she had for Fenrick’s freedom. It was a calculated trade, a deliberate sacrifice made within the harsh confines of her circumstances–and it would not be the only sacrifice made that day. 

“Otto Hightowers is unlikely to let him simply leave the city,” Finan remarked, echoing Daenera’s own concerns. His brows furrowed deeply, his face etched with the stern solemnity characteristic of a Northerner. “Neither will the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera nodded, her expression equally grave. She understood all too well the reality that either figure might send men to prevent Fenrick’s departure, ensuring that he never left the city alive. It was impractical for them to allow a known adversary to reinforce the ranks of their opposition–and to bring them any information they might suspect he carried. 

“I have contacts here in the city,” Finan continued, his tone somber yet resolute. “I’ll arrange for them to aid his escape, to ensure he vanishes without a trace.”

The chill wind wrapped around Daenera, penetrating the fabric of her dress and settling into her bones. She instinctively hugged the book closer to her chest, seeking its meager warmth. “Fenrick knows how to fend for himself.”

Finan’s eyes met hers, brows inching downward. “Are you asking me not to get involved?”

“I advise caution,” Daenera replied, her voice steady but somber. “If the Hightowers suspect outside help, they’ll scour the Keep for anyone who might be involved. If your ‘friends are caught, they’ll trace it back to you, and then to me. I cannot afford to lose you in this.”

The loss of Finan would strip her of her eyes and ears beyond the confines of the Red Keep, severing her last tether to any semblance of influence and knowledge of the war efforts. She needed him; without his aid, she would be completely isolated, reduced to a mere pawn on the board for the Hightowers to move about as they willed. The thought of such isolation, of being utterly alone, was a chilling prospect that made the wind seem even colder. 

Daenera relied too heavily on Finan to allow him to needlessly risk himself. She trusted Fenrick’s ability to ensure his own safety. He would undoubtedly have reached the same conclusion about the Hightower’s unwillingness to let him leave the city alive. He had friends within King’s Landing and the City Watch. He would find a way out, of that she was sure. He had to. 

Finan’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “I’ll make certain no trails lead back to me. I’ll have him seen out of the city, alive, and with enough coin to pay his way to Duskendale where a ship can take him to Dragonstone. Don’t ask me to abandon him… Please.”

Daenera’s expression hardened as she turned to face Finan, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him for a long, measuring moment. “I once told you I had little use for someone whose loyalties lie elsewhere. You assured me that your loyalties would lie with me. You gave me your word–you swore to me.”

“My loyalties lie with you, Princess,” Finan assured her, his eyes earnest and sincere. “But my concern is also for Fenrick and the state he’s in after days in the dungeons. He’ll need help if he is to survive the journey.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Daenera cast her gaze out over the gloomy sky again. “Do what you must, but do not get caught.”

She locked eyes with him again, her gaze intense and commanding–be cautious, she warned him. Finan acknowledged her with a firm nod, understanding the gravity of the silent command. He then gestured towards the sept, the wind picking up and sending a shiver down her spine. “We better get you inside before you truly catch your death in this weather.”

They turned away from the courtyard and ascended the final steps to the Royal Sept. Finan courteously held the door open for Daenera, allowing her to step into the sanctified space. Immediately, the sweet yet cloying scent of incense mixed with the warm aroma of burning candles enveloped them, the fragrance almost tangible as it clawed at the back of their throats. 

Inside, the sept was hushed, the silence punctuated only by the soft whisper of flames dancing in the draft. A few septas stood in the corners, methodically sweeping the floors and tending to the candles, their movements quiet and reverent. 

Soft light seeped through the grand, stained glass windows of the sept, casting a tapestry of muted colors upon the floor, their vibrancy subdued by the overcast sky. Candles lined the walls and clustered solemnly on the altars dedicated to the gods, were the only source of true light, their flames flickering gently in the air. 

Although the thick walls of the sept offered refuge from the biting wind outside, they did little to ward off the pervasive chill that lingered within. Daenera felt the cold slither across the stone floor, sneaking beneath her dress and creeping up her legs. 

As she walked deeper into the sacred space, her footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone, harmonizing with Finan as he felt into step at her side. 

“The Hightowers haven’t been idle,” Finan said, his voice a hushed murmur meant only for her ears. “There have been significant changes made within the City Watch.  Ser Gregor Selter has been removed from his position as Lord Commander for his refusal to bend the knee, and they’ve  installed Luthor Largent in his stead.” 

Daenera’s lips pursed as she took in the information. “Ser Luthor Largent served under Daemon during his time as Commander of the City Watch. They were friends, I believe.”

“Many Gold Cloaks have served under the prince, Princess,” Finan replied, his eyes scanning the room cautiously. “But with the threat of dismissal or worse, a great number have sworn obeisance to Aegon. These are treacherous times, and with the Hand of the King positioning his own son, Gwayne, as the second-in-command of the City Watch, self-preservation dictates much of their allegiance.”

Daenera’s thoughts lingered on the loyalty of Ser Luthor Largent. While he was Lord Commander of the City Watch, he was still kept under the watchful eye of his second-in-command, Gwayne Hightower. It seemed unlikely that he could offer her any immediate aid; his circumstances were similar to her own–both were shackled by their roles, both adrift in a menacing sea of constrained choices. 

As they made their way towards the main altar, Daenera’s voice was thoughtful, “What are the sentiments among the smallfolk with this shift in power?”

Finan’s reply was a subdued murmur, matching the solemn pace of their walk. “They grow… uneasy. With the first blood of war being drawn, and the king’s brother having made himself a kinslayer, they fear retaliation.” He glanced towards her. “They pray for you, Princess, and curse Aemond’s name in turn…”

Daenera paused before the altar, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth radiated from the flickering wicks, distorting the air above them, yet it barely penetrated the chill that clung to her skin. As she watched, a notion began to take shape in her mind. She had always been adored by the smallfolk for her charity and love for the arts. It seemed these efforts were now poised to yield dividends, a factor that undoubtedly fueled House Hightower's determination to wed her to Aemond.

If she could publicly forgive Aemond for his act of kinslaying, perhaps the common people might follow her lead. 

There was strength in the goodwill of the common folk. While power was limited, leveraging this favor could prove advantageous. And though Otto Hightower would recognize the intent behind her actions, he was a man of pragmatism. If she gained the favor of the smallfolk, that favor would extend to them.  

Daenera circled the rounded altar, her steps slow and measured. Finan trailed behind her, his voice a soft undertone as he added, "The blockade your mother has enforced on the Gullet is tightening. It's becoming nearly impossible to bring in imports. The wealthy are already hoarding provisions, and as a result, those less fortunate are left scrambling for the leftovers. Such scarcity is soon to bring unrest among the people."

Good, Daenera mused, opportunity often lay hidden within unrest. She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, shifting the conversation, turning slightly towards Finan as she inquired, “How is Cerys?”

Their eyes locked, and a small smile touched Finan’s lips. His voice warmed with a touch of admiration as he answered, “She’s showing remarkable strength, all things considered.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to the nearest altar, where The Smith was eternally frozen in stone, his figure commanding within the semicircle. He was sculpted with a hammer clasped in his hand, his strong form standing tall, his head bowed reverently toward his own altar, and a gentle beard framing his solemn face.

With a contemplative sigh, she turned back to Finan, her expression troubled. “I fear my advice to Cerys was misguided. I urged her to nurture her anger towards Aegon, to never forget his offenses. It was harsh, perhaps too much so. Now, I worry she might act rashly, endangering herself.”

Now fully aware of Joyce's concerns, Daenera felt a pang of apprehension. She realized that inciting Cerys to seek vengeance against Aegon might have dangerous repercussions. Such encouragement could not only place Cerys in grave danger but potentially threaten Daenera’s own safety as well.

“When I last spoke with her, she seemed well aware of the risks,” Finan answered, his tone steady. “She promised not to take matters into her own hands and to serve you loyally, as she has done ever since you took her in.”

“And you trust her word?” Daenera pressed, searching for any hint of doubt in his eyes. 

“I do.”

Daenera responded with a slow, contemplative nod, her gaze drifting towards the next statue. The Warrior stood tall, helmented, both hands gripping the hilt of his downward-pointing sword, his head bowed in a  posture similar to The Smith’s. The details of his armor were meticulously cared into the stone, every line a testament to the sculptor’s skill. She knew she would have to rely on Cerys’s promise of restraint and patience. 

“Has there been any news from Dragonstone?” Daenera asked quietly, her eyes shifting to the Statue of The Father, as they continued to follow the semi-circle, finally reaching its peak. His long beard was carved into the stone, resting against his chest, and in his hand, he held out a scale for judgment. Unlike the other statues, The Father’s gaze was not directed downward but stood tall and judging. 

“No,” Finan replied, his voice carrying a note of empathy. “Your mother hasn’t returned yet from Storm’s End, it seems.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on The Father’s stern visage, the weight of his judgment seeming to bear down on her. She clutched the book of prayers a little tighter, her heart heavy with the thought of her mother still scouring Shipbreaker Bay for her lost son. The relentless waves seemed to refuse her any remnants they might have swallowed. It was cruel, Daenera thought, and foolish for her mother to linger. As Queen, she was needed at Dragonstone, especially during a time of war. Each day she remained away from her seat of power, her influence waned, and perhaps even her spirit. Daenera wondered if her mother was taking care of herself or if she had become consumed by grief. Her mother also had to think of her own well-being and that of the child she carried–a child Daenera would never be able to see into this world. 

Daenera couldn’t blame her for searching, though. She, too, would have done the same, seeking any sign that her brother was truly gone–that he had been alive at all. 

Finan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Your brother remains in Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Daenera echoed, her eyes drawing to the statue of The Mother as they stopped in front of it. The stone figure wore a gentle smile, her head bowed towards her altar. A veil cascaded down her back, hiding her tied hair, and her hands were neatly folded in front of her, poised as if ready to tenderly caress the heads of her kneeling children. 

Daenera took a deep breath, steadying herself with the thought of her brother–alive and safe in Winterfell. He would have gone there to forge an alliance with House Stark and bring the North to their mother’s side. “If anyone can sway the Starks to my mother’s cause, it is Jace. He will manage well.”

Finan nodded. “Cregan Stark will welcome him warmly and treat him with the honor and respect due to a prince… But his main concern will remain with the safety and welfare of his people. He will be reluctant to get involved in Southern conflicts.”

“This war will affect the whole realm, not just the south,” Daenera said tersely, her frown deeping as she shook her head in exasperation. The North might be isolated and governed on their own, but they must understand that this conflict would inevitably reach them. “The Stark swore their loyalty and to defend her claim when she was named heir.”

Finan responded with a cautious hum. “Aye, they swore to your mother and they will keep their oaths. But wolves protect their own, and Cregan must consider his people now that the winter is steadily approaching. He will be reluctant to lead them into war.”

Daenera seated herself at the altar, her gaze rising to meet Finan’s. He remained standing, his expression solemn yet kind–an embodiment of the Northern demeanor, she supposed, where even friendliness was tinged with solemnity.  

“Will my brother be able to win him over?”

Finan’s lips curved into a slight smile, a gleam of reassurance in his eyes. “I’m confident he will. We Northerners may be a stern folk, but our hearts are not made of stone. Cregan understands the pain of seeing one’s rightful claim challenged. He will sympathize with your mother’s cause. And your brother, being a good and honorable man, will earn Cregan’s respect.”

The flickering candles cast a warm glow on Daenera’s face as she absorbed Finan’s words. The room seemed to hum with a quiet intensity, the presence of the statues–the gods–adding the feel of judgment upon her shoulders. 

A small smile appeared on her lips as she turned her gaze to the flames. Jace could be stubborn at times, yet undeniably charming. He would understand that they needed the alliance with the North, and he wouldn’t return to Dragonstone empty handed. The thought of her brother made her heart twist painfully within her chest. She missed him dearly. The smile faded as she stared into the flames for a long moment, letting the silence settle between them, broken only by the soft snapping of orange tongues lapping at the air. 

“Could you procure something for me?” Daenera asked quietly, lifting a finger to dart through the flames just fast enough for their scorching touch not to linger and burn. “From the gardens, I mean.”

Finan shifted beside her, the sound of leather rustling as he moved. “What do you need?”

“In the herbal garden, near the southern hedges, there’s a particular plant,” Daenera began, her voice measured and careful as she played with the flames. “It’s distinguishable by its long, slender stem that branches out near the top. The stem is strikingly red, and each branch culminates in a white berry, marked by a single black dot.” Her voice strangely soft as she mused, “like the eye of a doll.” The flames were warm against her skin as she played with them, fingers flickering through their tongues as though teasing them for a taste. “But you must be careful–the stem and the berries shouldn’t be touched with bare hands.”

“White baneberry,” Finan drawled, his voice low and serious. “I know of it.”

Daenera abandoned the flames and turned towards Finan. Her eyes met his, reading the seriousness beneath the furrow of his brow. “If you could, I need only a handful of those berries.”

Finan's expression darkened, his brows knitting into a deep furrow. His gray eyes, mirroring the somber sky outside, were filled with a concerned question. The word ‘poison’ fell from his lips, spoken with such caution it seemed as though he feared it might disrupt the fragile silence that enveloped them.

“Yes,” Daenera replied quietly, continuing, “Once you’ve acquired them, leave them in the small lavender sachet beneath my pillow.”

She was sure that Mertha, or indeed anyone else, would overlook such a sachet. Why would they? They were common among the nobility, used to suffuse fabric with the scent of whatever dried flower or herbs contained within. They were often nested in the pockets of dresses or among linens, tugged behind pillows and hidden in small chests around the room. 

“I must have them before the wedding,” she added with a sense of urgency, facing Finan directly. 

“I feel I must ask–”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Even so, I will,” Finan insisted, his tone firm despite the clear reluctance. “Why do you need these berries?”

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the altar, her eyes fixed on the candle flames that flickered and danced, consuming the wicks with a sputtering hunger. “I am left with nothing.” Her hand fell from the flames, resting against the cold stone of the altar. “They’ve sought to remove my herbs, my teas, oils, even my soaps. My jewelry has been taken, fearing I might use them for bribes. I am defenseless.”

“You still have the dagger I gave you,” Finan reminded her, hoping to offer a sliver of solace. The dagger remained unsettled in its hiding place beneath the table beside the settee. The knowledge that it was there did offer some semblance of comfort, but it did not extend beyond her chambers. 

“But how long will it remain hidden there?” She murmured aloud, casting her eyes back at Finan. “It’s not easily concealed in a spot that’s both discreet and accessible. I need something I can carry with me, if necessary.” 

Finan hesitated before cautiously offering his thoughts. “Considering your upcoming marriage–”

Daenera couldn’t suppress the small, wry smile that tugged at her lips, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Are you concerned I might use it against my future husband? Or perhaps you fear I might poison the King?”

With a wary frown on his brow, Finan cast a glance around the shadows of the sept, ensuring no one lurked close enough to overhear their conversation. The only ones present were the septas’ sweeping the floors at the opposite end of the sept. 

“Or,” Finan ventured cautiously, “perhaps you intend to use them on yourself…”

His concern was evident, reflecting the multitude of perilous possibilities that lay in the simple act of acquiring those berries. Daenera understood the gravity of his apprehension, aware of the delicate thread upon which their plans–and her life– balanced. 

The fleeting sense of amusement vanished from Daenera as abruptly as the light from a blown-out candle, replaced by a profound sadness that lingered like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. She understood Finan's apprehension; their plans balanced on a delicate thread, and she knew his concerns ran even deeper, rooted in the hopelessness and helplessness she had felt the previous night, consumed by grief.

Daenera averted her gaze, feeling her throat tighten. "It would be a swift end once the symptoms take hold. The heart slows and eventually stops. You’d simply fall asleep..." She looked back at Finan, her eyes reflecting the gravity of her words. "But I have not yet reached the point where I consider using it on myself, nor would I target my husband-to-be or the usurper king."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. The statues around them stood silent and watchful, their carved expressions frozen in time. 

Daenera understood the implications all too well. Poisoning the wedding party would require far more than just a handful of berries though, and becoming a kinslayer or kingslayer was not part of her plan. Despite her deep-seated desire for retribution, she was wise enough to recognize the folly in such actions. Any attempt would inevitably cast suspicion upon her, implicating her mother as well.

Moreover, the thought of her own death carried consequences far beyond herself. It would lead to the execution of her loyal men and plunge her mother into an even deeper abyss of grief, intensifying the already profound sense of loss Daenera knew she was enduring.

"And Lady Mertha?" Finan probed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Daenera matched his smile with a faint one of her own. "If I were to poison Lady Mertha, however much she might deserve it, I would only see more of my freedom taken away, and she would simply be replaced." She shook her head slightly, thinking that if she were to poison Mertha, it would be with something far more painful than the berries. "The berries are merely a safeguard, nothing more."

Finan responded with a nod, yet his expression still held traces of unease, indicating his lingering worries despite Daenera’s reassurance. 

The resounding creak of the heavy sept doors opening reverberated through the sacred space, immediately followed by the distinct sound of Mertha’s footsteps hastening towards Daenera and Finan. A moment before she arrived, the gust of wind she had let in whirled around them, the candles flickering wildly. Daenera, sensing her approach, turned her attention to the book, deftly flipping to the page where their previous reading had concluded. 

“What were you two discussing?” Mertha demanded, her tone sharp and laced with suspicion as she arrived beside them. Her cheeks bore a rosy tint from exertion, and a few stray strands of hair framed her face, too short to be caught up in the tight bun at the nape of her neck. 

“I was going over the Mother’s prayer,” Daenera responded evenly, her voice carefully neutral, betraying neither falsehood nor sincerity. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line. She unfolded the shawl and draped it around Daenera’s shoulders before taking her place on the cushioned bench below the altar, adjacent to Daenera. Finan, sensing his cue, quietly withdrew to the periphery, blending into the shadows. He stood watchful and alert, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Begin again, from the start,” Mertha commanded, settling herself for the reading. 

Oh, gentle Mother, god of mercy, Bestow your grace upon our souls. In your embrace, we find sanctuary, In your wisdom, our hearts console.

Mother, guide us in our journey, Through trials, through pain, unseen. With your light, the path illuminates, In shadows deep, where hope has been.

Bless the children, your tender flock, In your compassion, let them grow. Shield the weary, under your cloak, Grant them solace from their woe.

In times of strife, be our haven, In moments of doubt, be our guide. With your love, our hearts unladen, In your strength, we shall abide. 

Mother, hear our humble pleading, To your kindness, we entrust our plea. In your care, our souls are leading, To a future where we are free. 

The prayer was one mothers uttered to their children at night as they tucked them in, brushing strands of hair away from their foreheads before placing a loving his there. It was not a prayer her own mother had ever whispered. Instead, Rhaenyra had often hummed an ancient Valyrian song to her before bed–a song of fire and blood, of dragons and magic. The notes of the song would linger in the air, blending with the crackling of the fire and whirling of the wind as it swept past the stone outside. 

While the Faith was something every prince and princess was subjected to learning, it had never been strongly enforced within the walls of Dragonstone. The Maesters' lessons of the Seven often felt distant and formal, lacking the warmth and intimacy distinct to Valyrian traditions. Daenera had always felt a deeper connection to the Valyrian customs, those of fire and blood, and the more ancient faiths such as the Old Gods. 

As Mertha continued the lessons in the Faith, Daenera listened dutifully, nodding at the appropriate moments, humming agreements, and posing questions when necessary. Her face was a mask of solemn study–an act created with the sole intent of showing her compliance. 

While she harbored no animosity towards the Faith of the Seven or the gods themselves, she found little interest in them–especially when the teachings were forced upon her. She did not discount the existence of the gods; she might even pray to them at times, but she found little comfort in them now. 

Still, she prayed, lighting candles in their name to carry off her plea: protect her family, keep them safe and well, and see the Hightowers pay for their treachery and the blood they had shed. Make them suffer. 

Rain began to pelt against the windows of the sept, the sky outside finally breaking open to unleash a rough downpour. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass filled the air, a low rushing sound that seemed to fill the quiet of the sept. As the downpour intensified, the light filtering through the stained glass windows dimmed, the colors on the floor fading into shadows. Now, only the candlelight illuminated the sacred space, casting a delicate glow on the stone walls and the statues that stood vigil.

Daenera glanced towards the windows, tugging the thick shawl tighter around her body, feeling the chill creep in. 

The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by hurried footsteps echoing down the aisle, crossing the vast expanse of the chamber. The sound grew louder, finally coming to a stop just before Daenera and Mertha, who remained seated under the watchful gaze of the Mother at her altar. 

Mertha glanced up at the servant, a boy with dirty blond hair cropped unevenly and an unfortunately narrow nose that hooked at the top. Her eyes narrowed at the interruption of their lesson, and she barked out, “What is it? We are in the middle of our lessons.”

Daenera felt a flicker of half-hearted hope that this intrusion might bring an end to the lesson. She would much rather endure Otto Hightower's discerning company than continue with this dreary affair. In fact, she’d even prefer Alicent’s presence, perhaps to discuss wedding preparations, over Mertha's monotonous instruction. Any company would be better than this, she thought, as boredom gnawed at her mind.

The servant shifted nervously under Mertha’s scrutinizing gaze, his feet shuffling slightly as he stood at the edge of the candlelit altar, his hair plastered to his pale face. His green tunic was darkened by the rain, the droplets having seeped into the fabric making it fall heavily upon his quivering shoulders. “The Prince, Aemond, wishes to see the Princess.”

“Can’t it wait?” Mertha questioned, her tone sharp with irritation. 

“I–I…” The boy stammered, then forced out, “The Prince wishes her brought to him immediately…”

“Tell the Prince that I am busy with my lessons,” Daenera said dismissively, her voice cold and firm. She managed to avoid him ever since the council meeting and had no desire to face him now. She was not some dog he could summon at will. “If he wishes to see me, he should arrange it through Lady Mertha to find an appropriate time. He should know that I am busy with my lessons and still recovering. I have little time to spare.”

The rain continued to batter the windows, the downpour’s intensity matching the tension in the room. Daenera detested her lessons with Mertha. Yet, as much as she loathed the dry, endless monologues about the gods, she preferred them over the thought of seeing Aemond. She had no desire to see him or speak with him. They would be married soon enough; there was no reason she should grant him more of her time now. 

Spite coiled within Daenera like a vengeful serpent, nesting amid the searing flames of her anger. She knew that he wanted to see her–she had felt it in the scorching intensity of this touch when he had gripped her with a fierce, almost desperate force, his eye burning with incredulous fury, demanding acknowledgement. He wanted her, and that precisely why she would deny him. Although she had traded her compliance for Fenrick’s freedom, she had no intention of offering him anything beyond what was agreed. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a grimace, pursuing in displeasure as she drew in a resigned breath. With deliberate slowness, she closed her book of prayers and gently gripped it with both hands. “If the Prince wishes to see you, we shouldn’t deny him.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Mertha. There was a prick of betrayal nibbling at her at the crones decision–as though for once they had been allies in something. But she supposed that she could never depend on Mertha. 

With a resigned sigh, Daenera rose from the altar, wrapping the shawl tighter around her body. The fabric, though warm, did little to shield her from the chill that had settled in her bones. Mertha followed closely, clutching her book of prayers tightly as they made their way towards the doors. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, the low hum of rain lashing against the windows reverberated through the air. 

The world beyond the oaken doors had become one of mud and water. As they stepped out of the sept and stood poised on its upper steps, still shielded by the roof’s overhang, their gazes turned skyward. The sky had plunged into a deep, oppressive gray, and the rain poured down with such ferocity that it felt as if the gods themselves were trying to wash away their existence. 

The once familiar courtyard was now a mire of puddles and rivulets, the ground churned into a slippery mess. The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop striking the earth with a force that seemed to fracture into a fine mist upon impact. The distant outlines of the Keep’s towers were blurred and softened by the downpour, giving the scene an almost dreamlike quality–if dreams would have you drowning that is. 

Daenera pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, feeling the cold, damp air seep through the fabric. Her breath fogged in front of her as she exchanged a glance with Mertha, who now clutched her book of prayers tightly against her chest. The old hag’s expression was one of grim determination, her mouth set in a thin line as she surveyed the sodden landscape. 

“Go! Fetch something to cover us with!” Mertha barked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. At the command, the boy darted out into the rain, each footstep stirring the mud and as he rounded a corner, he slipped and fell into the mud, landing with a wet twrp before quickly scrambling to his feet and continuing on his path.

The sight might have been amusing were she not to venture out into the downpour too. Gazing up at the sky, Daenera mused aloud, “Do you think this is a sign from the gods?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Mertha chided sharply. “If it is a sign from the gods, it is a warning of their displeasure.” Her eyes found Daenera and narrowed with condemnation. “The gods are not so forgiving towards heaten girls and their wickedness.”

“Should the gods not be more offended by the act of kinslaying than by a girl uttering curses in the night?” Daenera retorted, her voice even as she met Mertha’s gaze. “Perhaps it is their displeasure for the blood that has been shed.”

“Bastard blood,” Mertha sneered, clutching her book of prayers so tightly the leather might rip, holding it against her heart as though it could shield her from the judgment of the gods. “The gods may yet forgive the sin of kinslaying–indeed it is a heavy one. But the gods have always despised bastards. They are an insult to all that is virtuous and honorable. The gods may forgive the prince for his sin, I’m sure. They will forgive the action taken in battle. You, however–”

“Lady Mertha,” Finan interjected, his voice cutting through the rain-soaked air. Mertha almost seemed to startle at his presence, as though she’d forgotten it. “Don’t confuse your view of bastards with those of the gods. Bastards are judged more harshly by man than by the gods themselves. Why should a babe be condemned by the actions of their parents, whether born of love or violence? Why must they then suffer the judgment of the rest of the world? Is the rape of a peasantgirl by a highborn man less sinful than the babe she births?” 

Mertha let out a derisive scoff, head shaking in exasperation, wordlessly voicing her opinion on the matter.

Finan continued undeterred, “Should shared love between two people and the product of that be punished?” He shifted to face Mertha more directly, thumbs hooked in his belt. “I’ve met bastards far more compassionate than many devout followers of the gods are, who would share their last bit of food with a stranger in need. Bastards are no different than you or I; they are no more sinful.” 

Finan head tilted slightly. “And a kinslayer offends every god, new or old. They care little for the circumstances; the gods condemn it all. And there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer…”

“How can the gods not judge those born of sin? It is in their very nature to be sinful,” Mertha replied tersely. 

“Does the birth of bastards offend you more than the acts of kinslayers?"

“Mind your tone,” Mertha warned, a note of condescension in her voice. “I will not take lessons in faith from a northern dog whose god is no more than a tree. You are not here to offer your opinions; you’re here to ensure that the princess does not run off. Do so in silence.” 

Finan’s lips remained curved, unbothered by the hostility. “Mmh, yes, we mustn’t forget ourselves in the presence of the princess.”

“Well,” Daenera hummed, her tone one of exasperation, “I suppose we’ll see who the gods favor and who they condemn to drown should the rain persist like this.”

The boy reappeared, his clothing muddied and clinging to him, thoroughly drenched. He was followed by a group of guards, who grappled with a large canvas cover, each man holding the wooden posts and attempting to stretch the canvas at the top to provide cover. The men strained against the wind that whipped and pulled at the canvas. 

Pulling the shawl tighter around her, Daenera released a resigned breath before stepping into the relentless downpour. The rain immediately lathered her, even as she stepped into position under the canvas cover, finding it as insufficient as expected. Mertha was quick to follow, almost stepping on Daenera’s heels, and together they drudged across the soaked terrain. As they walked over the muddy ground, water seeped into their shoes and saturated the hems of their skirts.

Halfway to Maegor’s Holdfast, a shrill yelp sounded behind Daenera, followed by a tug on her skirts and a swooping twrp. When she glanced back, she saw Mertha on her hands and knees, mud blotting her face and soaking through her dress. Half-amused, Daenera chided, “Come along now, Lady Mertha, this isn’t the time for play.”

Mertha glowered up at her with angry eyes, sneering as Finan graciously helped her to her feet. The moment she was steady, she yanked her arm away, flicking mud off her hands. “You did this on purpose…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the rain-soaked air between them: wretched girl, cursed girl.

“Do not blame me for your own misfortune, Lady Mertha,” Daenera replied, gripping her skirts more tightly as she began trudging through the slippery mud again, fully prepared to leave Mertha behind if she didn't hurry after her.

The storm continued to pour, the relentless rain turning the path into a treacherous mire. The sky above was a roiling mass of dark clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder. Daenera's steps were careful but determined, her eyes focused on the looming silhouette of Maegor’s Holdfast ahead.

And by the time they reach the safety of the Holdfast, each of Daenera’s steps squelched with the weight of water. Her gown, now heavy and sodden, trailed mud and puddles across the stone floor. Although her hair remained largely dry, the tips clung damply to her neck and her dress adhered uncomfortably to her body as she ascended the steps, with Mertha and Finan closely behind. 

“It would be wise, I reckon, to make for your chambers and have you changed out of your sodden clothes–”

“No, if the prince summoned me with such insistence, then I must go as I am,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice echoing slightly in the damp corridor, the sound of the rain hitting the room creating a low, consistent hum. She clutched her soaked skirts, lifting them as she ascended the steps, the sodden fabric trailing heavily behind her and leaving a wet streak on the stone.

If the chill from her drenched attire led her to catch the death, then so be it. Falling ill might even serve her a purpose–if she needed a swift exit, her drenched condition would provide the perfect excuse to retreat from his company. 

They boy led them up the steps and into the corridors that followed along the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Below, the relentless rain battered against the wet stones, shimmering in the low light. The other side of the courtyard was a blur through the sheets of rain, obscuring the opposing corridor. The platter of droplets echoed through the hallway, growing louder as it fell through the semi-open architecture, causing droplets to splatter against the polished stone floor and bead off the ornate banisters that protected them from the plunge to the stone below. 

The columns along the corridor were unevenly wet, showcasing the odd way the rain infiltrated this part of the holdfast–dry on one side where the shadows lingered longer, and slick and glistening on the other, exposed to the weather’s fury. The very air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone, a cool dampness that wrapped around Daenera as she followed closely behind the boy.

As they walked past the Queen’s chambers and the adjacent nursery where Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played on the carpet, their gentle musings reaching into the hall as their caretakers played with them, Daenera half-expected to be brought towards Aemond’s chambers, however, the boy stopped before they ever reached his doors.

The boy gestured towards the open doors of one of the unused apartments–one of many others, kept ready for royal visits or the royal offspring to grow into. 

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she took a few steps into the chambers. There, she found Aemond casually leaning against a round table, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on its edge. As she approached, his gaze lifted to meet hers, brow rising slightly as his eye took her in.

“You look–”

Daenera swiftly interjected before Aemond could fully articulate his thought, her eyes briefly shifting back to Lady Mertha, who lingered at the entrance of the chamber. Mud coated Mertha's hands and climbed nearly to her elbows, with splatters marring her face and her hair in disarray, strands escaping the confines of her usually meticulous bun. Her dress, soaked at the knees and hem, clung to her form in a sorry state.

"Yes, I agree," Daenera acknowledged, locking eyes with Mertha, whose scowl deepened at the observation. "Lady Mertha does indeed appear rather unfortunate, but we must overlook it," she continued with a sly tone. "Unfortunately, the gods were not generous, and today's rain has done her no favors."

Turning back to Aemond with a more formal demeanor, Daenera added, "You must excuse our appearance. The weather outside is truly dreadful."

The thunder growled ominously above, punctuating her words, while a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows. Aemond paused, his eyes tracing Daenera's sodden figure. His head tilted contemplatively as he ventured, “Perhaps you wish to change—”

“Thank you for your concern, but you made it clear that you wished to speak with me, urgently,” Daenera replied, her voice steady despite the chill that clung to her wet clothes. She brushed a hand along the heavy fabric of her skirt, fighting the urge to shiver as the cold began to bite deeper. Her gaze remained fixed on his.

Aemond watched her intently for a moment, then his voice softened, "I thought you might wish to lend your voice on the matter of preparing our marital chambers.”

A frown creased her brow, his words slowly sinking in, as she repeated softly, almost to herself, “Marital chambers…”

Her gaze finally moved from Aemond to the activity within the room. Servants were busy at work, one teetering on a ladder as he carefully removed the heavy curtains from the windows, likely preparing them for washing. Others swept the floors briskly and striked the fire in the large hearth, bringing a flicker of life and warmth into the space. There were servants coming and going with buckets of water and fresh linens, some dusting the shelves and carefully placing the decorations back in their place. 

A heavy thud echoed in her chest, her heart pounding as a wave of understanding washed over her. She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at the thought that they would share these chambers, that she would have to relinquish her own personal chambers–however violated that sanctuary was, it had still been hers. It had somehow never truly crossed her mind.  

A sense of dread settled in her stomach as she took in the room–the large hearth at the end of it, with two chairs set up in front of it and the two settees framing a small table between them at the center of the common room, then drew to the long table behind Aemond and casting a glance toward what would be their bedchamber, hidden behind ornately carved screens that gave the hints of what was within. 

“It's considerate of you to ask for her input, my prince, but I'm certain the Queen Mother will arrange the chambers to your satisfaction–”

“These will be our chambers, Lady Mertha, not my mother’s,” Aemond interjected, his voice gentle yet firm, a tone he often adopted. His gaze shifted dismissively from Mertha back to Daenera, observing her with careful attention.

Daenera inhaled deeply, masking her discomfort with a practiced smile. “Thank you, my prince. I will give it some thought, but if there's nothing more, I would like to retire to my chambers now.”

As she turned to leave, her movement was halted by his voice calling out her name, “Ābrazȳrys.”

Daenera closed her eyes for a moment, letting the word sink into her heart with a volatile gentleness, like the caress of claws tearing it apart and feeding it to the flames of her anger. Her voice was hard and forcibly even as she bit out, “Do not call me that. I am Princess Daenera, if you must call me anything.”

“Daenera,” he answered, so softly that she wished he had not spoken at all.

A shudder coursed through her, her heart skipping a beat at the softness of her name on his lips, wrapping around her like a silken thread. She stood still, the storm outside a mere whisper compared to the tempest within her. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as the intensity of the moment pressed down on her.

With a wary expression, she turned to face him. Aemond straightened, leaning more purposefully against the table. His gaze was sharp, slicing through the air like a blade, grazing against her carefully maintained composure. He seemed eager to cut through the layers of formality she wore like armor, aiming to uncover the raw wounds of her thoughts beneath. Daenera stared back at him coldly, her eyes expectant and unyielding.

Aemond’s gaze remained on her as he commanded, “Leave us.” 

The servants hastily abandoned their tasks and scurried out the room, their gazes lowered as they passed by Aemond, and then Daenera–she held his gaze, eyes burning with defiance. 

“Mertha, would you be so kind as to arrange for a warm bath? It won’t be long,” Daenera dismissed the vulture hovering over her shoulder. 

When Mertha hesitated, Aemond finally shifted his sharp gaze from Daenera to her. His decisive glare was enough to send Mertha scurrying away–the sounds of her hurried, wet footsteps and the heavy, sodden fabric of her garments dragging across the floor echoed through the room as she departed. Daenera felt the change as his eye left her, like a shadow lifting, and she breathed a bit more easily. She turned her attention to the room, noting the sudden quiet as Aemond moved past her to close the doors behind the departing servants. The silence settled heavily in the room, accentuating the tension that lingered in the air.

Her dress dragged heavily over the stone as she descended the two steps into the common room, the weight of the damp fabric creating a soft, sloshing sound with each movement. The only other sound there was was the rain outside and Aemond’s steps as he lingered behind her. Her eyes swept across the space, taking in the unfamiliar layout–the crackling fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries adorning a few of the walls or being prepared to be mounted, and the plush cushions arranged neatly in the chairs arranged before the fire. 

She paused, her gaze lifting to the inner corner of the room, where a stately chest of drawers lined the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The chest, made of dark polished wood, seemed to almost gleam in the dim light, small nooks set into each drawer for easy pull-out. As she approached, her fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the round table propped up between the drawers, the wood cool and solid beneath her touch, yet unblemished by cuts and spills as her own had been. 

A small frown creased her brow as her fingers curled into one of the nooks of a drawer. She pulled it open, the wood sliding with a soft creak, and the sweet, earthy scent of comfrey wafted up from the dried leaves hidden within. The aroma was soothing, a familiar comfort would have eased her nerves did she not feel his gaze on her. 

Daenera sensed his presence behind her, the weight of his gaze tracing her every movement. It prickled against the nape of her neck, like the soft caress of a shadow, sending an involuntary shiver through her body–she felt a chill run down her spine, as if a cold claw had trailed along the curve of her spine, and the dampness of her soaked clothes only deepened the sensation. 

“Your herbs,” Aemond hummed quietly, his voice a low murmur that broke the heavy silence. “I had the Maesters procure what you might need so you can prepare your teas and draughts.”

Daenera’s fingers paused over the open drawer, the earthy scent mingling with the cold air. She took a moment to absorb his words–felt them settle heavily within her as her eyes roamed over the chest of drawers, each promising to be full. It was a small comfort, a touch of familiarity in an otherwise unsettling environment. 

Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral as she clung to her formalities, and she nodded slightly, “Thank you, my prince. It is… considerate of you.”

She could see her formality needle at him, a subtle tightening of his jaw betraying his annoyance. Daenera averted her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek as she pushed the drawer closed. The words ‘how gracious of you’ died on her tongue, swallowed to fester in the pit of her stomach. 

Daenera moved past the fire, feeling its warmth briefly seep into her damp skirts before the chill reclaimed them as she continued. The contrast made the cold feel even sharper, the damp fabric of her skirts clung uncomfortably to her legs, and with each step, water and mud squelched between her toes–a sensation she detested. She trailed mud and water across the newly swept floors, leaving a messy path behind her as she came to stand before the windows. The gardens and Blackwater Bay lay hidden beneath a curtain of rain and clouds, the usual splendor of the landscape reduced to shadowy outlines and indistinct shapes. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the outside world even further. 

The view, she supposed, would be quite beautiful on a clearer day, with the gardens in full bloom and the bay glittering under the sun. But today, the relentless downpour and gray skies mirrored the dismal tension within the room, adding to her sense of unease and confinement. 

Daenera traced the path along the outer wall, where windows, now bare from the removal of drapes, allowed the muted light from the overcast sky to filter through. She ascended the steps again to the long table, noticing a bowl of fruits at its center, awaiting the evening meal. Along the wall leading to the archway of the bedchamber, shelves brimming with books had been mounted. 

Her fingers glided over the leather spines, recognizing some as her own and others belonging to Aemond–books that had once cluttered his tables, towering as he diligently studied each one. She let her gaze wander through the room once more before settling back on the shelves, pulling out one of his books–a volume of ‘Watchers on the Wall’ by Archmaester Harmune. 

“Your books and mine,” Aemond remarked, his voice drawing her attention. He had taken up a position against the round table opposite where he had initially greeted her. His eye were fixed on her, observing her movements with the same intensity one might reserve for a pet exploring its new surroundings. 

“These are the only things of yours here,” Daenera noted coolly, glancing up from the book’s cover, where a crown of ice was embossed in silver on the leather. She watched Aemond through her eyelashes, feeling the chill seep further into her skin. Then, it scarcely qualifies as a marital chambers, does it?"

The room’s flickering firelight cast long shadows, the sound of rain pelting the window adding to the oppressive atmosphere–thick and damp and suffocating. Her eyes remained fixed on Aemond, who returned it with his own intensity. 

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye appraising. “I cannot have my blades here,” he answered, voice steady and measured. “They would not be appropriate in a shared space meant for us.”

A derisive scoff escaped Daenera's lips. “Why not?”

She abandoned the book on the table, stepping towards Aemond with deliberate slowness, her fingernail trailing over the polished wood surface until it reached the edge. Now that they were alone, she felt her formal composure unraveling under his persistent gaze, each thread slowly cutting away and reopening the wounds he had left her with.

“Are you afraid I might use them on you?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized his reaction. “Wait until you fall asleep and take your other eye?”

Aemond’s gaze hardened. The tension between them crackled like thunder in the air, the distance closing as Daenera stood her ground, defiance etched in every line of her posture.

"Or do you fear that the very thought of marrying you is so intolerable to me that I might use them to slit my wrists?" Daenera pressed on, her voice cutting through the thick tension between them. She noted a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of unease shadowing his features–a thread of something she couldn’t quite decipher. "Or perhaps after you've finished off my family? Believe me, if I intended to end my life, being deprived of your blades would hardly stop me–an open window would suffice."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his gaze shifted away, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, lips thin and sharp. 

“You are the kinslayer, not I. I will not curse myself by becoming one,” Daenera spat at him, her voice filled with venom. “However much you and your treacherous family deserve to die…” 

Aemond’s expression hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I cannot have all of my things here–the maps and plans I have, and my swords,” he said, his voice measured. “I cannot trust you with them, as you well know.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the heat from the hearth battling bravely against the chill that crept along the floors. Daenera’s eyes burned with defiance as she faced Aemond, the tension between them as palpable and dense as the sheets of rain battering against the windows. 

“Not much of a marriage then, is it?” Daenera needled, her words seeming to burrow beneath his skin as he glowered at her, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Their gazes remained locked, the tension between them crackling like distant thunder. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows, casting stark shadows across his face, followed closely by a resounding crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Finally, Daenera broke the intense stare, her gaze drifting through the archway into the adjoining bedchamber–their bedchambers. She moved into the room, feeling the warmth from the hearth contrast sharply with the chill that swept in from the windows, creeping along the stone floor. By the hearth stood a bathing tub, its copper surface gleaming, flanked by a stool and a small table holding a neatly folded piece of cloth and an array of familiar oils. A comfortable chair had been set up by the fire as well, turned slightly towards the tub, with a little table at its side. 

In one corner, a desk stood with a chair neatly tucked underneath it. The desk was well-organized, with quills and parchments ready for use, and a small, ornate inkpot gleaming in the firelight. Shelves above the desk held an array of books–most of these Aemonds. 

The bed itself was constructed from sturdy dark wood, with two tall spires at the corners of the headboard, spiraling upwards. It was larger than her own, adorned with a spread of silk and cotton blankets neatly arranged across the mattress, and atop the blankets lay several of her dresses, yet to be put away–her own dresses, their familiar fabrics and colors a strange reminder of her displacement. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dark blue dress, adorned with vines of silver embroidery. 

Her eyes lifted to the painting framed by the spires of the bed, noting how the bed had been pulled away from the wall to give the artist space to complete the new mural. The mural depicted a castle rising from the ground, its walls darkened and molten by fire as a dragon unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon it. Harrenhal. 

“You’re having Harrenhal painted above our bed?” Daenera questioned, glancing over her shoulder to see Aemond leaning casually against the stone pillar of the archway, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I thought it suitable,” Aemond answered, his voice smooth, a twist to his lips. “It is part of your heritage after all…” He pushed off the pillar and strode towards her. As soon as he reached the end of the bed, Daenera moved away, out of his reach. His expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I shall soon claim it.”

Daenera exhaled, shaking her head, her eyes returning to the half-finished mural. “If Daemon does not take it first.”

“If he does, he won’t hold it for long,” Aemond drawled, his hands folding behind his back, holding himself with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. “I will take it from him.”

Harrenhal seemed not a place to be easily claimed and much less easy to hold, Daenera thought. There was something twisted about the castle—haunted, as it was said to be. And cursed. It seemed almost like an entity unto itself.

"Then you will die there," Daenera mused, her voice light yet laden with dark foreboding as she drifted closer to the dressing table. "Daemon is likely to take your head."

"He may try," Aemond retorted, a thread of confidence woven into his soft drawl, unperturbed by the grim possibility of Daemon Targaryen severing his head from his body. "But he grows old and slow."

"Your arrogance will be the death of you," she replied, turning sharply towards him. Her gaze was icy, piercing through the air between them like a cold blade. "He merely needs to approach you from the right angle—then you won't even see him coming."

Daenera’s fingers brushed over the items on the dressing table, her touch light yet purposeful, while Aemond remained rooted behind her, his posture unwavering. “If you so desire to gaze upon Harrenhal before bed, then mayhaps you should sleep in your own chambers, as it seems you are to keep them.”

Her frown deepened as she reached for one of the many familiar bottles lined up on the dressing table. She picked up a pink one, pulling out the cork. The scent of rosemary oil and lavender wafted up, filling her nostrils as she inhaled deeply. Tears stung her eyes–he had returned her perfumes and oils, those familiar bottles whose contents she had made herself. 

The scent seemed to claw at the back of her throat as she placed the bottle back down, her gaze shifting to the nearby chest. Opening it, she discovered her own jewelry. Her fingers traced over the pearls that had adorned her hair during her first wedding, brushing over the small shell hidden in the corner. Baela had brought the shell on one of her visits from Driftmark, having found it on the beach. Its interior shimmered with a deep, iridescent purple. She’d hidden it in her jewelry chest to keep Joffrey from getting his hands on it, the boy having once snatched it from her table and run away with it. 

Daenera's fingers brushed against the cold steel of a necklace—a piece her mother had once lent her. The dark steel was intricately wrought into three interconnected circles with a ruby set at its center. She withdrew it from the box, her thumb tracing the smooth gem, feeling the metal warm beneath her touch. As a child, she had been captivated by it, frequently sneaking it out of her mother's collection until she was finally allowed to keep it in her own jewelry box.

She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of his approaching footsteps. His voice was soft, almost tender, "Let me help you put it on."

With a sudden motion, Daenera tossed the necklace back into the jewelry chest and slammed the lid shut. The sound echoed sharply in the room, and she heard him release a breath, a subtle sigh that spoke of his resignation. 

“You may decorate our chambers as you see fit,” Aemond asserted, his voice as smooth and soft as silk, and had she been able to fully appreciate it, she might have noticed a thread of plea weaving through his words. 

Daenera drew in a tight breath, feeling as though her lungs couldn't fully expand, her ribs tightening painfully around them as her heart twisted within her chest. She understood that his actions were meant as a kindness, a gesture to ease the pain he had caused her—but she couldn't so easily forget.

“Do you believe that returning my possessions will earn you my forgiveness for forcing me into this position?” Daenera asked incredulously, her voice edged with bitterness. “Do you think changing the drapes or adding a new rug will make this any less of a prison?”

She abandoned the dressing table, her wet skirts dragging heavily across the floor, leaving a damp trail in their wake. “No matter how many comforts you allow me, this remains a cage.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as Daenera met his eye. His gaze was sharp and piercing, the color of it a steely gray, colder and more intimidating than the shade of blue it usually held. The chill in his look seemed to seep into the air around them, adding a tangible tension that hung heavily between them.He stared at her, offering no glimpse of what, if anything, lay beneath–a gaping void or a soul festering with cruelty. 

Daenera took a moment to gather herself, retreating into the familiar coldness of formality. She straightened her posture, standing tall and regal, embodying the highborn lady and princess she was. Her head was held high, her neck stretched gracefully, and her shoulders pushed back. The chill of her wet dress had seeped so deeply into her skin that she felt ice, but she used that coldness to bolster her resolve.

“I thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice steady and composed. “My only request for our marital chambers is that there should be no seven-pointed star emblems.” She couldn’t stand to look at one more seven-pointed fucking star. “Should any more be added to the Red Keep, it will soon resemble a sept.”

With that she walked past him, her heart feeling hollow and her chest aching.

[cilant-lis]

rhian's wardrobe study... done at last..,,,,

read my ramblings (design notes) below:

origin hunting gear - standard dalish leather armour, with some personal trinkets like a colourful woven ribbon around the belt and hunting trophies (bear claws hanging off of their belt)

origin casual wear - simple, comfortable tunic, loose trousers and a shawl from ashalle

camp casual warm - sleeveless shirt, a shawl/poncho thing bought in lothering from elven refugees, Ashalle's shawl used as a sash, they prefer bare feet but it's not always practical

camp casual cold - nice halla-wool jacket and shawl from the dalish clan in brecilian forest, fingerless gloves and winter boots, and ashalle's shawl as a sash again

early game armour - leather dalish breastplate and pauldrons, begrudgingly wears grey warden gambeson sleeves and 'proper' boots, ashalle's shawl is there as always, looped around their belt

light armour - refuses to wear grey warden heraldry or colours, got their dalish armour repaired and reinforced at redcliffe, ashalle's shawl as sash

medium armour - rhian finally comes to terms with being a warden and commissions wade for a silverite set and a long gambeson. also it's fucking cold in ferelden and they had to cover up their arms :(

heavy armour - still silverite, now with a heavier breastplate and reinforced gambeson, longer hair in a braid (very briefly, they hate having longer hair)

warden commander armour -bulkier silhouette, a fancy fur mantle and thick embroidered woollen tunic. they still honour their dalish origin through embroidery designs and breastplate. hair cut very short for practicality

warden commander formal - dalish silhouette with grey warden colours, a new shawl from ashalle, a bit of cheesy symbolism through the brooch of their clan's heraldry connected to the grey warden symbol on their arm

warden commander casual - tunic, leggins and belt, simply made but nonetheless fine dalish crafts. and ANOTHER shawl from ashalle (she sends them one every winter)

[thecursedprince]

Monster High Howliday Winter Cleo Doll

Highlights

Ghoulish Greetings! Wrapped up like a mummified present in dazzling fabric, this Winter Edition Cleo De Nile Howliday doll shines brighter than the stars glittering in the sky!

It’s the night of the winter solstice, and Cleo De Nile sparkles with all the scary brightness of the season in her satiny dress and pleated organza overskirt

A gleaming “feather” and bow headdress crowns her sparkling, tinsel-strewn hair. Elegant snake details on her collar and belt complement this statement headpiece!

Her snowflake-dusted shawl glides behind her with gore-geous grace, the fringe swishing above her Anubis heels on the dance floor

Monster High wishes everyone a scary and bright howliday season! Explore the whole doll skullection for more scary-good gift ideas. Each sold separately, subject to availability

Description

This Monster High doll is the gift that keeps on giving! Cleo De Nile lights up the howlidays in a radiant golden gown and shimmery shawl. She sparkles like the fright of the season herself in a gleaming headdress, faboolous fringe, and sculptural heels. Featuring majestic packaging worthy of a pharaoh, this Winter Edition Howliday collectible is a perfect keepsake for skelebrating the most festive time of year! Doll stand included. Doll cannot stand alone. Colors and decorations may vary.

[vulpes-fennec]

Meddle About

Summary: A birchin sounded like a good idea to Elain...that is, until she finds Lucien Vanserra already occupying it in nothing but a towel.

This was inspired after seeing @krem-does-stuff's amazingly HOT art of Lucien (NSFW version here) | Read on AO3

WARNINGS: SMUT

“Achoo!” A loud sneeze tore out of Elain’s lithe body. Being sick had reverted her back to human-level senses, which was absolutely abysmal. At least her particularly violent sneeze cleared her nose a bit. Elain sniffled, wiping her nose with a handkerchief.  

Elain had been fine, two days ago, when she and her sisters visited their father’s headstone. Now, she felt like she was at death’s door. She couldn’t smell anything. Her ears felt clogged. She sneezed every other minute, and had curled up into a ball under thick blankets in hopes of feeling warm again.

Gods, she had carried Nyx for a good portion of the outing. Elain was nearly in tears when she informed Feyre and Rhys of her illness, so afraid was she of passing the sickness unto her newborn nephew. 

“Don’t you worry, Elain. Nyx will be fine,” Feyre had repeatedly told her. “Fae children are far more resilient than human babies.” After Feyre’s assurances calmed her down, Elain only hoped she would recover in time for Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony next week. 

Aside from her sickness, another reason Elain was holed up in her room was because Lucien Vanserra was visiting with new reports. The Winter Solstice had been the last time her mate had visited Velaris. What was Lucien up to outside of emissary duties? Elain could hardly say. If her mate inquired about her, Elain wasn’t aware of it either. Every other day, she half-wondered if Lucien’s prolonged distance was because he knew of what happened between her and Azriel during Solstice. 

Not that it mattered. She had barely acknowledged the shadowsinger in the months since, the hurt of being called “a mistake” still raw in her heart. Graysen had offered her his hand, then rejected her. Azriel had given her a beautiful necklace, then rescinded his kiss. 

Two rejections in a row. 

Men—males—truly sucked. Elain didn’t have much faith in “third time being the charm” with Lucien…no matter how many times her thoughts lingered on the handsome cut of his jaw, the striking slash of his scar, and the brilliance of his long hair over the last few months. She reminded herself that she barely knew Lucien, and he seemed content to keep it that way given how far away he stayed. 

Elain shivered more violently, her body racked with chills. At that moment, her eye caught the newly-built birchin in the budding River House garden. The wooden structure beckoned her, promising hot air that would clear her congestion and warm her up in no time. 

Chills were her body’s way of fighting fever, but Elain’s muscles and joints were aching so, so painfully. She glanced out the window again. A brief respite from the suffering wouldn’t hurt her, right? Elain clambered out of bed, wrapping a shawl around herself.

Surely Lucien would have left already—it had been two hours. The River House was utterly silent when she opened the bedroom door. She ventured down the hall on tip-toes, avoiding the route that would take her past Rhys and Feyre’s study. Elain exhaled a sigh of relief when she made it to the garden without seeing that tell-tale flash of red hair. 

With its quaint size, thick wooden panels, and steam drifting from the small chimney in its thatched roof, the birchin was the most inviting thing she had ever seen. Elain stepped through and she sighed contentedly, the warm embrace of the air already working magic on her chills.

It was dim inside, for the only light came in from small glazed windows on the roof. There wasn’t much she could see in front of her. Elain had never been inside a birchin before, but vaguely recalled Feyre saying nudity was necessary for the optimal experience. So she took off her shoes, placed her wool shawl on the bench, and fumbled with the buttons of her linen dress in the low light. 

Elain turned her head around furtively, a casual act that was second nature before taking off her undergarments, and froze. Her sharp gasp came half a second later. 

Lucien Vanserra was in the birchin, utterly naked save for a towel draped over his lap. 

Elain whirled around fully, her eyes adjusting well enough to take in tousled Lucien’s hair. How could she have missed it earlier? Shoulder length strands hung loose, glowing orange like hot coals. Lucien sat on the stone bench at the opposite wall, his broad shoulders elegantly slanted as he leaned back on one hand. Another noise of surprise slipped out of Elain’s mouth when she glimpsed the sculpted lines of Lucien’s chest on full display. 

A corner of Lucien’s full mouth curved upwards slowly, his mismatched eyes shamelessly drinking in what was in front of him. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” her mate chuckled lowly. 

“Y-you!” Elain sputtered, backing up until the backs of her knees hit her bench. Her heart pounded. “How long have you been in here?” 

Lucien shrugged irreverently, his foxy smile deepening. 

“Only a couple minutes. How kind of you to join me today.” He’d always spoken to her in a reserved tone, but today, his voice had taken on a sarcastic edge. Was this Lucien’s true personality? 

“You need to leave.” Elain crossed her arms across her chest. She was still wearing a plain white pair of panties, and a strappy undershirt over her lilac bra, but she might as well be naked. Lucien was actually naked. She felt faint, like she couldn’t quite catch her breath at how much of his alluring brown skin was exposed. 

“I don’t recall this being your house,” Lucien raised an eyebrow. His arrogant expression grew more infuriatingly beautiful with each passing second. “Besides, I was here first.” 

“I am sick,” Elain shot back, “and I require some time in the birchin to recuperate.” 

A brief expression of concern flashed across her mate’s handsome face, before being replaced by a gleaming smile. It was all teeth, no friendliness to be found. It was a struggle to maintain eye contact with the male, especially when his form invited attention elsewhere. 

“Well, maybe you need to learn to share,” Lucien retorted, gesturing with his free hand. “There’s plenty of space in here. Make yourself comfortable.”

Elain glared at him with all the heat she could muster in her sickly state. To put her clothes on and walk out would be admitting defeat. She needed the birchin, and would not be made to leave! Besides, part of her was intrigued by the brazen attitude that seemed so far removed from the reserved, polite courtier she knew. So Elain stubbornly sat down. 

Lucien’s eyes gleamed with no small satisfaction. 

“You are a pervert,” Elain accused, “watching a lady undress from the shadows. You wouldn’t have said anything until I caught you.” 

Lucien snorted. “When you walked in, you looked directly at me and began to undress, no? You also should have been able to scent me before you even entered the birchin. All signs pointed to your enthusiasm—” 

“Do not put this on me,” Elain snapped. “It is dark in here, and you know it. And must I remind you again that I am sick? My senses are dulled…besides. How vain of you to assume I would know your scent—because I don’t.”

That was a lie. She knew Lucien’s scent like the back of her hand, with the notes of crisp apple and sun-warmed skin that lingered in her memory long after they faded from the jacket he’d given her. 

Lucien smirked, “if you’re unfamiliar with it, you could come closer to find out.”

Elain’s heart skipped a beat. No male had ever been so forwardly flirtatious with her before. Perhaps Lucien had fallen ill himself, if he was acting like this. 

“I am perfectly fine where I’m at,” she muttered, scooching until her back leaned against the warm panels. 

“Suit yourself.” Lucien stretched his arms up slowly, breathing in deeply. Elain’s wide brown eyes followed his every movement, entranced by the fluidity of muscles and brown skin. 

Lucien shifted to the side and propped a leg up on the bench, revealing a chiseled calf and length of muscled thigh. Elain held her breath when the towel over his lap moved accordingly.

It was a dangerously small towel. The edge of it had slipped slightly, revealing a thin trail of hair that extended from his navel past the hem. If she had just sat one more foot to the right, she might be able to see…to see—Elain’s blood thundered in her ears. She realized a split second later she was holding her breath in anticipation. 

Lucien laughed softly, and Elain tore her eyes up from his lap to meet his mirthful gaze. The roaring in her head only grew louder when she realized he had adjusted his position on purpose. Cauldron boil and fry her.

“Lech.”

“You seem to enjoy it.” Her mate inclined his head, russet and gold eyes glittering with amusement. Elain met his gaze with equal parts challenge and indignation. Unfortunately, it became the perfect opportunity to notice how the scars running down the left side of his face were a shade paler than his brown skin. The raised marks were so brutally beautiful that Elain’s breath hitched slightly. 

It was only now that Elain realized her chills had evaporated, thanks to a combination of the birchin’s temperature and the growing tension between her and Lucien. For her mate sat across the all-too-small birchin with the casual grace of a god, all sharp lines and powerful stillness. 

Having never seen Lucien shirtless before, Elain absent-mindedly chewed her bottom lip as she drank in the rounded biceps, corded forearms, and chiseled abdomen. To think those muscles had been hiding under fine clothes the entire time!

She wondered if Lucien had ever considered unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirts come summer. The style would expose a nice patch of his chest for her appreciation. And he had to be training regularly to maintain such a physique…her mouth watered at the thought of his powerful thighs flexing and pumping as he exercised. 

Elain’s attention was drawn to Lucien’s chest rising and falling more deeply, his nostrils flaring. Her arousal. He could scent it. Fuck. Her cheeks grew hot. 

“Do you mind?” he grinned at her again, sharp teeth gleaming. “Who’s the pervert now?” 

“I think you need to get your nose checked,” Elain bit back, feigning nonchalance even though all she wanted to do was run her hands across his bare chest. “Because I don’t feel anything for you.”

From the moment she stepped into the birchin, Lucien sought to fluster her. Two could play this game: Elain was determined to gain the upper hand. Her fingers shook slightly—this time from nerves—as she tugged her strappy undershirt off. Would Lucien like what he saw? Her pale stomach, her small breasts? 

From the way his russet eye darkened, he certainly did. 

“Is that so?” Lucien murmured, his eyes trailing down her body with blatant hunger. “The removal of clothing usually precedes…other…activities.” 

“Don’t be silly. I’ve just b-been feeling a bit—a bit h-h-hot,” Elain stuttered as Lucien spread his thighs a tad wider. Gods, when was that towel going to fall off? 

It was half-true. Small beads of perspiration were now forming at her temples, mugging her exposed skin. The air was also visibly shimmered from the heat. Perhaps staying in the birchin for a prolonged period of time was messing with her good sense.  

Elain leaned back, quietly observing her mate. He mirrored her as well, blinking slowly with a satisfied twitch of his lips. The flame of desire in his eyes tingled her skin with anticipatory goosebumps as his gaze traveled down her body.

With a discreet sniffle, Elain’s nasal passages finally cleared up. Lucien’s arousal hit her like a tidal wave. Oh fuck. The musky scent, mixed with his signature warmth, brought forth a series of reprehensible urges. How the hell did Lucien still sit there, all nonchalant, even after scenting her arousal? Elain was ready to jump his bones after one whiff of his. Wanted to lick the gleaming rivulet of sweat on the side of his throat, wrap her legs around his sculpted waist, and nip the tip of his pointed ear. 

The Mother herself would blush at Elain’s unholy thoughts.

She needed to see Lucien more visibly affected. Perhaps more drastic measures were needed to elicit a stronger reaction from him. Elain had never been particularly skilled in the arts of seduction, having relied on proper courting behaviors with Graysen and the other human men. But she had to try.

Praying she didn’t look like a fool, Elain slipped a bra strap off her shoulder. 

Lucien blinked rapidly, straightening with renewed alertness. 

Elain slowly moved the other strap down, fluttering her eyelashes for an added measure. She paused her fingers before she unclasped the hook. 

Lucien growled, almost inaudibly. 

Elain unhooked her bra but didn’t remove it yet. 

“Don’t be a tease.” His voice was nearly guttural. 

“You think that’s teasing?” It was Elain’s turn to smile as she dropped the garment. Lucien’s loud groan at the sight of her bare breasts thrilled her with its brazenness. “Just wait.”

She had lifted those lines straight from a smutty book, but if Lucien found them cheesy, he did not show it. Elain trailed a hand up her stomach, up the valley of her breasts, around their curves. She squeezed the soft mounds and sighed, like she always did in the privacy of her own room. Except now, she was putting on a show for Lucien. 

A male she hardly knew. Yet, the sheer reverence in his eyes and the sensual parting of his mouth made it seem as if they’d been intimate many times before. Elain felt no oily shame in expressing herself like this—in fact, his smoldering expression only emboldened her to show all the parts she’d hid away before.

“Yes.” Lucien’s voice was little more than a low rumble. “Touch yourself for me.” 

Elain tipped her head back, exposing her smooth throat slightly, and let out a moan. Lucien’s golden eye turned molten at the sound. He ran his tongue over his lips. 

“Fuck,” Lucien growled. “How rude of me, to only watch and not offer anything in return.” He reached for the towel in his lap, slow enough for Elain to deny him if she wanted. Elain’s heart cracked a little at how Lucien held himself back. As if he did so because of all the times she’d spurned him before. 

So she reached deep within her, to where that golden thread lay coiled around her, and sent a small pulse of encouragement. A willing signal to her mate.  

The towel was fully off now.

Elain’s doe eyes widened into saucers. The v-shaped grooves of Lucien’s hips narrowed into a trimmed thatch of red hair, and then a fully erect cock. Her mate leaned back, running his thumb over his cock’s rounded head, swiping the glistening precum. 

Her mouth parted slightly, when she realized his already large hand did not quite cover the entire length of his shaft as he moved his fist up and down. Gods…he was truly beautiful. 

It was hard to believe that this wasn’t a dream. hHer mate, sitting mere feet away from her, was stroking his cock while watching her. Slowly, luxuriously, as if he had all the time in the world to do this. And she was the reason for his arousal. Wetness pooled at Elain’s core, dampening her underwear.

She’d gotten Lucien to groan and swear. Had seen him entirely naked. Had him pleasuring himself to her. But Elain still selfishly wanted one thing: to hear her name on his lips. Elain shoved down her pride and got up, quickly crossing the distance between them before she could change her mind. 

Lucien’s brows raised in surprise when she stopped a half-step away from him, brown curls cascading over her breasts, her cheeks flushed prettily. Elain glanced down at his cock and swallowed nervously. Later. She could touch him later. Right now, she wanted Lucien to say her name. 

“Come here,” Lucien murmured, his voice soft. Elain didn’t move, so he reached out, his large hands encircling her waist. She shivered at her mate’s solid touch, the small circles he rubbed with his thumbs making her impossibly heady. 

“This could be part of my grand plan to get you sick,” she said breathily, her knees weak.

“Mmmm, well aren’t you being cruel?” Lucien’s fingers hooked her panties at the hip and gently tugged her closer. “I don’t think I would mind.” His finger brushed her slit through the fabric of her underwear. 

“You’re so wet for me.” Lucien sounded a bit dazed now, as if he couldn’t believe he was touching her. Elain blushed. “Come here, Elain,” Lucien said again.

That was the final straw. Elain obligingly lowered herself then, spreading her legs to straddle Lucien’s muscular thighs. Lucien’s erect cock rested against her bare stomach, precum smearing across her skin. But she didn’t mind, instead, she snaked her arms around his neck to pull closer.

Elain found herself having to look up at Lucien’s chiseled features, the charged mix of emotions in his russet eye. “I want to kiss you,” she breathed, her rosebud mouth just inches away from his. “I want to kiss you, Lucien.”

Her mate shuddered underneath Elain when she uttered his name. 

“Who am I to deny you, my lady?” 

Their kiss, fraught with years’ worth of longing and built-up tension, was the release Elain never knew she needed until now. It was like coming home at last. She let out a small noise—a mixture between a sob and a moan—and pushed up against him for another one. 

“Shit, Elain,” Lucien groaned. “Your mouth...gods help me.” He pulled her closer by wrapping an arm around her, fingers grazing the underside of her breast. His other hand supported the back of her head, tilting her up to kiss him better. 

Elain only threaded her fingers through his silky locks, shifting her hips rhythmically to grind against his thigh in response. The noise Lucien made was unapologetically obscene. 

She felt like she was burning up now, the birchin’s steam and the little breaths they shared blurring the passage of time. How many times did she kiss him, did his hands brush her body sweetly? Elain couldn’t remember. She arched her back, brushing her peaked nipples against his broad chest. They both groaned. 

Her core tightened deliciously, like a band ready to snap. 

“Elain,” Lucien rasped, pulling away. Elain ignored him, trying to meld herself to the heat of his body. 

“I want you, Lucien,” she mumbled, rolling her hips against him. “Please…I’m so close.” Elain craned her neck up and made a disappointed noise when her lips failed to find his.

“Elain, Elain,” Lucien repeated, his hands tightening around her waist with some urgency.

The fact that he wasn’t kissing her anymore was like a splash of cold water on her face. “I’m sorry.” Elain stopped, disentangling her arms from his neck. She braced herself for rejection again.

“No, don’t be.” Lucien’s face was pained, his breathing still a bit ragged. Color had stained his high cheekbones, his mouth now swollen from her kisses. He still held her in his lap, a bit possessively, and Elain took some comfort in that fact. 

“Believe me…I want to keep going. But our first time shouldn’t be in a birchin.” 

Elain’s heart quickened, the reality of their situation sinking in. Gods, what was she doing? She had stripped until nearly naked, and proceeded to ride Lucien’s thigh in the River House birchin, of all places. 

His cock grazing her navel was considerably larger than Graysen’s, yet…Lucien seemed to have full confidence that it would fit. Her core tightened again at the possibility of what he intended to do with her. 

“I was so close,” was all Elain could say ruefully, still staring down at her mate’s cock. 

Lucien tilted her chin up. “I know, Elain,” he replied, voice laced with remorse. “But…soon.” His long fingers absent-mindedly trailed up and down her waist, sending tingles down Elain’s spine. 

“You’re not helping,” she said faintly. Lucien’s hands regretfully stopped moving. 

“Sorry, sweet pea.” Sweet pea. Her heart swelled at Lucien’s pet name for her.  

“Will…will you be at Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony?” Elain asked after a moment’s hesitation. “What…what about then?” 

“Is my lady inviting me to her bed?” Lucien teased with a roguish grin. “Or do you wish for me to take you in a more unconventional location?” 

“Don’t be so scandalous.” Elain scrunched her nose at him.

“And riding me in a birchin isn’t? My, my, I look forward to seeing what you consider scandalous.” Elain grumbled with annoyance and tried to shove his shoulder, but Lucien quickly caught her hand and pressed a chaste kiss against her inner wrist. His soft smile was like the sun breaking through rain clouds. “I’m a flexible male. We’ll continue our fun next week.” 

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

mini-HC (a little self indulgent) What about the M6 being with a MC who crochet/knits... Which would be fine, but they crochet/knit e v e r y t h i n g

The Arcana Mini-HCs: When MC crochets/knits everything

Julian: wears it. all of it. just ... please make it black or red. once you made tiny leg warmers for Malak's feet, and as willing as the raven was to try them on, Julian misinterpreted his flapping for resistance and what followed was an epic struggle of flying feathers and curses

Asra: they like to knit too! he pays no heed to the almost concerning piles of knitted/crocheted projects of yours, considering how many snake sweaters litter the apartment and he doesn't care to throw stones from glass houses. never uses your projects as intended

Nadia: she does get mildly concerned over just how many crocheted/knitted things you produce in such a short period of time, but she chalks it up to your dedication to your art. she might request a shawl from you, with the specific yarn and pattern she provides

Muriel: he can understand the soul-deep need for something grounding and productive and soothing. He's not judging you for how much time you spend knitting/crocheting. He is judging you for your pattern and color choices. A frilly pink bonnet for Innana? Really?

Portia: She's all about that self-sufficient life and thinks your skills are just another super cool thing about you. Likes to pay you for your gifts with home-baked goods of her own and sees no issue with quantity. Almost dies of cuteness when you make Pepi a flower hat

Lucio: yeah, he didn't get it at first, until he experienced his first winter on the road and you wrapped him up in a warm scarf (which nearly made him cry). He finds it oddly soothing and mesmerizing to watch your fingers move as you work in the light of the campfire

[lex-the-flex]

Wearing a New Dress in Front of Luke

Oh boy…

The moment you and Luke landed on Naboo for a mission, the two of you were treated like royalty (👀) the second you both departed the X-Wing. While you were here for work within the Palace walls, Leia insisted that the two of you deserve a break. No matter how lavish it would potentially become.

So, upon entering the Theed Royal Palace, the loyal members and staff practically tore Luke away from you. And you from him. Confusion quickly erupted between the two of you, but your Force Bond remained the same; distant and weak. You and Luke were here to strengthen the Bond, by being here in his Mother’s birthplace, your friend was eager to try anything new.

Being escorted through the marble hallways, your jaw remains on the floor the entire time until you are brought to your room with a wading pool and silk bedding. It was unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

Sleep didn’t come as easily as you hoped. You constantly tossed and turned beneath the plush bedding and Luke’s heart filled with a different kind of heaviness at your restless night.

In the morning, you were greeted by one of the handmaids, Winter, who had the most beautiful silver hair. After a solid hour of being bathed, brushed, and adorned with lavender and lily oil, were you finally ready to conquer the new day. Trekking through the grand intricate hallways, your fingers tug at the strings of your shawl, protecting you from the early morning chill.

Wandering around, the cool air blows in the Palace, allowing the light green fabric flow gracefully. Rounding the corner to head outside, when you suddenly bump into something – or rather; someone.

Adjusting their hands around your shoulders, a gasp escapes your lips in surprise. 

“I– I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going!” You exclaim. 

“That’s alright. I got lost too, Y/N. You’re not the only one.” The stranger replies. 

Realizing that you bumped into Luke, makes your face grow red, and you playfully punch him in the arm. 

“Oh you –! I swear, you’re such a tease, Luke Skywalker!” You joke. 

Following him through the archway to a balcony leading outside, Luke stops by a nearby table in the shade decorated with bowls of fruit and various drinks. Enjoying the multiple pieces of fruit, you pop a few grapes in your mouth, relishing in the brief sour sensation. 

“What sounds better to you? Water or …honeydew wine?” Luke asks, picking up the wine bottle in confusion. 

“Have you ever had wine before?” You ask, leaning closer. 

Reading the label, Luke shifts the olive green colored bottle in the sunlight, allowing the two of you to see the clear liquid inside. 

“Only once. It was long before we met. I had it back on my uncle’s farm when I turned eighteen. I only had one full glass and I slept right through a new season.” Luke chuckles. 

Snickering, your shoulder touches Luke’s as he protects you from the harsh rising rays of sunlight, letting you stay in the shade. 

“Did Leia do this? I know she wants us to have a break, but I don’t think we should drink that. I’ve never liked wine, anyway.” You explain, reaching for more fruit. 

“Well then, there’s our answer.” Luke retaliates and sets the bottle down. 

Eventually making your way down to the beach, Luke offers to take your shoes, but you decide to leave them at the stone steps. Untying the shawl around your shoulders, you carefully fold the knitted fabric, and place it on top of your shoes. Stretching in the sunlight, the endless warmth feels wonderful on your exposed back and shoulders. 

The complex design accompanied with the thin straps feels different, yet wonderful. Like the dress was your own article of armor. The green fabric blew in the breeze, making Luke stop and gaze at every part of you. There was no denying it: the dress looked absolutely gorgeous on you. It complimented the best parts of your figure, and Luke just didn’t know what to do. 

He briefly clears his throat and turns away to study the waves, giving you some respected privacy. Fighting the heat rising to his cheeks, he folds his hands behind his back. 

“What’s wrong, Skywalker? You’ve never seen someone in a dress before?” You tease. 

Walking to him, the pebbles roll against the soles of your feet as Luke bobs on the balls of his heels. 

“No, I’ve never seen someone in a dress like that. Much less someone as beautiful as you.” Luke admits. 

Avoiding eye contact, Luke’s heartbeat begins to rise in his chest whilst you stand before him. Even beneath his dark robes, he was a shaking mess. Luke always secretly dreamed of seeing you in a dress, no matter the circumstance. But being here next to the ocean with him, things just felt different. Everything felt right.

Offering your hands to him, Luke guides his hands on top of yours, lacing his fingers with your own. Finally looking you in the eye, his bright blue orbs bounce with your e/c eyes. Remaining here in this moment, you can feel your Force Bond growing stronger, and Luke can finally feel what you’re feeling. Sharing a series of laughs together, the visions of your futures as individuals in the vast Galaxy; as Jedi were clear. Nothing was faded or blurry, it was all possible. Quickly embracing Luke, the movement of your body pressing against his didn’t bother him. Wrapping his arms around you, the new and inspiring duties as Jedi refused to creep up on your shoulders, as the neverending sound of the waves made everything bliss.

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[mintywolf]

In the woods not far from Whitestone, close enough that she can see the lights of the castle on the hill if she looks up, but far enough that the warmth of them is only a distant memory, a nameless dead girl is stumbling through the snow. The long furrow cut by her dragging feet winds between the trees like an unrolled strand of yarn, looping erratically around the scaly trunks of the pines and dodging the sharp elbows of rock jutting from the mountainside where she has paused to search for berries, or lichens, or tree bark soft enough to chew on. But the basket dangling from her hand is as empty as the rest of her.

The rough edge of frost in the air catches in her throat and she stops to cough into her threadbare shawl, reaching out a hand to the trunk of a nearby tree to keep from being toppled over into the snow. When she straightens up her teary eyes catch on something bright through the blur of ink, and after she blinks a few times it resolves itself into a hopeful cluster of berries hanging like forgotten holiday ornaments from a tendril of leafless vine. Shifting her basket onto her arm, she makes a shuffling step towards them.

Don’t eat those, the Lady in her head snaps, before she can even examine them, it's bittersweet.

“I don’t mind.”

You will if you eat them. Bittersweet is kin to nightshade. Best left for the birds. Come, the woman says, and it’s like a hand has taken hold of her arm, only the hand is in her mind like the voice of the woman commanding, coaxing, berating her onwards. The dead girl wants to go home, where there’s at a place to sleep and a fire that might soothe a little of the bone-deep ache under her skin, but her shelves are winter-bare, and so she continues on through the woods.

“Delilah? How many ways to die in the Parchwood do you think there are?” she asks to pass the time as she trudges along, a little breathless from the uneven ground that makes it feel like she’s always going uphill. (How funny, to think of a corpse being out of breath. But the air still goes in and out of her lungs like a creaky bellows, albeit a bit slower than it used to.)

(Read more on AO3)