#woven golden lace

[ace-cf-cups]

You love Rumbelle? Golden Lace? Woven Beauty? Woven Lace?

You want to express that love in creative form?

You are competetive?

An experienced writer?

Or someone who never wrote fanfics but would love to try, especially for your OTP, with a bonus of complete anonymity helping you overcome the fear of failure or being judged by others?

You find writing 1000-1500 words oneshots the most comfortable / fun / etc?

You usually write long multi-chap things but would love to try writing something shorter?

You don't have the spoons for writing long multi-chap things but are itching to write?

You want to write but don't have a starting point and need some prompts?

Sign up for Rumbelle Showdown 2024*!

Trust me, you won't regret it 😉

*approved by the sexiest bastard and boss bitch of the show, among other people)

[ace-of-spaders]

I must admit that there's a reason I came back here today (two, actually, because I want to gif every single Rush scene 😁) and that reason is a prompt list I accidentally found while logged into my Belle rp blog because I realized most of those prompts could go well with Lizzington, so if anyone wants a ficlet about our favorite couple, just go to the prompt list I just reblogged (of course, you're more than welcome to also scroll through my 'prompt list' tag and choose a prompt from any other list I ever reblogged), pick whatever prompt you like and send it in!

You can also send a prompt for a ficlet about Rumbelle, Golden Lace, Woven Beauty, Woven Lace, Rushbelle, Rush x Chloe (can be platonic) and Nick x Mandy)

[novaursa]

A Dragon's Claim

- Summary: Daemon returns from his exile during the celebrations of Rhaenyra’s and Leanor’s wedding, with only one thing in mind: to claim you.

- Paring: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and is bonded with Grey Ghost. These events happen before and lead to The Blood of the Dragon. The list of all my works in chronological order is on my blog, pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content in this one)

- Word count: 4 538

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The air in the great hall is thick with tension and mirth as lords and ladies gather beneath the towering pillars of the Red Keep. The glow of a thousand candles casts a golden hue over the faces of the realm’s most powerful, yet the flickering light cannot reach the shadows where whispers thrive.

You sit at the high table, a smile frozen on your lips as you watch Rhaenyra and Laenor share a dance, their steps polished but strained. Your elder sister’s gown is woven with gold and red thread, a stark contrast to Laenor’s pale silks. The match is political, a necessity, and everyone knows it. But the feast continues on, with music and wine flowing freely to disguise the uneasy undercurrents.

Your father, King Viserys, is content for now, raising his cup with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You know how deeply he misses your mother, and how hard he’s tried to keep the family together since her death. Beside him, Queen Alicent's gaze flickers between you and your siblings, always watchful, as if measuring the distance between you all.

Yet the evening shifts suddenly when a presence enters the hall, one that sends a murmur rippling through the gathered guests. Heads turn, voices hush. You feel the change in the air before you even see him.

Daemon.

Your Uncle strides in as if the years and the disgrace of his exile mean nothing. His long silver hair is swept back, and his black leather doublet clings to him like shadow. The greenish glow of dragon glass at his throat only sharpens the edges of his smile. He's dressed in dark finery, as if mourning—and you recall, with a bitter twist in your gut, that Lady Rhea Royce has just died. A hunting accident, they say. But few believe it was an accident at all.

Your breath catches as his violet eyes sweep across the hall before landing on you. There's a dangerous glint there, something raw and unsettling, something that reminds you why you’ve kept him at arm’s length all these years. You feel it like a caress, lingering too long, too close.

He moves with purpose, winding through the throng of courtiers until he’s at your side. Your fingers tighten around your goblet as he dips into an elegant bow, just deep enough to mock propriety. The room buzzes with speculation, but Daemon pays it no mind. His attention is wholly on you.

"Little Niece," he purrs, voice smooth as silk, yet laced with something darker. "It’s been too long."

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing as you regard him. "Not long enough," you reply, keeping your tone cool, distant.

He laughs—a low, rich sound that curls in your stomach, unsettling in its familiarity. "Such sharp words. You wound me, Y/N."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead taking a sip from your cup. "What do you want, Uncle? Surely you did not come all this way just to attend a wedding."

"Why would I not?" He shifts closer, the scent of leather, smoke, and something distinctly Daemon filling the air around you. "After all, it’s a family affair. And I’ve missed our little talks."

You can feel the heat of his gaze, the way it lingers on your face before dipping lower, as if taking you in inch by inch. It’s almost predatory. You’ve seen how other women melt under that stare, but it’s never had that effect on you. If anything, it’s only ever put you on edge.

"Missed?" you echo with a scoff. "You were banished, or did you forget?"

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but it sharpens. "Exile is a state of mind, Niece. It changes nothing of who I am—or what I want."

Your jaw tightens. He’s always been this way—playing at power, testing limits. When you were younger, you found it thrilling, the way he flirted with danger, the way he seemed to live without consequence. But now, all you see is a man who’s always hungered for more than what is his.

"And what is it that you want now, Daemon?" you ask, holding his gaze. You don’t flinch, even when his smile widens.

His voice drops, low and intimate, a whisper meant for your ears alone. "The same thing I’ve always wanted. You."

The words are a knife, sharp and precise. They cut through the haze of laughter and music that surrounds you. You know what he’s asking, what he’s offering—and you also know you’d be a fool to accept.

You set down your goblet with deliberate care, your expression hardening. "You’re wasting your time. Whatever game you’re playing, find another piece for it."

His amusement doesn’t fade, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, more frustrated. For a moment, the mask slips, and you see the hunger beneath, the yearning he’s kept at bay since you last rejected him.

"You think you’re above this, above me," he murmurs, his voice laced with challenge. "But we’re more alike than you care to admit, Y/N. Fire runs in our veins, and it will burn until we claim what’s ours."

You feel a shiver crawl up your spine, but you refuse to let it show. "Perhaps," you say coolly, standing from your seat and stepping back, putting distance between you. "But that fire will not consume me. Not for you. Not ever."

His gaze follows you as you move away, back into the crowd where the music drowns out the tension of your exchange. You feel his eyes on you, a burning brand that lingers even when you force yourself to focus on the dancing couples and the revelry. But Daemon Targaryen is not so easily dismissed.

You know this won’t be the last time he tries. He’s always been relentless in his pursuits. But you’ve held him off before—and you’ll do it again, no matter how many times he attempts to draw you into his web.

Yet in the depths of your mind, a small voice wonders how long you can keep resisting before the fire spreads.

The hall is alive with music and movement, swirling skirts and polished boots creating a dance of color and grace. You find yourself swept into the rhythm, partnered with Lord Tyland Lannister—a golden lion of the Westerlands, resplendent in his crimson and gold. He’s handsome enough, with a confident smile and courteous manners, but he lacks the edge of danger that seems to follow Targaryens like a shadow. 

Still, you laugh politely as he makes some jest about the boisterous nature of the court. Tyland is careful, measured in his charm, his hand respectfully placed at your waist as you twirl together across the floor. Yet your mind is only half on the conversation, aware that a pair of intense violet eyes is tracking your every move.

Daemon watches from where he leans against a pillar, his posture deceptively relaxed. He appears disinterested to those who don’t know him well, one hand holding a goblet of wine, the other idly tapping against his leg. But beneath that mask of ease is a tightly coiled tension, a hungry beast waiting for the right moment to strike. His gaze is riveted to you, sharp and possessive, a wolf studying its prey from afar.

Beside him, King Viserys attempts to draw his brother into conversation, oblivious to Daemon’s distraction. 

“It’s good to see you back, brother,” Viserys begins, his tone amiable as he turns to face Daemon. “We’ve missed you here. It’s been far too long since the family was whole.”

Daemon barely acknowledges the words, his focus entirely elsewhere. His eyes flick over the way you laugh at something Tyland says, the way your lips curve in amusement. A flicker of annoyance passes through him, a subtle tightening of his jaw. He’s always despised the Lannisters—their arrogance, their ambition, their sense of entitlement. And seeing you in Tyland’s arms only fuels the simmering irritation.

Viserys, oblivious to his brother’s dark thoughts, continues, raising his goblet to Daemon. “Rhaenyra is happy tonight, isn’t she? It’s a good match for her, one that will strengthen the realm. Laenor is—”

“A distraction,” Daemon mutters, cutting him off, his tone sharp enough to draw Viserys’ attention.

Viserys frowns, looking at him more closely. “What’s on your mind, Daemon? You’ve barely said a word since you arrived. If it’s about Rhea—”

Daemon lets out a dry chuckle, finally turning his gaze to Viserys, but it’s laced with disdain. “Rhea is long dead, brother. Her bones are cold and buried. Let us not pretend we mourn her now.”

Viserys shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to respond. “Still, it’s no easy thing to lose a wife, even one you didn’t—”

Daemon cuts him off again, this time with a flick of his hand. “Enough, Viserys. I didn’t come here to talk about the past.”

“What did you come here for, then?” Viserys asks, voice softening as he tries to reach out to his brother. “We can put things right between us. There’s no need for more distance. We’re family—”

Daemon’s gaze snaps back to you, watching as you spin gracefully in Tyland’s arms, your dress swirling around you like flames licking at the air. His lips curve into a faint, humorless smile. “Family…” he repeats, the word bitter on his tongue. “Yes, it’s always about family.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes track your every movement. Viserys follows his line of sight, finally understanding where Daemon’s attention lies. He clears his throat, his expression hardening. “Y/N is not for you, Daemon. She’s my daughter, and I’ll not have her tangled in whatever schemes you’re plotting.”

Daemon’s smile widens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Schemes? You wound me, brother. I only have your daughter’s best interests at heart.”

“Do you?” Viserys’ voice takes on a warning edge. “You’ve already caused enough trouble tonight with your sudden appearance. If you truly care for her, you’ll leave her be.”

But Daemon doesn’t answer. His thoughts are locked elsewhere, watching how you move with such effortless grace, the way your eyes spark with life as you dance, seemingly carefree. He knows you’re aware of his presence, can sense it in the way you avoid looking in his direction, how you keep Tyland between you and the shadows where Daemon lurks. It’s a clever tactic—one that both frustrates and excites him.

“She’s stubborn,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his eyes narrow. “But that’s what makes the chase worthwhile.”

Viserys stiffens, his grip tightening around his cup. “I’m warning you, Daemon. You’ll not drag her into your games. If you truly have any regard for her, you’ll stop this.”

Daemon turns to face his brother fully now, his expression unreadable, but his tone is laced with cold mockery. “And what if she doesn’t want your protection, Viserys? What if she wants something… else?”

“That’s enough.” The king’s voice is steel now, but it wavers slightly, betraying the deep undercurrent of worry. “I won’t allow it. You’ll stay away from her.”

Daemon holds his brother’s gaze for a long, tense moment before he breaks into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, brother. I live to serve.”

But as Viserys takes his words at face value and turns away, relief evident in his posture, Daemon’s eyes drift back to you. A storm brews within them, filled with unresolved hunger and an unyielding determination. He watches as you end the dance with a gracious curtsy, Lord Tyland offering a courtly bow in return, and his fingers curl tighter around his goblet.

You may think you’ve pushed him away, that you’ve built walls high enough to keep him out. But Daemon Targaryen has never been one to accept defeat—not when there’s something he desires as fiercely as he desires you.

No, the game is far from over. If anything, it’s only just begun. And as you catch his gaze from across the hall, your eyes locking for the briefest of moments before you look away, you feel it too—the inevitability of the fire that threatens to consume you both.

For now, you dance with Lannisters and play your part as the dutiful daughter. But Daemon’s patience, like all things about him, is dangerous. And sooner or later, he knows, you’ll find yourself face-to-face with the truth neither of you can deny—no matter how much you might try to resist it.

The music softens, allowing the hum of conversation to fill the hall. You’re surrounded by a cluster of courtiers, each eager to share a word or a compliment with the princess of the realm. They shower you with flowery flattery, and you respond with practiced grace, a polite smile that never quite reaches your eyes. 

You’re keenly aware of Daemon lurking at the edge of your periphery, a shadow just waiting to slip into the light. He’s watching, waiting for an opening—and when your father becomes occupied by the arrival of Lord Beesbury, Daemon seizes his chance.

The courtiers around you stiffen as Daemon approaches, the atmosphere shifting subtly as they sense the tension that follows him. He cuts through the crowd with the grace of a dragon circling its prey, a dark smile curling on his lips as he stops just beside you. The air crackles with his presence, drawing every eye in the circle toward him.

“Y/N,” he says smoothly, his voice warm honey over cold steel. “I hope you’re not allowing these dullards to bore you.” There’s an undercurrent of possessiveness in the way he says your name, a familiar, disconcerting tone that sends a shiver down your spine.

You keep your expression composed, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing any discomfort. The eyes of the court are upon you, watching for any reaction, any hint of scandal. You cannot afford to make a scene—not tonight, not at Rhaenyra’s wedding. So you take a slow breath and incline your head, allowing him to join the conversation if only to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

“Uncle,” you greet him, your tone carefully neutral. “I find the company quite agreeable, actually.”

A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes as he takes a step closer, deliberately brushing the edge of your skirts with his boot. “Do you? Well, perhaps it’s simply my own poor luck that I’ve yet to find anyone in this hall nearly as fascinating as you.”

The compliment is a blade, sharp and glittering with intent. The courtiers exchange nervous glances, unsure of where to place themselves in this verbal dance between the two of you. They sense the tension, the unspoken challenge in Daemon’s words, but they dare not intervene. Instead, they hang back, listening closely while pretending otherwise.

You give a tight smile, deflecting his advance with ease. “How fortunate for you, then, to have found me amidst so many ‘dullards,’ as you so kindly put it.”

He laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends gooseflesh prickling across your skin. “Indeed. But then, I’ve always known where to find the rarest of treasures.”

His eyes lock onto yours, the weight of his gaze heavy with suggestion. You feel the noose of his presence tightening around you, making it harder to keep up the pretense of polite conversation. Every word he speaks is laced with a deeper meaning, a challenge you’re unwilling to meet, yet can’t entirely ignore.

One of the courtiers, a nervous young man from House Florent, clears his throat and tries to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Princess Y/N, Lord Daemon, I heard the finest fabrics for tonight’s event were imported directly from Qarth. Perhaps you’d care to share your thoughts on—”

Daemon silences him with a glance, his attention never fully leaving you. “I think the princess and I have far more interesting matters to discuss, don’t we, Niece?” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for the others to hear the edge in it. “Or perhaps you’d prefer we step outside, where we might speak more privately?”

You stiffen slightly at his audacity, feeling your control slipping under the intensity of his advance. But you refuse to let him see how he rattles you. “That won’t be necessary,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “We’re perfectly fine where we are.”

Daemon’s smile widens, but it’s not the charming smile of a courtier. It’s something darker, edged with hunger and frustration. He’s testing your boundaries, trying to see how far he can push before you break. And you know that refusing him outright, especially in public, might only embolden him further.

He takes another step closer, his arm brushing against yours as he speaks in a tone meant for your ears alone. “You’ve always been so careful, Y/N. So proper, so well-behaved. But there’s fire in you—I’ve seen it. You can pretend all you like, but you can’t deny what’s in our blood, what we’re meant for.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest. “You mistake me, Daemon. Whatever you think we share, you’re wrong. I am not like you.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving as his breath ghosts across your ear. “But you will be, in time. The fire consumes us all eventually. Why fight what you can’t escape?”

Before you can answer, one of the other courtiers—a lady from House Frey—interjects with a forced laugh, clearly sensing the rising tension. “Lord Daemon, you speak of fire as though it’s something to be embraced. But surely even dragons know better than to be burned alive.”

Daemon doesn’t bother responding to her, his gaze still locked on you. “Perhaps some of us would rather burn than live half-alive.”

The weight of his words lingers in the air, a challenge wrapped in seduction. You can feel the eyes of everyone around you, waiting to see how you’ll respond. Every nerve in your body screams at you to walk away, to extricate yourself from this perilous game he’s playing, but the chains of decorum hold you in place.

“Not everyone fears the flame,” you reply, your voice a delicate balance between defiance and diplomacy. “But not everyone is foolish enough to be consumed by it either.”

For a moment, Daemon’s expression softens, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes. He’s always liked your spirit, the way you push back when others would cower. It’s one of the reasons he’s so drawn to you—you’re a challenge, not easily won. But that only makes him more determined.

He steps back slightly, giving you room to breathe, though his presence still lingers like smoke in the air. “We shall see, Niece,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less intense. “We shall see.”

The conversation shifts awkwardly back to safer topics as the courtiers nervously chatter to fill the silence, but the damage is done. The undercurrents of tension remain, swirling just beneath the surface, unseen by most but keenly felt by you.

You make your excuses and step away from the circle, moving toward the safety of the crowd. But you can feel Daemon’s eyes on you, tracking your every movement, a predator biding its time.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to focus on the revelry, the laughter, the music. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake the feeling that tonight was only the beginning. Daemon has set his sights on you once more, and though you’ve pushed him away before, you know this time he’s more determined than ever.

The fire is closing in, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep it at bay.

The days in King’s Landing have grown longer, shadows stretching thin as the sun’s heat begins to wane with autumn’s approach. It has been weeks since the feast, since Daemon first rekindled his pursuit of you, and those weeks have been filled with nothing but frustration. You’ve become as elusive as a wisp of smoke, always slipping from his grasp just when he thinks he’s closed the distance.

He’s been searching for you throughout the Red Keep, stalking through the corridors like a restless lion. Servants avert their eyes when he passes, knowing better than to cross him when his temper is barely leashed. He checks the gardens where you sometimes take afternoon strolls, the library where you immerse yourself in history, even the secluded balcony where you once sat to watch the sun dip beneath the horizon. But you’re nowhere to be found.

His patience, already thin, frays with each passing moment. Where are you?

Eventually, he strides into the inner courtyard, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose. He spots Rhaenyra, her golden hair spilling like liquid sunlight as she leans casually against a column. She’s watching a pair of knights spar in the yard, but when she catches sight of Daemon, she lifts a brow in amusement.

“Uncle,” she greets, her tone warm but laced with curiosity. “You seem troubled. Should I be concerned for my safety?”

Daemon barely slows his approach, his eyes narrowed and searching. “Where is she, Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra’s smirk widens, enjoying the tension radiating from him. She has always seen through him, understood the games he plays. But right now, her amusement only fuels his growing irritation.

“She?” she asks, feigning ignorance. “You’ll have to be more specific, Uncle. There are quite a few women within the Keep.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps, his voice a low growl. “You know who I mean. Where is Y/N?”

Rhaenyra’s amusement falters slightly as she studies him more closely. She sees the fire in his eyes, the barely contained storm that brews beneath his calm exterior. She knows Daemon well enough to recognize when he’s truly agitated.

“And why would you assume I’d know her whereabouts?” she asks, though her tone is more measured now, less teasing. “She doesn’t confide everything in me.”

Daemon steps closer, his frustration bleeding into impatience. “She’s your sister. You know where she’s gone. Stop wasting time and tell me.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickers with something unreadable before she sighs, realizing he won’t relent. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” She shakes her head as if in disbelief, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but only because it’ll keep you from stalking around the Keep like a shadowed ghost.”

She pauses, savoring the way Daemon’s impatience makes him lean in closer. “She’s gone to ride Grey Ghost.”

Daemon’s reaction is instant. The blood drains from his face as his eyes sharpen, and without another word, he turns on his heel, already planning his next move. The mention of the dragon’s name—Grey Ghost, the elusive and wild creature—ignites something dangerous within him.

Rhaenyra watches with a slight frown, sensing his sudden intensity. “Daemon—wait. She knows what she’s doing; she’s always had a bond with that dragon—”

But he’s not listening. His mind is racing, the image of you alone on the back of such a wild, unpredictable creature flashing before his eyes. Grey Ghost is no docile mount like Syrax or Caraxes. The dragon is known for being elusive, rarely seen and even more rarely approached. For you to go after such a beast alone—Daemon feels a surge of possessive protectiveness he can’t tamp down.

He strides swiftly toward the stables, barking orders at the stablehands to ready his horse. The urgency in his tone leaves no room for argument. “Saddle it quickly!” he snaps, every muscle tense with the need to move, to reach the Dragonpit before it’s too late.

In the back of his mind, he knows he’s not only worried about your safety. This chase, this pursuit, has become something more to him—an obsession, a need to prove that you can’t slip away from him, not when he’s decided you’re his. And riding Grey Ghost? That’s an act of defiance, a clear signal that you’re not afraid to dance on the edge of danger.

He mounts his horse in one smooth motion and urges the animal into a gallop. The wind rushes past him as he rides through the streets of King’s Landing, his mind singularly focused on getting to the Dragonpit. He doesn’t care who watches or what whispers will follow in the wake of his urgency. Let them talk; let them wonder. All that matters is reaching you.

By the time he arrives at the Dragonpit, he’s barely winded, though his blood roars in his veins like wildfire. The keepers bow hastily as he storms past them, heading straight for the chamber where Caraxes, his own dragon, resides. The Blood Wyrm growls low as Daemon approaches, sensing the tension in his rider.

Daemon doesn’t waste a moment, clambering onto Caraxes’ back with practiced ease. The bond between dragon and rider is instinctual, and with a sharp command, Caraxes unfurls his wings and takes to the skies with a powerful beat. They soar upward, climbing higher into the heavens as Daemon scans the horizon, searching for the faint silhouette of a dragon in flight.

He knows the general area where Grey Ghost roams—often among the mist-shrouded cliffs near the coast, far from the reach of men. If you’ve truly gone there alone, then you’ve either misjudged your own courage or you’re challenging him in your own quiet, stubborn way.

Either way, he intends to catch you.

The thrill of the chase pulses through him, his heart racing as Caraxes cuts through the clouds, flying faster and faster toward where he hopes to find you. There’s a primal satisfaction in the pursuit, the idea of tracking you down, claiming what he believes should be his. He imagines what you’ll say when he catches you, what you’ll do—if you’ll continue to resist, or if you’ll finally realize there’s no escaping the inevitable.

As they fly over the rugged cliffs, he finally spots a shadow moving below—grey scales glinting in the fading light. There you are, astride Grey Ghost, your figure small but unmistakable. The sight sends a surge of possessive relief through him. You’re safe, unharmed, but you’ve ventured too far for his liking.

He urges Caraxes lower, drawing closer until the two dragons are flying side by side, their wings slicing through the air in tandem. The sound of Caraxes’ approach makes you turn, your eyes widening as you realize who’s followed you. Even from a distance, Daemon can see the defiance in your gaze, the way you straighten your back and tighten your grip on the reins.

You’re not pleased to see him. But that’s too bad.

Daemon grins, his eyes flashing with determination as he closes the distance, ready to confront you, to remind you that running—or flying—won’t keep him at bay. He’s always known where to find you, and now that he’s caught up, he has no intention of letting you slip away again.

The chase may be thrilling, but Daemon Targaryen has never been content to chase forever. At some point, even the most elusive prey must be caught. And when he finally corners you in the sky, he’ll make sure you know exactly what it means to be his.

[pretzel-box]

Summary: You're a mortal fisher that catches the attention of an ancient sea god without knowing it.

Tags: Some 'fluff', mortal reader, sea god sebastian

Words: 2,6k

There was a small village that was cradled on the edge of an unknown island like a forgotten secret among humans, made out of solid stone, earth and sand while being shaped by the restless waves of the deep ocean. Narrow cobbled streets would wound between the homes of sun-bleached woods and weathered bricks while fine smoke curled up from the going chimneys, mingling with the salty sea air. Many signs of a life gathered around this place despite its unknown status.

The endless ocean surrounded the village on all sides, an eternal sentinel, its deep blue waves gently lapping at the shoreline as if it were whispering ancient lullabies. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and lavender, where the horizon blurred into a seamless meeting of sea and sky. The sound of gulls crying in the distance echoed through the air, carried by the wind that rustled through the tall grasses and wildflowers growing at the island’s edge.

Farther out, where the cliffs rose jagged and defiant against the endless ocean, the waves crashed with a furious roar, sending white spray high into the air. Yet here, within the village, the sea was gentle—a mirror reflecting the sky’s fading light.

Small fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, tethered to wooden posts worn smooth by years of use. Their painted hulls were chipped and faded, yet they held a quiet dignity, as if they had borne witness to centuries of tides, storms, and the steady rhythm of life. Nets hung drying on the docks, draped like lace over the old wood, waiting for the morning light to send the fishermen back to the open sea.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and damp earth. A few villagers, their faces lined with age and the sea’s touch, gathered in quiet conversation near the docks, their voices low, as if unwilling to disturb the peace. Lanterns flickered to life in the twilight, casting a soft, golden glow over the village, like stars scattered across the earth.

As the day gave way to dusk, the village seemed to breathe, a living thing, connected to the ocean and sky in a way that was timeless. The sea, the cliffs, the forest—they were all one with the village, woven into its very being. And as the stars began to emerge, one by one, above the endless horizon, the island seemed to settle into itself, cradled by the ocean’s eternal embrace, waiting for whatever secrets the tides might bring.

"Listen, my child. Our story began long ago, when the gods still walked the earth and the stars were young."

Once upon a time…

The land was molded by the hands of glorious deities, their fingers painting the skies and carving the rivers. They placed the sun on the horizon and the plains upon the earth. The world flourished, but with its growth came envy, as some gods overshadowed others. To gain power, they created life—humans, born from their desire for control.

At first, humans worshiped their creators with devotion, pledging loyalty to one deity, then betraying the next. They defiled the divine in their thirst for more, striking down gods one by one. Until, at last, only humans remained, reigning over the world they had once been given. The gods, once mighty, were destroyed by the very hands that they had shaped.

The lesson was clear for the mortals: gods could not be trusted.

You grew up in the small village, cradled by the sea, raised between the wind and the waves as if you were a child of nature itself. The first thing you learned was your origin, that you were descended from the gods—gods who were flawed and fallible. Your grandparents told you stories of your ancestors, how they fought with their lives for the right to live on this island, battling forces far beyond their comprehension.

Ages ago, a fierce god named Solace ruled over these waters. His rage, directed at both his siblings and their creations, churned the oceans into relentless fury. Your ancestors tried to cross the waters for months, many drowned and many got sacrificed to soothe the will of the deity that ruled in the waters. His anger blinded Solace, his envy and his feelings were like a sharp sword, pointed at himself. Your ancestors tricked him, like they did with so many other deities before. They sealed him into the ocean, robbing him of his necklace that he wore. And after they triumphed over him, the ocean came to rest. All thanks to the necklace that secretly holds Solace his powers.

A necklace that rested around your neck, a family piece that was given down as the generations passed. It was a sea shell pendant, reflecting in beautiful blue-silver hues as if the sea itself was placed upon you. And you wore it with pride.

Your mother gave it to you the day you joined the family tradition, stepping into the life of a fisher. It was a simple gift, passed down through generations, as much a symbol of your heritage as the sea itself. You learned to live in harmony with the waves, to respect the life beneath the surface, and to take only what was needed. Your family had always been blessed by the ocean, and so would you. It was honest work—give and take—where you not only harvested from the sea but also protected it, keeping it clean and honoring its depths.

"Keep calm," you murmured to yourself, the words a quiet mantra as you sat in your small boat. The sun was warm on your back as you focused on tying the loose strings of your net, the gentle rocking of the boat a familiar comfort.

Your mother had taught you to knit the nets in the old traditional way, every knot a connection to your ancestors. Your father, in turn, had shown you the art of fishing—how to hunt with respect, how to make the death of the fish swift and painless, and how to use every part of it in reverence for the life taken. A true fisher never wastes, for the sea gives generously but only to those who understand its balance.

The rhythm of your hands, the whisper of the wind, and the quiet lap of the waves against the boat—they all wove together like a song. You were part of something much larger than yourself, connected to the ancient currents of the sea, just as your family had always been.

You lifted your finished net, admiring the neat knots with a smile of quiet pride. A rush of happiness filled your chest as you hugged the net, feeling accomplished. You had honored the legacy of your ancestors, crafting the tool with care, just as they had done for generations. It was a simple but profound joy, knowing that you were connected to something so old and enduring.

With a steady breath, you prepared to cast the net into the water, hoping for a good catch to feed your family tonight. The gentle hum of the waves blended with your thoughts, and as the net unfurled, you missed the soft snap of a string breaking. But the sudden blue shimmer at the corner of your eye did not go unnoticed.

Your heart dropped as you realized it was your necklace—the one your mother had given you. Somehow, it had tangled itself in the net, and as you began to fish, it slipped from your neck effortlessly, tumbling into the water before you could react. You watched in stunned silence as the delicate jewelry disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths in an instant.

The sea, ever so calm just moments ago, now seemed impossibly vast and unyielding. That necklace was more than just a piece of jewelry; it was a part of you, a part of your family. And now, it was gone.

It sank slowly, the glimmering stone catching the last rays of sunlight as it shimmered just beneath the surface, suspended in the water like a delicate promise about to be broken. You watched, helpless, as it drifted deeper, the blue hue of the ocean swallowing it whole. Your heart pounded in your chest, a heavy sense of dread filling you as the necklace—your link to your family, your ancestors—vanished silently into the dark water below.

Your hands slackened, the net forgotten, slipping from your grasp into the boat. Without a second thought, instinct took over. Before you even realized what you were doing, you dove headfirst into the water, chasing the fading glint of silver.

The coldness of the ocean hit you like a shock, but you didn’t care. You kicked your legs, your arms pushing against the water, desperately reaching for the necklace as it continued its slow descent. The light above you grew dimmer as you sank deeper, the world around you a muffled echo of the surface. You could barely see now, the shimmering silver reduced to a distant gleam.

The water pressed in on you, chilling your skin and constricting your lungs. Panic began to claw at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. It was more than just an heirloom; it was the weight of your ancestors’ blessings, the legacy of your family, and it was slipping further and further away.

Your lungs began to burn, the pressure of the deep water pressing against your chest, but still, you reached out, fingers stretching into the darkness. The necklace was now just a faint blur, fading into the abyss. Desperation surged through you as your arms flailed in the icy depths.

The darkness was overwhelming, the cold water pressing in on all sides as you sank deeper, the faint shimmer of your necklace vanishing into the abyss. Your chest burned, lungs screaming for air, but your limbs were too heavy, too numb. The weight of the ocean dragged you down, and for a moment, you felt yourself surrendering to the pull, the necklace gone.

But then, something strange happened. A warmth surrounded you, gentle and reassuring, cutting through the icy water. A firm hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you upwards with a strength that felt both human and not. Yet, the darkness caught you and you passed out.

The first thing you felt was a pair of warm lips on yours, innocent, shy and yet somewhat dedicated. A wet hand was placed close to your throat. Then your head shot up as reality caught up to you, the water in your lungs creeping up your throat as you coughed it all out.

Coughing, disoriented, you blinked away the saltwater from your eyes, the world around you blurred. As your vision cleared, you found yourself being held by a man—no, something far more. His eyes, a deep and endless blue, locked onto yours. His presence was as overwhelming as the ocean itself, powerful and ancient, yet there was a softness in the way he held you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The stranger's arm was still wrapped around you, steadying you against the gentle rocking of the waves. His dark hair flowed around him, as though it were a part of the sea, and his skin, shimmering faintly in the light, seemed to glow with a quiet radiance. He wasn’t human, no, but he felt familiar.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice like the soft murmur of the tide, calming and steady.

You did, drawing in deep, shaky breaths, your heart still racing from the shock. “Who… who are you?” you stammered, your voice weak, barely above a whisper.

He gazed at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with something tender, something that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "Sebastian," he finally said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I live within these waters."

You nodded slowly, still dazed, as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. The cold of the water, the rush of drowning, and now… this.

Then, the realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head. “My necklace,” you breathed, panic swelling inside you again. You turned to look down into the water, but there was no shimmer, no sign of the silverish blue. “It’s gone… my necklace… I lost it.”

Sebastian’s eyes followed yours, and for a moment, a flicker of something like regret passed over his face. “The sea does not return everything,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of sorrow that seemed to echo from somewhere deep within him. "Not all that it takes can be given back."

Your heart sank, the weight of his words settling heavily inside you. The necklace—your family's necklace—was gone, lost forever to the depths. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to break down in front of this strange, beautiful man who had saved your life.

Sebastian’s gaze softened as he watched you, and before you could react, his hand reached up, brushing gently against your cheek, his touch feather-light. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice, the sadness that lingered in his words. “I wish I could have saved it for you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, though the ache in your chest was still raw. “It was my family…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It was important.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting his fingers linger against your skin, his presence steady, grounding. “Your family's memory doesn’t live in that necklace,” he said softly, his eyes searching for yours. “It lives in you. In everything you carry with you. That cannot be lost, not to the sea or anything else.”

His words, gentle and warm, wrapped around your heart like a soothing balm. You nodded again, still feeling the loss, but somehow, in his presence, the grief didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

For a moment, you simply floated there together, the waves lapping gently against your bodies, the sun casting a warm, golden light over the surface of the water. Sebastian’s hand stayed close to yours, his touch lingering, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you go.

“Why did you help me?” you asked after a long silence, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you wanted the answer.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered, his deep blue eyes searching yours. “Because,” he said softly, a hint of something more in his voice, something unspoken, “I couldn’t let you go.”

There was something in the way he looked at you, an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t understand it, the pull between you two, but it was undeniable. He had saved you—not just from drowning, but from something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name.

For now, you let the quiet peace of the ocean surround you, content in his presence, even as the necklace drifted farther into the depths, lost but somehow no longer the most important thing in your heart.

You finally took the time to admire his large form, he was as pretty as the mermaids from the childhood stories, as gentle looking as the ocean and his eyes, his eyes were like the ones of a god. You never saw someone like him before, but he mesmerized you.

He had placed you back into your boat, his hand lingered a bit longer on your cheek than anticipated and you could feel a mutual spark between you two.

[sare11aa11eras]

Daenerys Missandei Irri and Jhiqui!

[Image Description: A full-length drawing of four people, Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei of Naath, and Dany’s two Dothraki handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. They are standing progressively farther back from the viewer. Daenerys stands in profile, walking forward, talking to someone. Missandei and Jhiqui have their bodies facing the viewer, Irri is angled slightly to the right side of the drawing. Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui look at Daenerys. They are standing on a red carpet against a blank background.

Daenerys wears a purple tokar with a gold fringe. She wears her dragon crown, a gold bangle, rings of various materials, a gold vambrace with purple stones, gold earrings with purple stones, and an elaborate necklace with purple stones. From the necklace and the crown dangle long strings of red and black beads. She wears an anklet and leather sandals. A few golden bells can be seen in her hair.

Missandei wears a knee-length light orchid-color dress. It hangs loosely around her. Her dress is trimmed at the hem with purple and blue beads of different lengths. She wears sandals similar to Dany’s. She wears a large V-shaped piece of jewelry similar to a collar around her neck and over her collarbones. It is gold, mostly decorated with purple stones, and a blue butterfly design. Missandei wears earrings with blue butterflies and purple, pink, and yellow stones. She wears a bracelet of alternating pink and yellow stones. Her hair is in braids to pull it away from her face, but is otherwise in an Afro-type style. She holds a tablet and writing utensil in front of her chest. She has an interested expression as she looks up from her writing towards Dany.

Irri wears Dothraki clothes. She wears long trousers, which are blue fabric with a fringed panel of leather along the inside of her leg and groin. She wears leather boots with green, white, and purple painted swirls on them. She wears a dark leather belt around her middle and a belt of gold discs over it. The central gold disc has a green stone. More blue fabric wraps around her chest, either pleated or wrappings. Over this is a painted vest, primarily decorated with blue, green, and white. On her upper arm is an armband with an illustration of a horse galloping in grass. She has leather wrappings on her wrist and opposite upper arm. She wears one visible ring. She wears a leather necklace with a triangular gold pendant and gold triangular earrings. Her hair is in at least three braids, tied off with gold beads. She has bangs. She wears a woven headband of green and blue, with jade stones. Her face is neutral.

Jhiqui also wears Dothraki clothes, although hers do not look practical for riding. Her clothes are primarily fabric of a deep raspberry color. Along the outer side of her trousers is a stripe of leather, fringed at the end, painted with pink and pale purple flowers. On her chest she wears a beaded brooch shaped like a flower, with pink petals and a green “stem”. She wears slippers, in the same material as the rest of her outfit, with a decoration of pink flowers on yellow around the heel. Her vest is laced closed over a green and gold under layer. Her vest is trimmed at the hem with gold discs. Around her middle is a dark leather belt, with a thin belt of gold discs over it. She wears a leather necklace similar to Irri’s, with a circular gold pendant with a garnet stone. Her earrings match this pendant. She wears two rings. Her arm band is gold and garnet. Her hair is worn similarly to Irri’s. She has a bracelet with chips of green jade set in silver on a leather cuff. She has a nose piercing with a gold chain that leads to her earring. She appears to be wearing rouge. She looks mildly interested in whatever is happening. End ID./]

[vampsywrites]

lawnol a mì te’lan.

synopsis: after assisting lo'ak in meeting up with payakan, neteyam discovers your involvement and confronts both of you. emotions escalate, leading to neteyam lashing out on you and a fight breaking out between him and Lo'ak. however, he would soon come to regret this as a cruel twist of fate takes you away.

word count: 4.8k | author's note: i recommend listening to the songcord when the funeral scene comes up

tags: DEATH, ANGST, FEM! OMATICAYA READER, grieving, blood, gunshot wounds, sibling arguments, lo'ak and neteyam's tense situation, fighting, mentions of punching, funeral, established relationships, flashbacks, war

Syulang - Na'vi; Flower

The smell of incense wafted through the pod, mingling with the pungent scent of medicinal paste and herbs. The room was dimly lit, filled with a hushed tension that seemed to permeate the air. Tucked in the far corner of the room, you were busy patching Lo'ak up, applying a cool creamy paste onto his battered body.

As you began to soothe a bruise on his arm, Neteyam stormed into the room, frustration evident on his face. His steps pounded against the woven floors, sending a trickle of fear up your spine.

"What were you thinking Lo'ak? Meeting up with that killer tulkun, again!" He hisses, roughly pushing at his younger brother's head. "Why do you have to make things so difficult?"

"Neteyam," you soothed, moving to stand before him, "Your brother is actually seriously injured. Can we please have this conversation another time?"

"My brother wouldn't be injured if he didn't go past the reefs again. My brother wouldn't be injured if you didn't help him sneak out," Neteyam seethed, towering over you as his golden eyes burned with a blend of anger and disappointment.

Under his intense gaze, you curled into yourself, ears pinning back. You knew what you did was wrong, but you had never seen Lo'ak connect so deeply with someone before.

"Payakan is Lo'ak's spirit brother," you hushed softly, arms and tail wrapping around yourself as you tried to explain yourself to Neteyam, "Outcast or not…They are spirit brothers, Neteyam."

Neteyam clicked his tongue and threw his head back in frustration. Your name then escaped his lips, laced with cold disdain, "I would have expected this from him, but I never imagined you would actively go out of your way to assist him. You were trained to be Tsahìk, and I trusted you to act responsibly."

He took a moment to breathe, his pause magnifying the weight of the situation. "I couldn't be more wrong."

The walls of the room seemed to close in, suffocating you, as his words pierced your heart. Shame washed over you, causing your body to tremble as you grappled with your emotions.

"Neteyam, I…" you tried to speak up once more, but your mouth ran dry, throat shutting close.

"I…I'm sorry, sir," you force out, voice quivering.

Lo'ak's gaze intensifies, and a surge of protective rage surges through him. He swiftly moves to your defense, shoving Neteyam away, a low hiss rumbling from his chest. "Y/N did what she thought was right. We're all responsible for our own actions. Don't you dare lay this shit on her for something I did."

Neteyam's lips were pulled back into a snarl as he pushed Lo'ak back, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "Responsible for our own actions? That's rich coming from you considering how much you just love to start shit."

Lo'ak growled before he moved to grapple Neteyam, forcefully pinning the older boy against the pod's walls. The impact caused the wall to shake, knocking a few bottles of herbs from the shelves, which tumbled and clattered onto the woven floors.

"Lo'ak—!" you gasped out seeing the boy draw his hand back, knocking his fist into Neteyam's face.

Neteyam staggered backward, colliding with the wall, as the force of the blow resounded with a heavy thunk. Momentarily dazed, he blinked and glanced up at Lo'ak, his hand instinctively reaching to his throbbing jaw.

“You skxáwng,” he growls.

"Yep. That’s me," Lo'ak quipped, his grin transforming into a menacing sneer. "Your disappointment of a brother. The fucking outcast of the family here."

Neteyam scoffs, wrenching himself off the wall, stomping forward until he was in front of Lo'ak. "What was the one thing dad asked for? Not to cause any trouble, right?" Neteyam huffs. "I'm just looking out for you! We are brothers, Lo'ak. Sully's stick together"

Lo'ak bares his teeth then, a growl ripping from his throat.

"You are not my brother."

Before you could process it, Neteyam's knuckles, flesh and bone, connected hard with Lo'ak's nose. The sound of the impact echoed through the pod, a sharp crack that filled the air. Your eyes widened as you watched Lo'ak reel backward, his body colliding forcefully with a wooden pane. The sudden eruption of violence from the normally composed Neteyam shattered the silence that had settled in the pod.

Lo'ak's snarl shifted into a pained grimace as he clutched his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. The pod fell into an eerie stillness, the air heavy with tension.

You stepped forward, a mix of fear and concern driving you. "Stop! This won't solve anything," you implored, reaching out to Lo'ak with a gentle touch.

Neteyam watched as you fretted over his younger brother, a burning mix of guilt and resentment bubbling up in his gut.

Lo'ak stared up at Neteyam, his anger wavering, replaced by a mixture of hurt and disbelief. His eyes searched desperately for a hint of remorse, a glimmer of understanding. But the older boy just stood there, his jaw clenched.

Shaking his head in frustration, Neteyam turned towards the chamber's entrance. His gaze lingered on Lo'ak, expression hardened with resolve.

"No flying or diving for a month," he declared, his voice carrying a note of finality.

With that, he strode out of the room, leaving behind a tense silence.

Lo'ak clicked his tongue before turning to you, concern etched on his face. He sent a cautious look your way, his voice filled with compassion. "You alright? That was rough back there. His words, I mean."

You mustered a watery smile, trying to brush off the events that just transpired.

"You're the one injured here, I should be asking you that. Plus, I'm used to it," you replied, your voice tinged with the slightest hint of amusement. Lo'ak attempted to speak up once more, but you swiftly redirected the conversation, your hands already reaching for the healing paste.

"Come, let's fix you up."

The recent days had become a harrowing blur, with a sense of impending doom hanging heavily in the air. Throughout the village, warriors hastily armed themselves, and healers busied themselves with gathering herbs, all while a dark storm loomed ominously above.

It was undeniable—the sky demons had returned.

In the midst of the mounting turmoil, you found yourself travelling through the waters with your friends, following Lo'ak after he abruptly plunged into the depths of the ocean, navigating past the reefs with his ilu.

The salty air clung to your senses as you leaned forward, desperation lacing your voice.

"Lo'ak! Where are you going?!" you cried out, tightly grasping Neteyam's waist as you both pursued him on the back of an ilu.

Lo'ak remained eerily silent, his focus fixated on the abyssal strength of the wavves before him. With an alarming agility, Lo'ak dove down, the sleek figure of his ilu slicing through the water with ease. Gripped by fear and worry, you turned to your beloved, seeking solace and answers.

"Nete—" you began, but your words were swallowed by Neteyam's grim interruption.

"He's going after Payakan," Neteyam replied curtly, his teeth clenched. Gripping your thigh tight, he positioned himself with a firm hold on the ilu's saddle. "Hold on tightly."

With a commanding click, Neteyam directed the ilu to dive down, plunging deeper into the unknown depths.

Then, as you emerged from the depths, you found yourself in the middle of the battle. Crashes of boats and metal birds floating all about you.

As you surveyed the battlefieds, you froze, heart sinking at the sight of Lo'ak perched atop a familiar tulkun, desperately attempting to remove the tracking device cruelly embedded in Payakan's flesh.

Without a second thought, you propelled yourself forward, driven by a surge of adrenaline, disregarding Neteyam's frantic shouts as you rushed to aid Lo'ak in freeing his spirit brother.

The others, recognizing the gravity of the situation, quickly rallied to your aid. Hands reached out, working in unison, as you all grappled with the device, pulling, tugging, and knocking against it in a desperate attempt to break its grip.

"Pull!"

Each moment felt like an eternity but with a final surge of combined effort, the tracking device relinquished its hold, tearing free from the tulkun's skin. A collective breath escaped your lips, mingling with the creature's relieved exhalation.

However, any semblance of relief quickly dissipated when Jake's voice pierced through Neteyam's communication device.

"Boy? Are you there?" Jake's voice quivered with anxiety, instantly sending a shiver of panic down your spine. The sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach intensified as you strained to listen to every word exchanged.

Neteyam swallowed, his throat constricting, before he mustered the courage to respond, "Yeah. I'm here, sir. What's wrong?"

The tense silence hung heavy in the air as you all held your breath, anticipating Jake's next words.

"Is your mate there?" Jake's voice crackled with urgency, the weight of his inquiry sinking into your bones, evoking a gnawing sense of apprehension.

Neteyam hesitated, his eyes briefly meeting yours, before he replied, his voice tinged with unease, "Yes. Yes, she is here—"

Before he could finish, Jake interrupted, his tone laden with concern, "There's been a report that a female na'vi was spotted on the docks of the boat. Are your sisters there?"

The weight of those words hit you like a thunderbolt.

"Shit," you cursed under your breath, running a hand through your braids.

"No, sir. Both Tuk and Kiri are not here," Neteyam replied, his voice laden with dismay.

Jake's voice crackled through the communication device once again, the urgency palpable in his words. "Stay vigilant, Neteyam. We can't afford any risks."

Neteyam nodded, his expression grim and resolute. "Understood, sir. We'll stay on high alert."

As the connection ended, Neteyam immediately began to issue orders, his voice firm and commanding.

"Ao'nung, take Roxto and Tsireya away from here. The open waters are too dangerous. We'll regroup by the rock outcrops," Neteyam directed, his tone brooking no argument.

The metkaniyan nodded, a stony frown etched on his face as he hurriedly ushered his sister and friend away from the immediate vicinity, their ilus awaiting them nearby. Neteyam watched them depart, his gaze lingering for a moment, before he turned his attention back to you and Lo'ak.

"That means you two as well."

"No, Neteyam, no," you protested vehemently. The mere thought of leaving him alone in the face of the approaching war was unbearable to you. "I am not leaving you."

Your plea hung in the air, thick with emotion. It made Neteyam take a moment to pause before he reached for you. An arm curled around your waist as he pulled you close, pressing a searing kiss against your lips.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he drew back, his brows furrowed as anguish swam around his sharp eyes. His gaze shifted to Lo'ak, a silent understanding passing between them. Neteyam's voice was strained but resolute as he addressed his brother, "Go. Now."

The weight of his decision lingered in the air, and you pleaded desperately, your voice wavering, "Neteyam…"

But his mind was made up. Casting one final, heart-wrenching look back at you, he rushed away, vanishing into the crashing waves.

Frantically, you turned to Lo'ak, and it only took one look for you to know that he shared your thoughts.

"We're going after him," he declared, his voice echoing your own desire.

Without wasting another moment, you set off, running towards the crashing waves, adrenaline surging through your veins.

The open waters beckoned, their depths mocking with unseen perils, but you refused to be deterred. The clicks of your ilu's came close and you both made haste, clambering atop the creatures as you dived towards the boat.

By the time you had arrived, half of the vessel was already submerged in the water, and you and Lo'ak quickly scaled its metallic walls, scrambling across the deck.

As you scanned the surroundings, your gaze locked onto three familiar figures at the edge. Kiri is the first to meet your eye and she starts shouting for you to take cover.

The echoes of gunshots reverberated through the air, jolting you into immediate action. You and Lo'ak swiftly slid down towards the figures, engaging in a fierce struggle as you pushed aside soldiers in your path.

Lo'ak managed to snatch a gun along the way, arming himself for the impending confrontation.

"Y/N!" Tuk called out for you as you ran to their position.

Reacting swiftly, you scooped the young girl into your protective embrace, shielding her from the bloodshed unfolding around you. Meanwhile, Lo'ak urgently guided Kiri to safety behind a nearby wall, ensuring she was out of harm's way and sheltered from the relentless barrage of bullets.

In the midst of the pandemonium, Neteyam retrieved the gun from Lo'ak, his movements experienced. He positioned himself around the corner, using it as cover, and unleashed a volley of return fire at your assailants.

"Y/N! Move them out!" Neteyam's cry echoes through the chaos, his voice strained as a bullet narrowly misses his skull.

"Yes, sir!" Reacting swiftly, your instincts kick in without hesitation. Grasping Tuk's hand tightly, you forcefully propel her forward alongside Lo'ak and Kiri, sprinting towards safety.

A sudden prickling sensation on the back of your neck momentarily distracts you, but the rush of adrenaline surging through your veins pushes it aside.

Neteyam, ever vigilant, stays close behind, providing cover fire to protect you all as you navigate through the perilous terrain. With every beat of your heart echoing in your chest, you reach the edge and, without pausing to think, leap over the railing, plunging into the water below.

As the shock of hitting the water subsides, you gasp for air, determined to stay afloat. Despite the biting cold and the sharp tremors running through your body, you maintain a firm grip on Tuk's hand, ensuring she resurfaces beside you.

That was when you realized something was wrong.

The hollers and war-cries of your friends echo in the distance but all you could focus on was the searing hot pain burning up on your neck. The wild waves toss and rock your aching body, carrying you further away from the safety of the group.

"Y/N? Are you alright?" Tuk questioned, immediately taking notice of how pale your face had gotten. The girl paddled closer to you, a shrill scream ripping out of her throat once she saw the murky red waters around you.

The others reacted with alarm, rushing over to you. Choking and gasping for air, you felt your head sink beneath the waves, saltwater filling your lungs.

Fortunately, before you could drown, a pair of strong arms encircled your middle, pulling you up from the depths. As you were turned around, you found yourself face to face with Neteyam, his expression panicked while his mouth opened and closed, searching for the right words as he took in your pale face.

"Syulang—" he began, his voice choked with urgency.

"Bro! What are you waiting for? Get her on!" Lo'ak's voice interrupted, snapping Neteyam out of his trance. His gaze shifted to Lo'ak and Kiri as they guided an ilu towards you. He hastily moved to lift you atop the saddles, before clambering up to sit behind you. After making tsahelyu, he instructed the creature to move, making sure to swim above the waters due to your injury.

Heaving, you felt blood seep from your mouth as you curled onto Neteyam's chest. His normally steady heartbeat was frantic, a panicked endless thrum that seemed to almost blend into one. His lips were pressed tight against your temple as his fervent prayers seeped against your burning skin.

"Stray strong. I need you to stay strong," Neteyam's voiced hushed.

In the distance, he spotted a rocky outcrop where his parents stood, urgently waving them over. Lo'ak followed closely behind, his voice trembling as he called out to them. "Dad! Mom! It's Y/N!"

Working together, both Lo'ak and Neteyam carefully lifted your body onto the rocky stump, surrounded by Neteyam's family. Your breaths now came in short, labored heaves, your chest rising and falling rapidly as it struggled to draw in enough oxygen.

Jake stepped forward, his hands pressing against your shoulders as he gently rolled you over to examine your wound. A sinking dread settled in his chest as he saw the gaping exit wound at the base of your nape.

Neteyam stood by his father's side, his hands trembling with panic. "Sir? What's wrong?"

"Pressure. Put pressure," Jake's voice came out monotonous which sent a strike of fear through Neteyam. Immediately, the boy did as told, his large hands pressing onto your frail neck. Your eyes darted frantically across the faces gathered around you, wild and unfocused, until they finally settled shakily on Neteyam.

"Sir, I—" you gasped, more blood slipping from your lips as you inadvertently bit down on your tongue in pain. Neteyam quickly hushed you, his frown deepening at the militaristic term you had used. "Sir, I'm sor—"

Then, the pain began to dull and a sense of impending finality washed over you. Heaving, you allowed yourself to lower your façade of strength and embrace your vulnerability in what could be your last moments. With a trembling hand, you reached up and pressed it against Neteyam's cheek, tears welling in your eyes as you took in the sharp features of his face.

"I'm scared," you winced, feeling small and lost, like a frightened child. "Ma'Neteyam… I am so scared."

Grief and anguish filled Neteyam's expression as he reached for your hand, pressing his lips gently upon it.

"I know, syulang. I know. I'm sorry," he murmured, a pool of guilt building up in his stomach as he recalled his last conversation with you and Lo'ak. "You'll be alright, okay? You have a strong heart."

As he looked into your wide, fearful eyes, Neteyam felt a surge of emotions wash over him, carrying him back to the vivid memories of your childhood.

The scenes played out in his mind like a reel of nostalgia, as if he were standing once again among the towering, thick trees of Omaticaya. He could almost hear the laughter that had filled the air as you both explored the wonders of the forest together, the exhilaration of climbing the sturdy branches, and the shared secrets whispered under the shelter of rocky caves.

"Neteyam… I'm scared," you whimpered, your heart throbbing in your chest as you felt the coarse texture of the sturdy tree trunk pressing against your back.

Both of you were out playing in the forests and had lost track of time. It was way past eclipse now.

The dense forest was sprawled out before you, engulfing everything before you in an ominous shroud. The fading light of the setting sun cast elongated, eerie shadows that danced amidst the towering trees.

A young Neteyam stood in front of you, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks, tenderly wiping away the droplets. Then, the warrior boy radiated a warm smile at you. "I'll keep you safe, syulang."

The air resonated with unsettling growls and haunting howls. Amidst the gloom, pairs of luminous eyes glimmered from hidden crevices behind the trees, concealed beasts lying in wait. Though fear still lingered within you, you summoned the courage to step into his awaiting embrace, seeking solace and security in his arms.

"Do you promise?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I promise."

"I'll keep you safe, syulang," Neteyam hushed, his voice filled with desperation, as he leaned in to press a kiss against your cracked and bloodied lips. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, but the concern for your well-being eclipsed any discomfort he felt.

Drawing closer, his forehead gently touched yours, causing his tears to mingle with yours as they cascaded onto your cheek. "I promise."

Neteyam's trembling fingers delicately brushed against your neck, seeking the faint and weakening pulse that throbbed beneath your clammy skin. Your breathing, labored and high-pitched, struggled to utter his name, "Neteyam—"

"Nete...I," Then, in an agonizing moment, your eyes dulled, your body going limp as you gasped out your last breath. Neteyam froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he withdrew from you, his movements graceless. "Syulang?"

"Neteyam… I," Lo'ak croaked out, his voice laden with guilt as he moved closer, attempting to offer comfort to his brother. "I'm sorr—"

His well-intentioned gesture was abruptly met with a forceful push, as Neteyam's frantic state escalated. Disregarding the presence of the others, he gathered your lifeless body into his trembling arms, holding you close as he began to hyperventilate. "No, no, no, no—"

Lo'ak stood motionless, his gaze fixed upon the devastating scene unfolding before him. Blood stained the younger brother's hands, a haunting reminder of his involvement, the guilt and remorse etched deep within him. Kiri pressed herself against his side, offering what little solace she could.

Tears streamed down Neteyam's face in an unrelenting wave as he shook vehemently, his grip on your lifeless form tight. Every breath he managed to take came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with profound anguish as his quivering lips whispered a fervent prayer to Eywa.

"Great Mother, I beg of you, please don't take her away from me. It's not her time. Please, I can't bear to lose her," the words tore from his throat, strained and desperate, a raw and hoarse plea echoing through the air.

But the silence that followed was deafening, and the universe remained indifferent to his anguished pleas. Fate had dealt her cruel hand and there was no reversing what has happened. A despondent hush settled upon Neteyam as he cradled your cold body, his fingers trembling as he traced the contours of your face, desperately clinging to your fading warmth.

'All energy is only borrowed, and one day you have to give it back.'

These were the words that had been etched into Neteyam's consciousness since his earliest memories, told to him when he was a mere babe. Through the years, those words had taken root in his heart, their significance growing with each passing day. They held a bittersweet reminder of the transient nature of a Na'vi's existence, an understanding that all things, no matter how great or powerful, would eventually fade away.

And now, as he stood amidst the darkest hour of his life, pushing a leaf which cradled your lifeless body along the gentle waves, the weight of his mother's words pressed upon him with a poignant intensity. They whispered to him the solemn truth of loss, the inevitable fate that even the brightest and most vibrant blooms would eventually wither away.

Far off by the shores, the Metkayina clan were gathered together to honor your death. Soft songs were sun by artisans in the distance while warriors surrounded the waters, ready to assist your grieving mate in anyway.

The ebb and flow of the waves embraced your body, as Neteyam delicately allowed you to be immersed in the water. Neytiri and Jake moved to swim towards him, their concern evident in their eyes, but he shook his head, a silent request for solitude as he embarked on the final journey with you alone.

Silently nodding, they swam away and watched from a distance, their hearts heavy with grief for their son as Neteyam held you close, whispering words of love onto your cold lips.

Taking you into his arms once more, Neteyam took a deep breath, and with a graceful dive, immersed himself into the depths of the ocean.

In this underwater sanctuary, time seemed to stand still as he held his breath, allowing the weight of his emotions to wash over him. The silence enveloped him, broken only by the gentle lullaby of the underwater currents. His tears, blending seamlessly with the surrounding currents, were carried away into the vast expanse of the sea.

With a heavy heart, Neteyam loosened his grip, letting you go and releasing you into the gentle caress of the water. As your curled up form sank slowly towards the ocean bed, soft hues of blue and green cradled you in their hold, painting the scene with a poignant melancholy, as if the ocean itself mourned your passing.

A soft glow of bioluminescent algae adorned the waters, casting a mesmerizing luminescence upon the solemn setting. Each flickering glow, like a delicate farewell kiss.

Neteyam watched on as the golden tendrils engulfed you in its shimmering embrace. Then, finally, glowing like a chorus of tiny stars, the algae weaved their radiant tendrils around you, a final act of nature as Eywa took you in.

Ngaru irayo seiyi ayo,

Srrìri tìreyä,

Ma Eywa, ma Eywa.

Neteyam swam before the tree of ancestors, his heart heavy with a mix of anticipation and sorrow. His hands grasped onto his queue tightly, feeling the sacred bond beneath his battle-hardened palms. Just beside him, Tsireya floated along the deep waves with a heaviness in her gaze, her eyes downcast as she shakily signed to him, her hands trembling with emotion, 'Are you ready?'

Both of them had embarked on this solemn journey together, a quest to connect with the Metkaniyan spirit tree, seeking solace from your spirit and Eywa herself.

Neteyam had requested Tsireya's presence, knowing the sisterly bond that had blossomed between the two of you over the months. He understood that she, too, carried the weight of grief for your loss.

He nodded, a bit more frantic than he'd like. Tsireya smiled at his eagerness, her eyes shimmering with shared anticipation, her hands signing once more, 'Is there a specific memory you'd like to see?'

Neteyam paused, his mind drifting through the vast ocean of memories that he held of you, each one precious and poignant.

A minute passes, and finally, with a gentle nod, he signed his answer.

Neteyam found himself standing amidst the lush foliage of the Hometree, bathed in the soft glow of the sun. The vibrant colors of the forest danced around him, creating a tranquil backdrop for his restless heart. With each purposeful step, he moved stealthily through the forest. And then, his eyes locked onto a familiar sight—a burrowed cave where you often retreated to immerse yourself in craftwork.

His heart quickened with anticipation as he approached, his hand reaching for the necklace that hung around his neck, feeling the smooth beads under his fingertips. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he unclasped it and dropped it to the ground.

The remnants of this memory came rushing back, the echoes of your shared past resurfacing with vivid clarity. As he drew nearer, your teenage form seemed to flicker and shift, transforming before his eyes into your adult self. The passage of time etched upon your face, mirroring the weight and wisdom you accumulated over the years.

Time seemed to stand still as your gazes locked, a magnetic force pulling Neteyam closer to you. Emotions swelled within him, a blend of joy, sorrow, and a deep yearning to bridge the gap that separated you both.

"Hey," he smiled tearfully, his voice filled with a mixture of tenderness and vulnerability, "What are you doing, syulang?"

Your face lit up, a radiant smile gracing your lips as you gestured for him to come closer.

"I just finished weaving something. It's for you," you exclaimed, your excitement palpable. "Come, let me put it on."

Neteyam eagerly obeyed, lowering himself before you, allowing you to clasp the necklace around his neck.

"My mighty warrior, it suits you," you remarked, your voice filled with warmth as you beheld the necklace settled atop his chest.

Neteyam huffed out a bittersweet laugh as tears streamed down his cheeks. "It does."

Concern then etched across your face.

"Ma'Teyam," you murmured softly, your touch soothing as you gently ran your hands through his braids. Neteyam's tears continued to flow, an outpouring of emotions that spoke volumes of his love and longing. You furrowed your brows, tilting your head to the side.

"Why do you cry, Nete?"

"I'm just…" Neteyam took a moment to steady his breath, his voice a tender reflection of his inner turmoil. A mixture of joy and sorrow lingered in his words. "I'm happy to see you."

Your laughter, a melodic and breathless symphony, filled the forest with its warmth. It wrapped around Neteyam's heart, offering a fleeting respite from the weight of your loss.

"Oh," you replied, your voice tinged with affection, "I am happy to see you too, Nete."

Tsireya stood from afar, allowing Neteyam to meet you in spirit alone. She watched over him as his form drifted, a gentle smile gracing her lips.

Her heart then swelled with warmth as she witnessed his lips curve into a genuine grin, seeing his once stern expression melt away into a state of serene contentment.

Lawnol a mì te’lan.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

THE SIGN ON YOUR HEART SAID ITS STILL RESERVED FOR ME

edward elric x f! reader

you remind edward how beautiful you think he is.

smut (ish), 18+, body worship, soft, lots of cuddling, mentions of insecurity and (edward’s) trauma, edward cries during sex lol

inspired by the alchemy

edward has a complicated relationship with love.

he knows he has people he loves, people he holds dear to him. he knows that there are people in his life he'd sacrifice an arm and a leg for, people he'd risk everything to feel their warmth. not all sacrifices came to fruition. but he knew he'd do it.

most around him underestimate the guilt he carries upon his shoulders. the guilt of failure, the guilt of knowing the truth. edward was wracked with the burden of knowledge- the knowledge that he might not be able to reverse his mistakes. its accepting love from others that edward struggles with the most.

edward feels his mothers love far in-between. he feels it when he shovels a warm, nostalgic bowl of stew into his mouth, wondering what exactly made milk of all ingredients taste so good. he feels it when he ties his golden locks into a woven braid, trying to replicate the way his mother's fingers would knit her own auburn locks. she made fixing her hair look like the northern lights. he felt the sensation of love, but more strongly, a burning firey passion as he remembers the embers that erupted from his childhood home. he remembers the orange glint against his brother's armor as he burns down his home and his past, swearing only to return when he is whole once again. edward feels the remnants of her love blow past him as he stares at the rolling green hills of resembool from the train window, heading towards the sunlight. he was never the religious type, but he sometimes thought that his mother was in the sun now, shining down on him and al.

edward feels guilt-laced love from his younger brother, alphonse. he still finds himself waking up in a cold sweat, hearing his younger self plead with the universe to give him his brother back. he'd sacrifice his arm, his soul, he'd give it free if it meant al’s life- and he did. edward tightens his fist as he remembers the day, not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he'd sacrifice his arm over and over and over again to save his brothers soul. but the same fists that once burned with determination fall apart with grievance, as edward eyes shake with ghostly tears. is it his fault that al is trapped in a suit of armor? is his fault al lost his body? they should have taken me. he thinks. it would be sick for the truth universe to sacrifice his whole body, but taking away his dear younger brother was much more twisted. his eyes stare with promise at alphonse as he rests, promising his soul that he will restore what has been lost. his love for his brother ran deeper than the sea. edward's desire for his limbs back is placed on the backburner, putting alphonse back together is what allows edward to rest with a smile on his face.

edward isn't always sure how to feel your love.

he himself, feels incomplete. but with you, he feels liquid sun being poured into the crevices of the heart he bared to you and only you. beyond just his automail limbs, edward's body was scarred in and out. painful echoes of his past embedded into his skin. stories of loss, determination, and a want to feel complete lingers in his ribs as you kiss his skin, treating him like a delicate masterpiece. he isn't much sure of how to feel, or why he feels good. he was a man of science, a prodigy of alchemy, but your love was a encryption he could not decipher.

he always seems writhe when you touch him, your fingers running across his toned abdomen making him feel heaven-struck. he sighs your name, gold locks lazily thrown over his shoulders as his head dips into the nape of your neck. his metal arm pulls you closer to him, the cool metal contrasting with the searing warmth of your arousal. edward allows his lips to press against your collarbone, nipping at your skin reminding you of his presence. he may not have always accepted your love, but he sure as hell was going to make you feel his. all of it.

you rip a deep groan from his chest as your hands as you straddle his waist, your delicate fingers caressing where the metal met his scarred chest. "edward." your siren voice tears through the gasps and soft moans that filled his bedroom. "relax. its just me."

his golden eyes flicker up at yours, pulling his lips away from your skin. he made sure to leave loving-red marks right across your heart, as if he were writing his name in a special code reserved for you. his eyes are hazy and love-drunk, looking up at you like you're the only thing in this universe that matters. his arms, human and metal, strong and toned, hold you to his waist as if you would be ripped away from him at any moment.

"s-sorry." he heaves, his voice was deep and honeyed, eyes not breaking contact with your bare body for even a second. his voice was apologetic, but he couldn't hide the lust and hunger that formed in his chest and seeped out through his eyes. well, its not like he tried to hide it.

your hand moves up to caress his jawline, pressing your lips to his temple. "give in. let me love you." your voice is gentle, but you mean it as a desperate plea. loving edward was not an option; loving edward was an obligation. loving edward was as essential as the veins that pumped blood through your body. you wouldn't stop loving him, even if you wanted to.

edward's eyes screw shut. "only if you let me love you too."

your lips curve into a smile, and then into an O shape as edward presses his mouth to your chest, kissing your breasts with soft, fervent messages of love. his kisses sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, only growing more intense as he moves his arm up to cup your breast. he massages the tender flesh, treating you as if you were sacred. each one of his touches, his kisses, and his grasps was his way of giving his soul over to you. right now, edward felt as though it always belonged to you.

his golden eyes watch longingly as you throw your head back, taking the opportunity to kiss your neck. he gladly sinks his teeth in, as if leaving the seal of his love on your skin. edward loved you like it was breathing for him. he hoped that people would see your effervescent beauty, but more importantly the lovebites left on you, and know that edward elric was the one that marked them there. they spelled out 'mine' in a way only edward could decipher it.

your body is buzzing and hot with arousal. you feel the warm feeling start at your chest, slowly moving down your stomach and then to your core. edward hums satisfied against your skin, as if able to feel exactly what you feel right now. the pink tinge on his face suggests a linger of embarrassment. he had never showed this much of himself to anyone. it were as if kissing you and worshipping you distracted himself from his pains, allowing himself to esca[e in the shelter of your touch.

you run your fingers through his golden locks, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as his lips press themself over and over again to your chest. he wants to feel you, all of you, and just you. if his attention wasn't tied to some old book on alchemy, then his mind riddled itself with trauma. his brain spent hours writing equations, deciphering codes, tying all his pains, regrets and wrongdoings into a messy puzzle of hurt. his mind was a labyrinth, a maze that not even he could escape from. you were his refuge, you were his safe place. he worries he's killing the mood by being so nervous, not able to look up at you as he's kissing your chest.

but as you sit atop his lap, kissing his head and whispering a melody of "i love you" and "you're doing so good" you tell him that its okay. that its okay to feel good, that its okay to trust, that its okay to be loved.

you place your hands on his chin and pull his head to face you. you take him in, all of him- his hazy, sunset eyes and his blonde hair messily thrown over his muscular shoulders like a golden waterfall. every contour of his muscles scream at you to love him stronger, the way the scars paint stories over his heart. there was no space left between you two. your skin on his, two souls colliding with one another.

"how do you feel?" your voice is just barely above a whisper, looking deep into his eyes with yours. he cant help but let his eyes wander down, watching the way you fit so perfectly on top of him. the way your breasts are covered in marks, his marks, the way your thighs spread to straddle him, he can feel your wetness on him, the heat of your love radiating just for him to bask in. its almost too much.

"good." edward breathes out, words failing him at this moment. but its enough for you. he is enough for you.

your hands make their way down to his shaft, stroking the length in your hands. edward bites his lip, head moving back as your hands work diligently to pleasure him. you kiss just below his ear, reminding him of your presence. "its okay." you coo.

he takes that as permission, allowing soft moans and grunts to escape his mouth. his voice is raspy yet heavenly, the vulnerability and trust manifesting as pleasure coursing through his veins. he sighs, never feeling this much pleasure in his entire life. slowly, you lower yourself onto his cock, sucking in a deep breath as you feel yourself stretch around him.

"fuck." edward hisses, feeling your warm, tight walls around his length. his grip around your waist tightens, as if still wishing to pull you in closer. you hands travel up to his shoulder blades, digging your nails into the his soft skin while you adjust to his size. the warmth is intoxicating for him, feeling tears bless his eyes at the overwhelming pleasure. he's so embarrassed, feeling a stray tear escape down his cheek. he doesn't think he deserves it. to feel this good, for his incomplete and ravaged body to be granted this much pleasure. for an angel to touch him after the taboos he's committed. edward knows equivalent exchange, and he knows that none of this is good is equivalent to all his wrongdoings.

but that's what love does sometimes, he concludes as you kiss the tear away from his cheek. you don't say a word, but rather you silently tell edward that its okay. fuck, he was starting to love being loved.

the tears cease to stop as you continue to grind on his length, the pleasure overtaking the both of you. your mind is blissfully blank, letting your body speak love to the crevice's of edward's soul. he watched as the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, like the tide of the ocean washing away any painful memories written in the sand. the bed was unmade, the sheets were crinkled, the clocks ticked s time that you two should have been sleeping, but none of it mattered now. the greatest moment of intimacy you and edward ever shared was not when he removed his clothes to bare skin. it was when he allowed you to see him at his lowest moment, letting you witnessed the most unloved parts of his body and his soul. as he slowly unraveled in front of you, feeling his orgasm slowly approach, he worried his imperfections may scare you off.

but you kiss him, kiss his lips so perfectly, you remind him that you'll love him anyway. you'll love him not in despite of his imperfections, but because of his imperfections. it was who he was- edward elric was everything you wanted love to be. and more.

edward tears a groan from his chest as he feels your wet walls clench around him tighter than ever before, unable to hold back his thick release. he hides his face in the crook of your neck, pulling you closer as if to hide. he wonders if it always felt that good.

"s-sorry. i did it to early, shit i-" he rambles, and you can't help but giggle. it was rare when you could witness him so vulnerable. you shush him, pecking his lips and reminding him that its okay.

"you were perfect, ed." you reassure him, your voice cutting through all his worries and doubts. thats all the permission he needs to pull you down onto the bed with him, laying you down on top of him. you know he doesn't like to sleep on his side because of the weight of his arm. he also didn't to be away from your warmth, not even for a moment. he reaches over, pulling the crinkled sheets over both your bodies. a warm hum escapes from his lips, his entire body feeling as blissfully sweet as honey.

"how do you feel?" he checked in with you, his hand travelling up to cup your chin. he studied you, a part of him still being unable to accept the fact that you're real.

"loved." you hum. edward's kissed lips curve into a soft smile at your words.

"good. i want you to feel my love. always." he reminds you as he kisses your temple. even if edward didn't always accept love from others, he'd be damned if he didn't give every ounce of his love to you.

"how do you feel?" you redirect, checking on him. his blonde eyes stare to the ceiling, the gear s in his brain pondering for a moment before pinpointing the right word.

"complete." he concludes, planting one last kiss to your head before letting the two of you drift off into sleep. edward felt complete with you.

[many-shades-of-violence]

fireworks

✢ pairing: Trafalgar D. Law x Reader

✢ characters: Trafalgar D. Law, Shachi, Penguin, Ikkaku , Bepo, Jean Bart

✢ word count: 4.500

✢ genre: romance, slice-off life, nsfw

✢ contents: NSFW, kimono-sex, switch-dynamics, body-worship, tattoos, mention of infertility due to amber-lead poisoning

The vibrant streets of the Flower Capital burst forth with a kaleidoscope of colors, an intricate tapestry woven from the threads of life, sound, and movement. As you meandered through the bustling streets, a symphony of scents enveloped you – the intoxicating perfume of exotic spices mingling with the vivacious banter of vendors. It was a sensory masterpiece, a feast for the senses that you savored as you immersed yourself in the rich fabric of the country's capital.

It had been a mere few days since your arrival in Wano Kuni alongside the rest of the Heart Pirates, united in your mission to challenge the reign of Kaido in alliance with the Straw Hats. The details of Law's intricate plan had initially left you uncertain, the memory of his harrowing experiences in Dressrosa still sending shivers down your spine to this day. The lingering scar on his left arm, was a testament to the battles he had fought and the risks he had taken, knowing that it could have been his last.

However, amidst the colorful chaos that was Wano Kuni, your crew thrived more than ever. Especially Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin embraced the country´s vibrant culture with an infectious enthusiasm, but even the more reserved members, like Jean Bart and Ikkaku, had found themselves swept up in the festivities. And as much as you longed to fully immerse yourself in the island's otherworldly charm, the shadow of the Straw Hat Pirates and their unpredictable influence constantly loomed over your enjoyment.

This evening, however, you had finally temporarily relinquished your role as a spy. A customer's passing mention of the upcoming fireworks had piqued your curiosity, and with a sense of adventure, you decided to seize the opportunity, since they weren´t a thing in your hometown. Dressed in a borrowed summer kimono, its lightweight cotton fabric adorned with a subtle plum pattern, you ventured into the festivities, silently hoping to catch a glimpse of your crew amidst the crowd.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a warm golden glow over Wano's bustling streets, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. The town had transformed into a vibrant tableau of color and light, adorned with fluttering banners and lanterns that painted a vivid contrast against the deepening dusk. The tantalizing aroma of street food wafted through the air, a call that beckoned your senses.

Stalls had sprung up, each offering an enticing array of culinary delights – skewers of yakitori sizzling on open grills, mounds of freshly rolled sushi that seemed almost too beautiful to eat, and steaming bowls of fragrant ramen that whispered promises of comfort. Amidst the culinary treasures, you thought you caught a glimpse of Sanji, the Straw Hat Cook, bustling at one of the stalls. Yet your attention was quickly diverted by a striking and familiar figure – no other than your captain, Trafalgar Law.

Law stood by the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on a group of children engrossed in a lively goldfish-catching game. His appearance was a curious sight, dressed in a black kimono with a red haori, the vivid reds and gold accents creating a captivating contrast against the traditional backdrop. A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you noted that despite his best efforts to blend in, Law couldn't part with his signature hat.

With a stealthy approach, you reached his side, your touch light as you tapped his shoulder to announce your presence. His attention shifted, and the sight of you in the borrowed kimono seemed to elicit a reaction – a slow, lazy half-smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. His voice was laced with amusement as he spoke, his words playfully teasing. "And who do I have the pleasure with?"

Caught off guard by his question, a flush crept up your cheeks, quickly stifled by a cough as you composed yourself. "Don´t tease me and speak for yourselves, captain." you replied.

Law's grin stiffled as he gripped the black fabric of his kimono between two fingers, apparently a bit self-concious. “Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo set me up on this. Had a whole ass speech about “embracing Wano culture” and what not.”

Your gaze traveled over Law's kimono-clad form, the sight of him in the traditional attire an unexpected yet fitting sight, trying your best to not oggle his tattoo lingered chest too much. "Well good for them, they´ve finally developed something a kin to taste. Looks good on you, especially with Kikoku" you said, pointing to the long sword leaning on his right shoulder. You couldn´t help but muster a chuckle as your captain blushed faintly at his ears, his slight discomfort at your back-handed compliment endearing in its own way.

You patted his shoulder playfully before steering the conversation to a more neutral topic. "So, what brings you here?" Law's gaze returned to the lively crowd, his tone thoughtful as he responded. "I'm actually keeping an eye out for another Supernova.” Surprised by his mention of the Supernovas, your curiosity piqued. "Do you need assistance?" you offered, ready to lend a hand if needed.

Law waved off your offer with a casual gesture. "Nah, with how crowded it´s getting, I think my plan went down the drain anyway. And the last thing I want is to cause a commotion." Your thoughts briefly drifted to the Straw Hat Pirates, the very embodiment of chaos and commotion, before returning to Law's presence. "Guess so." you quipped.

Law's attention shifted to you, an interested glint in his eyes. "And what about you?"

"Well, as you can see the tea house owner practically insisted, I take the evening off and put me into this thing here. The lady’s been obsessed with dolling me up since she saw me in my boiler suit.”

You sighed raising the hem of your kimono.

Law's lips curved into a small smile. "I can see why.” Surprised at his flirtatious retort you looked up to your captain, who looked briefly at you, before returning his gaze back to the crowds.

“Aw, that´s sweet of you, captain." You retorted giving him a faint slap on his shoulder. He seemed to stiffen up at that, making you retreat your hand and quickly changing topics so things wouldn´t get too awkward. “Anyhow, I was just on the way to look around the festival stalls. Wanna join?” You offered politely, not thinking he would partake your offer. To your surprise he answered very quickly, letting himself be guided by you deeper into the festivities. “Lead the way.”

Amidst the lively streets of the Flower Capital, you and Law continued to explore, the festival together. As you walked side by side, the captain's reserved demeanor seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of ease. The elusive surgeon of death had momentarily laid down his mantle, revealing a side of him that only a few including his crew were privileged to see.

Time seemed to blur as you lost yourselves in the vibrant spectacle around you. The lanterns cast a warm, inviting glow, while the distant strains of traditional music filled the air. Your conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on everything from local customs to the challenges you had each faced on your respective missions.

As the night deepened, the festival's vibrant energy seemed to surge, an electric current that pulsed through the heart of the Flower Capital. The lanterns lining the streets emitted a soft, golden glow, weaving an enchanting spell that enveloped the surroundings. After enjoying a mesmerizing traditional dance performance and marveling at the dexterity of street performers, you indulged in the sweet delight of a candied apple. It was in the midst of this delightful moment that your attention was drawn to a spectacle that transcended the ordinary – people launching paper lanterns into the night sky.

"Look over there, Captain!" you exclaimed, directing Law's gaze toward the ascending lanterns, a scene that painted the backdrop of the moonlit landscape. Just as he was about to utter a question, a playful smile curved his lips. Your curiosity was piqued, your eyebrow quirking in response. "What?"

With a gentle gesture, Law used your own finger to point at his cheek, the mischievous smile refusing to fade. "Got a bit of caramel there."

You felt a blush warm your cheeks as you instinctively lifted the hem of your kimono to rectify the sugary mishap. However, a practical hesitation stilled your hand in mid-air. The tea house would surely reprimand any stain on their attire. Almost as if sensing your dilemma, Law stepped in with characteristic grace for a doctor like him. "Here, let me do it."

You nodded, a tad taken aback by his swift assistance. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he wiped away the caramel with his finger, leaving a tingling warmth in its wake. Though you flinched slightly from the unexpected contact, Law seemed unperturbed, his focus solely on the task at hand, like the pro he was. The proximity allowed you to catch a faint, intriguing blend of his distinctive scent, a musky and herbal aroma that stirred a comforting familiarity. You nearly cringed when you felt how giddy it made you feel. A feeling that definitely transcended the boundaries of your roles as captain and crewmate.

"There, all done," Law murmured, his voice a soothing undertone that seemed to reverberate through the air. As he was just on the way to restore the distance between you, your gazes met for a fleeting second, a silent exchange where his unwavering yellow gaze met your own. With your best effort your tried to control your urges to look at his strong features, including his full lustrous lips. Just when you failed miserably, your eyes hungrily flashing down, a sudden burst of sound forced your attention skyward, ignorant of his gaze definitely not missing your reaction.

The night erupted into a dazzling spectacle of color and light, fireworks painting the heavens with vivid strokes of red, blue, and gold. The crowd around you gasped and cheered in unison, their collective awe echoing through the air as they started looking for a better spot to view the firework.

Caught in the radiant shower of lights, you felt a sense of enchantment take hold, not able to move a tad, for this was your first time experiencing a firework. The colors reflected in your eyes, mirroring the effervescent spirit of the festival itself. Beside you, Law's gaze wasn´t drawn skyward however, his usually impassive demeanor softened by the sheer wonder of the display on your face, alight by the kindling flames in the sky.

"Say, y/n-ya, is this your first firework?" Law's voice broke through your reverie, drawing your attention momentarily as you nodded, still entranced by the display at hand. He smiled faintly, before grabbing you carefully around your shoulder, to port you away from the masses,

“Room!”

You let out a surprised noise, as Law´s Room switched you out with a few stones of the close-by riverbed you were standing in front of now. You usually wouldn´t have missed the lingering hesitation of your captain, a fraction of a moment too long, before he withdrew his arm, but you were way to mesmerized with the many fireworks ablaze in the night sky.

"You know, Captain, you´re very kind." you remarked, your words carried on the wind, still entranced by the luminous spectacle. A quick, soft reply escaped his lips, laced with an unspoken gratitude. "Don't mention it." His words were followed by a muttered addendum, revealing a hint of vulnerability. "Besides, I wouldn't do this for just anyone." Your laughter bubbled forth, a grin painting your features as Law's cheeks tinged a deeper shade of pink in response. Leaning slightly against him, your shoulders brushed.

"And here I thought our captain was always this chivalrous" you joked, catching Law off-guard, his embarrassment evident. Chuckling softly, you reassured him, your attention drifting back to the night sky. "I'm only teasing. I really don´t mind. Truth be told, I'm thoroughly enjoying this. My only regret is that it's passing by so quickly." With a contemplative look, you glanced downward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentle night breeze weaving through your locks.

Your heart soared triumphantly as Law's resonant baritone voice echoed your unspoken desire, his words falling like a melody upon your ears. “It doesn´t have to, y/n-ya.” As you looked back up to him, you met his serene gaze, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Are you sure, captain?”  

He sighed defeated, before crossing the last of distance between you two, cupping your cheecks with his hands. “Here, let me show you.” Carefully he planted his lips on yours. You were quick to answer his call, hands rested atop his haori, you met his lips in a slow rhythm, while the display of fireworks reached its climax.

Up close to your captain, you could once again smell his cologne, blending beautifully with the warmth rising between the two of you. You felt Law's hands slowly starting to explore your body, tracing its contours with his fingertips, sending shivers down your spine.

Breaking your kiss only to catch a breath, Law whispered softly to you, "Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere." You agreed with a mischievous raise of your eyebrows. "Polar Tang?" Law gave you a horrified expression, already envisioning the worst-case scenario of Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo stumbling upon the two of you mid-coitus. "Are you out of your mind?!" You playfully stuck your tongue out at him. "Just kidding. Let's go to my place at the tea shop."

"Are you sure? We wouldn't want to compromise your cover," Law raised an eyebrow. "There's always outside..." "The tea shop it is."

You gestured for Law to approach the bedding, your back turned to his tall frame. "Would you mind assisting me with this?" you asked, referring to the complex Wano clothing that was proving difficult to remove without some help. "As much as Wano's attire is beautiful, it’s a pain in the ass to get out of without an extra hand. Really nothing compared to our boiler suits.”

Law couldn't help but smirk at your remark. He swiftly discarded his haori, hat and sword, his skilled hands moving to unfasten the sash's ribbon. "Think you got me convinced" he quipped, a playful tone in his voice. "Feels like unwrapping a present." You gave Law a look over shoulder, watching as he expertly unraveled the intricate bindings of the kimono. With his task completed, the fabric now hung loosely around your shoulders, its long hem cascading. Law met your gaze and shared a tender kiss, his scrawny goatee tingling your chin, before gently sliding the fabric down your shoulder.

Softly peppering kisses along your shoulder blade, his slender tattooed fingers pulling the cotton fabric away from your body with a tantalizing slowness. You turned to face him, clad only in your underwear, playfully nibbling on your lower lip as a silent request for entrance to his mouth. He willingly granted you permission, his submission deepening as your hands slid into the opening of his kimono, trailing along his chest. The loose white sash around his waist unraveled in a single swift motion, unveiling your captain's tanned skin adorned with intricate tattoos. As you traced your fingertips over the dark lines, a shiver of anticipation coursed through Law's body, a reaction he couldn't suppress.

Taking advantage of the moment, you slipped your tongue into his mouth, engaging in a languid and passionate dance. Your lead was embraced wholeheartedly by Law as your tongues intertwined. It was surprising to witness how effortlessly Law, the famed Surgeon of Death and former Samurai of the Sea, surrendered to the sensations, heightening your attraction to him even more.

Straddling your raven-haired captain, his partially undone kimono cascading around his slender, muscular physique, exposing his nearly bare form, you momentarily parted from the kiss. Your lips and tongue embarked on a tantalizing exploration of his body, leaving a trail of fervent kisses in their wake. Starting from his neck, your journey traced a path down toward his nipples, lavishing each one with devoted attention, coaxing them into hardness. The sensations prompted a groan to escape Law's lips, his fingers clutching the bedding beneath him as he fought to muffle the rising tide of moans. Simultaneously, one hand sought refuge above his mouth to stifle his own sounds of pleasure. Your keen perception didn't overlook the telltale twitch of his cock between his legs, a testament to the effect your actions were having on him. "God damn, y/n-ya, slow down, will ya? I'm not gonna dissolve into thin air anytime soon." You looked up at him with a teasing grin, saluting him with a wink. "Ay, ay, captain."

And call me Law, will ya? It makes me feel weird hearing it in a setting like this," you chuckled, giving him a peck on the lips. "Alright, alright. Though, I can always call you 'Doctor' if you're more into that?" You grinned when he averted your gaze, clearly embarrassed by your dirty talk. “M-Maybe another time.” He stifled, his hands searching again for more contact with your skin. “Cute. But if this shouldn´t be a one-time thing, you got some convincing to do.” you winked. On your call Law claimed your lips in a heated kiss, his hands ghosting over every curve of your body, pressing his hips against your own to create more friction between you. A moan escaped your lips, when he slid his hand around your back, releasing you of your bra and starting to knead the subtle flesh of one of your breasts with his calloused hand.

As you pressed yourselves harder onto Laws clothed cock, he let out another groan, his lips meeting you once more, before he finally wetted his long fingers with his mouth and dipped them inside your panties. A low stifle erupted his tattooed chest when he found the wet spot that formed there. “Guess I´m not the only one excited.” he proclaimed, wetting his lips in the process. As he entered you with two fingers, you cried out in pleasure. You had guessed it with Ikkaku one way to drunk evening, but now you finally had hand on prove that his fine motor skills definitely translated outside of the op.  

“Fuck, Law.” You cried out as he slowly scissored you open, his thumb dragging menacingly above your swollen clit. The feeling of being filled by his long fingers was ravishing, and the fact that they were tattooed, only turned you on more. Additionally, Law hungrily sucking at your tits like a starved man, didn´t help the whole ordeal.

You bitt your thumb, to suppress a loud cry from the pleasure that build with rapid speed in your core. When you had teased your captain, that he needed to do some convincing first, you wouldn´t have thought he took it so seriously, but maybe you had calculated his enchantment with you on a wrong scale from the beginning. With each calculated stroke from Law, the sensation inside you grew stronger until finally, you screamed out in ecstasy, your first release of the night crashing down on you. Dazed out from your orgasm, you were too late to realize Law cleaning your release from his fingers sloppily with his tongue.

“What are you doing?!” you cried out exhausted, trying to swipe his hand from his face. “Relax. Just savoring my treat. You´re as sweet as I´d imagined.” He grinned at you, flashing you his pearly white teeth. “You´re a nasty one Trafalgar. How long have you been imagining this anyway?” you mewled, discarding of your soaked panties before tending to his own confinement.

He gave you a shrug before pulling you in for another kiss, his tongue searching longingly for your own. You grimaced, tasting yourselves on his lips. “Honestly, y´a don´t wanna know.”

And honestly, it should´ve give you the ick to hear that from your supervisor and captain but at the same time, but at the moment you couldn´t think of anything hotter.

When you first joined the Heart Pirates, after Ikkaku had found you in cold blood nearly offing two burglars with a shorty after they tried to rob an elderly couple, her promises of a warm bed, delicious food, a bear as a navigator, and the captain being a bombshell weren't exaggerated at all. But with all professionalism, you wouldn't agree to that out in the open. Except maybe if you had one or two shots too many.

Back in the present, you smiled inwardly at the chance you took and everything it had led up to, this shared moment of intimacy with none other than your captain included.

As you released Law cocks out of his imprisonment you couldn´t help but tease his stiff rod with a quick swipe of your thumb, earning yourselves a deep groan from the man in question. The tan cock sprang free with much vigor, a bit of pre-cum having already assembled at the dark pink slit. Experimentally you gave him a few lazy strokes, before Law signaled you to hoist yourself above him, so he could enter you. You cocked an eyebrow, a bit surprised that a doctor like him didn´t seem to care much for protection. He seemed to know exactly what you were thinking about, as he gave your hip a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, I'm infertile," he said, looking at you with a casual expression, causing your eyes to widen in surprise at how nonchalantly he addressed the topic. "What? It's no big deal. Just a result of a hereditary disease."

You gulped, feeling a bit unsure of how to react to this fact, but then decided to drop the topic for now. After all, Law was the doctor and likely had more knowledge of his own insides than anyone would ever want – well, except for the Surgeon of Death himself, that is.Formularbeginn

Holding yourselves steady with your hand on his broad shoulders, you slowly sank yourselves down on his cock, a shiver running down your spine as you felt him protrude your wet insides. Groans escaped you both as sheeted himself inside you, the skin-on-skin contact making your core starting to coil once more.

When you had finally accommodated to Law´s grith you started to move, lazily dragging your hips up and down, fingers digging into his tan muscles. Your captain reacted with much enthusiasm, his grip on your hands not only steading you in your motion but giving him the needed point of gravity to meet your motions with his own hip thrusts. No sooner than later the room was filled with the rhythmical slapping of sweaty skin and a salve of both of your moans, relishing in each other’s ecstasy.

Just when you had sunken down once more on Laws length he suddenly snaked his hands firmly around you, locating you on your back and him atop of you, the last fabric of his black kimono falling down onto the ground, revealing the full glory of his tattooed body. You racked your nails over his back from the pleasure the newly found angle brought you, while Law pounded your weeping cunt. Spurred on, you hooked your legs around his hips nearly drilling the poor man to the hilt inside you.

“y/n-ya, don´t do that or….” Law groaned out stopping mid-sentence. “Or what?” you asked teasingly, giving one of his nipples a slow pull. “Fuck.” You had your answer, when you felt Law rot one last time against you, painting your insides with his cum as he emptied himself inside you. Feeling the sudden hot splashes of his seed inside you made you contract like crazy, milking him dry of his last drop.

As he slid out of you, he kissed you on the forehead, slowly draping your bedding over both of you and nestled himself into the comfy covers of your futon with you in his arms. As you came down from your own high you suddenly registered that despite his affirmation, Law had cum inside you.

“Say didn´t you-“ .” Law muffled in your hair, clearly tired from your escapade. “I said I´m infertile, not that I can´t cum y/n-ya. Read a book for once”.

"I think I'll pass," you retorted, rolling your eyes in a playful manner before snuggling into Law's embrace. He slowly ran his fingers through your hair as he asked in a low baritone voice, "Are you alright? Need anything?" You shook your head wearily, stifling a yawn with your hand. "Just a good night's sleep. Rest can wait till t´morrow."

"Same here," he replied, his grasp tightening around you.

Just before sleep embraced both of you, you whispered gently into his ear, "Oh, and by the way, you passed with flying colors." Instantly, a subtle smile adorned Law's usually impassive countenance as slumber claimed him. As you drifted off into a tranquil sleep, a final utterance lingered in your ears.

"Glad to hear that."

[ladywhistlewrites]

Chapter 2 : face to face

The grand hall of Buckingham House was a symphony of opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations from the high ceilings, casting a warm, golden light that bathed the room in an ethereal glow. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and gilded mirrors, reflecting the splendor of the assembled guests. The air was filled with the harmonious strains of a string quartet, their music weaving an intricate tapestry of sound that added to the evening’s elegance.

Y/N stood with her parents at the entrance of the hall, her heart a delicate flutter in her chest. Her father, Baron Y/L/N, stood tall and proud, his stern demeanor softened only slightly by the occasion. Her mother, the baroness, was a vision of grace, her gown a masterpiece of deep emerald silk that shimmered with every movement. Y/N herself wore a dress of lavender silk, the delicate lace trim and tiny pearl adornments catching the light in a way that made her appear almost otherworldly. Her hair was styled in an intricate updo, tiny curls framing her face and pearls woven into the dark strands.

“Remember to smile, dear. Confidence is your greatest asset,” her mother whispered, squeezing Y/N’s hand gently.

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She scanned the room, noting familiar faces among the sea of nobility—friends and acquaintances, all adorned in their finest attire, each one a picture of elegance and poise.

The line of young ladies waiting to be presented to the Queen moved slowly forward, and soon it was Y/N’s turn. The grand doors to the throne room were opened by liveried footmen, and Y/N felt a surge of apprehension. Her mother gave her hand a final reassuring squeeze before stepping back, allowing Y/N to proceed alone.

With measured steps, Y/N advanced toward the Queen, who sat regally upon her throne, her discerning eyes fixed upon each debutante with an appraising gaze. The room seemed to hold its breath as Y/N approached, the weight of expectation heavy upon her shoulders.

She executed a flawless curtsy, lowering her gaze respectfully. “Your Majesty,” she intoned, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.

Queen Charlotte regarded her for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. The silence stretched on, and Y/N could feel the eyes of the court upon her, every heartbeat echoing in her ears. Then, to Y/N’s immense relief, a faint smile graced the monarch’s lips. “Rise, Lady Y/N. It is a pleasure to welcome you to court.”

Y/N straightened, meeting the Queen’s gaze with a mixture of humility and determination. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a nod from the Queen, Y/N was dismissed, and she made her way back to her parents, her heart racing with a mix of relief and exhilaration. She had passed the first test, but she knew this was only the beginning.

As the evening progressed, Y/N mingled with the other guests, her parents proudly introducing her to various eligible bachelors and influential figures. The atmosphere was a heady mix of anticipation and excitement, the buzz of conversation punctuated by the clink of crystal glasses and the laughter of the elite.

Y/N exchanged polite pleasantries, her mind partially preoccupied with thoughts of the future. She wondered about the paths that lay before her, the choices she would have to make, and the people she would meet. Her thoughts were interrupted when she was approached by a tall, handsome gentleman with striking dark eyes and an easy smile.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, bowing with practiced elegance. “Might I have the pleasure of a dance?”

Y/N curtsied, offering a gracious smile. “Of course, Lord Bridgerton.”

As they moved to the dance floor, the music swelled around them. Y/N found herself twirling gracefully in the arms of her partner, who she knew well as Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest of the Bridgerton siblings. His charm was undeniable, and their conversation flowed effortlessly.

“You handled your presentation with remarkable poise,” Lord Bridgerton remarked as they danced. “The Queen seemed quite taken with you.”

“Thank you, Lord Bridgerton,” Y/N replied. “I must admit, it was a rather daunting experience.”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You certainly did not show it. Tell me, Lady Y/N, what do you look forward to most this season?”

Y/N hesitated, contemplating her answer. “I suppose I look forward to the possibilities,” she said finally. “To discovering what life has in store for me.”

“A wise approach,” he said approvingly. “Too often, we become entangled in the expectations of others and forget to seek our own path.”

His words resonated deeply with Y/N, and she found herself relaxing in his company. As the dance came to an end, Lord Bridgerton escorted her back to her parents, who were engaged in conversation with another couple.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Bridgerton,” Y/N said with genuine gratitude.

“The pleasure was mine, Lady Y/N. I hope we might have another opportunity to converse during the season.”

She smiled, feeling a flicker of excitement. “I would like that very much.”

As the evening drew to a close, Y/N reflected on the day’s events. She had been introduced to society, had danced with a charming gentleman, and had managed to capture the attention of the Queen. Yet, she knew that this was merely the beginning of her journey.

Returning home, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. This season would be hers to navigate, and she was determined to do so on her own terms. She would not simply be a pawn in the matchmaking game; she would be the author of her own story, forging a path that aligned with her desires and ambitions.

With each step she took, Y/N felt more certain of her resolve. The season stretched out before her like an uncharted map, full of opportunities and challenges. And she was ready to embrace them all, with unwavering determination.

The next morning, as she sat in the garden with her dearest friend, Eloise Bridgerton, Y/N recounted the events of her presentation.

“You were the picture of elegance, I’m sure,” Eloise said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And what of my brother? Did he behave himself?”

Y/N laughed. “He was the perfect gentleman, Eloise. We had a lovely dance.”

Eloise rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, that’s a relief. But enough about him. Tell me, Y/N, what do you truly want from this season?”

Y/N looked at her friend, feeling a swell of affection. “I want to find my own path, Eloise. To be more than just a debutante seeking a husband. I want to discover who I am and what I can become.”

Eloise nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Then let’s make a pact, shall we? To support each other in finding our own destinies, whatever they may be.”

Y/N smiled, reaching out to take Eloise’s hand. “Agreed.”

As the two friends sat together, surrounded by the blooming flowers and the promise of a new day, Y/N felt a renewed sense of hope. She would face the challenges of the season with courage and determination, and with Eloise by her side, she knew she could achieve anything.

This was her time, her story, and she was ready to make it unforgettable.

Just as she was about to resume her conversation with Eloise, a maid came to them with a tray in hand.

“Lady Y/L/N, Lady Bridgerton…” she whispered quickly.

“I believe you should read the latest Whistledown pamphlet” she stated.

****

author’s note:

sorry for late posting!!!! It’s still Friday tho so… no alright I’m sorry I should’ve posted this afternoon :(( promise I’ll do better next week!! see ya next Friday lovelies 🩷🩷

[builtbybrokenbells]

Melodic Memories | Track 4: The Air That I Breathe - The Hollies

In a tattered old box shoved deep down in the corner of an overfilled closet, a lifetimes worth of memories lie dormant at the bottom waiting to be rediscovered.

Masterlist

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Word Count: 11k

Warnings: SMUT 18+, unprotected sex, (sweet and lazy) morning sex, praise, biting, simultaneous orgasm, cockwarming if you squint, sadness, heartbreak, breakups, fighting, arguing, crying, frustration/anger, miscommunication, high school breakups, unrequited love, estranged parent/strained parental relationships, angst, depression, anxiety, self doubt/self consciousness, swearing, flirting, fluff, angst, mentions of hookups/casual sex, sorry if I miss any!

hi everyone. remember i love you!!! as always, be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes! 🤍😌

Also a special shout-out to @gretavangroupie and @gretavanmoon for always keeping me on track, putting up with my craziness, and for the unwavering support and encouragement 🤍 melodic memories wouldn’t be what it is without you 😌

Jake’s POV

“If I could make a wish

I think I’d pass

Can’t think of anything I need

No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound

Nothing to eat, no books to read.”

Rays of sunlight scattered across the room, the flowing curtains sheer and allowing the golden hue to fill the space around you. You were half covered with the sheet, the cool air in the room unable to bother you as you turned on your side. You knew exactly where the comforter had disappeared to, and despite the nagging chill, you felt warmer than ever before. The sweet smell of a million memories danced around your head, laced with orange blossoms and vanilla. As you leaned in closer, jasmine and pear joined the crowd. It was a perfect match, things you’d come in contact with plenty of times in her absence, but not even true plush petals of blossoms on trees nor vanilla beans wore it as well as she did.

Your eyes landed on her, cocooned in the expensive duvet as she slept away the early morning. Her hair was a mess, covering the white cotton pillowcase below her. Her eyes were closed, peacefulness encasing her features as deep breaths moved her shoulders. Her dark eyelashes dusted over the barely-there freckles on her cheeks, casting a small shadow over the bridge of her nose. Her lips, pink and parted ever so slightly, allowing for soft snores to escape made it difficult to sit by and watch the scene, rather than lean forward and kiss her, but you abided by the rules, deciding it was best to admire her than wake her and let the moment pass.

Goosebumps raised on your skin, not because of the coolness of the air conditioning seeping through the woven threads of the sheet, but because waking next to her was an otherworldly experience that you were lucky enough to be a part of yet again. Your mouth was dry, your lungs devoid of air, your veins depleted of the blood that once ran through them, and your heart barely beating in a fruitless endeavor. In the moment, you did not survive off the flesh and bone that carried you to twenty-five, but off of the woman beside you, granting you every desire and wish you’d ever dreamed of.

Waking next to her had been something you longed for since the last morning shared with her, vaguely remembering her sweetness as sleep begged to draw her back in and the tired smile that fought its way onto her perfectly crafted features. She slept so soundly, like trouble had never touched her and pain feared to disturb her. She embodied every single trait of the sun shining in the sky, the light emitting from her even when she was not awake to encourage it.

She was the most precious thing the world had ever created, and she was here with you, trusting you enough to let her guard down and show herself to you in the most vulnerable of ways. Sex was good—great, even. It was intimate, invigorating and fulfilling, and you had dreamed of it a million times, but this was something entirely different. This was the best moment of your day, the highlight of your life as you took the opportunity to admire her when innocence and effortless beauty radiated from her. Sex was great, but waking up to the sight of her beside you was something even greater than that, something you had dreamed of a million and one times in the six years you spent apart.

No matter how much you enjoyed the activities of the night prior, loving her so wholeheartedly for no other reason aside from love itself was always better.

You placed your elbow on the pillow, propping your chin in your hand as you studied her, the constellations of dots decorating her smooth skin, the youthfulness of the girl you loved when you were eighteen and the elegance of the woman you were lucky enough to love now combined all in one. It was a picture you never wanted to lose, one you would spend a lifetime dedicated to remembering in pristine detail, and one that you could survive off alone. You would stave off hunger until it was nonexistent, ignore the thirst until you forgot what it was like to drink water, wither away to nothingness so long as she was there for you to admire. You didn’t need any other entertainment, never wanting to sleep again, never needing to play a guitar or hear the sweet melody of a song again, because she filled you with so much love there was no room left for anything else.

Even if there was, it would pale in comparison to her.

The air flowing in the room, perfectly controlled as it tousled the strands of hair falling over her forehead, could not even disturb her from the slumber she found herself in. It made you wonder if she slept as good as you did, if going to bed while the two of you were apart was as torturous to her as it was for you. Six years of nearly sleepless nights had taken its toll, leaving you exhausted and dreading to fall into bed when the day passed by. Last night, you finally found relief that no aid could match. You tried whiskey, above recommended doses of cold medicine and melatonin, company from another, lesser woman than her, and even Josh’s ridiculous guided meditations, but nothing could cure the nightmare plagued sleep or the relentless tossing and turning.

Nothing until she laid her head on the pillow next to you, her fingers twisting locks of your hair around her finger as her warm breath tickled her neck.

Nothing until you closed your eyes, surrounded by orange blossoms, pears, jasmine, and the faint whisper of vanilla.

Nothing until the warmth of sunshine itself wrapped around you, glowing bright despite the looming moonlight and twinkling stars.

This morning, you awoke with a new lease on life, well rested and with a full heart. The heaviness that constantly weighed down on your shoulders disappeared without a trace, and the storm clouds that forever followed you cleared, allowing for a long awaited taste of blue skies.

You were home again, and Michigan had little to do with the warmth you were experiencing. The woman beside you was many things, but more than anything else, she was the biggest comfort you had ever encountered. She made the world turn with ease, the flowers blossomed as she walked by, and the birds sang a song curated just for her ears. She made all the previous pain worth it, and any bad thing to come obsolete, because when she was loving you, nothing could hurt.

Your breath caught in your throat as her eyes fluttered, her eyelashes tickling her skin as she broke from the blanket tightly wrapped around her. Slowly, her arms stretched above her head, a long breath of air filling her lungs as she prepared to face the world for another day. You wondered how she made it look so easy, how perfection was second nature even when she couldn’t notice it herself. You wondered how everything she did, no matter if it was mundane or grandois, stole the air straight from your lungs and left your head spinning.

Her eyes fully opened, slowly blinking as she tried to pull herself out of her sleepy state. Once she registered where she was, her gaze slowly turned to you, watching silently with a smile on your face. It didn’t take long for her lips to turn upwards, too.

“Good morning, sunshine.” You whispered, giving her ample time to come back to earth before you spoke.

“Good morning, bug.” She said, pushing the blankets away from her face as she turned her head towards you. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Only for a little while.” You confessed, slightly sheepish about it. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has.” She agreed, reaching forward and letting her fingers graze over your blushing cheeks. “I would have done the same thing. Kinda sad I can’t, honestly.”

“I can pretend to be asleep, if you want?” You grinned. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at your ridiculous need to please her all of the time.

“Think it’s okay, honey. Would take the charm out of it.” She giggled, her eyes turning down to the flimsy sheet covering your legs and stopping just below your navel. “Sorry I stole the blankets.”

“Are you kidding? Been waiting six years for you to steal the blankets from me again.” You stressed your point, ensuring she understood that this was all you ever thought about.

“You’re cold.” She stated, her fingers trailing down your frigid arm. “Come here.” She said, lifting the blanket for you to join her. You slid over, noticing her turn on her side away from you once the comforter was covering you. You slipped an arm around her waist, turning on your side just the same as her while you pulled her into you.

In an instant, you were surrounded in the familiar perfume still clinging to her skin, the soft strands of her hair tickling your face as you buried your head in her neck. Your hand talked upwards, a natural reaction to holding her in such a way. Your palm landed on her still bare breast, cupping it as her arm settled on top of yours. She pushed herself backwards a little further, her back completely pressed against you and the curve of her ass fitting perfectly against your hips. You placed a kiss to her shoulder blade, your stomach twisted with nerves and your entire body tingling with pleasure just from the simple position.

Holding her was your favorite thing to do, even if you knew it had to end eventually. Although the loss of her was debilitating, the few moments you had her all to yourself made up for the pain it caused when she pulled away. If it were up to you, you would hold her just like this for the rest of your life. If she allowed it, you would never let her go.

“You sleep okay?” You asked, your words muffled from your mouth lingering against her skin.

“Better than ever.” She whispered, without a doubt in her mind about it. “You?”

“Me too.” You hummed, letting your eyes flutter closed as you breathed her in. There was nowhere in the world you’d rather be, the surplus of emotion coursing through you so unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

You fell back into silence, neither of you needing to explain any further because you understood exactly how you both felt. The cloud of sleepiness was still hovering around the two of you, begging to pull you back in. It was tempting, but you fought it with everything in you, knowing you didn’t want to miss a single second of loving her.

Absentmindedly, you let your thumb drift over her nipple, hardened from the cold hair combined with your touch. She shuddered at the feeling, her hips pushing backwards into you as a natural response. The movement sent a flood of adrenaline through you and a sudden rush of blood straight to your dick.

“Careful, sweetheart.” You warned, letting her know the consequences of her actions were imminent. She could feel you resting against her ass, catching on to your intent immediately. Instead of heeding your advice, she arched her back slightly, pressing herself against your length even further. Your fingers tightened on her and your hips moved forward to meet hers, in search of relief already even though she barely did anything at all. “You want more already?” You smiled, relieved to know you weren’t the only one tormented by need.

“Been so long, baby.” She confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Been so long since someone could do it right.” She corrected herself, just as eager to make up for all the lost time. You let your fingers trail over her bare stomach, the touch light and tickling her as you advanced toward her hip. You could only imagine she was sore, bruised and still tired from the night prior, so you promised to be gentle with her from your touch alone.

“You know I’ll always give you what you want, angel.” You assured her, knowing that your statement did not even scratch the surface. You would do anything for her, even if it was a hindrance to yourself. You would move heaven and earth to see her smile, you would spend every dollar and every minute of every day in an effort to make her happy. You would do anything, be anything, and give anything for her. You hoped that she knew, that she understood just how important she was and how much you cared about her. You hoped that in a single day, you were able to show her the love you’d sworn to give her when you were fifteen asking her to be your girlfriend in the park, all over again at twenty five.

Slowly, your hand drifted down to her thigh, snaking around to the front of her. Before you could go any further, she reached down and stopped you, turning her head back over her shoulder as she shook her head ‘no’. You raised an eyebrow, wondering what caused her sudden change of heart all whilst you admired the softness and beauty in her still tired eyes.

“I don’t want that. I want you.” She whispered, hoping you understood her meaning. At that, you swallowed hard, feeling your dick throb at the intent of her actions. She was not in search of pleasure from an orgasm, but rather the pleasure of being close to you. She missed it, just as intensely and deeply as you did, the feeling of belonging to each other.

“You have me, sweetness.” You promised her, but abided by her wishes and instead used your hand on her leg to prop it up. You slid down on the mattress a little further, holding her thigh as she steadied it in the new position. “Used to dream of waking up like this every night.” You couldn’t help but feel a smile pull at your lips, almost unable to believe that she was there, beside you and wanting everything you hated yourself for needing all of the time.

“Don’t have to dream anymore, bug.” She breathed, arching her back a little further as you reached between your bodies and lined yourself up with her. You wondered if she thought about it as much as you did, if she craved the feeling of your hands on her skin with such a ferocity that it nearly brought her to her knees. You wanted to ask, to know if she daydreamed about tangled limbs and lazy Sundays in bed together, but a small part of you knew she did, or she wouldn’t have come back.

Your tip was settled over her entrance, already slick with arousal just from the thought of fucking you. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head falling forward as your forehead rested against her shoulder blade. You pulled her down just a little further, letting your hand hold the underside of her thigh so she did not have to exert her energy keeping the limb locked in place. As she moved down, you pushed your hips forward, letting out a hiss of pleasure through your clenched teeth. You pushed forward the rest of the way, hearing her let out a sigh of relief at the feeling as you brushed against the sensitive spot you knew so well.

“You always feel so fucking good, sunshine.” You muttered, taking a moment to rest inside of her. Your heart drummed against your chest, pressed against her back so she could feel the rhythmic beat that depended on her love alone. “Can’t believe you’re all mine.” You followed up your statement, still in disbelief that you had the opportunity to hold her so close again. Still, as you said it, you felt an unfamiliar tug of uncertainty twist your stomach.

Was she yours?

You hadn’t discussed that—in fact, you hadn’t discussed anything. You woke up, still stuck in a cloud of euphoria from life’s turn of events, still living in the fairytale world you had worked together to create. She wasn’t yours in any truthful manner, but rather just the fallacy you had created in your head. The plague of heartbreak continued consuming you, eating away at any bit of sanity that still remained, begging you to air out the unspoken fears that you still had. You couldn’t move forward without addressing what had already happened, which led you to a lazy morning hookup after a successful second first date. You hadn’t addressed the reason for the second first date at all, and if you continued to neglect the fact, it would leave you both at the very beginning again.

Not yet. Not now.

You shoved the feelings down, swallowing them as they got stuck in your throat. They were desperate to be spoken, but you couldn’t allow them to be. You had no idea where they would lead you, and you weren’t risking the end already, not when you just got her back, and not when you were sharing the intimacy with her you’d been craving so badly.

Soon, but certainly not now.

“Fuck, Jake.” She whispered, moving her hips further down in search of what you were holding back. Your name falling from her lips was like summer rain, washing over you with warmth as it relieved you from the irritating burn of the blazing sun. You wanted to hear it again, for her to say it over and over again until she could speak no more and your ears were ringing in the static silence. You never wanted her to stop saying it, never again giving her the chance to speak the name of another.

“This is what you wanted, sweetheart?” You asked, beginning a slow pace with your hips. Your fingers tightened against the flesh of her thigh, a whole new spot to leave a mark on her, ensuring she would remember the moment as the days passed her by.

“Yes, baby.” She breathed, leaning backwards so she was flush against your chest.

Your head fell to the crook of her neck, the sweet scent of her perfume invading your senses as your lips attached to the delicate skin. She was already littered with love bites, her skin sensitive as your tongue traced over her. You didn’t care, and she didn’t either; the state you had left each other in was childish, similar to the way you used to act when you were younger. Even if you would face ridicule at the hands of your careless actions, you were just happy to feel like you were hers again, for others to believe she was yours again.

To feel and to believe, but never in certainty. Even if it was true, you wondered for how long this time.

Although you would promise forever, and you longed to hear it from her too, you did not know. You weren’t even sure if she wanted forever, or if this was a passing moment that would leave you both alone again, with even less closure than before. The idea hurt, and it hurt achingly bad, taking over your entire body with such a devastating effect that it even seemed to overshadow the pleasure that came from being inside of her.

Why did it hurt so bad when everything seemed so good? When perfection was all around you? When the world seemed right for the first time in six years? Why now?

Perhaps it never stopped. The hurt did not go away when she broke the silence, not even when you showed up at her door. It subsided, covered up by the excitement and joy from the reunion, but it was never resolved. You never expected it to come back so soon, when she was still with you, but maybe that was the problem itself.

Being with you and being yours were two entirely different things, and although having her by your side was what you craved, it was not what you wanted. The uncertainty made it hurt worse, just like it did when she was packing up her childhood bedroom with tear stained cheeks and promises of everlasting love. The uncertainty made it worse when you spent those first few days texting, hoping she would change her mind or you would find the courage to speak your truth. Uncertainty was your entire life, never changing her contact name and always hoping that every notification was a ‘hello’ or an ‘I miss you’.

Uncertainty was right now, wrapped up in her and closer than you’d been in a long time, but not knowing what it meant.

But the sounds falling from her lips, strikingly beautiful and oddly haunting made it easy to forget about it, to draw you out of the cloud of doubt and back into the moment with her.

“God, you feel so good, baby.” She said, her head turned back to catch a glimpse of your face. Her eyes were heavy, tiredness still lingering on her features, but it made her all the more beautiful. The intimacy of having her in the state, no guard up and all of the walls broken down, was almost too much for you to bear. Words were failing you, the only thoughts in your head revolving around the same, undying love for her that forever existed in your heart.

You wanted it to last forever, to hold her in your arms until you turned to dust and the wind swept you away. Even then, you would find her again, whether it be in real life or something greater. Every part of you would be tied to her forever, no matter if death tried to get in the way.

“Show me how fucking good it feels.” You growled, your voice low as you held her gaze. Neither of you dared to look away, your arm still holding her quivering leg as you felt her walls flutter around you. She craned her head backwards a little further, just enough to connect her lips with your own.

You met her action, your eyes closing as you focused on all of the sensations at once. The slow, steady pace was almost too much for you. Feeling her all at once, enjoying and appreciating every second of it, all while holding her so close to you was overwhelming in the best possible way. She felt so good, so intoxicating, just like she always had. It was a relief to know that the distance nor the time had any effect on the chemistry existing between you, even if you had both changed so much.

The kiss was sloppy, messy and needy as you tried to hold onto it. The moment was pure bliss, more euphoric than anything else you’d ever experienced. The taste of her on your tongue and the feeling of her wrapped around you was sending you spiraling, still riding the high from the previous night all while getting to experience it all over again. She was more addicting than the sting of a cigarette at the back of your throat, burning stronger in your chest than a shot of whiskey as you swallowed her down, and more thrilling than playing on a stage before thousands.

Perhaps you were so caught up on the unknown because you knew living without her had never been worth it.

She let out a moan into your mouth, letting you drink down the sound as if you were dependent upon it for survival. You slammed your hips forward, a little sharper than before, causing her to repeat the action. You were dependent upon her, not the noises or the pleasure she could grant you. You needed every little bit she could give, and you feared that not even that would suffice. She was everything you’d ever wanted, more than you ever needed, and you were desperate to hear her say that she was yours, not because of a momentary high or a surplus of emotion.

The early morning hours left your willpower greatly depleted, the sleep still weighing heavy on your shoulders and the euphoria you had endured the night before still lingering under your skin. The feeling of her, so close and so intimate, was enough to push you over the edge the minute you felt it. The taste of her on your tongue, the desperation in her movements as she strained to ensure you would not break from the kiss. The scent of her fucking perfume, suffocating you and leaving you happy to die at her hands.

It was all too much. She was too much, and you didn’t deserve a single thing she was offering.

The pleasure was coursing through your veins, depleting your previous life source and creating a new one. Your heart ached from the strength with which it was beating against your chest, your stomach twisted with desire as you held yourself back. She was quickly becoming the only thing you could think about, the only face you could see and the only voice you could hear. As much as you wanted to believe it was a good thing, you felt that same nagging, grating self-doubt as you feared the fallout.

Could you survive her walking away a second time?

The fear was pushed from your mind once again, a rush of pleasure flowing through you more intense than the last. You broke from the kiss, letting out a shaky sigh as you did your best to pull her closer to you.

“Wish I could fuck you like this all day.” You muttered, your fingers digging into the skin on her thigh even further. “Keep you like this for the rest of my life, if I could.” You watched as her hand snaked between her legs, the blankets strewn across the bed and barely covering the two of you now. Her middle finger settled over her clit, tracing circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves as she held your gaze.

“Nothing stopping us, baby.” She replied, her eyes speaking louder than her words ever could. She wanted it, and she was asking you if that’s what you truly wanted, too.

You don’t know why, but your eyes fluttered away from hers, unable to withstand the emotion existing between you.

Of course you wanted it, but it was never that easy. She might want it too, but it didn’t make up for the million things that had been left unsaid. It didn’t make up for the sleepless nights and the tears shed, not the pain you endured or the sadness that still plagued you, even with her beside you.

She was asking if you wanted to love her just like that forever, but you were too much of a coward to say yes. You couldn’t handle the thought of agreeing, to telling her the truth only to have it ripped from your grasp again.

“I love you, sunshine.” You whispered, your lips finding her neck again as you held back everything you wanted to say instead. Your statement was true, you loved her deeply and more dearly than you loved anything else in your entire life, and you always would, but you couldn’t promise her forever if you did not know the tellings of her heart, too.

Enjoy the moment, worry later.

“I love you, Jake.” She whined, desperate for you to kiss her again. In an instant, at the sound of the sweet words, the turmoil disappeared, replaced with a growing sense of pride in your chest to be loved by someone so fantastic.

That was the danger of letting her in; she took the pain away with little effort, and caused a million times more when she inevitably turned and walked away.

“Cum for me, sunshine.” You pleaded, your voice hushed and your words muffled from your lips still pressed against her skin. You were eager for her to reach her climax, and worried that if she did not do so soon, you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back.

You could feel how close she was, the flutter of her walls around you, pulling you in further. You could hear the desperation in her tone, her moans shaky and breathy, always a clear sign that she was close to the edge. She wanted to, she just needed a little extra encouragement.

“Come on, sweetheart. Being so good for me.” You whispered, your tongue tracing the love bites still littering her skin. She tasted sweet, lingering on your tongue like poison as you succumbed to the sickness of loving her. She continued tracing circles into her clit, pushing herself closer to the edge as she leaned her head back against you for support. You loosened your grip on her thigh, hooking your arm underneath her leg and pulling her back on you as you slammed forward into her.

The laziness in both of your actions was apparent, but it made the moment all the more addicting as you relied on each other to keep up the pace. You let your lips trail down to her shoulder, your teeth gently sinking into the flesh as you applied slight pressure, just enough for her to notice. The sensation sent her spiraling, your name falling from her lips like a hymn, praising you when she was the one who deserved the commendation.

“Fuck, baby.” She whimpered, her body trembling as the pleasure became too much to withstand. With a long slur of curses, you felt her descend into the cloud of euphoria, continuing to sing your name and only ever causing you to fall further for her.

Before the night prior, you did not think it was possible to love her any more than you already did, but she seemed determined to prove you wrong with every passing chance.

“That’s my girl.” You groaned, a pathetic little cry falling from your lips as you felt the same feeling wash over you.

You did not care if the title was fleeting, because there in that moment, she was yours, and you had to appreciate what you had rather than mourn a potential loss in the future.

You pulled her down on you, letting her completely surround you as you spilled your release into her. Her perfume hung like a haze around your head, the ends of her still curled hair tickling your skin and the warmth of her body giving you more comfort than ever before. Together, the two of you rode out the high breathless and happy just to coexist together again.

You wondered, even if this moment must come to pass, why could life not be so beautiful all of the time?

As you relaxed into the mattress, you noticed she did too, searching for the comfort she could only find in your arms. You eased your hold on her leg entirely, gently letting it fall without withdrawing from her. You snaked your arm around her torso, pulling her closer to you as you soaked up the last few minutes of intimacy the scene would allow.

“That’s a great way to start the morning, I think.” She hummed, her eyes closed as she rested her head on the pillow. She wasn’t protesting your prolonged stay in the position, because she was enjoying it just as much as you were.

“The best, actually.” You corrected, dusting a few kisses over her warm skin. It was torture loving her so completely, because no matter if she was yours forever, life would not allow you to hold her like this every minute of every day.

‘Making love with you

Has left me peaceful, warm, and tired

What more could I ask

There’s nothing left to be desired

Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak

So sleep, silent angel

Go to sleep.’

“This feels the same as it did before.” She whispered, her tone low and slow like she was fighting a slumber with all of her energy. She didn’t want to succumb to sleep, terrified of missing out on a single second of your company. “I thought… I thought it would be different, I guess. That because we’re different, it wouldn’t be the same anymore. I was worried that we would wake up and realize it wasn’t real, that we only felt this way because we never had enough closure to move on.” She was strung out from the pleasure, still riding an emotional high as she confessed to her own fears.

“It’s always been real, sunshine.” You assured her, tracing shapes into her skin as you held her. “Always wanted to be with you.” You muttered, slightly ashamed of the undying love you always carried for her. You were tired too, your eyes heavy as the world continued to wake. Sleeping away the day with her by your side was tempting, and you would have fallen victim to the peacefulness of her presence if you were less stubborn.

“I guess there’s just so much… shit we never talked about.” She trailed off, losing her confidence the longer she thought about it. “From back then and now.” She wanted to talk too, wallowing in confusion and self doubt just as heavily as you were and nearly drowning in the sorrow that still surrounded her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, hoping that she did so you could air out your own relentless thoughts.

“Yeah, I do.” Her tone was near solemn, the sound making your stomach sink and regret begin to form. If she didn’t want the same thing, would you spend the rest of your life regretting asking the damned question?

“Okay.” Your voice was soft as you bargained with the anxiety beginning to take over. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad—maybe she was afraid of all the same things and desperate to hear you assure her otherwise.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up, okay?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder. The breath was knocked from your lungs at the sight of her sleepy eyes and blushed cheeks, making you wonder if you would see it again in the morning, or waste your day trying to forget about it.

“Okay.” You repeated your earlier words, finding that the easiest thing to say when dread was crushing you. Then, she leaned back a little further, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. Your fingers tightened on her, the action alone prompting a sudden wave of relief that seemed to cure all of your earlier ailments. When she pulled away, the smile turning the corners of your lips helped you to relax, forcing you to believe that the conversation wouldn’t be nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Carefully, she climbed from the bed and quickly disappeared into the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as your heart continued to speed against your chest. The ghost of her kiss still lingered on your lips, the feeling electrifying as you desperately tried to find some common sense and calm yourself. You reached for your phone on the nightstand beside the bed, tapping the screen to catch a glimpse of the time. It was nearing the afternoon, the entire morning spent in a bubble of love and joy that nothing could penetrate. You didn’t care about the time wasted laying in bed, because when you were beside her, no time felt wasted.

You ignored the plethora of notifications sitting below the time, tossing it back down on the mattress just as the bathroom door creaked open. You shot a smile in her direction as she approached the bed, taking an extra second to admire the entire picture before you. Her cheeks darkened as she realized what you were doing, and instead of taunting her for her embarrassment, you climbed out of bed and landed a gentle smack on her ass as you passed her by. Light, playful, confident. The more normal you made this seem, the more likely she would be to go into the conversation with a clear head and an open mind.

“My turn. Be right back.” You looked back over your shoulder, watching her pull your shirt over her arms from the night prior, buttoning a few buttons to keep it closed.

That was a good sign, right? Wearing your clothes, climbing back into your hotel bed, a smile on her face and joy still shining in her eyes. She wanted to make it work, just like you did. She loved you, still after all this time. It had to be a good sign.

Right?

Her POV

You watched as he walked around the corner, holding your breath as the bathroom door fell shut behind him. You felt like your head was going to explode, your entire body vibrating with nerves as you climbed under the still warm blankets. You had no idea what you were doing, no idea where the conversation would lead you, but for the first time in six years, you felt happy. Pure, uninhibited joy that could not even be overshadowed by your own dramatics. You wanted him—you never stopped wanting him, and you were going to tell him. You were going to tell him how sorry you were, how terrible it was to be without him, and hope so desperately and deeply that he would be willing to give you a second chance.

He wanted it too, right?

Right?

He was so loving, so attentive and kind as he planned such a thoughtful date, down to every last detail. He had to want it too, and for once you didn’t think you made it up in your own head, that the hope was correct rather than misplaced this time. He had to want it too, because you couldn’t bear the thought of him rejecting your apologies and sending you away.

He was withdrawn during sex, and it didn’t take long to notice. You knew him better than you knew yourself, even if you’d spent so much time apart. What was he thinking about? Was he not enjoying himself? Was he regretting it?

You were working yourself up, your heart aching and your stomach sick as you thought of all the possibilities of what could happen next. You were trembling, vibrating with anxieties. The feeling was grating, irritating as it—no, it wasn’t you.

It was his damned phone beside you in the bed, vibrating nonstop with incoming messages, so constant and steady that you had convinced yourself it was something else.

What the fuck—who the fuck was blowing up his phone?

It wasn’t your business. You knew that, and you tried to distract yourself so you could ignore the temptation. If he had something to hide, he never would have shared his screen on the FaceTime calls, nor would he have left his phone sitting so openly and invitingly on the bed for you to see.

But who the hell was messaging him? Who needed to get through to him so imminently on his days off?

Just a peek, you bargained. Just to assure yourself it was Josh being his normally overbearing and invasive self.

Just a peek.

What could it hurt, right?

Right?

You reached over, slowly grabbing his phone and bringing it closer to your face. You tapped the screen, immediately noticing the surplus of notifications. It wasn’t just from one person, but rather a flood of emails and texts combined. A momentary sense of relief washed over you, but you couldn’t pry yourself away even with the reassurance it wasn’t a secret girlfriend. Instead, your eyes scanned the words that you could read, seeing a lot of rescheduled meetings and chains from what looked to be labels and managers.

Wait, rescheduled?

You looked a little further, your stomach dropping when you gathered the main idea from the surplus of messages.

He had moved his entire life around, canceling meetings and rescheduling interviews that were supposed to be done today, yesterday, and the day before that.

He put his entire life on pause for you.

What should have been a sweet realization was instead evil, ugly, and cruel.

Six years later, you were doing the exact thing you were trying to avoid when you left in the first place. You were standing in the way of his career, and he was doing what he always had; putting you before everything else, no matter the consequences. Putting you before himself, before his dreams.

You left to ensure he wouldn’t do that, but you couldn’t stay away and ended up forcing his hand anyway. It was only a few meetings, an interview, but you knew him well and you knew it wouldn’t stop there. With you permanently in Michigan and him halfway across the world, he would only try harder to see you, and it would only get worse from here.

You couldn’t do that to him. You couldn’t be the very thing that stood in the way of him and his entire life. You wished you found texts from another girl, from a girlfriend or a wife so you could be angry and upset with him for doing such a thing, but that wasn’t who he was, and it never would be. Jake would never let you down, and would do anything he could to make you happy. In doing so, he would sacrifice his own wants and needs, and you couldn’t be responsible for him disregarding everything he’d worked for his entire life.

God, he made it so unbelievably hard to stay out of love with him, even if you knew it was for the best.

Just as you were about to put the phone down, to bargain with your foggy mind and hurting heart, another chain of texts pulled your attention back in.

Amelie - 11:48am

Here’s that sneak peek you asked for. Saving the best for when you get back, so don’t even bother. 😉

*Attachment: 4 images*

“God, what the fuck does that mean?” You whispered to yourself, tossing the phone back on the mattress without even looking at the preview of the pictures as you tried to swallow back the panic you were feeling. It seemed like the world was mocking you for believing the two of you could be together, mocking you for believing that you could have someone as perfect as him.

Who was she, and what did she mean she was saving the best for when he got back? Why had he never mentioned her? Was she a girl he was trying to keep secret? She was close enough to him to have his phone number, comfortable enough to text him on his days off, and cheeky enough to send a winking emoji of follow. You didn’t know what it was, but you knew you didn’t like it.

Your mind was a mess, your chest aching and your head spinning. The message in itself wasn’t exactly incriminating, but you were so caught up in your own emotions from earlier that you wanted to believe it was, so your justification for running wasn’t because he loved you too much. You were jumping to conclusions, desperately grasping at strings to pull together an excuse to leave, but it had nothing to do with him rescheduling his meetings and the oddly worded message from the mysterious ‘Amelie’ (who sounded like a woman you could not even begin to compete with). It had everything to do with your own fear and your inability to see the brighter side of things.

You were doing everything you could to avoid getting hurt, and right now, you were already hurting. Instead of owning up to it and getting to the bottom of it with him by your side, you began to shut out the possibility of loving him in hopes of stopping the hurt before it grew any larger.

Caught up in a whirlwind of grief and a surplus of love, you did not even have time to straighten our separate the two before Jake stepped out of the bathroom, naked and beautiful as ever as he grabbed a pair of sweatpants from his suitcase. He slipped them on, his eyes trailing to you, expecting to see the smile he’d left on your lips when he walked away. Instead, he was met with an expression that told him nothing good, his palms breaking into a sweat and his stomach tied in knots as he tried to decipher the look in your eyes.

He had seen the look once before, and he spent the equivalent to a hundred lifetimes trying to rid the memory from his brain. He was praying it was different this time, that he had it completely misunderstood.

“Sunshine,” he warned, cautiously approaching the bed as he tried to defuse the bomb he knew was waiting to explode.

Afraid.

That was the only thing you were, feeling it so violently and aggressively as you shied away from his outstretched arms, silently pleading with you to reconsider. You were afraid of being hurt, afraid of hurting him, afraid of holding him back and standing in his way. You were terrified of everything, and most of all, unable to comprehend how dearly you loved him. You longed to be a teacher, spent years with your nose buried in a book and working so hard to get a degree so you could help someone else understand better. Not knowing was hard, and not understanding something was your biggest downfall, because you had made a life out of facts and working constantly to make sense of challenging things.

This didn’t make sense, and you couldn’t make it appear clearer. The longer you thought about it, the more confused you became, and it was killing you.

You pulled your legs to your chest, feeling tears shine in your eyes as you looked over his face. He was so beautiful, so perfect and so kind, which is why you had to walk away. He was too good, and you weren’t ever going to be enough. Back then, when you went your separate ways the first time, he took the sacrifice of losing you so you could follow your dreams. You were moving too fast, chasing after a life you couldn’t find in Michigan, and he stepped away to allow you to take the leap without worrying about him.

His actions were valiant, completely selfless and done in an attempt to ensure your happiness, and done without a single care about himself or his own breaking heart.

You had to do the same for him. You couldn’t hold him back or drag him down—he deserved someone in control of their life, certain and calculated with every move they made, stable and fun loving with a carefree spirit, and that would never be you.

Maybe someday, but certainly not now.

“Don’t do this. Not yet.” He sat on the edge of the bed, knowing what you were thinking before you said a word. “Let’s talk about it, please. We have to talk about it.” He was right, but you didn’t want to. The longer you talked about it, the worse it felt. You didn’t talk to him last time because it hurt too bad, and right now as you stared at him, facing the same situation as you did when you were eighteen, you understood that leaving Jake would always be the hardest thing you could ever do.

“This was a mistake, Jake.” You blurted out, immediately realizing the extent of your words when a pained expression crossed his beautiful face. You never wanted to be the reason behind his pain, and in that moment, you knew you were causing all of it.

“A mistake, huh?” He raised his hand to his face, his thumb and forefinger closing around his cheeks as his palm pressed against his chin. Deep in thought and clearly bothered by your choice of words, he could no longer look you in the eyes. “You said you loved me.” There was a slight snide drawl in his words, like he was fighting every part of himself so he would not respond with the hurt he was feeling.

“No, Jake, that’s not—“ you cut yourself off, feeling your chest tighten with panic as you raised your hand to his arm. The gentle touch pulled him out of his internal brooding for long enough to look back in your direction, to see how much hurt you were suffering from too. “You are not a mistake. Loving you is not a mistake, and I do. I love you so much that it hurts, and I could never feel this way about anyone else. I don’t want to love anyone else, Jake.”

“Then what is it?” He asked, reaching out and cupping your cheek in his palm. His stare was overwhelming, so much emotion in his gaze that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. “If you love me, and you don’t want to love anyone else, why are you trying to leave?”

“I just…” you started, losing your composure as the million reasons flooded your mind. Your voice cracked, your eyes falling to the pristine threads on the comforter as they welled with tears. “Six years, and nothing changed. We’re still in the same situation, trying to love each other and knowing it won’t work.”

“Who’s saying it won’t work, sunshine? I would do anything to make it work—“

“That’s the problem, Jake!” You cut him off, closing your eyes tightly to stop the tears from falling. “Anything. You would do anything, even if it meant throwing the rest of your life away!”

“What? What does that even mean?” He argued, his temper growing as you continued to raise your voice at him.

“Did you really have all this time off, with nothing to do? No meetings, no interviews, nothing to attend to?” You asked, watching his face as his expression faltered ever so slightly. It was barely noticeable, but it answered your question without him having to say a word. “You moved your entire life around just to come and take me to dinner, Jake. Without a promise of anything, without even knowing if I would say yes. If we keep this up, I can’t help but feel like I’m going to get in the way of everything you worked so hard for.”

“You’re not getting in the way of anything, sunshine. I chose to do that. I wanted to do it.” He tried to get you to see his point, to get you to understand that it wasn’t you forcing his hand on the matter.

“That’s the problem, bug.” Your cheeks were damp as you drowned in your own sorrow. “You would give up everything, just like you would have back then. That’s why I had to go. I had to leave so you wouldn’t waste your life chasing after me. Look at what you’ve accomplished since I left. Look at the life you built, all on your own.” You pleaded with him, begging him to see reason. “I’m going to take away from that, distract you from the only thing you’ve ever wanted. I can’t be responsible for that.”

“It’s not the only thing I’ve ever wanted!” He snapped, stronger than he intended to. Still, he continued on, desperate to be heard after six years of silence. “You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted. You are the only thing that’s ever mattered. You sat and listened to me talk about this life, encouraging me to chase after it, made me believe I could do it. It means fuckin’ nothing without you there beside me.”

“Jake, listen to yourself.” You cried, your head pounding and your chest tight as you tried to draw in a shaky breath. “You stepped back, you took that burden when I left and tried to make a name for myself. You didn’t want to stand in my way, and now you have to let me do it for you. I’m the one stuck in Michigan, not knowing what I’m doing or where I’m going. It won’t work, and you know it.”

“Don’t use that against me, Y/N.” The lack of a nickname was like a stab straight to the stomach, making you understand that this was more serious than it was when you were kids, because you were still hurting from it. It was all coming out at once, the fear and the anger and the regret. It was mixing together with your current situation, making for a deadly conversation that the two of you would carry with you for the rest of your lives. “Don’t use that as an excuse to leave now, because it’s the stupidest thing I have ever done. I’ve spent six years regretting it, Y/N. Do not make it seem like it was some courageous sacrifice—it was stupid and wrong, because I was afraid and I was hurt.”

“Jake—“

“No.” He cut you off, calm and collected with a grievous look in his eye. “I let you leave. I didn’t fight for you. I was eighteen and stupid, and I thought it was for the best at the time, and I know now that it was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I am not letting you leave without fighting for you, Y/N. I’m not losing you again. I waited this long to get you back. This can’t be it. I won’t let this be it.”

“You think I don’t regret it?” You exploded, overwhelmed with the memory of the last time you saw him. “You think I enjoyed driving away, watching you sit at the end of my driveway waving goodbye with tears in your eyes? I didn’t want to, Jake. I hated it, and I hated myself for it. I cried that whole fucking drive, and then three days later I had to tell you to stop texting me because it only ever made it harder to move on. Guess it never would have mattered, because I never did, anyway! Six years later I sat in that bedroom, sorting through that box that held memories from the best three years of my entire life, and I had to swallow the fact that it will always be you, even if I don’t want it to be!” A grimace crossed his face, his heart aching at the harshness of your words.

“I hated looking for you in every man I’ve ever met, wondering if they could even come close to the boy I left at home. I hated staying up at night, listening to the same eight songs and wondering why we couldn’t be the ones who ended up together. I hated coming home and back to that house, just to realize that you were the only thing that made it feel like home in the first place! You weren’t here Jake, you moved to Nashville and you were traveling Europe, touring the world and playing music for thousands of people. You made it without me, and I drowned without you. I ended up here, back in the house I swore I’d never live in again in a town that’s missing the only good thing it ever had. You made it, Jake. You did it, and I will not drag you down again. I love you too much to hold you back. You have to let me do this for you, because you’ve done everything for me!” You finished your rant, barely able to see straight from the tears blurring your vision. Your throat was raw, your voice shaking as you tried your hardest to keep it together for long enough to make him understand.

“Sunshine,” he took your face between his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. “This isn’t doing anything for me. You leaving isn’t helping me, and staying won’t hurt me. Loving you is the only thing that I know how to do, and the only thing that I need. You give me everything just by being here.”

“Baby, please.” You closed your eyes, the pain in your chest only worsening as you stared at him.

“No, Sunshine.” He shook his head, holding your face tightly so you couldn’t look away. “Please, don’t do this. I just got you back.”

“Jake, I can’t.”

“That’s it?” He asked, his voice cracking as tears filled his own eyes. “It’s over? We’re done, just like that?” He tried to blink away the pain, but it only worsened his feelings on the matter. “After everything we talked about over the last few weeks? After everything we said last night? That’s it?”

“No!” You cried, shaking your head against his hold. “I guess so? I don’t know, Jake! I don’t know what to do or how to make it better. I'm trying to do the right thing. This happened so fast, and I didn’t have any time to think about it, but now that I have, we both know it won’t work! You’re going back to Nashville and I’m stuck here. You’re going to travel the world and meet so many people, ones that are way better than me and have so much more to offer. I'm going to tie you down and hold you back, and you’re going to realize it too, and I can’t get hurt like that. Not again.” You bit down on your lip to stifle the sobs begging to escape.

“You don’t get it, sunshine. There is nobody else; only you, and it’s always been that way.” There was a quiver in his voice, his cheeks wet with his own tears and he pleaded with you to see reason.

“I have to, Jake. I don’t even know if this is where I’ll stay. I could be halfway across the country again by this time next year. I don’t know, and I can’t force you to change everything because I’m still a mess.”

“I want to, sunshine. I love you.” He whispered, breaking under the weight of his grief. You shook your head again, too overcome with emotion to speak but still as stubborn as you’d always been. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Just not right now Jake. I’m not saying never, but not now.”

The words were worse than a slap in the face, making him choke on the fact that you would never be his, but he would always be stuck on your hook with nowhere else to go.

“So what, friends?” He scoffed at the word as if it were ridiculous, scowling as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Yes.” You whispered, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his. “I want you in my life Jake. I always have. It’s horrible without you here, but the time still isn’t right. I need to get my life figured out. Give me some time to be what you deserve.” He watched you, his eyes casted down upon your saddened face as he digested the words he never wanted to hear again.

How, after so long and so much suffering, could the time still not be right? How could you still not see it?

But, he loved you, and in that moment it seemed like the worst curse of all. He was willing to do whatever would make you happy, even if it meant agreeing to something that would be equal to torture.

“Fine, sunshine.” He breathed, unable to resist you with you so close to him. He could never say no to you, anyway, no matter the distance. “If that’s what you think is right, I’ll be your friend, but I’ll never stop telling you how wrong I think it is.” A small smile tugged at your lips despite the pain begging to kill you.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” You joked, tears still free falling as you breathed him in for what might be the very last time.

“I’m going to suck at being your friend.” He warned, still holding you close while he still could. “I’m never going to stop loving you.”

“I’m not going to stop, either.” You promised.

“Which is why this whole thing is stupid.” He tried again, desperate for you to understand.

“You’ll understand, bug. Maybe not right now, but you will. I promise.” You whispered, fighting every urge to kiss him.

“If you say so, sunshine.” He muttered, too far gone within his misery to worry about hiding it anymore. “Can I kiss you, one last time?”

“I might not be able to stop.” You confessed, feeling the gravitational pull forcing you towards him, the universe doing everything it could to force you into his arms forever.

“Could think of worse things.” He hummed, his hand sliding backwards as his fingers tangled in your hair.

“Me too, bug.” You whispered, closing your eyes and leaning forward.

You closed the gap between you, the kiss soft and sweet, the saltiness of your tears lingering on your lips as you did all you could to savor the moment with him. He dropped one hand to your waist, pulling you forward and into his lap without parting from you. You accepted the new position, melting into his arms and letting your guard down one last time. The warmth of his body surrounded you, and you wondered how you could ever give up the feeling of peace that came with his company. He felt like home, more comforting and inviting than anything else in the entire world, and you wished you could hold onto it forever.

Eventually, you broke free from the kiss, but made no move to leave. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder as another, more aggressive wave of sobs racked your body. The smell of his cologne surrounded you, his gentle hold comforting despite knowing it would be the last time you had him in such a way. He always made everything feel better, even if the hurt came from the love he gave in the first place. He held you tightly, his strong arms making it harder to convince yourself to leave. You calmed down enough to rest comfortably with him, only the occasional tear leaking from your eye as he rocked you gently to calm your mind. Then, so softly and so quietly, you heard the soft melody that tore your heart in two all over again.

He was humming, not singing, but carrying the tune enough that you would notice and understand why he was doing it.

There were no lyrics, but you could hear them clearly in your head as you clung to him and wondered why you would ever even think about letting him go.

‘Peace came upon me

And it leaves me weak

So sleep, silent angel

Go to sleep

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe

And to love you

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe

And to love you

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe

And to love you.’

His shoulders shook as he tried his hardest to keep the tune, tears falling down his face as he did his best not to imagine you walking out the door. You felt ridiculous, completely idiotic as you cried and listened to him, wondering how the hell you were in the same position now as you were when you were eighteen. Back then, he put the song on the mixtape to tell you how dearly he loved you, so you could hear it from someone else’s tongue instead of his own. Now, he reinvented the song with a heart just as heavy, hoping it was enough to make you stay this time.

There was no need to retell the story, to recount all of the mistakes you made that led you to the fourth song so long ago, because you had done it just the same that day. You woke up that morning with love delicately intertwined in every aspect of your life, happiest with him by your side, and you would leave him behind with the same love in your heart, just the same as you did six years ago.

When you were eighteen, he loved you. He sat before you at twenty-five, still as desperate to show you how strongly he felt, but you still weren’t ready to receive it. You loved him the same, but you were too foolish to accept it and too fearful of enduring the same hurt. Instead, you convinced yourself that it was for the best to walk away, that the pain now would spare you from worse in the future, even if it wasn’t true.

No matter the time in between the two stupidest versions of yourself, one thing remained true even after all of the pain and all of the years; you loved him the same, just as unapologetically, completely and as wholly as he loved you.

All you needed was the air that you breathed and to love him. Sometimes, you didn’t even need the air and could survive solely off the latter. You spent all your life searching for him, wandering aimlessly while he was gone and wondering when he would come back, just to find the quickest way to throw the opportunity in the garbage as soon as it presented itself to you.

Why were you so eager to walk away when you had been awaiting the day he would return?

Why were you so keen to suffer when he was right in front of you, promising to make it all better?

Worst of all, why, if it was supposed to be the right thing to do, did it hurt so fucking bad?

TAGLIST: @anythingforjtk @highway-tuna @klarxtr @hollyco @thetroublegetssoloud71 @ageofbajabule @dannys-dream @raceb14 @watchingover-hypegirl @starshine-gvf @do-it-jakey-baby @gretavansara @jakesbeloved @woyayaofdreams @jakeyt @kiszkas-canvas @gracev0609 @josh-iamyour-mama @musicspeaks @gretavangroupie @gretavanmoon @gvfmarge @takenbythemadness

[ace-cf-cups]

I've just walked out of my dentist's office 😬 so while my anesthesia is wearing off, please send me prompts for renbelle, renacey, rumbelle (golden lace/woven lace/woven beauty included) or bellish! 🥺

[ace-of-spaders]

I'm trying to get back into writing and I love working with prompts, so please send me some from this list, this, this or this for Lizzington or any variation of Rumbelle!

Sending more than one prompt is not only allowed but greatly encouraged)

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

[prk-gunwook]

BOYS PLANET — how they love you

INCLUDES || sung hanbin | zhang hao | kim jiwoong | park gunwook | seok matthew | kim taerae | kum junhyeon | ricky

GENRE || tooth-rotting fluff

WORD COUNT || 2.1k

NOTES || this is my first post on tumblr ! had to create an account just for these boys i adore. requests are open, and please leave me feedback ! <3

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ touch ❜

SUNG HANBIN touches you like you are his lifeline; like golden ichor flows through your veins and bubbly springs overflow in your mouth, as if your skin is made of fibers woven by Athena herself. His touches are feather-soft, lingering sweetly on your flesh and body, leaving fingerprints of moon dust. He wraps his hands around your torso under the cover of the sun, pressing sugary kisses to your temples early in the morning through silk curtains, whispered promises of love and devotion leaving his lips to caress your ears.

Hanbin laces your fingers together more often than not; soft hands tracing the lines of your palm as if he could read the future you two will build together there. Whether it’s a hand on your thigh, a finger wrapping around your pinky, or a head on your shoulder, he craves your touch like a starved man.

As you lay in bed, head resting softly on his chest, you peer up at him.

“Can you breathe fine like this?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing inward slightly in concern. Hanbin laughs— a short, sweet thing that rings like wedding bells in your mind— and nods.

He gazes down at you, eyes staring at you as if you hold the world in the palms of your hands, and you feel the cold touch of his fingers brushing circles against your hip.

“There is no other way I could wish to breathe,” He replies, words soft and laced with the admiration he feels for you.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ fruits ❜

ZHANG HAO loves you dearly— his love runs deeper than the ocean, glittering water that shimmers and shines with every action and word you perform. You know it, he knows it, and there is nothing else either of you need. He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like the waves love the shore, like Prometheus loves his creations. He loves you like there is no other option; and for him, there isn’t.

Often, you find yourself staying up late to finish the schoolwork you neglect until the last minute, pencil in your mouth and eyes narrowed in thought. Problems and their solutions swim in your mind, crossing over into the other and leaving you more and more confused.

“You need to sleep,” Hao’s stern voice comes from the doorway, arms crossed in discontent as he watches you study.

“I need to finish this,” You argue, even as your eyes beg for sleep and your knees ache from sitting down for hours. You can hear Hao move across the room, floorboards creaking softly underfoot as he makes his way toward you.

“At least eat something,” He says, placing a bowl of crisp apple slices in front of you. You pick one up, noticing how the skin has been cut in a specific way to resemble a bunny. Before you can thank him he’s gone, out the doorway— probably to sleep.

The next day, as you sit down to study, you notice a bowl of freshly-cut bunny apples waiting for you, and a small sticky-note with the words “try and sleep early tonight”.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM JIWOONG 𖥻 ❛ long drives ❜

KIM JIWOONG was always extremely stubborn when it came to road safety— not that it was a bad thing, you could appreciate it, really. Eyes on the road, two hands on the steering wheel, music never too loud, and seatbelts are buckled before the car moves even a millimeter. But ever since meeting you, he’s taken to driving one-handed, always leaving one hand open for you to hold.

Inside his car, there is only you and him. There is only Jiwoong’s devotion to you. There is only starlight and sublime tears, moonlit kisses and beating hearts that mold into one, only his hand in yours.

No words need to be exchanged as wheels turn steadily on pavement roads, soft chirps of grasshoppers and croaks of frogs filling the empty spaces. There are no words that need to be exchanged when they’ve all already been said; “I love you” loses its meaning after a while, and now your love is found in the feeling of his hands on yours, of your eyes interlocking gazes in the rearview mirror, of hidden smiles and inside jokes. Now, your love is found in the lack of words needed when Jiwoong grabs his keys from the wall and only has to look at you to ask if you want to go on a drive with him.

No words are needed when you love as strongly as you do.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, PARK GUNWOOK 𖥻 ❛ this reminded me of you ❜

PARK GUNWOOK thinks that, if there are a million universes, he loves you in every single one. He has bared his heart for you to take like a oyster with its pearl— he would rip apart his heart and sew it back together in the shape of you, for you are in the only thing in it. He sees his entire world in you, and in the world he sees you.

He sees you in the lipstick mark of an abandoned coffee cup, he sees you in the sketchy lines of a street mural, he sees you in blossoming bouquets of spring and bicycles parked on the beach. When Gunwook enters a shop, every item relates back to you; how would you like this shirt on him? Would this look cute on you? Is this your style of decor?

He doesn’t mean to buy you so many things, really, it just happens. As you dance in your living room with him, choked laughter ringing in the air, a collection of miscellaneous items decorate your walls and shelves.

A penguin sculpture for the way you purse your lips in thought. A magazine cut-out of an ad for the same picnic blanket you had your first date on. A collection of pink stickers scattered along the walls for the color of your shirt the day he asked you out.

This room is a log of your m emories; of the love you share, of the tears and the smiles, of all the good and the bad and the in-between. It’s a dictionary of every moment the two of you have shared, fluent in the language of love. And yet there are so many empty spaces, empty pages, for the next moments to come, and you doubt this book will ever close.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SEOK MATTHEW 𖥻 ❛ admiration in his eyes ❜

SEOK MATTHEW is like the sun. Bright, happy, a shining, glimmering light that can cast even the most gloomy of days away. His smile is like the medicine to a sickness you never knew you had, his eyes crescent rainbows that reflect every good feeling you can have, his laugh like the ripples of a fresh river swirling around your legs in summer. Seok Matthew is the sun in every meaning of the word.

And you are his moon. He would chase you to the ends of the Earth for eternity just for a glimpse of your smile, just a word from your lips, just a small glance at your eyes, and he would do it for longer than the term “forever” can communicate. He will follow wherever you go, no matter if it’s down to a fiery pit of justice or up to a symphony of angels chorusing for you.

When you speak, Matthew’s eyes are fully on you. Never will it stray (and he has suffered being the butt of many, many jokes because of this), but he can’t help it. Why would he ever want to look away from you, if you are all he ever wants to look at? Stars in his eyes, but you are his one moon.

He hardly ever dreams when he sleeps, for every moment with you is enough to last him through his years without a wink of slumber. He would never have to rest his head if only he can hear you laugh everyday— when you smile, he smiles, and it lights up the world.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM TAERAE 𖥻 ❛ love songs ❜

KIM TAERAE wonders how anybody enjoyed listening to him sing before he met you, for he never knew true love before. Never has he been able to sing fully with the implication of knowing, never has he embarked on the journey of admiration the songs describe, and never has he known this warm, bubbly feeling called love. Now, every word is charged with the meaning of you; the love he holds for you, the smiles he hides for you, the guitar strings he strums for you, the songs he sings just for you.

His Spotify playlists have become perhaps seven times longer than before, filled to the brim with soft songs that he dedicates entirely to your being.

“Your lips, my lips,” Taerae sang, voice sweet but gravelly, the melody tuned to the sound of beating hearts and hushed kisses. You sit next to him, watching his lips move in a fixed fascination as his deft fingers strum the strings of his guitar like an expert. He plays the strings of your heart the same way; with a practiced ease, like it was what he was born to do.

“Go and sneak us through rivers,” He continues, eyes focused not on his guitar but on you. Taerae thanks every soul that has ever lived on Earth before this, and every soul after, that you were born in such a time and place that he could meet you and fall in love. “Flood is rising up on your knees.”

“Oh please, come out and haunt me.”

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KUM JUNHYEON 𖥻 ❛ bad movies ❜

KUM JUNHYEON has always been a warm person; he is made of fiery spirits and nipping branches, of autumn leaves tumbling to the ground in piles, ready to be jumped in. He’s made of loud words and screaming laughs, of bad aeygo and joking whispers, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He is entirely odd, and he’s entirely yours.

So it makes sense he shows his love for you through bad movies. You have never laughed as much as you have when you sit with him on a worn-down couch, bowls of popcorn in your hands, tall cups of soda ready to be drunk on your table. Never have you laughed so hard you snorted except for when Junhyeon made you watch The Emoji Movie with him and interrupted every other sentence to make a joke— and even after that, Junhyeon couldn’t get a joke out because he was laughing too hard at the fact you snorted.

Laughter is uncontrollable when you’re around Junhyeon— when you cuddle up next to him, and even when your eyes are begging for sleep, you can’t stop laughing. When you’re sure you’ve got abs from the hours of jokes, when you’re certain you’ll have laugh lines deeper than the grand canyon after how many years you’ve spent with Junhyeon.

It’s odd, yes, but it’s so entirely Junhyeon.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, RICKY 𖥻 ❛ gifts ❜

RICKY is young, rich, tall, and handsome, there is no denying that. One thing they never revealed is the fact he’s perceptive— frighteningly so. If you even mention liking something in passing, rest assured there will be a basket of it in your kitchen the next day. If you spend even a fraction of a second too long looking at a piece of jewelry, best believe it��s draped around your neck the next day.

It’s not that he enjoys flaunting his wealth. It’s just… what else should he use it for, if not the one he loves the most? He would buy a thousand gems of the rarest ore just for a single second of your happiness. He would sell his fortune for the feel of his hand in yours— he’d even give up hairspray just to kiss your lips once.

Ricky thinks and feels so much all the time, his heart is bruised and bleeding, but you have become a doctor just to repair him. He loves you in the way nobody can understand; and he does not need understanding when he has admiration. He thinks there is a chapel within his heart entirely dedicated to you; that if he is reincarnated, it will be as a passing breeze that thinks only of you.

“I love you,” He says more often than he thought he ever would.

“I love you, too.” He hears back more often than he thought possible.

—

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 94

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 94: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green II

AO3 - Masterlist

25k words.

The Great Sept was awash in shadows, despite the shutters of most windows being thrust open to let in the light from outside. Yet, the shadows seemed to reign within the sacred space. From each point of the sept’s seven-pointed star structure, a sliver of golden light spilled in, illuminating each statue of the gods stationed at the center of each point. These statues faced inward toward the sept’s heart, where a large, round altar stood surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles. While each idol had its own altar at its feet, the central altar was dedicated to all of the gods, signifying their unified presence. 

Above, from the expansive, domed ceiling, light cascaded through the windows, its intensity waning as it delved deeper into the sanctum. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax from the large candlesticks scattered strategically throughout, their flames battling the ever-encroaching gloom with bursts of warm, golden radiance. The flickering light cast moving shadows that played across the stone floors and walls, adding a living element to the stillness of the sacred space.

Aemond stood at the heart of the Great Sept, with only the High Septon beside him, facing an altar ablaze with candlelight. 

The gods had never granted Aemond anything; as the second son, he was merely the spare. And everything he possessed, he had fought to claim for himself. 

As a child, Aemond had attended the dragon-riding lessons at the Dragonpit, despite not having a dragon of his own. He often lingered in the shadows, a fierce envy igniting within him as he watched his brother and nephew-cousins bond with their dragons. His only companion during those times was Daenera, who, like him, was also without a dragon. Aemond had never understood why Daenera did not share the same bitterness and envy–he couldn’t grasp how she could accept her status as a Targaryen without a dragon so readily. He had surmised that perhaps it was because she was a bastard, fearful that her Targaryen blood was not as pure as his own–or so his mother had told him.

The air had been thick and warm, as it was now, though it had been heavy with the scent of dragons–smoke, and charred flesh, and ash mingling together–and not the sweet, cloying scent of incense and beeswax from the many candles littering the Sept. It was there that his brother and nephew-cousins had played their cruel jest, strapping wings to a pig and presenting it to him in mockery. The Ping Dread, they had called it. Their laughter had surrounded him, ringing in his ears as he had descended into the cavernous depths beneath the Dragonpit.

Insult after insult had marked his childhood, a relentless stream of disrespect and indignity that wove itself into the fabric of his early years. His brother and nephew-cousins had never hesitated to remind him of what he laced, never missed an opportunity to make him feel lesser–to make him feel less Targaryen than even the bastard children who had dragons hatch to them. 

The seed of resentment had taken root all those years ago in the depths of the Dragonpit, where Aemond’s desperate effort to claim a dragon of his own began–a fierce attempt to prove he was no less Targaryen than any of them. 

Each time he had ventured into the bowels of the Dragonpit, he faced failure. The dragons housed there had already been claimed, and once a dragon accepted a rider, it recognized no other. Despite this, Aemond had persisted tirelessly. He tried again and again, driven by a relentless determination to demonstrate his worth and secure his place within the Targaryen legacy. 

Night after night, Aemond had bowed his head in fervent prayer to the gods–prayer for a dragon of his own. He prayed for his father’s acknowledgement, yearning for a moment when his father might see him, recognize him, and care for him. He prayed for relief from the constant mockery of his brother and nephew-cousins, wishing for their respect rather than their scorn. Most desperately, he had prayed to be freed from the crushing loneliness that gnawed at his soul.

Faithfully, he had performed the rituals: lighting candles during his visits to the sept, attending masses alongside his mother. Yet, no divine answers came. There was no dragon for him to claim. His father continued to overlook him, turning a blind, guilt-ridden eye away. His brother and nephew-cousins never ceased their jeers, offering him no respect, only a deep scar that split his face–a permanent mark of disdain. And through it all, he remained isolated, perpetually alone. 

When the chance had finally arisen, presenting a dragon without a rider, Aemond seized with an desperation that eclipsed all other concerns–he had long since ceased praying to the gods. He had set himself before Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the realm, and demandes she accept him as her rider. This was the opportunity he had yearned for–a dragon of his own, and with it, he thought he would gain the respect and acceptance he so desperately sought. 

And in that moment, as he stood before the beast and bellowed his command, the dragon’s massive jaws gaped open, the heat from her breath searing the air as flames began to gather at the back of her throat, Aemond questioned if he had prayed to the wrong gods. The primal power of Vhagar, so close and overwhelming, made him wonder if the divine had ever truly listened, or if his fervent pleas had been in vain.

His grip on the reins had been so fierce his knuckles had turned bone-white, and he had felt his bones groan under the strain of his hold. As Vhagar’s powerful wings beat through the air, his heart had pounded so forcefully it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, with Vhagar beneath him, Aemond had felt an exhilarating sense of invincibility–a god himself, or as close to one as he would ever be. He had claimed the most formidable dragon in existence, and with that claim, he believed he had finally attained his greatest desires. 

The price Aemond had paid for claiming Vhagar had been steep–an eye, cruelly carved from its socket by one of the bastards who had mocked, humiliated, and tormented him throughout his life. 

Claiming the dragon had changed nothing. There was no justice for the blood he had spilled, no reparation for the grievous injury he had suffered. Instead, the seed of injustice had taken root in the soil of resentment, and from that, his rage had flourished.

His father had never truly acknowledged him, even when Aemond had gone to great lengths to be the ideal, dutiful son. The respect he had longed for remained elusive; instead, he was the subject of whispered conversations in shadowed corners, his scarred face drawing looks of revulsion.

Even the love from his mother, while genuine, was marred by shame and guilt—it was a conditional affection, a painful truth that Aemond had come to realize now that he had sought justice for himself. 

Claiming a dragon had changed nothing–except for him. In his loss, he had forged himself into a weapon, burying any notion of love deep within his heart where it could neither grow nor see the light, left instead to rot and fester in darkness. To the world, he presented a mask as hard and cold as steel, as sharp and merciless as the blade he wielded with ease.

Duty had demanded sacrifices from him, and sacrifice he did.

For so long, all Aemond had desired was to be respected, to be revered, to be seen as someone of greatness. He had admired The Rogue Prince for the respect he commanded, a respect born of both fear and honor. As a second son and a dragonrider, Aemond too yearned to carve his name into the annals of history as a war hero, to be remembered not just in fear but in awe. And beneath all the layers of ambition, the desire to be loved still lingered, buried yet persistent.

In pursuit of this, he had made his sacrifices. He spilled blood. He let go of his hopes and wishes for genuine respect and reverence. He sacrificed his honor and, ultimately, his very name.

If respect would not come through admiration, then he would claim it through fear. His honor was irrevocably stained, yet in its own twisted way, this realization liberated him. Aemond accepted the grim truth of his legacy: his name would be carved into the annals of history, not alongside the Rogue Prince’s for his daring feats, but as the Kinslayer. He was destined to be remembered in infamy, condemned by gods and men alike, forever marked by their curses.

The gods had never bestowed upon him any gifts, nor had anything else come to him freely. Everything he had, he had fought for and seized with his own hands, claiming each fragment of his existence through struggle and strife.

Standing in the sanctity of the gods, he felt no divine presence; he believed they had abandoned him long before he became a kinslayer. Had the gods shown him mercy or ensured justice when he most needed it, perhaps they would have been with him as he rode into the storm, perhaps they wouldn't have placed the boy who stole his eye in his path. Maybe then, things would have been different. But the gods had not been with him, and he suspected they never truly had been.

If the gods now thought of him, they did not think of him kindly–not with the blood he had on his hands.

As Aemond shifted his gaze, a gold dread settled in his chest, his heart seeming to freeze as his eye locked onto something–or rather, someone–on the far side of the altar. His breath caught, as he stood in silence, watching the figure that lurked just beyond the flickering flames of the altar. The light cast eerie shadows across the figure's face, lending a deceptive warmth to skin that was otherwise as pale as death itself.

Death had its grip firmly on him–his skin devoid of life, his eyes clouded with a milky blue haze that spoke of the grave. The figure stood there, drenched to the bone, dark curls clinging to his scalp. Water dripped steadily from his soaked clothing, forming small pools on the cold stone floor of the sept. 

There he was, the boy he had killed.

The boy who had made him a kinslayer.

The boy whose blood had cost him what he loved… 

Yet, not everything was lost. Though her love might forever elude him, she remained his–his bride, his wife. The boy may haunt him all he wanted, it would not change a thing. Whether it was vengeance or justice, it no longer mattered. He was dead. Aemond would carry the weight of that haunting gaze–those lifeless, milky eyes judging him silently. 

Aemond’s gaze fell to the cloak draped over his arm. His fingers brushed lightly across the plush, velvet fabric–rich green in color, adorned with a golden, three-headed dragon embroidered elegantly on the back.

He was under no illusions about the gods playing any part in this union. There were no divine blessings gracing this marriage; it was a product of his own ambition, a result of his personal decree. Underneath the soft glow of the candles and the veil of decorum that draped the ceremony, Aemond knew a hidden, festering truth lingered–a wound concealed, yet far from healed.

The heavy doors behind him swung open with a resounding throng, the sound slicing through the low murmur of conversation and resonating through the vast, domed ceiling. The sound reverberated within Aemond’s chest, his heart thrumming with its echo. All eyes turned towards the source of the light that split the darkness, streaming through the widening gap–a sliver that expanded until the light became almost blinding in the shadowy room. 

Aemond took a moment to steady his heartbeat and ensure that his composure remained intact–his features set into a mask of smooth, cutting steel, an expression of indifference crafted to rival those of the gods that seemed to gaze down in silent judgment. As he turned to face the blinding light, he had to squint against its glare, momentarily disoriented by the dazzling brilliance that seemed to cleave the sept in two. 

At first, she was little more than a dark silhouette, swallowed up by the blinding light that streamed through the sept’s entrance. She was light refracted, a splintered, ruinous divinity–an image of a goddess, both unlovely and lovely, like a half-forgotten memory of something divine. 

Was this what the moth saw just before its wings succumbed to the searing embrace of the flame? Aemond believed so, for in that moment, he felt a similar pull, as if he were the moth drawn into the fire. A fierce heat ignited beneath his skin, engulfing him, consuming him, as he stood transfixed by the sight of her.

Aemond gritted his teeth, swallowing hard as he beheld her. His heart thundered violently within his chest, each beat threatening to shatter his ribs and burst forth, falling to the sept’s floor for all to see–exposing how pathetic and vulnerable and weak it truly was, corrupted by love, poisoned by love that had rotted him from within. He clung to his mask, steeling himself, gripping it so tightly in fear that those gathered would see what lay beneath it. 

Desperately, he clung to his mask of indifference, gripping it with the facade tightly for fear that those gathered might glimpse what lay beneath. Beneath the cloak, his hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger pressing uncomfortably into his skin. 

As they began their procession into the sept, following the stream of light pouring through the open doors, she seemed to absorb the light around her, drinking in the radiance. The beads on her gown shimmered like morning dew catching the first rays of the sun–she seemed like a star descended from the heavens to walk among them. Each step she took was accompanied by the soft whisper of her gown brushing against the floor, the sound resonating in the deep silence of the sept. 

With each step, she drew nearer to the altar–nearer to him. The brilliance of the light dimmed as she approached, swallowed by the encroaching shadows that clung stubbornly to the space, despite the hundreds of candles flickering in defiance of the darkness. 

As she was led down the aisle towards the altar, there was a delicate, almost fragile quality to her demeanor. She resembled a wounded bird, her smile a blend of ineffable melancholy and sweetness. Beneath the crafted facade of porcelain and ivory, there was hidden steel–an armor not unlike his own. 

Her gaze, fixed on the flickering flames at the altar, refused to meet his. This act of defiance, while deeply endearing, also cut him sharply. He longed for her eyes to turn towards him, but her refusal only heightened the sting of rejection, a familiar restlessness that prickled beneath his skin. It was a sensation akin to needles against his nerves, a reminder of the bitter sweetness of her presence–an affliction he craved, even if it came with a burning resentment. 

They came to halt just before the altar, with Aegon allowing Daenera to withdraw her hand from the crook of his arm as he faced her. Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly, his lips pursing as he glared at his brother who had moved to cradle the sides of Daenera’s face. His brother’s touch was almost tender, as if it were familial affection, and Aegon brought Daenera’s forehead down to his lips, bestowing a kiss that seemed both intimate and patronizing. Daenera’s expression shifted to one of bewilderment, a slight frown creasing her brow as her lips pressed together in confusion and discomfort. Her gaze flitted nervously down the aisle, her brows knitting together in uncertainty as he held her face a moment longer–too long. Before he withdrew, he let his knuckle gently trace over her cheek–a gesture that might seem tender and affectionate if Aemond didn’t know how his brother. 

Finally, Aegon turned away from Daenera and faced Aemond, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. The smirk was charged with amusement and seemed to mock Aemond’s pointed glare.

Fury simmered within Aemond, his fingers itching to unsheathe his sword and cleave Aegon’s hand from his body, but he was all too aware of the absence of his weapon and the presence of witnesses. And he knew better than to let his rage explode in such a public setting. Aegon smugly retreated to stand with their mother and grandfather, the latter offering him a reproachful glance. He reached out to briefly ruffle his son’s hair as the boy stood before his mother. 

The bewilderment lingered on Daenera’s face as she watched Aegon retreat, her eyes blinking slowly before she composed herself. As she turned towards the altar, her blue eyes lifted to meet the High Septon’s gaze–pointedly avoiding Aemond’s. She took a tentative step forward, then paused. 

At that moment, a tightness gripped Aemond’s chest, as if his ribs were constricting around his lungs–tightening around his heart. He suddenly felt like that young boy again, alone in his suffering, refused the one thing he ever truly wanted. 

Daenera’s gaze drifted over the crowd before she slowly turned away from Aemond entirely, making her way towards Helaena and Jaehaera. With a soft smile, she extended the bouquet of flowers to the young girl, her voice a gentle hum, “Will you hold this for me?”

A radiant smile lit up Jaehaera’s face as she let go of her mother’s hand to take the bouquet, which was nearly as large as she was. Although Helaena would likely end up holding it eventually, for the moment, Jaehaera glowed with pride at being entrusted with such an important role.

Once the bouquet was settled in Jaehaera’s arms, Daenera straightened to her full height and turned back towards Aemond. She walked deliberately back to his side, her gaze remaining steadfastly away from him. As she took her place next to him, her expression was once again a mask of porcelain–an impenetrable facade of serene grace, betraying no hint of vulnerability. 

The High Septon’s voice rang out, commanding and resonant, cutting through the silence of the sept like a clap of thunder. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Turning away from Aemond, Daenera adjusted the veil, carefully lifting it from her shoulders along with the cascade of her hair that tumbled down her back. The removal of the sweeping of the veil unveiled the gentle curve of her neck, where her earrings swayed with the motion, catching Aemond’s eye. His gaze was inevitably drawn to the faint line of soft pink drawn on her skin from where the blade had kissed her. Though it had healed, a subtle scar remained, a mark on the tender flesh that, while not deep enough to be permanent, would take its time to fade. 

As Aemond unfolded the cloak, its deep green hue appeared almost black in the subdued light, though its true color shone through when it caught the light just right. When he draped the cloak over her shoulders, he noted the subtle tension in her neck, the fine hairs at the base of her skull stirring as a shiver seemed to travel down her spine. 

The lingering scent of roses clung to her skin–sweet and flowery with undertones of saffron and raspberry, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. The fragrance filled his senses, warming his blood and settling in his stomach, sending a shiver through him.  A tingling sensation prickled beneath his skin, the desire to reach out for her itching at his fingertips. Yet he exercised restraint, allowing his hands to fall and settle behind him as he straightened his spine. 

As Daenera turned back toward the High Septon, her hair cascaded elegantly over the cloak, with the veil gracefully following suit, settling softly over both her hair and the cloak. Aemond’s gaze, too, shifted forward, focusing intently on the High Septon as the ceremony continued.

The boy’s silent figure lingered by the altar, shadows seemingly coiling around him as rivulets of water trailed down his face and soaked clothing. Motionless, he made no move to acknowledge his sister or intrude upon the scene; he merely stood there, an eerie specter that continued to haunt Aemond with his presence.

The High Septon directed his gaze toward the King and Queen, his tone respectful as he addressed them, “Your Grace,” and “Your Grace.” He then turned to acknowledge the Dowager Queenwith a respectful nod before addressing the assembly as a whole.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice resonant and commanding, “we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The High Septon extended his weathered hand, silently inviting Daenera to place her own within his. As she complied, the heavy sleeve of her gown rustled softly against the fabric of her skirts, her hand coming to rest gently in the Septon’s grip. 

Then, he extended his other hand toward Aemond. He lifted his palm, the deep scar running across it visible, glowing in the candlelight–a lingering mark of the love they once shared; the testament of it. 

As the Septon brough their hands together, he placed Daenera’s delicate, soft hand into Aemond’s calloused one. The contact sent a shudder down his spine, which he struggled to suppress, his heart pounding violently against his ribs–beating much the same as it had when he had claimed Vhagar. Her skin felt unnervingly cold against the warmth of his own.

A ribbon, symbolizing unity and connection, was then delicately wound around their clasped hands. This act served as a tangible representation of the vows they were about to make, physically binding them together in a gesture of their newly forged bond.

Once, her hand had not trembled as it did now. It had been warm and steady, her palm gently meeting his, their blood mingling in a bond that neither of them fully acknowledged at the time. For a long time, it had been a creeping vine, slowly touching upon everything. This creeping love had flourished in the darkness, thriving in the night and the spaces between the shadows and the heart.

His gaze drifted to the altar behind the High Septon, where flames burned brightly, and the candle wax dripped slowly down the stone slab. At the center of the altar, the seven-pointed star was etched deeply into the stone. 

Aemond found it strange that he had felt a deeper sense of divinity back when they had sat alone before the hearth’s flames, enveloped in darkness with only the flames as their witness. There had been something sacred in that moment when they had cut their palms–when they had shared their blood. 

Now, as he turned his attention back to Daenera, he observed her intently. The flames cast a warm glow over her delicate features, flickering in the blue of her eyes–eyes that stubbornly continued to elude him. He found her denial cruel, even now, as they stood so close, hands tied together. She ignited in him a feverish desire, a longing not just to possess but to be wholly possessed by her. 

The love Aemond felt for Daenera was of a nature separate from the divine sanctity preached by the Faith or the sentimental ideals told to children. He understood that it was marred by darkness, corrupt and corrupting, a love that was as vicious and obscene as it was consuming. It was born from the shadows, a dark flower growing from tainted soil–an inherent reflection of its twisted, obscene and flawed essence.

Yet, amidst its darkness, there was an element of purity–a facet of this love that was beyond the sanctity preached by the Faith, deeper than any tale told to children. Even a flower that grows twisted, possessed its own haunting beauty. 

As a boy, he had yearned for love, a longing that had been ruthlessly bullied out of him, carved away until he rejected any hint of weakness. And love was weakness in the purest form, wasn’t it? He had sworn never to seek such vulnerability again–determined never to be perceived as weak. That desire had been buried deep within him, denied and discarded. Yet here he was, a scar burning across his palm, having sought that very weakness he abhorred. 

He found himself ensnared, tormented, and utterly consumed by the intoxicating sweetness of her poison–even in its cruelty. The yearning he harbored for her suffocated him; he choked on it, drowned in its dark allure. He loathed this weakness, the restless unease it brought, for it exposed the soft, pathetic core of his rotten heart. 

When does love truly begin? At what moment does the knife sink so deep that the flesh weeps with love? Aemond had cut himself open on this love for her, bleeding and wounded, yet still willing to endure another wound, just for a single kiss–just for a fleeting glance. 

If the gods were ever inclined to heed a prayer of his, he hoped it would be this one: either to liberate him from this torturous love so that he can fulfill his duties to his family, or grant him the strength to withstand the weight of her hatred. 

It seemed the gods had born Aemond with an insatiable hunger–the longing of it, a hungry desire, a craving to possess and be possessed. 

He had long starved himself of his desires, had swallowed his longings, denying his ambition and wants for years, claiming only what little he could. For so long, Vhagar had been his sole solace, the only refuge from his hunger. But now, he would not deny himself his single true desire. He would claim Daenera as his wife, even if it cut him open. He would harden his heart around the vulnerability she inspired, protecting her there even if she clawed and tore at it.  

The High Septon spread his hands wide, holding them aloft as he called upon the gods, his voice resonating through the heavy silence of the sept. “We invoke the Father, to protect these two souls from their enemies and ensure that any wrongs against them are met with justice; the Mother, to bless this union and keep it safe and fruitful–”

Aemond felt something stir within him at the invocation, a feeling clawing its way from the darkness into the light, neither entirely pure nor wholly corrupt, but imbued with a deep reverence. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst forth as a deep hum emerged from his chest. It flowed from his lips in an ancient vow, long buried and mostly forgotten. 

“Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.”

In your fire I worship. 

He had spoken those words to her that night–the night when they had cut their palms and mingled their blood, binding their veins together in a shared vow. Though it felt like a distant dream, Aemond recalled it with startling clarity. In that moment, the world had seemed to dissolve into insignificance. All ties of duty and responsibility vanished, leaving only his hunger for her and the two of them alone in existence. 

Back then, they too had been enveloped in shadows, the warmth and light from the hearth licking at their skin, much like how the hundreds of candles now tempered the chill lingering in the air of the sept. That moment had been far more intimate, a baring of hearts as profound as it was unspoken. 

Aemond had known it even then; deep within him, the realization had gnawed at his consciousness and echoed through his bones. He had desired her as his wife, shrouded though his feelings were in denial and pretense. His longing had been so intense that it had even driven him to seek out his father once he felt her slipping from his grasp.

He yearned for the days when she had gazed upon him with affection–with love. He ached for the moments when her eyes had met his with understanding, prying beneath his mask, erasing the deep, persistent ache that followed him like a shadow, soothing the deep-seated loneliness that had settled within his bones. 

But he would accept her scorn as long as she was his. 

As Aemond spoke, her gaze rose to meet his, her blue eyes flickering with a tremor of uncertainty. She looked at him in bewilderment, confusion, and disbelief–she looked upon him as a girl would behold a thing once cherished, that had come to destroy her in the end. 

The High Septon’s voice rose solemnly in the hushed silence in the sept, “We call upon the Warrior, to grant these souls with the courage needed to stand firm against adversity, and to protect their sacred union from the evils seeking to pull them apart; the Maiden’s grace, to fill their hearts with love and tender joy!”

A low, reverent murmur fell softly from his lips as Aemond watched her closely, “Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks. Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.”

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace. 

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

In the utterance of those words, Aemond found both rot and reverence. They evoked a memory–one where Daenera had pressed a blade to his throat, its edge a dangerous whisper against his skin. She had wielded the power to press the blade deeper, to end his life with a single, ruthless stroke, and drain him of life–she could have cracked his ribs and torn his heart from his chest. 

Yet, she had refrained. Despite her resistance, her refusal to voice it–despite the silence that followed–there was an unmistakable thread of love in her restraint, reluctant though she might be to recognize it.

In that fleeting moment of hesitation, Aemond found a sliver of hope–imperfect and twisted though it was. This love, betrayed and broken, was nonetheless a form of love, shaped by the sharp edges of their intertwined fates. And even in its twisted, deteriorated form, it was something he clung to desperately.

“We ask the Smith, to fortify their bond, crafting from their spirits a connection as resilient as the finest steel, capable of withstanding the trials of time; the Crone, bestow your wisdom upon them, lighting their path with the lantern of foresight and understanding, guiding their steps through life together.”

Her gaze remained on him, the fire from the altar reflecting in the deep blue of her eyes–reminiscent of a sun blazing against the night sky, tears barely held at bay. Her lips parted, releasing a trembling breath.

In that moment, Aemond felt the urgent press of her nails against his skin, a sweet stinging marking his flesh as she dug her claws into him. “Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.”

By your heart mine rests. 

I give you my prayer.

“And from the Stranger,” the High Septon’s voice rose with solemn authority, “we ask that he not claim them before their time, but instead grant them a long and loving life together.”

The High Septon’s invocation reached out to the gods who had long been indifferent to him, who had never answered his own pleas. Aemond did not seek the divine favor of the gods who had abandoned him–would they even hear him if he did? Instead, he sought a divinity shaped by something far more visceral–one forged in fire and blood, far removed from the distant indifference of the gods he knew. 

Aemond concluded this vow with a voice that held both resolve and raw intensity, “Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon…Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.”

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed. My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Daenera’s eyes, a stormy sea of blue, held a tempest of emotions–the cornflower blue of willowing fields mingling with the deep blues of dusk and dawn, relentless waves crashing upon the shore mingling with the blue of fleeting dreams. In that sea of blue, a fierce resentment burned with such intensity that Aemond could almost feel its searing heat against his flesh–a consuming fire that promised only to reduce him to ashes in the wake of its wrath. Within this blaze, there was a strange sense of intimacy–only hatred born of love could bring such intimacy. 

Her voice slipped through the space between them with the subtlety of a hidden blade pressing between his ribs, each word furthering the blade, letting it sink into his flesh. “Aōha kivio, pōnta vāedagon lēda se echo hen pirtir.”

Even your vows sound like a betrayal.

The accusation stung, and perhaps it was a betrayal, both to the gods who had long ignored his pleas–who remained still his gods–and a deeper treachery–a betrayal of his own heart, laid bare and vulnerable. He betrayed himself, and in this, he revealed a weakness he had long sought to conceal–a weakness he had long sought to rid himself of. 

In the bite of her nails, Aemond felt her silent demand for him to hold his tongue, for him to keep his words burning in his throat to choke on. The sting of her touch held a dark reverence–a perverse sort of devotion only hatred born of love held. And like a sinner seeking absolution through the infliction of pain, Aemond welcomed the sting, knowing well that there was no true absolution for him, but accepting the pain with a twisted sort of gratitude. 

His love for her was a brutal thing, verging on viciousness–an intensity that he understood as the only true way to love. For him, love was akin to a blade working a wound, a relentless assault of teeth, claws, and shredded flesh. It was a raw, bloody vulnerability, given and received in equal measure, an all-consuming force that left both of them exposed and scarred.

The High Septon’s gaze flickered between them, his voice rich with gravitas of tradition and divine solemnity. “Look upon one another and speak these sacred words,” he instructed. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am theirs and they are mine from this day until the end of my days…”

Aemond’s voice was steady as he began, “Father, Smith, Warrior–” as Daenera spoke the same words. They continued in discorded unison, their voices intertwining in the sacred vows, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…”

Their gazes remained locked on one another, the faint whisper of flames fluttering in the silence that enveloped their words. A tremor threaded through her voice, eyes wide and wet as she stared back at him, the corners of her lips quivering. 

“I am hers…” Aemond declared as Daenera answered, “I am his…”

“And she is mine…” He continued, voice steady.

“And he is mine…” Daenera echoed, her voice soft but firm. Her grip on Aemond's hand tightened, her fingers curling and pressing into his flesh with a vindictive intensity. The tips of her fingers dug into the spaces between his bones, twisting his flesh, promising to leave the sting of red crescents on his skin.

Together, they intoned, “And with this kiss, I pledge my love from this day until the end of my days…”

Gently, Aemond raised his free hand to her face, tenderly brushing away the tears trail. Daenera neither moved closer to welcome his touch nor recoiled from it; she merely endured it with a quiet resignation. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer before he leaned in, capturing her lips in a quick, aching kiss. It was fleeting, yet devastating in its intensity. Her lips were soft, but there was a coldness to them, a distance that stung him more than any blade ever could. As their mouths met, he tasted the bitterness there–bitter like the dark wine he liked, bitter like the poison that he had come to crave.

Aemond’s heart ached with the need to linger, to lose himself in her, to drink deeply from her as if she were the sweetest nectar–desperately pathetic for it. He knew well the taste of her lips, the pull they had on him, and how he was drawn to them despite knowing it could destroy him. Her lips, though soft, were distant, and even in this intimate moment, she felt like something just out of reach.

It was a kiss that seemed to solidify their vows, a silent pledge made before the watchful eyes of the gods. 

The High Septon’s voice cut through the silence, rising with a solemn authority as he declared, “Let the gods and all present bear witness to this union!”

He raised his hands towards the heavens, as if drawing down divine favor to imbue his words with sacred power. “Let it be known, from this day until the end of days, Daenera and Aemond are united as one, bound together in the sight of the gods. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them from each other, for their bond is holy!”

As the High Septon concluded his oration, the solemnity of his words hung in the air, a profound declaration of unity and commitment steeped in the traditions and beliefs of the Faith of the Seven. “They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

The High Septon carefully untied the ribbon that had bound their hands, his movements deliberate and measured. The soft fabric brushed against Aemond’s skin as it slipped away, signaling the end of the ritual. Though their hands were now free, the vows they had exchanged had irrevocably bound them together in a more profound way.

Lucerys presence lingered just beyond the altar. He hovered there, a silent witness to the proceedings, his unseeing eyes fixed on them, judging, watching–a cold reminder of the past that refused to stay buried, refusing to be forgotten.

As they turned to face the court, the air within the sept seemed to shift. They stood side by side, a unified front, their hands still clasped together as though the ribbon hadn’t been removed. The quiet solemnity that had enveloped the sept was slowly replaced by a growing murmur of approval, building into a robust applause that reverberated through the grand space. The resonant sound filled the ornate, arched ceilings of the sept, reverberating off the gilded stone. 

Aemond felt the weight of the court’s gaze settle upon him, a familiar burden he bore with practiced ease–steel concealed beneath a veneer of calm. His lips curved into a self-assured smirk as he bore their judgment. 

Together, as the applause washed over them, Aemond began to lead Daenera, and their procession, down the aisle when a youthful voice pierced the air, halting them. 

“Aunty Dae!” Princess Jaehaera shouted, much to the dismay of her nursemaid, her voice followed by the patter of small feet over the smooth stone of the floor. The young princess darted towards Daenera, her arms filled with the bouquet of flowers she had been given to hold earlier. “Your flowers!”

Daenera’s lips curved into a warm, genuine smile as she accepted the flowers with a gracious ‘Thank you.’

“Can we have lemon cakes when we get back?” Jaehaera asked with hopeful eyes, moving out of the reach as her grandmother came to quiet her from interrupting the procession. 

“Of course, you can have as many cakes as you’d like,” Daenera replied, her tone soft and indulgent. Jaehaera’s face lit up with a radiant beam, her joy palpable as she was swept into the embrace of her nursemaid. 

With a decisive, yet graceful stride, he guided his wife forward, each step marked by the soft rustle of her skirts. The sound of their footsteps, muted beneath the applause, echoed against the stone floors of the sept. The court began to follow after them as they led the way. 

They moved into the column of light streaming through the open doors, the golden rays catching on Daenera’s gown once more, the beads shimmering with a delicate brilliance. In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance. 

Ascending the steps into the daylight, they emerged onto the landing that overlooked the plaza below. The sky above was a brilliant blue, the sun beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Aemond guided Daenera to the edge of the landing, their presence announced by Ser Rickard Thorne’s resonant voice:

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and his wife, Princess Daenera Targaryen!”

As Ser Rickard Thorne’s announcement echoed across the plaza, the crowd erupted into cheers and adulations. Aemond gazed down upon them, observing the shifting masses of people as their hands reached towards them. It was as if they sought to touch upon them. Despite their enthusiasm, Aemond felt detached, viewing them with disdain; to him, they were mere mud beneath his heel–a sea of commonality, their attire practical and drab, tinted in various hues of brown that matched the earth. 

The hands that surged towards them were as telling as the faces: weathered and worn by hard labor, stained and rough, clawing at the air in a desperation that bordered on primal. Pathetic. 

The cheers that rose from the crowd were not for him; Aemond knew that if they reached for him, it was not in reverence but in violence–they sought to tear him limb from limb and wrench the sapphire from his eye socket as they tore the ribbons of his bowls out of him. It was a cruel death, and in their eyes, he was all too deserving of such a fate.

At his side, Daenera waved to the people, her expression softened by a gentle smile. He wondered, with a tightening in his chest, whether the crowd would turn on her if given the chance now that she was his wife. Would they rip at her dress, snatch the silver and gold from her hair, claw into her flesh in their wild fervor?

The thought of their hands, stained and rough, ravaging her was anathema to him. He resolved silently that he would not allow it. Any attempt to harm her would be met with swift retribution. He would see to it that anyone who dared lay a finger on her would lose that hand. 

Aemond’s watchful eye scanned the crowd when he felt Daenera’s hand slip from his grasp. The loss of her touch struck him like the snuffing out of a warm flame, leaving his skin tingling with its absence. He let his hand drop to his side, restlessly twitching.

His attention followed her as she took a tentative step forward, passing her bouquet of flowers into Lady Edelins hands as she did so. Her posture was poised, her spine straight and head held high, though there was a carefulness to it. Moving with deliberate grace, she approached the edge of the landing, her gaze sweeping across the now hushing crowd. 

The plaza descended into silence as Daenera reached out to grasp the wrought iron railing of the landing. Her hands traced the contours of the weathered metal, sweeping along its length as she gracefully bent her knees and leaned forward. Her arms extended fully, her body nearly parallel to the railing as she tilted her head forward in a deep, respectful bow to the assembled masses. 

“The Mother bless you, Princess!” A voice pierced through the silence. “May the Mother protect you!”

The crowd, seemingly moved by her gesture, erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers, surging forward with renewed fervor. 

The gold cloaks sprang into action, their voices raised in a command as they pushed the crowd back, striving to prevent them from breaking through the line and storming the steps. The tension between the disciplined restraint of the guards and the swell of the crowd grew. 

Suddenly, a shout cut through the clamor, piercing and clear: “All Hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! The Rightful Queen!” It was quickly followed by another, the crowd’s voices swelling, “Seven blessings to Lucerys Velaryon!” 

Just as the clamor swelled, Ser Criston Cole intervened from behind them with a decisive tone, “We should get back to the Keep. The crowd is getting restless.”

Heeding his advice, Aegon and Helaena descended the steps, the nursemaids trailing closely behind, each holding one of the twins. Jaejaerys clutched his toy dragon tightly, a frown on his face at the noise, while Jaehaera’s head bobbed slightly, her eyes wide and uncertain. The Dowager Queen followed in their wake, accompanied by the Hand of the King. 

The Kingsguard flanked their procession, their white cloaks fluttering dramatically in the breeze. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, ever vigilant and poised for action, ready to draw steel should a threat arise. 

Aemond approached Daenera, his hand finding its way to the small of her back as he spoke softly but firmly, “Come.”

Their gazes met, and she responded with a small, solemn nod, a slight frown on her face. Aemond's touch remained firm yet gentle as he led her towards the staircase. Daenera carefully gathered her long skirts in her hands, lifting them just enough to ensure she wouldn’t trip, her movement graceful and deliberate under his watchful gaze. 

They descended together to second landing, their pace deliberate as they approached the next flight of stairs leading down to the bustling plaza below. As they drew closer, the roar of the crowd grew louder, and hands reached out from between the guards who struggled to maintain control. The guards formed a human barricade, their voices sharp and commanding as they ordered the crowd to step back and make way. Despite their efforts, the narrow path through the plaza seemed to shrink under the pressure from the surging throng, which grew increasingly restless and agitated.

A piercing shout cut through the din, “Cursed be the Kinslayer!” 

The word ‘kinslayer’ echoed ominously through the air, its resonance carrying the weight of venomous hostility as it reverberated among the crowd. 

Aemond drew Daenera close, his hand steady against the small of her back as he cast a wary glance down the narrow path. The crowd pressed against the line of gold cloaks, their faces contorted with hostility and their hands reaching out in a desperate, grasping motion. 

They shouted at him as though he were some cruel man who had lured away the princess of flowers–drawing her from her mother’s protection, binding her in marriage to keep her forever by his side. They painted him a monster. And, perhaps, the accusation rang true. After all, the monster they thought him to be was not so far from the man he was.

“Monster!” Someone hurled at them–at him–the word slicing through the air. In stark opposition to the insults hurled his way, flower petals began to rain down upon them, fluttering through the air like pink snow before settling on the ground where they were trampled underfoot. The sweet scent mingled with the dirt and grime of the city. 

“The Mother protect the princess from the kinslayer!” A voice rang out, its fervent swallowed by the tumult. Almost immediately, another shout echoed through the throng, “The gods protect you from the monster!”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he suppressed the impulse to react. He remained impassive, his gaze unwavering despite the barrage of vitriol directed at him. To him, their disdain was inconsequential–a mere squeak from rats that would not distract a cat from its path. He cared little for their outcries; his focus was solely on the path ahead and on Daenera by his side. 

Amidst the cacophony of insults and outcry directed at Aemond, there was also currents of prayers and adulations aimed at Daenera. Shouts of well-wishes and expressions of admiration were directed towards her, while flowers and petals continued to rain down upon them as they made their way through the narrow passage between the buildings towards the awaiting litter. 

Aemond extended his hand, offering support as Daenera climbed the steps. Her veil fluttered in the wind as she prepared to step into the litter, momentarily revealing the green cloak draped over her shoulders. With a graceful motion, she settled into the plush seat, the fabric of her gown spreading around her. Aemond followed, ascending the steps and ducking into the litter. He positioned himself directly across from her, his gaze lingering on her as the door closed, shutting out the bustling city beyond.

She had been radiant, smiling and waving at the crowd outside, but as soon as the door closed, her smile vanished. It fell away like a fading illusion, her hand drifting to rest in her lap, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet resignation. Her gaze remained on the narrow slit in the window shutters, through which she could watch as they city slipped by as the litter began its journey. 

Outside, the clamor of the crowd was reduced to a distant murmur, muted by the walls of the litter. The noisy throng was mostly swallowed by the relentless sound of wooden wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, the litter jolting and shaking with every bump. Aemond detested riding in a litter. 

The fleeting rays of sunlight played across her face as the silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. Aemond’s gaze remained on her, watching her closely, attempting to decipher her expression–her face was a mask of neutrality, eyes resolutely averted, her demeanor devoid of any pretense or desire for interaction. 

Aemond broke the silence with a tone that seemed almost too forceful. “You look beautiful.”

Daenera’s eyes stayed locked on the narrow gap in the shutters, her refusing to meet his gaze. She answered coolly, her voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “So I’ve been told.”

Lively music echoed through the throne room, the musicians playing with a cheerful energy, their instruments weaving a tapestry of festive melodies that filled the grand space. The low hum of conversation mingled with the music, creating a backdrop of lively chatter and the soft clinking of glasses. 

At the center of the festivities, Aemond and Daenera were prominently seated on a raised dias, positioned before the imposing Iron Throne. Behind them, the twisted wrought steel of the throne loomed like a dark, intricate wreath, its sharp, jagged edges framing their elevated position. Their table, draped in lush green velvet, stood out against the grandeur of the room, adorned with two opulent floral arrangements that flanked them in a rainbow of colors; red, yellow, orange, purple, blue, white. 

The table, set between columns bearing the stern, stone effigies of Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys, seemed almost dwarfed by the weight of their gaze. The stony visages of the king's past seemed to watch over the proceedings, their silent presence a reminder of the legacy that had led them to this point. 

The table itself was a canvas of decadence, laden with an array of sumptuous dishes and fine wines, reflecting the opulence of the occasion. Gold and silver platters gleamed under the flickering light from the wrought iron light fixtures above, their surfaces showcasing a feast fit for royalty. Each dish was meticulously arranged, a testament to the culinary mastery that had gone into preparing the evening’s repast. 

Aemond had filled his plate with meats and steamed vegetables. And yet, he felt no desire to eat. 

From his elevated position, Aemond cast a detached gaze over the lively celebration below. Although he was positioned at the head of the festivities, an unmistakable sense of separation lingered within him. It had been barely a week since he had last sat here, celebrated for his perceived victory over the bastard boy and his dragon at Storm’s End–just a week since Daenera had entered the throne room draped in bloody red, mourning her brother's death.

Now, she sat beside him once more, adorned in gleaming ivory rather than somber red–a cloak of green draping over her shoulders. This time, she was not just his betrothed but his wife, bound to him in the sight of the gods and the realm. 

This was what he had longed for–her by his side as his wife. This was what he had fought for, what he had meticulously plotted and schemed to achieve, even going against his mother’s wishes.

Although the satisfaction of finally claiming her as his wife was immense, the sense of victory was diminished by the persistent coldness that lingered between them. Her polite smiles to guests were a veneer over the underlying chill, while Aemond himself offered no more than a sharp, satisfied smirk. Beneath that smirk, though, lay a constant ache, an unspoken yearning that prickled at his fingertips, urging him to bridge the distance between them. 

Daenera offered no pretense, her demeanor cold  and unyielding beneath the mask of formality she wore. She made no effort to engage in conversation with him, nor did she show any desire to. Aemond had expected this, and he refrained from forcing the issue–though it did little to ease the sting of her indifference. Instead, he resigned himself to the chill of her silence, finding some solace in the knowledge that she was now his wife–an unalterable fact that remained, despite the emotional distance between them.

Around them, guests in their finest attire mingled and laughed, reveling in the opulence of the feast. The room buzzed with animated conversation and the clinking of cutlery as the evening’s festivities unfolded. The servants moved deftly among the tables, replenishing goblets with rich wine and ensuring no cup remained empty for long. 

Rows of elegantly set tables stretched between the imposing columns, their surfaces adorned with gleaming silverware that shimmered with every flicker of light. The tables were meticulously arranged to leave the broad central aisle open, creating a clear and inviting path for the evening’s dancing and festivities. Around the bases of the columns, elaborate floral arrangements were wound, while grand vases brimming with blooms stood proudly at the center of each table. The air was infused with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers, mingling with the rich aroma of beeswax candles and the scent of the lavish feast.

To the right, set apart by a respectful distance, the King and Queen’s table partook in the celebration. The table exuded a grandeur that was both understated and unmistakable. Adorned with regal silver and rich velvet, it commanded a view of the entire room. Strategically positioned, it provided a vantage point over the celebrations while maintaining a dignified separation from the bridal table. The elegance of the table mirrored the room’s overall splendor, ensuring that even in their distinct placement, they remained central to the evening’s events.

A sudden, resounding clank pierced through the hum of music and conversation, drawing every eye in the room. The Hand of the King had risen from his seat at the King’s table, a cup of wine in hand. He discarded the knife he had drummed against the cup before stepping away from the table. The music came to an abrupt halt, the lively chatter of the crowd faded into a hushed silence as Otto Hightower commanded the room’s full attention. 

Clearing his throat, Otto began, his voice carrying the weight of formality and authority. “Upon his deathbed, King Viserys had two final wishes…” His gaze swept over the assembled guests before settling on Aegon, who lounged comfortably in his chair, offering a nod and a faint, satisfied smile. Otto continued, “The foremost being that his firstborn son to succeed him on the Iron Throne.” He paused briefly, allowing the significance of the statement to resonate. “And secondly, that his beloved granddaughter, the princess, should marry the man she loves.”

The room remained silent, the solemnity of the Hand’s words hanging in the air as the crowd awaited the continuation of the speech. 

Aemond caught a soft exhalation from his blind side–a delicate, faint sound that seemed to drift across the space between them, sending a chill down his spine. He turned his head just enough to observe her, noting that the porcelain mask of her composure was still perfectly in place, concealing the steel beneath. Her eyes were fixed intently on Otto, her back straight as a sword, and though her lips curved into a gentle smile, Aemond saw the strain behind it. 

Otto’s voice cut through the silence once more, commanding attention with its authoritative tone. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union between the second-born son of King Viserys, Aemond, and his firstborn granddaughter, Daenera.” He turned slightly towards the bridal table, his voice rising to emphasize the narrative he was crafting. “Much has been said about this union, but allow me to clarify the truth of it.”

With a deliberate sweep of his gaze across the crowd, Otto continued, “Upon the princess’s return to King’s Landing, she and Aemond grew close–as they once were in their childhood. When her mother learned of their friendship, she forbade it…” He paused, allowing the words to echo in the silence. “The princess was commanded to wed Lord Boris Baratheon, and being the dutiful daughter she is, she married her first betrothed.”

Aemond’s thoughts drifted as he idly traced the rim of his cup of wine, a smirk playing on his lips despite the falsehoods unfolding before him. The tale being spun held morsels of truth to it, but it was far from the whole truth. When Daenera had returned to King’s Landing, he had harbored no intentions of welcoming her back. Instead, he had aimed to send her fleeing back to Dragonstone once more. 

He recalled vividly the day she had arrived–recalled it as clearly as the curses he uttered at her return. His focus had solely been on the blade coming at him, which he had parried with skilled precision. It was only when he had caught a glimpse of her entering the Red Keep that his concentration had wavered. Her gaze had been fixed on the towering walls before her, a subtle frown marring her features as she had taken in the sight of what had once been home. 

A sudden jolt of recognition and something far more unsettling had rippled down his spine and settled somewhere low in his stomach. As he had glared at her, the familiar pang of irritation had flared within his chest. His attention had then snapped back to his opponent as he had swung his word at him. It was only after he had made away with his opponent's sword that he had returned his gaze to her. 

Their eyes had met then, and he had felt that uncomfortable twist in his gut–a sensation that festered within him. It had felt as though she had been intruding where she was neither welcome nor wanted. 

The last time Aemond had seen her before her return was at Driftmark; she had been standing on a balcony as he soared overhead on Vhagar. She had looked different back then–her face round and childish,  marked by a bruise on her apple cheek from when he had defended himself. Her return to King’s Landing had only intensified the resentment he had harbored towards her. 

Now, seeing her grown and almost strikingly beautiful, his old grudges were stoked anew. He resented her presence more than ever–resented the feeling of something molten and heavy in the pit of his stomach whenever he had looked upon her.

Aemond clenched his wine cup tightly, lifting it to his lips and taking a long draught of the overly sweet wine. As he set the cup back on the table, his fingers lingered on the rim, twisting it restlessly between his fingers. He brooded over the thought: had Daenera never returned to King’s Landing, her poison wouldn’t have seeped into him so deeply. She would not have ensnared him, worming her way into his bloodstream and, more troublingly, into his heart. Yet, despite his attempts to remain detached, impenetrable, she had managed to do just that. 

Somehow, in their game of cat and mouse, they had managed to pierce through each other’s defenses–prying beneath the armor they each carried to bury a blade into the other, planting a seed that had since blossomed into the twisted flower of their love. 

Despite setting out to destroy her, to dismantle her very being and ruin her so completely that there was no coming back from it, he had never succeeded in doing so. He had been armed with every advantage, every opportunity, yet he had refrained. The only explanation, he mused, was the insidious nature of his own desires–the poison on her lips, a poison he had grown dependent on. 

He admitted, with a pang of bitterness, that jealousy had stirred within him upon hearing of her betrothal to Lord Boris Baratheon, the man he considered a fat-headed fool. At the time, he had been unaware of the true nature of his emotions; all he had known was an overwhelming urge for her return, a yearning for more of the bitter-sweet poison on her lips. 

“After the tragic passing of her first husband, she was bereft with grief. Aemond was a source of comfort to her, soothing her aching heart,” Otto’s voice rang out, furthering the narrative that was far from the truth. “In the solace he provided, an affection blossomed–growing into love…”

In his own mind, Aemond reflected on the nature of their relationship. It had begun as lust, raw and unfiltered. Yet, he mused, love had subtly entwined itself within their connection–emerging long before either of them fully acknowledged it, even before the murder of her husband. 

How could it have been anything else? Only love could compel him to forsake all reason and rationality–forsake his honor and decency. 

“They married in a small, private ceremony, witnessed only by a handful of her servants,” He stated, skillfully intertwining falsehood with truth. They framed these imaginary witnesses as her deceased servants, ensuring they could not challenge the truth of the tale. The dead, after all, held no voice, and their secrets were buried with them. “They hid their union from her mother, fearing her wrath. And no more than a day before his death, they sought the blessing of King Viserys for their marriage…” 

Aemond’s gaze was fixed on the table before him, his eye unfocused as he clenched his jaw. Memories of that night needled at him–standing in the shadows at his father’s bedside, a small figure permission to marry the woman he loved. He had felt like a boy then, cloaked in desperation, finally understanding what he felt was love now that he stood to lose it. He had only ever asked his father for two things: for justice, and for Daenera. 

Yet, his father’s response had been one of sheer disappointment, a refusal that stung with its finality. He had approached him, heart laid bare, only to be met with scorn and disdain.

‘You have ruined her,’ his father had said, ‘Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.’

Aemond pursed his lips, a wave of bitterness flooding his senses. He felt as though he were drowning in it, consumed by the realization of his own actions. He had indeed ruined her–ruined her honor, laid waste to her heart, and betrayed her trust. His own heart, he acknowledged with grim acceptance, was as blackened and corrupted as his father had claimed. 

Otto’s voice rang out, cutting through the low murmur. “And so, here we stand to witness a forbidden love brought into the light of day, as King Viserys wished–blessed by the gods and the realm alike.” 

He raised his cup of wine high, his gesture mirrored by the assembled court. The guests rose from their seats, eyes turned to the newlyweds. “To the happy couple, may your marriage be long and fruitful!” 

“To the happy couple!” The crowd echoed, their voices a chorus of cheer as they raised their own cups in celebration. 

Aemond and Daenera, seated at the head of the room, raised their own cups in a gesture of acknowledgement. Aemond’s gaze swept over the room with practiced composure, the sweetness of the wine doing little to remove the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. He took a long drink, finishing the wine in one go before settling the empty cup down on the table with a muted thud.

As the music resumed, its lively strains wove through the lull of the room, soon to be filled with the hum of conversation as guests returned to their seats and resumed their meals. Otto’s eyes briefly met Aemond’s before he turned and settled back into his place at the King’s table. Aegon, lounging comfortably in his seat, playfully tossed something at his son, a broad grin reaping across his face despite their mother’s disapproving reproach. Alicent chided at him as Helaena, having turned away from her husband, was fully absorbed in watching the children. Her attention was focused on their lively chatter and animated eating, while Jaehaerys, in response to his father’s teasing, cheekily stuck out his tongue. 

Daenera’s voice, sweet and lilting, cut through the din of celebration, pulling Aemond’s attention back to her. Her words carried a deliberate sting–like that of the dragonglass biting into his palm. “Would you care for some wine, husband?”

The question cut through him like a blade, its edge sharp and unrelenting. It was a reminder cloaked in seeming innocence, twisting into his heart with the precision of a lover's strike—deceptively tender yet cruelly calculated. The way she inflicted this pain was intimately cruel, as if she knew exactly where to wound him to inflict the deepest hurt. Husband. Husband. Husband…

Aemond’s gaze followed her with wary–curious–intensity as she extended her slender fingers to grasp his empty cup. His eyes traveled up her arm, lingering on her face, which was poised with an unnervingly calm grace. Her lips, a soft shade of red, curved into a gentle smile that barely masked the sharpness in her eyes. 

“You would do well to consider,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, as her other hand reached for the pitcher of wine. The rich red liquid sloshed around as she lifted it, “that it was during the feast of my first wedding that I began to poison my husband…”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly as he leaned back in his seat, the back of his head resting against the high cushion. He watched her with curiosity, finding amusement in the contrast between the clear, sweet tone of her voice and the subtle threat lurking beneath it. Were he a different man, he might have felt a shiver of fear at her casual confession, but he was not a different man–he knew her darkness.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she carefully set the heavy glass pitcher before her. She continued, her voice a musing drawl, “I simply added it to his wine.” Shifting her hold on the pitcher, she lifted it again. “It was surprisingly easy–he was already deep in his cups, and his attention was elsewhere.”

She lifted the pitcher once more, tilting it gently as the rich wine inched towards the glass’s rum, beginning to pour with a slow, deliberate stream “The poison rendered him more vulnerable to the effects of the wine,” she explained, her voice smooth and matter-of-fact. The soft splash of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass chimed between them, a fleeting sound lost amidst the swirling music and lively chatter that filled the room.

Aemond’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands. He watched as one hand deftly steadied the glass, her middle finger and thumb cradling it, while the other hand gripped the handle of the pitcher. The golden rings on her fingers were delicate, each set with pearls and small jewels. None appeared large enough to contain a chamber of poison, or so he thought. His thumb absently traced the underside of his own band, feeling the subtle ridge of the hidden lever that concealed the needle.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she spoke, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He drank so much that night,” she continued, her tone conversational, almost reflective. The dark liquid swirled inside, catching the candlelight with each subtle movement. “I properly didn’t even need the poison at all–he was so deep in his cups. But… I used it to make sure he wouldn’t be…” Her voice faltered slightly, as if searching for the right words. Her lips curled further in amusement, head tilting slightly as she finished, “able to perform that night. And then a little more to ensure he slept soundly and would not bother me.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from Aemond’s chest, a dark mirth that spilled out into the air around him. The amused smirk he had worn widened into something more–a genuine smile of merriment. The memory of that wretched day, watching Daenera marry the pompous, routed stag, brought him a grim sense of pleasure. His satisfaction was not merely in the act of poisoning her husband, but the knowledge that Daenera had decided upon it long before. 

Even then, she had shown herself to be a master of deception–poisoning her husband to evade the marriage bed, and inflicting a cut on her inner thigh to feign the loss of her maidenhead. The irony was not lost on him; it was a deception that concealed the truth of the bedchamber, where Aemond himself had taken her maidenhead. 

As the cup filled, she righted the pitcher with practiced ease. “I became quite skilled at slipping poison into his drinks without detection during my marriage.” 

For the first time since the sept, she turned her gaze fully upon him. Her eyes held a challenge–a dark amusement that played within the deep, unyielding blue. Her head tilted slightly as she watched him. “The poison I used on my first husband intended to be lethal,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of satisfaction that made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. “Not at that moment, at least. If I had wanted to end his life, I would have chosen something more potent, like wolfsbane.”

Her fingers traced the delicate pattern etched into the glass–a dragon winding its way up the stem, its wings nearly encircling the base, and though he should keep his attention on her hands, he couldn’t help but be drawn to her face–to that wry amusement in her expression. “Wolfsbane, you see, has a profound effect on the body. It depresses the blood flow and hampers bodily functions,  and finally it halts the heart–but not without inflicting considerable agony first,” she continued, her voice steady and measured. “In smaller quantities, it’s less fatal but still intense, causing paralysis while making it feel as though one’s veins are filled with fire.”

Their eyes remained locked, neither of them relenting. Anticipation prickled beneath his skin, his heartbeat a discordant rhythm that was both jarring and oddly familiar. He relished the way she regarded him–amused, knowing, and dangerously alluring, no longer were her gaze filled with cold resentment, for now at least. The fire in her gaze was one he recognized all too well, and one he was willing to let consume him. Tilting his head slightly, he watched her with a blend of curiosity and wariness. 

“Then there’s nightshade,” she said, “which acts quite swiftly. It begins with an irregular heartbeat and a headache, accompanied by an aversion to light. Vision soon blurs, sweat breaks out, and speech becomes incoherent. This is followed by confusion, delirium, hallucinations, convulsions, and, in the end, death of course.”

The casual manner in which she discussed her poisons, the nonchalance with which she threatened him, seemed to seep under Aemond’s skin, sending a thrill coursing down his pine and settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a strangely arousing quality to her words–the lilt of her voice deadly yet captivating. Perhaps it was the sheer rarity of her speaking to him these days that made her words resonate so profoundly with him. He was indifferent to the threat itself; it was the connection, the way she held his gaze that captivated him most.

His eyes dropped to the soft curve of her mouth, and he felt the familiar urge stir within him–an itch at his fingertips to teach out and touch her, to trace her lips with his thumb, to taste their sweetness. 

“Hemlock,” she continued, with a slow, deliberate murmur, “begins with stomach pains and vomiting. It progresses to tremors, muscle weakness, and a gradual loss of coordination. Paralysis then creeps through the body, eventually reaching the lungs. The victim remains conscious for much of this torment, helpless as their ability to breathe is choked off.”

Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, following its delicate curve with a languid grace. Her gaze remained locked with his. “Equally deadly but less known is white baneberry. The berries are highly toxic–just a handful can be fatal to a child, and a few more will do for an adult. It’s one of the gentler deaths; it acts by slowing the heart until it ceases entirely.”

The lively strains of music filled the air, mingling with the animated chatter of guests and the rhythmic steps of dancers on the floor. Despite the exuberance that surrounded them, Aemond’s gaze remained fixed solely on Daenera, his fingers absently tapping a quiet rhythm against the surface of the table.

“Crab’s eye is another poisonous berry. Its effects are more gradual. It induces nausea, vomiting, and convulsions, eventually leading to the failure of the liver. Death comes only after several agonizing days…” She trailed off and drew in a deep breath, her hand caressing down the sides of the glass as it came to rest at its base. The motion briefly caught Aemond’s attention, a subtle shit in her posture that drew him in closer. 

“Then there’s moonflower,” she said, her tone taking on a darker edge. “It’s perhaps the most torturous. It begins with intense thirst and an unrelenting chill, leaving you unable to stay warm. Severe delirium soon follows; vision blurs, you grow incoherent, and often, you’ll experience violent outbursts. Death can linger, from a few hours to days, marked by a slow, excruciating decline.”

At last, Daenera broke their gazes, her eyes drawing to the cup of wine she had poured for him. With deliberate slowness, she slid the glass across the table, her lashes fluttering briefly before she met his gaze once more. 

Aemond pursed his lips in measured curiosity. His eye followed the movement of the cup, the dark liquid within swirling gently against the glass. Though he knew she had every reason to want him dead and could very well have poisoned the wine, he found it hard to believe she would actually do such a thing–let alone risk such an act in plain view, where suspicion would be immediately cast upon her alone.

A groom poisoned by his bride at their wedding feast was the kind of tale that would undoubtedly etch itself into history. Yet, as much as she might harbor resentment, Aemond knew she was not foolish enough to commit such an act. The consequences would be immediate and severe–she would be detained and swiftly executed for murder. Moreover, she would become a kinslayer, just like him, a fate he knew she was determined to avoid–if only to spite him.

If she truly desired his end, it would not be at her own hand, not directly. Aemond still remembered the cold press of the blade against his throat, its ghostly touch still lingering. He fought to suppress a shudder. She had hesitated then, unable to deliver the final blow–a hesitation that told him she could not do it now either.  

What was a little more of her poison, Aemond mused, reaching for the cup. His fingers curled around the cool glass, lifting it from the table. His gaze met Daenera’s as he brought the cup to his lips, silently accepting her unspoken challenge–trusting, perhaps foolheartedly, that she had not poisoned it, at least with something deadly. 

After the first gulp of the sweet wine, he almost choked on it–the taste was wrong, strangely salty. Overpoweringly so. Yet, he had already taken the second mouthful before he realized it, and he refused to show any sign of weakness. The wine's sickening saltiness clawed at his tongue and slid down his throat with a nauseating cloying quality. He nearly choked on the vile concoction, but he forced himself to swallow, his resolve unwavering even as the repulsive taste clung to his palate. 

With a sense of grim satisfaction–and nausea–he finished the wine, his mouth prickled with the persistent taste of salt and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

Aemond forced his expression into a mask of composure, suppressing any sign of revolution as he set the empty cup back on the table. His tongue flicked out, sweeping the salty residue from his lips, before his eye found Daenera once more. Her eyes were alight with amusement, her lips curved into an almost mocking smile–wholly self-satisfied with what she had done. 

Without further comment, she turned her attention back to the feast, leaving Aemond with a burning throat and roiling stomach. Amidst the unsettling awareness of how effortlessly she had introduced the salt into his wine–how easily it might have been poison, or perhaps there was poison and the salt merely serving to mask it–Aemond couldn’t shake the strange thrill. While he didn’t truly think she had poisoned him, the possibility added a dangerous edge to their interaction, sparking a peculiar excitement within him at the thought of her sheer audacity. 

Daenera returned to her plate, deftly splitting open a pomegranate and carefully selecting the seeds. As she brought each seed to her lips, savoring the burst of juice with slowness, Aemond felt a shift in the uneasy churn of his stomach. The sight of her delicate fingers and the soft, almost intimate act of tasting the fruit stirred something within him, shifting his discomfort from the wine into a keen sense of longing. 

A warm sensation began to unfurl within him, spreading through his veins like a wildfire and igniting a smolder of desire that he found increasingly difficult to ignore. The deliberate act of her eating, her lips parting for another seed, seemed almost intimate. He couldn’t help but think how sweet those lips looked–red like the fruit itself, as sweet and sinful as temptation incarnate. He wanted nothing more than to taste that sweetness, to claim it for himself, to feel it linger on his tongue like forbidden nectar. 

Her tongue darted out to like the curve of her thumb before slipping it between her lips, sucking away the pomegranate juice that had trickled down. The gesture was simple yet maddening. His stomach fluttered, the heat intensifying, and he swallowed thickly. She continued, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his gaze, to how the sight of her consuming the fruit seeped beneath his skin and made home there, unsettling and irresistible all at once. 

After the sixth seed disappeared between her lips, Aemond forced himself to look away, though it felt like wrenching a blade from the flesh–leaving behind a sharp, lingering sting. Every movement she made seemed to pull at him, his gaze clinging to her like a shadow, reluctant to part from the delicate, sensual way she enjoyed the fruit.

With a slow, deliberate breath, he reached for a nearby cup–not the one from which he had tasted the sickening salt earlier–and poured himself a glass of water. The coolness of the liquid promised a momentary relief, an escape from the taste that still clung stubbornly to his tongue, though he knew it was far more than the salt he sought to wash away. As the water hit his throat, he felt his heartbeat gradually steady, but the heat she had stirred within him still simmered, refusing to be so easily quenched.

The silence that lingered between them, though less hostile than before, still pricked at him with its relentless presence. As the moments passed, it felt as though the chasm between them widened, deepening with the persistent quiet. Yet, the conversation had given him a semblance of hope–even if threads had been weaved into the very fabric of it. He would endure a thousand more salty cups of wine just for her to look at him again. 

Driven by a desperate need to keep the conversation alive and stave off the creeping chill of her disregard, Aemond reached for a topic that might engage her–a rare venture into the nuances of poisons, a subject he seldom favored compared to the directness of steel and combat. How wretchedly pathetic he had become in his yearning for her attention. 

“What of Widow’s Blood?” He asked, recalling the name he had come across once in his studies. 

Daenera’s gaze shifted from the pomegranate to him, her eyes narrowing with guarded wariness as if weighing whether to indulge his curiosity. Aemond felt a familiar flutter in his chest whenever she looked upon him. He felt her gaze prickle over his face, searching his expression–seeking to pry beneath the mask he wore. He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with his own steady scrutiny, his eyes tracing the motion of her thumb as she brought it to her lips to lick away the pomegranate juice. 

“Widow’s Blood,” she began, her voice smooth and measured, “is a thick, cloying substance that resembles blood–hence the name.” She punctuated her explanation by dragging her pointed finger to her lips, savoring the last traces of juice. “It causes the bladder and bowls to cease functioning, leading to death by the body’s own poison. It’s a particularly ugly way to die.”

Her description, delivered with a casualness that belied its morbid content, revealed not only her knowledge of poisons but also a detachment that intrigued and unnerved Aemond in equal measure.

“The Strangler?” 

Daenera’s brow arched slightly, her gaze unwavering as she assessed him. “The Strangler is a rarer poison, appearing as dark purple crystals, similar to black amethysts. It must be dissolved in wine or water to become effective. Once ingested, it closes the throat tighter than a fist,” she explained, pausing to lick her middle finger thoughtfully. “The victim's face turns a deep purple, and their eyes swell with blood as they struggle for air–or so it is said.”

She casually returned to cleansing her thumb, ensuring no trace of pomegranate remained. “Procuring Strangler is slow and costly, but considering the results, it seems a small price to pay for liberation from one's husband.”

The ease with which she spoke of poison and death intrigued Aemond, a flicker of something dark and thrilling igniting within him. Her nonchalant threats seemed to send a strange flutter through his stomach, a reaction he couldn’t quite ignore. The corners of his lips almost widened into a full-blown smile, but he managed to suppress it, maintaining only a wry, amused curl to his lips. 

He watched as she discarded the remnants of the pomegranate onto her plate, reaching instead for her cup. She took a deliberate gulp of water, then placed the cup back down on the table with composed grace. 

“And you can make this poison?”

Daenera’s brows arched slightly, a fleeting hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she quickly masked it. Her expression shifted, the corners of her mouth falling into a more serious line as her brow furrowed. Within the depths of her blue eyes, a spark of something dark and unsettling flickered–something tinged with sadness and deep melancholy. Nevertheless, she answered, “I can.” 

Her tone was measured and even as she continued, “Though the ingredients are rare and difficult to acquire, and the process is both lengthy and costly.” She paused, her gaze becoming steely. “If I were to invest the time and resources, I would acquire Tears of Lys instead. It is more subtle–clear, tasteless, and odorless, leaving no trace to be found. It eats away at the stomach and bowls, and appears to be a disease of the organs once the body is opened up… unfortunately it is not within the realm of my abilities to make–only the alchemists in Lys possess the knowledge to create it.”

Aemond considered the implications of such a rare and potent poison. Its elusive nature and the cost associated with it led him to a grim sort of gratitude. He looked at Daenera, a wry twist to his lips as he said, “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that you cannot make it.”

Daenera’s eyes held a sharp, unyielding glint as she responded coolly. “I had no need for costly poisons to deal with my first husband. I needn’t the Tears of Lys to rid myself of my second.”

Aemond’s gaze remained with Daenera’s as the celebration swirled around them, their intense exchange echoing darkly amidst the jubilant festivities.

Around them, the dance floor had come alive with more guests joining in. Their movements created a lively tapestry of colors and fabrics, twirling and swaying to the cheerful strains of music. The dancers wove around each other, their steps following the music in a vibrant display of joy and celebration.

Ser Tyland Lannister approached the dias, his burgundy doublet contrasting sharply with the heavy golden chain of office that swung from his shoulders. As he bowed respectfully, the chain swayed before him, the head of a lion gleaming in the candlelight. His demeanor was warm but formal as he rose again. “My prince, congratulations on your wedding.”

Ser Tyland continued to speak, attempting to weave a tapestry of congeniality that hung uneasily in the air. “Princess, you look truly radiant–just as your mother did when she graced this hall. My brother was one of your mother’s suitors, to think he could have been your father, and I, your uncle…” Ser Tyland’s voice held a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting as he clumsily shifted his cup between his hands–if he was this anxious he shouldn’t have approached them. “He-he had hoped to unite our houses, and become…” 

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply, unamused by the implication.

His voice faltered as he nearly slipped into dangerous territory–almost lending credence to Rhaenyra’s claim by suggesting that his brother would have become King  Consort. He paused, coughing slightly as if to expel the inadvertent implication. 

“Please,” he continued, adopting a more somber tone, “you have my condolences for your recent loss…”

Irritation flickered within his chest as Aemond glared pointedly at the Master of Coin. This was no place or time for condolences. He was about to voice as much when Daenera, her voice soft and controlled, interjected, “Thank you, Ser Tyland. That is very kind of you. However, let us not ruin this joyous occasion with talk of war and loss.”

The smile on Daenera’s face was tight and unconvincing, though it maintained the veneer of courtly grace, her eyes betraying a cold detachment. Aemond’s irritation at this simmered just beneath the surface, twisting within him as he gritted his teeth. He desperately wanted this event to be a joyful celebration for her, to be something she wished for as well–but he knew that wasn't the case. The pretense that it was hung heavily inside him, a weight like lead settling in his stomach.

Ser Tyland, seemingly oblivious to the tension around them, continued with an unwitting bluster. “Ah, of course, Princess,” he said, his tone slightly pompous. “As my brother would have said, had he been here, we shouldn’t burden the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex with such grim topics. After all, war is a grim affair, best kept away from the gentle hearts of women.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Daenera answered pointedly. “However, the ravages of war do not spare women on the basis of their sex. They are often grieving mothers, the wives of soldiers, and women who must confront those soldiers as their fields are trampled and their homes invaded…” 

Ser Tyland shifted on his feet, his smile faltering as he attempted to ease the palpable tension with a hesitant chuckle. “Indeed, it’s a regrettable aspect of war, and it speaks to your kind heart, Princess, that you show such concern for these matters. But perhaps your energies would be better spent on more suitable pursuits–needlework, or the noble duty of birthing sons. I am sure you will find yourself quite occupied soon enough…”

Tyland fidgeted with his cup, his eyes darting towards Aemond. He seemed to seek approval or reassurance from Aemond, but finding none, his confidence visibly waned. Aemond remained unmoved, his lips curved in the familiar, sharp expression that always seemed to unsettle the Master of Coin.

Daenera’s head tilted as she scrutinized him. “Have you ever seen war?”

Ser Tyland’s smile waned, his brow knitting into a frown as he blinked, shifting his gaze nervously between Aemond and Daenera. His discomfort only seemed to grow as Aemond returned his gaze, staring at him expectantly, relishing in his unease. He leaned back in his seat, finding quiet satisfaction in the unfolding interaction, content to observe how it would play out.

“The reign of our late King Viserys was a peaceful one–”

“And what of any battle experience?” Daenera pressed further, brows lifting in scrutiny. “Have you won any tournaments perhaps? Or dealt with raiders and poachers?”

Tyland shifted uneasily, his expression revealing more than his words might. “We have people who handle such matters…”

The smile Daenera offered was not gentle; it was scythe’s edge, calculated and sharp, ready to cut down the weed that grew before them. She let out a soft, dismissive hum. “Then perhaps you would be more suited to join my needlepoint circle, since it seems our experience in matters of war is quite comparable.” Her head tilted to the side, her gaze fixed intently on him, offering him a leg up after having cut him down. “Or should I be making room for your brother instead, if these opinions are his and not yours?”

Though Aemond considered Tyland Lannister somewhat bearable compared to his arrogant brother–a man inflated with an unwarranted sense of self-importance in his opinion–he still found him a blustering fool. Appointed to the position of Master of Coin largely due to his house’s influence and wealth, he seemed intelligent enough to keep the position on his own. 

At this moment, Tyland displayed a surprising degree of this lesser-seen acumen as he nodded respectfully towards Daenera, a flicker of respect and amusement in his gaze. 

“I fear my brother would fail with the needle,” Tyland remarked with a wry smile. And given the match to Golden Tooth, he is like to see battle soon enough.”

Daenera’s smile was gentle, yet beneath its softness lay a steel edge. “Nevertheless, I shall reserve a seat for either of you in my circle.”

Aemond’s gaze tracked Tyland Lannister as he nodded with a begrudging air of deference, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth in response to Daenera’s barbed remark. With a final, somewhat resigned glance at the newlyweds, the Master of Coin retreated from the table and made his way down from the dais.

Just as Tyland’s foot touched the ground, a loud clank pierced through the throng of celebration. The sudden noise cut through the crowd, halting the dancers in their steps. Women’s skirts, which had been in motion, fluttered momentarily before coming to a rest, and the lively music tapered off into silence, drawing the attention of all present towards the source of the disturbance. 

Aegon, rising from his seat with his wine goblet in hand, discarded the fork he had been using to rhythmically beat against the metal cup on the table. With an air of grandeur befitting the occasion, he turned to address the court. 

“My lords and ladies,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the now-quiet hall, “let us raise our cups in honor of the newlyweds–my brother Aemond and my cherished niece, now his wife, Daenera!”

The court obediently rose to their feet, their cups lifted in a collective gesture of salute. The air was briefly filled with the scraping of chairs and the murmur of movement as the nobles shifted positions.

A broad grin stretched across Aegon’s face, his expression radiating a dark delight. With an exaggerated flourish, he continued, “The two of them are upholding the grand traditions of our house–nieces marrying uncles…” His eyes sparkled with a familiar, mischievous amusement that Aemond had learned to dread. “How strange to think that if Mother had accepted my dear half-sister’s offer years ago, the bride would have been by my side today–”

He pushed his chair back with a bit too much force, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on an unseen obstruction. Regaining his balance with a swift adjustment, he moved around the King’s table, narrowing avoiding their mother’s outstretched hand as she tried to halt his antics. Ignoring her silent plea for decorum, Aegon continued, his voice rising over the room’s growing tension. “Daenera would have worn a queen's crown, and perhaps we might have avoided the ravages of war. But alas, she graces my brother's side as his wife…”

As Aegon ascended the dias with bounding steps with an almost reckless exuberance, Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist as it rested atop the table, his solitary eye burning with a sharp intensity that tracked his brother’s every move. Though irritation seethed within him like a fire, he maintained his composure, his expression carved into an impenetrable mask, only his gaze betraying his anger. 

His brother’s voice dripped with a saccharine veneer of politeness as he spoke, the corners of his lips curling into a mocking smile. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Aemond with a glint of malice in his eyes. “I wish them both the utmost happiness in this war–marriage,” he corrected with a deliberate pause, the misstep in his words presented as if it were a mere trifling matter. The truth of his sincerity was as thin as a razor’s edge, his words balancing precariously between genuine and feigned–falling to neither side.

“It’s not often one witnesses a love so resilient that it endures the death of a brother,” Aegon continued, his voice laced with mocking reverence. “Truly, it is moving. A love so rare and profound that it deserves its own place in the annals of history, wouldn’t you agree?”  His eyes narrowed with a glimmer of cruel satisfaction, the biting commentary wrapped in a guise of false admiration, as if he were bestowing a grand compliment rather than delivering a stinging rebuke.

Aegon held himself as though on a stage, seemingly reveling in being the center of the court's attention. He performed for the guests with a theatrical flair, drawing out each word for dramatic effect. The court, however, appeared unsure–divided with some courtiers watching with veiled amusement, their lips curling into knowing smirks, while others exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort evident as the King mocked and belittled his own brother. The air thickened with a tangible tension, unsure whether to cheer on Aegon’s audacious display or remain quiet.

Aegon’s voice carried an almost mocking cheerfulness as he continued, “Daenera Velaryon–though perhaps I should say Baratheon? No, that doesn’t quite suit her,” His voice rose, dismissive of their mother’s low warning to temper his speech. “Daenera Strong might be a better choice,” he paused, seemingly savoring the way the name sounded, his eyes moving past Aemond to Daenera, his head tilting slightly. “Yet even that name seems inadequate now that you have, at last, become a true Targaryen.”

Aemond tore his gaze away from his brother, momentarily focusing on the green velvet of the table in front of him. As he shifted his attention to the side, he noted the stillness on Daenera’s face. She resembled a porcelain doll, her expression eerily serene, but her eyes were a different story–they smoldered with a fierce intensity, set firmly on Aegon as though they could incinerate him with their gaze alone.

His hand clenched tighter into a white-knuckled fist, his bones protesting under the pressure. The skin stretched tight across his knuckles, and he could feel the intense heat of his fury searing through his chest. The impulse to seize his brother by the collar, drag him through the throne room, and hurl him into the dirt outside was a sharp, almost tangible sensation at his fingertips. He bit down hard on his tongue, the bitter taste of suppressed anger filling his mouth as he fought to keep the scathing words trapped behind his teeth. He remained mute, enduring the sting of his brother’s derision with a tense, painful silence. 

Across the table, Aegon leaned in with a smirk, his hand planted on its surface. “The only thing you’re missing to become a true Targaryen,” he taunted, his gaze filled with a condescending satisfaction, “is a dragon to ride. But then again, it seems you’ve already claimed my brother for that role, haven’t you?”

A ripple of polite and uneasy laughter swept through the crowd, the tension growing, becoming thick and suffocating. Aemond’s gaze swept across the assembly, sharp and penetrating, locking eyes with those who dared meet his stare. He could feel the weight of their judgment pressing against his skin, a prickling sensation that made his blood simmer beneath the surface. Their expressions betrayed what words would not–disdain, pity, and a loathing barely masked by the forced decorum of the occasion.

He knew, without a doubt, that there was no love for him here. Not truly. Not now. Not with the blood that stained his hands. Not with the title of ‘Kinslayer’ following his name like a curse, turning even the faintest flickers of respect into something twisted and bitter. What they felt for him was not respect, but fear and disgust. He saw it clearly in their eyes, the way they recoiled slightly when his gaze met theirs, the scorn etched into their faces despite their attempts to hide it. The whispers, the glances–everything confirmed what he already knew: he was an outsider in his own home, a monster in their midst.

Yet, amidst the disdain, Aemond detected a flicker of pity in their eyes–not for him, but for Daenera, who endured the same public humiliation. Aemond dismissed their scorn with cold indifference, but the sharp sting of humiliation was harder to ignore. It burrowed beneath his skin, a familiar ache that gnawed at his composure. The sensation itched along his nerves, a persistent irritation that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his restraint, pushing his patience to its limit.

“Moonflower,” Daenera murmured, her voice so soft it barely reached Aemond’s ears. Yet, in that single whispered word, he found an unexpected comfort, a dark solace that cut through the tension–even as it carried a threat towards his own brother. 

“Widow’s Blood,” Aemond replied, his tone equally hushed, matching her grim indulgence in this shared fantasy. The words hung between them, tying them together in animosity. In his mind, he could almost see it–Aegon’s body swelling grotesquely, the poison turning his own flesh against him, letting his bowels fill with shit until they ruptured, his blood slowly turning black as his insides festered. The thought brought a twisted satisfaction, a brief respite from the humiliation his brother aimed at him.

“Quite a climb, wouldn’t you say?” Aegon tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting Daenera’s with a malevolent gleam. “From Strong to Targaryen–just a small leap across a sea of blood. Ah, the things we do for love…”

He straightened to his full height, a mischievous grin spreading wider as he lifted a finger to scratch thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, as if debating whether to push his jest further. The gleam in his eyes suggested he had already decided. 

“This isn’t the princess’s first marriage, as most of you are well aware,” he continued. “You were all here for her first wedding, after all. Let’s hope this one lasts longer.”

As Aegon moved around the table, Aemond leaned back in his seat, his gaze never wavering from his brother’s every step. His jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure. When his brother reached him, he patted him on the shoulder in mockery of brotherly affection, humming softly. “I hope you won’t be disappointed with your wedding night, brother…Though, you shouldn’t be too disappointed about not claiming her maidenhead this evening–you only have yourself to blame for that. And her late husband, well, he didn't seem to mind just how well she has taken to dragon-riding.” He offered a half-hearted shrug, his face twisting in a grimace of amusement. “As the Lord Hand mentioned, the two of them grew rather close after her return to King’s Landing… And following the unfortunate passing of her husband, he became a great comfort to her. He often took her riding on his dragon, and she took to it like a true Targaryen–just like her mother before her!”

The insinuation hung heavy in the air between them, thick and suffocating like the charged silence before a thunderstorm. Aemond’s glare sharpened as he looked up at his brother, his thumb idly grazing the band on his ring, fingers tracing the hidden lever that concealed the needle within–prickly but not poisoned. The tension between them crackled, a silent threat simmering just beneath the surface. 

Aegon never knew when to stop. 

As the Lord Hand rose from his seat, the scraping of the chair legs against the floor seemed to thunder through the room, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He strode toward Aegon and the bridal table, his face marked by a deep furrow–a clear expression of exasperation mixed with his growing caution. Each deliberate step he took seemed to carry the weight of his reproach.

“One might’ve mistake her for the Maiden herself on her first wedding day, but looks can be deceiving, and my brother finds himself at a disadvantage…” He leaned in closer, his breath carrying the cloying scent of wine as he murmured, “Perhaps there are other ways for your bride to bleed for you, brother. Other places your cock has not yet breached.” 

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as agitation simmered just beneath his skin. He uncurled his fist, irritably tapping two fingers against the table in a vain attempt to restrain the impulse to throttle his own brother.

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower ascended the dias with a grave purpose, a weary and exasperated expression on his face. It was clear  he intended to prevent one grandson from ending his reign prematurely and the other from becoming a kinslayer twice over. His hand settled firmly on Aegon’s shoulders, steering him away from the seething Aemond–just far enough that their exchange was out of earshot. 

Aemond heard his brother inhale deeply, the sound heavy with annoyed resignation, before he reluctantly returned to the front of the dias. Otto descended the steps and quietly returned to the King’s table, his presence a cautioning influence that sought to avoid further conflict. 

Now back in his place, Aegon pulled a face at the crowd, lifting his goblet of wine high to brush off the tension with a forced display of merriment. “My lords and ladies, let us raise our cups to the newlyweds and wish them a long and joyful life together! May their love flourish in the light and may they fulfill their heart’s every desire!” He raised the cup higher still, declaring, “To the bride and groom!”

“To the bride and groom!” Echoed the court, as everyone raised their cups in unison before indulging in a hearty drink–a gesture that Aemond found bitterly fitting after such a speech. He poured himself a cup of wine, seeking to soothe the seething anger and humiliation that churned within him. Beside him, Daenera did the same, albeit with a cup of water. 

Just as Aemond hoped the spectacle might be drawing to a close, Aegon slammed his now-empty cup onto the table with a definitive thud, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face as he declared for all to hear, “Let the presentation of gifts commence!” 

As the crowd stirred with anticipation, Aegon leaned over the table again, a wide grin spreading across his face as he murmured in a tone brimming with mischief, “You are going to love this, brother.”

Aemond felt no comfort at his brother’s words; instead, a heavy sense of apprehension settled in his gut. He knew all too well the nature of Aegon’s so-called gifts, having been the recipient of a venture to a brothel for his thirteenth name day, as well as a few unsavory gifts he had no taste for. The memories did nothing to ease his growing unease. 

His suspicions were quickly confirmed when servants entered, carrying a large, ornate book. It was wider than most, its cover crafted from creamy silk, embossed with gold, and adorned with rich blue and purple paints. The book was carefully placed before Aemond and Daenera, with the servants swiftly removing the plates of food to make room for it. 

As the book was turned towards them, its golden clasps–set with pearls and sapphires–were unfastened, and the cover was gently opened to reveal the first page. The page was decorated with a gilded frame and intricately painted leaves and vines curling around the frame, the text within written in common tongue; A Flowers Bloom.

Aegon leaned casually on the table, his amusement evident in the gleam of his eyes as he watched them closely. “This one, brother, I think you’ll find quite enjoyable–”

With practiced ease, Aegon flipped through the pages of the book, as if intimately familiar with its contents–an assumption Aemond had no trouble believing. The page settled on a particularly lewd illustration: a man, his face buried in the bosom of a woman, suckling at her teat, while her hand gripped his erect cock. His legs were spread wide, revealing an object inserted into another orifice. The image was as explicit as it was vulgar, a grotesque display meant to provoke. 

“Given the stick so firmly lodged in your…” Aegon finished, letting his voice trail off as Aemond glared at him with such intensity that it seemed to stifle what words remained. His jaw tightened as he stared angrily at his brother, the weight of humiliation once again bearing down on him, but he refused to give Aegon any other reaction. 

Aegon merely half-shrugged, his smirk never faltering as he continued, “Though, my favorite is this one.” He gave them no time to dwell on the previous obscene illustration before casually flipping to another page. “A bit of stretching might serve you well before attempting this one–it's demanding on the thighs…”

The illustration Aegon revealed next was more shocking still. It depicted a woman completely upside down, her weight resting on her neck and shoulders, arms bracing as she held her lower half vertically in the air. Her ankles were positioned by her ears, her toes making a precarious effort to prevent her from tipping over. Directly above her, a man loomed, his knees slightly bent as he engaged with her from above, his gaze intent and downward.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he took in the image, the absurdity of the position only deepening his disdain. Outrage and humiliation surged through him, burning up his throat like a wildfire rapidly spreading. The intense emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of such blatant provocation.

As Aegon circled the table, he came to a stop beside Daenera, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair while the other pressed firmly against the table’s edge. Leaning down toward her, his posture exuding a predatory ease, His gaze, however, traveled beyond her, locking with Aemond's, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for her–and Aemond–to hear, the intimacy of the gesture adding a layer of provocation that bristled in the air. “You know, brother, I can’t help but wonder… With all these positions, I do hope you’re up to the challenge. A woman like our sweet niece–well, she’ll need more than just your brooding one-eyed stares to be satisfied.”

He let his gaze drift over Daenera, who shifted uncomfortably away from him, then back to Aemond, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continued, “Of course, if you find any of it too… uncomfortable or lacking in taste, I’d be more than happy to step in and show her the finer points. I’ve got plenty of experience in these matters, after all.” Aegon’s smirk widened as he casually flipped through the book, landing on another obscene image. “Our poor niece has already endured one unsatisfying marriage, brother. It would truly be a tragedy for her to suffer through another.” His voice remained low and steady, his eyes never wavering from Aemond’s. “We both know she deserves more than to be left wanting–”

Aemond’s fist slammed onto the table with such force the cutlery rattled, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the hall. The lingering tremor seemed to heighten the tension as he rose from his seat, venomous words already forming on his tongue, fueled by the blaze of rage searing through his chest. His knuckles flushed red and bore the fresh sting of skin split open from the blow. He flexed his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain that now pulsed in time with his heartbeat. 

Without a second thought, he seized his goblet, the grip so tight it was a wonder the cup didn’t crack under the strain. His gaze, cold and unyielding, turned upon his brother. The smug smile that had danced on Aegon’s lips wavered at last, though his posture remained almost mocking, one hand still resting lazily on Daenera’s chair while the other hovered near the table. 

“A toast,” Aemond announced, his voice as sharp as steel drawn from its sheath, slicing through the air with brutal clarity. The soft hum of conversation and the delicate strains of music faltered into silence, all eyes turning towards the bridal table. “To my brother, the King.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of his words hanging ominously between them. Even the musicians, hesitant to resume, left their instruments in uneasy pause as the scene played out.

Aemond turned slowly towards his brother, his single eye gleaming with a dangerous light. “Though you bear the name of the Conqueror himself and wear his crown,” he began, his tone deceptively calm, each word veiled with simmering contempt, “you remain ever our father’s son.”

He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment, a soft hum escaping his lips as his head tilted slightly. 

“Our father,” Aemond continued, taking on a faint edge of mockery, “ruled with a gentle hand, beloved by the realm for his kindness and patience. His was a reign of peace.” The faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his expression coldly calculated–mocking. “He knew his limitations well and deferred to the judgment of his council…”Viserys had been weak and pliable, a puppet in the hands of anyone seeking to pluck his strings–and Aegon stood to be no different, Aemond thought. “It was through his… amiable nature that he upheld his peaceful reign.”

The hall seemed to hold its breath, every ear straining to catch the edges of his words, the tension rippling through the guests like a silent current. Aemond’s gaze hardened as he contemplated the consequences of their father’s indecision–his weakness. If he had not been so hesitant to displace Rhaenyra once he had finally secured the son he desired, perhaps the realm would not have to descend into the chaos and war that it now teetered on.

“But the times have changed,” Aemond declared, his lips pursing into a smug expression. “War descends upon us, as our half-sister seeks to claim your throne, and war demands more than mere amiability.”

He emitted a low, contemplative hum, the sound tinged with anticipation as he savored the words he left unspoken. They lingered in the air between them, silent but present; It requires strength, brother, and I am that strength. 

“While you sit the throne as our father once did,” Aemond continued, each word carefully chosen. “With Vhagar, the largest and fiercest dragon in the world, I will secure our victory and ensure your rule remains unchallenged…” 

Aemond subtly flicked his finger across the hidden lever in the band of his ring, engaging the concealed needle as he circled around his wife's chair toward his brother. Aegon's eyes narrowed, watching his approach with growing suspicion. With a feigned casualness, Aemond bumped against Aegon's arm in a gesture of brotherly warmth, then clapped his hand firmly on his brother's arm, ensuring the needle made its mark. 

“So, let us drink to your rule,” Aemond said, raising his cup higher with his other hand, giving his brother’s arm a squeeze, “and may you reign as our father did–while I see to it that our enemies are crushed and your throne remains intact.” 

He turned his gaze to the crowd, his voice ringing clear, “To Aegon the Magnanimous!” 

“To the King!” The crowd responded, their voices merging into a chorus that filled the hall. They lifted their cups high, the light glinting off the raised goblets before they drank deeply. Yet, despite the enthusiasm of the moment, the cheering carried a tense, uneasy undertone. Many in the crowd exchanged uneasy glances, their laughter forced, betraying their uncertainty about the implications of the toast. 

Aemond’s lips remained in a sharp smirk as he watched his brother’s gaze narrow slightly. He then plastered a strained smile across his face, nodding to the crowd as they cheered for him. Through gritted teeth and a forced grin, he muttered, “Well done, you little twat.”

As the servants removed the obscene book from the table, making space for any future gifts, Aegon turned back to his brother, his expression shifting into something resembling a begrudging amusement. The familiar upside-down smile appeared on his face, head tilting slightly–a sign that he was impressed, albeit unwillingly.  

Without warning, Aegon’s hand shot out to grip Aemond’s shoulder, both brother’s locking eyes as they held onto one another, a brief and tense connection. “Come now, brother, lighten up. It was only a jest…”

He gave a half-shrug under Aemond’s steady hole, his head tilting further as his gaze flickered briefly to Daenera, a sly glint in his eye as he seemingly couldn’t help himself, adding, “Unless, of course, she takes me up on the offer.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks from the ordeal unfolding around her. She remained silent, her expression a blend of quiet exasperation and discomfort, letting the brothers’ exchange continue without interruption as she dismissed them by turning back to the feast.

Music had begun to play again, the murmur of voices rising as people returned to their conversations. The dancers began again, the steps adding a low shuffle to the air as they followed the tune of the music. 

The sting of humiliations still burned in his chest, a familiar ache that carved itself into him over the years. Aemond’s expression remained stony, his eye cold and sharp. “There's a fine line between teasing and mockery, one you cross all too often–”

Aegon waved off Aemond’s retort with an exaggerated flick of his hand, dismissing his brother’s irritation. “Oh, please,” he scoffed, brushing Aemond’s hand from his shoulder with casual indifference, his fingers gingerly touching upon the spot on his arm where the needle had pricked him, his brows knitting further together as he continued, “You’ve always been so easily offended–one would think you’d learn to grow thicker skin over the years.” His tone took on a mocking lightness, as if Aemond’s frustration was something trivial to be laughed away. 

“Be happy, brother,” Aegon continued, gesturing towards Daenera, who seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye as a scowl grew on her face. “You’ve got a beautiful and loyal wife at your side–one you choose for yourself, mind you. That’s more than some of us ever got. And,” he added with grimace, “yours has all her senses. I think it’s time you loosen up a little.”

He gave Aemond another playful shake, a gesture that only deepened the simmering tension between them. Aegon’s words, meant to placate, only served to underscore the insult buried beneath his brotherly act, the mocking jabs hidden in plain sight. Aemond stood rigid, his composure fraying, but held in place by years of restraint and the weight of duty.

Aemond sharply brushed Aegon’s hand away, his glare cutting through his brother’s amused smile. “You should be more careful with your words, brother,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Vhagar is the greatest asset we have in this war. Without me–and my dragon–Rhaenyra would already be sitting on your throne. I think that alone should earn me your respect–”

Aegon’s smile faded slightly, his brows rising in sharp retort. “If it weren’t for you, there might not have been a war.” 

“You know as well as I do that war was inevitable,” Aemond replied, his tone hardening. “You should be grateful I brought you back. Without me, you’d either be rotting in a gutter outside some brothel or with your head mounted on a spike outside Dragonstone. You’re king now, Aegon, by sheer luck of being born first–try and make yourself worthy of it.”

Aegon’s expression shifted, his earlier amusement draining away as a nerve was struck. “I am trying. And I will not be weak like our father.”

The crack in his confidence was clear, and Aemond knew he had hit a sore spot.

“Good,” Aemond answered coolly, “because he would have lost this war.” His words hung in the air as he looked at Aegon with a mixture of challenge and cold expectation. 

Aegon grimaced with a half-shrug, turning on his heels. With a mischievous grin, he snatched a grape from a nearby plate and propped it into his mouth with exaggerated delight as he gave Daenera a teasing glance, quickly winking at her. He stepped down from the dias and was welcomed into the midst of revelry by his friends. Aemond watched him for a moment, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. 

Daenera caught his eye briefly, her expression meticulously neutral but her eyes sharp with unspoken words. Her gaze flicked away swiftly, refocusing on the reviving festivities as the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate. 

Returning to his seat, Aemond murmured under his breath, “Hemlock.”

The silence stretched between them for a long moment before she responded, “Slowed manticore venom.”

“What does that do?”

“It kills you slowly.”

Aemond sank into his seat with a weary sigh, his gaze flickering toward his mother as she approached, her lady-in-waiting, Talya, trailing closely behind. He rested his hand on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the surface as he leaned back. Though outwardly composed, the simmering irritation still lingered beneath his skin, slow to fade. His jaw remained tense, and his eyes, though calm, held a flicker of the frustration that had not yet fully dissipated.

Ascending the steps to the dias with her hands clasped together in front of her, Alicent came to stand before the table. Behind her, Lady Talya carefully placed three ornate totems on the table before them, each one thicker than the others. One of the books had a leather cover, with the seven-pointed star delicately embossed in gold leaf, gleaming under the dim light. The other two were bound in rich green cloth, their covers adorned with pearls carefully stitched into the fabric, adding a touch of elegance to the simple design. 

“It is my hope,” Alicent began, her voice soft but firm, as she unclasped her hands to rest one gently atop the stack of books before her, “that the two of you will find guidance in these.” Her eyes shifted between them, the weight of her words carrying a deeper meaning. “They were given to me on the occasion of my own wedding and helped me find my place in the new role as a wife. It is my prayer that they will guide you as well–and offer a path of atonement for the sins we each carry.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aemond said, his tone polite but distant, his eye briefly flickering over the books before shifting away. He had little interest in whatever atonement they promised–neither the books nor the gods could grant him the absolution he sought. It was a different kind of atonement that weighed on his soul, one far beyond what the seven-pointed star and its gods could offer. 

Alicent regarded Daenera with dark, scrutinizing eyes, her expression carefully measured as she seemed to note something amiss. “Your necklace…” she remarked, her tone laced with a subtle undertone, as though the absence of jewelry meant more than it seemed. 

Shifting his gaze to Daenera, Aemond caught the slight flicker in her demeanor as her hand rose instinctively to her chest. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin just below her collarboes, as if searching for the absent necklace. Her smile, though poised, was stiff and brittle, like a finely honed blade.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she responded lightly, her voice carrying an edge of feigned innocence. “I must have lost it–what a shame…”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, and Aemond could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion brewing between them, but she said nothing further. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts with practiced grace, the movement calm yet telling of her thoughts left unspoken. 

His mother turned and descended from the dias. 

Daenera smiled faintly, her face betraying none of the disdain he knew she held for the seven-pointed star. As his mother retreated and the books were whisked away, Daenera spoke lowly, an edge to her voice, “If those books cross the threshold of our chambers, I will shave off your hair while you sleep. You will be the bald, one-eyed kinslayer.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a brief, amused smirk at her remark. He had no reason to doubt her threat. The memory of her petty nature was still fresh–he recalled the time she had slipped dye into his bath oils after a long day of training. He had sat in the bath, unaware, until the bottom of his hair had turned an unfortunate shade, costing him a few precious inches. Thankfully, he hadn’t sunk fully beneath the water, sparing the rest of his hair, though the stray hairs on his body had turned a vivid pink. He had swiftly dealt with the issue, removing any trace to avoid the embarrassment of discovery.

Aemond also knew Daenera was entirely capable of making good on her current threat–cutting his hair as he slept. With that in mind, he subtly waved over a servant, leaning in to quietly instruct them. “See that the books are brought to my chambers.” 

The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was next to present his gifts. For Aemond, a warhorse–a black stallion bred and trained specifically for battle–was promised, currently on the way from Oldtown. It was said that it was a magnificent beast, fit for a prince. Daenera, on the other hand, received two large chests filled with brocade and rich fabrics, most in shades of green. 

Both gifts were accepted courteously, though Aemond thought he had little need for another horse. He only needed the one to get to Vhagar. The stallion was impressive, but when it came to war, he had Vhagar–no other mount could compare to a dragon. 

Next, Ser Tyland Lannister stepped forward, offering an ornate golden dagger set with gleaming emeralds for Aemond, as well as a chest brimming with gold bars from House Lannisters vast coffers. Daenera was given an array of fine jewelry and precious gems, each piece more extravagant than the last. Lord Jasper Wylde followed, offering them more fabrics–rich and finely woven–while Lord Larys Strong presented a book chronicling the history and legends of Harrenhal, paired with a tapestry depicting a serene forest teeming with woodland creatures. 

Aemond watched silently as his sister approached with her children. Jaehaera was perched on her hip, while Jaehaerys clutched her hand, his small legs working hard to keep up. They ascended the dias together, a nursemaid following close behind, carefully placing a neatly tied bundle of fabric on the table. Helaena’s smile was soft and gentle as she spoke, her gaze meeting Daenera’s “To bring you comfort… it is a blanket.” 

Jaehaera, with her wide, beaming smile, caught sight of Daenera and waved excitedly with childish pride, declaring, “I had three lemoncakes!”

“Three!” Daenera chuckled, leaning in slightly as her tone brightened. “That is a lot of lemoncakes.”

“I would have had more if I had been allowed,” Jaehaera pouted, burying her face against her mother’s neck, her earlier excitement fading into disappointment. 

Helaena gently chided her daughter, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been allowed more, you would have gotten sick, sweet one.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” Jaehaera shot back, her small face scrunched into a determined scowl, pulling away from her mother to make her protest. “I wouldn’t!”

Aemond felt a feeling of softness pass over him as he watched his niece and nephew interact with his wife, though his face remained impassive. The warmth of moments like this was a rarity to him, and he struggled to engage, even as the lightheartedness of the exchange echoed faintly within him–he didn’t want to spoil it and instead sat back. 

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys interjected, his small fingers gripping the edge of the table as he stood on his tiptoes, attempting to peer over the tall surface–his nose just about reached over the edge, eyes blinking at them from across the table. “I have a gift for you too!”

His balance wavered, a slight frown crossing his face as he teetered. Without warning, he bent his knees and peeked under the curtain of the tablecloth, his expression suddenly mischievous–the same gleam in his eyes as his father often got. Much to the nursemaid’s dismay, she called out sharply, trying to draw him back as he disappeared beneath the table, crawling along the floor of the dias. 

A dull thud followed from under the table, accompanied by a displeased, “Ow!”

The tablecloth shifted again as Jaehaerys reemerged on the other side, now beside Daenera. Quickly standing, he brushed his long hair out of his flushed face, doing his best to regain his composure despite the obvious embarrassment painting his cheeks. 

Daenera laughed, her laughter soft and genuine, the sound lifting the atmosphere around her. It slipped beneath Aemond’s skin, twisting around his heart and making it ache in a way he hadn’t expected. It had been so long since he had heard her laugh like that, and he found himself watching her quietly, captivated by the rare moment of joy.

Daenera twisted in her seat, her gaze warm as she reached out, brushing her hand gently over Jaehaerys’ head. “Are you hurt?”

“No…” Jaehaerys replied, standing up straighter, his small chest puffed out with determination as he held up the gift in his hand. “Here.” His face scrunched into a slight frown as he hesitated, the earlier embarrassment still burning brightly on his cheeks. “I… it’s–did you really claim a dragon?”

Daenera blinked in confusion, head tilting. “No?”

Jaehaerys’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he looked between her and his mother. “But father said you had… he said you had claimed one to ride!”

“Oh… I…” Daenera stammered, her eyes widening slightly as a laugh bubbled up, soft and warm. She shook her head in disbelief, amusement dancing across her features, even as she attempted to compose herself for the boy whose frown only grew. “No, Jaehaerys. I have not claimed a dragon. Your father meant that your uncle has taken me flying on Vhagar.”

“Oh,” Jaehaerys murmured, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice. He furrowed his brow, clearly unsatisfied with Daenera’s answer. “Will you claim one?”

Before Daenera could respond, Helaena gently interjected, her soft voice carrying a quiet authority as she called her son back to her side. “Jaehaerys,” she said, her tone calm but firm, reminding him to mind his manners.

The boy hesitated for a moment, his curiosity still evident in his eyes, remaining at her side.

“Maybe one day,” Daenera answered. She accepted the small wooden dragon, her delicate fingers tracing the grooves carved into its surface. A soft smile played on her lips as she carefully placed it on the table before her. The toy, worn with age and clearly cherished, had once been one of Jaehaerys’ prized possessions, something he had clung to when he was younger. Now, it seemed, he was ready to part with it–though he undoubtedly had many others to take its place. 

“Jaehaerys, it is time for bed. Come,” Helaena called softly from the other side of the table, her voice gentle but firm. Jaehaera rested sleepily against her mother’s collarbone, her small hand inching towards her mouth until her thumb found its way between her lips. She began to suck on it absentmindedly, her eyelids drooping.

Jaehaerys, full of energy despite the late hour, held up his hand expectantly towards Daenera. When she placed hers in his small grasp, he brought it gallantly to his lips, pressing a knightly kiss to her knuckles with all the seriousness of a boy his age could muster. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he stepped back and gave her a deep bow, mimicking the courtly gestures he had seen countless times. 

Before anyone could stop him, he glanced towards the table again, clearly intent on repeating his earlier adventure by crawling beneath it. Both Helaena and Daenera quickly chided him, their soft voices stopping him in his tracks. 

Reluctantly, the boy abandoned his plan and instead walked around the table as instructed, his head held high. 

When he reached the other side, Helaena took his hand and led him down the steps, her movements calm and measured as they made their way towards the quieter edges of the hall, where the revelry was less overwhelming. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted across the grand hall, taking in the whirl of festivities around him. The room was alive with motion and color–nobles and courtiers mingled, their laughter blending with the clingking of goblets and the soft rustle of silk gowns. The lively tunes of minstrels filled the air as more gifts were presented–small chests brimming with silver, gold, glittering jewels, and delicate ornaments. Some contained sheer fabrics from distant lands, their origins puzzling giving the ongoing blockade. He couldn’t help but wonder how such rare items had slipped through. Each offering was either sent to the vault for safekeeping or delivered to their chambers. 

His gaze eventually settled on Aegon, who stood leaning against a table, a goblet lazily balanced in his hand. Surrounding him were his usual friends, the ever-present lickspittles who laughed heartily at his every jest–though their attention seemed more focused on Ser Martyn Reyne at the moment, who had seemingly become the latest target of their mockery. Eddard Waters, the bastard, had his arm draped casually around Ser Martyn’s neck, whispering something that looked like advice, judging by the exaggerated gestures. Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly towards Aemond and Daenera, where there was a moment of unspoken mischief between him and his group. 

A rose was shoved into Ser Martyn’s hands, and with a rough push from his companions, he stumbled forward, clearly meant to approach the dias. Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he watched the awkward display unfold, but before Ser Martyn could reach them, another knight stepped forward, cutting off his advance. 

Tension simmered beneath Aemond’s skin as he observed the antics unfolding across the hall, a suspicion growing that it was yet another deliberate attempt to provoke him–if not outright mock him. Though he had long grown accustomed to being the target of Aegon's jests, the old irritation still sparked within him, tightening his chest with the familiar pang of annoyance.

His attention was soon drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower as the knight approached with a casual grace, a subtle smile tugging at his uncle’s thin lips. His pale blue eyes flicked from Daenera to Aemond, a glint of amusement dancing in them. He stopped before them, offering a courteous nod. 

“Congratulations, nephew,” he said, his tone smooth and measured. His gaze then shifted to Daenera. “Princess…” 

“Ser Gwayne,” Daenera greeted politely, her tone measured but pleasant. 

“You make a beautiful bride,” Gwayne continued, his voice soft and almost too smooth, the curve of his lips teetering on the edge of a smirk–one that only seemed to sharpen the gleam in his eyes. Aemond always thought there was something fox-like about his uncle, sly and clever, never fully revealing his intentions. 

“And as such,” he went on, producing a golden flower from behind his back, “I thought you deserved something just as remarkable in beauty–a flower for a flower.”

He extended the shimmering blossom towards Daenera with a flourish, his words drenched in flattery as his gaze lingered on her, perhaps longer than Aemond would have liked. Daenera reached across the table, the beads of her long sleeve scratching against the table’s edge as she took the delicate gift with a soft smile. Her eyes lingered appreciatively on the finely crafted petals, her fingers delicately tracing their intricate edges–each petal shimmered as though touched by the sun itself.

Something bitter twisted in Aemond’s gut, a surge of possessiveness and irritation rising within him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain impassive, though every instinct urged him to show his displeasure.

“And I thought you might be tired of receiving roses,” Gwayne said with a soft smile on his lips. “You deserve something more enduring, something that will not wither in time.”

Behind Gwayne, unbeknownst to him, Ser Martyn reyne floundered awkwardly, clutching a simple rose in his grasp–a flower stolen from one of the many arrangements scattered throughout the hall. His gaze dropped to the common flower and without a word, shuffled back from the dias, his intentions seemingly crumbling under the weight of Gwayne’s more lavish offering. His retreat was met with loud jeering from Aegon’s circle, but Martyn took it in stride, smiling sheepishly as he rejoined the group. 

Aemond felt a brief flicker of amusement at the scene, watching Ser Martyn’s failed attempt. Yet that amusement quickly faded, withering away as Gwayne placed two books upon the table, his hand resting atop the leather bound parchment.

“How fares my brother?” Aemond inquired, diverting Gwayne’s attention from Daenera with a deliberately casual demeanor. His smile was restrained as he leaned forward slightly, interest flickering in his gaze–even as Daenera’s eyes remained on the book before her.

“He is thriving,” Gwayne responded, his tone softening and carrying a hint of pride. “He’s becoming quite the swordsman, as his older brother is.” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he continued, “And he’s equally dedicated to his studies and music–he plays well, better than I ever could. Though, as he’s grown older, he has begun to draw quite a bit of attention from the ladies. I suspect he’ll leave quite a few hearts in disarray when he marries the Baratheon girl.”

Aemond nodded as he considered his younger brother, whom he hadn’t seen since childhood. He had been ten and his brother just six when he had been sent to Oldtown, and the distance had only grown with the years. He had missed him deeply, the only brother with whom he shared any sense of kinship, the one he had wanted to be a better brother for–to protect him as his own older brother hadn’t. 

A memory flickered in his mind, a moment when he had been confined to his bed, his body wracked with fever. His eye had been cut open again, maggots feeding on the festering edges of the wound after the maesters had removed additional tissue. In the delirium of fever and pain, he had wondered how different things might have been if he had been sent to Oldtown in his brother’s place–if he could have escaped the scorn and suffering that had shaped him into the weapon he had become. 

“I brought these with me from Oldtown,” Gwayne began, shifting his attention back to Daenera, his voice steady and confident, “they might serve as fitting wedding gifts.” His hand brushed off the book, laying them side by side. “They’re translated copies of The Nature of the Body by Maridos Irroran of Qarth, and The secrets of the Earth by Taenolla Vynaar of Qohor–”

Before he could continue, Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, her excitement palpable. She left the gilded sunflower behind, resting it next to the small wooden dragon Jaehaerys had gifted her earlier. Her fingers momentarily clenched the fabric of her skirts as she pushed herself from the chair, the pearls and beads adorning her gown rustling softly, brushing against the floor of the dais with a faint scratching. 

With more enthusiasm that she had shown for any of the other gifts, Daenera quickly made her way around the table to stand beside Gwayne, her eyes bright with anticipation as she approached. 

Aemond watched with a tightening within his chest as a wide, genuine smile spread across Daenera’s face, her eyes alight with excitement. Her delicate fingers traced the cover of the book with reverence, her love for its contents unmistakable. She looked up at Gwayne, her expression full of curiosity and gratitude. 

“Do you know what these are?” She asked, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “These books hold wisdom on assorted medicinal practices prevalent across the Free Cities, alongside practical uses of herbs upon the flesh.”

“I would scarcely believe the Free Cities might hold any wisdom not already known to us,” Gwayne remarked, a brow lifting in skepticism.

“Though the customs of the Free Cities differ from ours, Ser Gwayne, their wisdom is not to be overlooked,” Daenera answered, “For instance, they describe a procedure where they drill open the skull to relieve pressure, or use fine needles to ease pain, reduce tension, and improve general health. I do not wish to limit myself.” Her fingers caressed a page, eyes flicking over the parchment before rising to meet Gwayne’s. “How did you find these? How–how did you know?”

Gwayne shifted slightly, his smile deepening, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced towards Aemond. “In truth, the idea wasn’t mine. A few months ago, my nephew wrote to his brother, requesting that he visit the Citadel and have these works translated and compiled. I never imagined they would become wedding gifts, but… here we are.”

Aemond had seldom taken to the pen in recent years to write to his brother–let alone his uncle. But when he had learned that Daenera had been searching for certain rare books at the library, pestering every maester in King’s Landing to no avail, he had taken to the pen to send a letter to Daeron, asking if he could procure the copies she sought. It appeared his brother had succeeded in finding them and had sent them along with their uncle. 

As Daenera’s fingers traced the spine of the book and flipped through the pages, her smile faltered.. Her gaze, usually sharp and intent, softened as she glanced at the scribbled pages, her brow furrowing slightly with a note of sadness.

“I will have to write to him and thank him for this,” she murmured softly, her voice measured, restrained. Shen then glanced up at Gwayne, offering a polite nod of acknowledgement. “And you as well, thank you, Ser.”

“You’re very welcome, princess,” Gwayne replied smoothly, turning his attention towards Aemond. There was a slight bow of his head, a gesture of respect that felt rehearsed, as if to appease both Aemond’s title and temperament–and only served to agitate him further. “May I have the honor of a dance with your wife?”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to Daenera, her expression unreadable as she closed the book gently, the tension in her fingers almost imperceptible. A slight scowl tugged at her brows at the request, undoubtedly because it was directed to him rather than her. His eye narrowed in response, the request hanging in the air between them like a blade. The thought of his wife–his wife–dancing with another man, his uncle no less, gnawed at him. His lips curved into a smirk, masking the simmering annoyance that threatened to rise to the surface.

Before he could respond, Daenera’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

“You needn’t ask my husband, I would be honored to dance with you,” she said sharply, her tone holding a quiet edge as her gaze met his in defiance. There was a flicker of challenge in her eyes, one that Aemond recognized all too well. “A bride should dance at her own wedding, should she not? I've grown weary of sitting.”

The smirk on Aemond’s lips tightened ever so slightly as he felt Daenera’s words push between his ribs like a subtle, finely honed blade. Restless agitation stirred beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and needling at his bones. Yet, he remained as still as a stone, gripping his composure with such force that it alone threatened to crack beneath the composure. 

He clenched his jaw, the sharpness of his thoughts twisting deeper as he watched her closely. She was playing her part, as expected–but the way she held his gaze, the way she took control of the moment, stirred something deeper within him. It tightened in his gut, made his blood simmer, but he said nothing. Instead, he remained still, his smirk slipping back into place. 

Aemond’s eye slid from Daenera to Gwayne, lingering on his uncle with a simmering edge–remembering his mother’s words–before he forced out a deceptively soft, “But of course…”

Gwayne, seemingly ever the gallant, extended his hand, and with her gaze still fixed on Aemond, Daenera took it. Her gown whispered against the steps as she descended with Gwayne, the fabric trailing behind her like a pale shadow as they approached the dance floor. The delicate train of her sleeves barely skimmed the stone, while the green of her cloak, abandoned on the chair beside Aemond, was left behind like he was.

Aemond’s eye followed them, sharp and unyielding, the agitation deeping in his chest. She moved with grace, and the crowd’s murmurs faded into the background as she took her place on the floor with Gwayne. His fingers curled tightly around the armrests of his chair, and though he kept his expression neutral–indifferent–there was no mistaking the possessiveness that burned within him. 

Aemond’s eye remained locked on her, the space between them feeling like a chasm, immeasurable and vast. The wood creaked faintly under his hold as he watched her take her place before Gwayne. Her hand rested in his uncle’s, the other poised on his shoulder, while Gwayne’s hand settled at her waist. 

A fierce spark ignited beneath Aemond’s skin, a heat that was both possessive and volatile, threatening to spill over. 

A new tune bega, so did the dance. Aemond sat back, dragging his blunt nails over the edge of the chair, his movements slow and measured, though the tension coiled within him like a tight spring. The sight of his wife in the arms of another man, gracefully moving across the floor, sent an ugly twist through his chest. He watched, silently seething, as the fabric of her gown flowed behind her, and her hair caught the light as they spun–a star burning through the colors of dusk.

He wished it was him–wished to feel her under his hand, to lead her across the floor. But he knew that if he asked, she would refuse. And even if she didn’t, it would be out of obligation, not desire. That was a truth he could not bear to confront tonight. So he remained in his seat, the air around him sharp and brittle, the desire to claim what was his warring with the restraint that held him back.

His gaze flickered down to the cloak left behind on her chair, the symbol of their union cast aside so easily. It pricked at him like a thorn, digging into his pride and fueling the possessive fire that burned in his veins. She might dance with Gwayne now, might let another man place his hand on her waist, but in the end, it was him to whom she was bound.

The gods had never granted Aemond anything–everything he possessed was something he had seized with his own hands. He had claimed Daenera as his wife, as he had claimed Vhagar, yet now, as he watched her dance, a genuine smile lighting her face, a thought gnawed at him. He had her, she bore his name, wore his cloak, but still, she was not truly his. She may be his wife, bound to him in the eyes of the realm, but her smiles, her laughter, her heart–they eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

She was his. The thought echoed in his mind, but did little to soothe the ache deep within his chest. He had her, yes, but he wanted her in ways that went beyond mere possession. He craved her tough, her affection, her love–things he could not take by force, no matter how skilled he was at wielding a blade, things he had lost when he had chased her brother through the storm. The thought left him restless, the sharp edges of longing cutting through him. 

The boy stood there–Lucerys.

Still and unnatural, he stood a ghost amidst the living. The colors of the dancers–rich greens, shimmering golds, soft purples, and vibrant reds–whirled around him. The dancers, absorbed in the merriment and music, were oblivious to the pale figure in their midst. His presence was like a chill shadow cutting through the warm hues of the throne room–water dripping from his dark curls as if freshly pulled from the depths of the storm. His skin was ashen, lips blue and silent as death itself–and his eyes, blue hidden beneath a veil of white, staring right at him. 

His blood had felt no different from the rain when it had splattered against his face. 

Daenera spun past Lucerys, her gown flowing as she twirled to the tune of the music. She danced past the ghost of her brother without a second glance, unaware of the haunting presence that clung to the air around them. She danced on, moving past the dead boy, past the lingering chill and blood-soaked memories that pricked at the back of Aemond’s mind. 

Aemond’s eye followed Daenera’s every movement, his heart thudding heavily within his chest. The weight of his sins pressed against him like an iron vice. His love for her, his desperation to keep her, were tangled with the horrors of his deeds. And though she danced, beautiful and serene, he could not escape the creeping terror that her smile, like the ghost in their midst, would one day vanish into the cold silence that followed Lucery’s death. 

Aemond’s desire for Daenera was both pathetic and desperate. She belonged to him, yet the intensity of his yearning felt like a hollow victory. As he watched her, the realization that she was truly his wife, and yet he was left longing for her.

Yet, perhaps more dreadfully, he was hers.

That truth, though unspoken, pressed upon him with a weight he could not shake. It was as if she had claimed him just as surely as he had claimed her, though not with the same brutal finality. She had burrowed into his heart, the poison of her presence spreading through his veins, making him weak, vulnerable. He resented it as much as he craved it. Even now, watching her glide across the dance floor, he could feel the twisted seed of his desire for her growing, tangling around his soul.

Aemond clenched his jaw, his gaze burning with intensity as he followed her movements. She was his, and yet, not entirely. He had taken her as his wife, but what he wanted–the parts of her that were not just bound by duty–remained distant. And that truth, bitter and maddening, settled deep within him.

It was a fitting punishment for a monster, wasn’t it?

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Ceremony [Asgard! Loki x Fem. Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Every 1000 years, the gods of Asgard provide their sacred seed in a revered and respected ceremony🍆✨ Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Voyeurism. Language. Humour. A/N: Inspired by a scene in The Tudors where Henry VIII has a w*nk into a dish held by a servant. @lokischambermaid thank you for being my unwavering bad influence and cackle-merchant. (w/c 3.1k)

Loki sighed, turning and gazing critically at his reflection. He pulled the tie of his ceremonial robe tight around his hips. Green and gold. “Why we must endure this infernal sideshow of lewd banality, mother? It’s absurd.” Frigga rolled her eyes, a laugh catching on her tongue as she tutted gently. “I tell you this every millennia, Loki. The Ceremony of the Sacred Seed is not a sideshow. It is imperative to the good of Asgard.” “Watching the Royal family masturbate onto a garish golden platter is imperative to the good of Asgard? I see.” Loki huffed, smoothing his hair in the mirror.

The material was finest spun silk chiffon, the barely opaque fabric clinging seductively to every curve of Loki’s muscled body. A little too seductively, for Loki’s liking.

Intricate lace was hearted to the edging, pure sewn gold weighing on the hem. The ceremonial dressing gowns were woven by hand, the delicate work passed through generations. Creation of each of the three bespoke items for the gods of Asgard were legend, spanning the thousand years between ceremonies. Only the eldest and most revered weavers of the city were instructed; the knobble-fingered crones, Loki thought. He shivered, the image like freezing water on his balls. Frigga knew he was toying with her, but still...she felt the need to remind him of the role he must play. That all the men in their family must play. “You know very well that the seed is collected, that it is offered to the soil beneath the Tree of All Things to ensure Asgard’s continued prosperity. The people must-” “-The people must see that their gods' are strong, virile and willing to serve the realm with our innate power, brother. Our sacred seed gives sustenance to the tree, which in turn serves the people. Yes, mother?” Thor boomed. His own ceremonial robe hung loose at the waist, his oiled chest on display; the tie dangling ominously close to revealing all that lay beneath. He took a bite of an apple, the crunch making Loki flinch. “Yes, darling.” Frigga replied, squeezing Thor’s forearm as he grinned widely between messy chews. Loki grimaced, turning away. “Why must I always be last? It’s humiliating.” he murmured, tucking his hair behind his ears as he lingered on his reflection. His eyes flickered upward, seeing Thor’s beaming face appear ghoulishly over his shoulder. “Because you’re my little brother, brother.” the blonde smirked, taking another bite of apple. “I don’t know why you always make such a fuss, Loki. This is my sixth ceremony...and your fifth. Just close your eyes and think of someone pretty.” “We are not all as brutish in our carnal delights as you, brother” he hissed, “to whom the mere sight of a curvaceous table leg during a feast has him making a hasty exit to his chambers and the embrace of his hand. Some of us require more complex inspiration.”

Frigga raised her eyebrows, lips pursed at the familiar spat between her sons. Loki’s ceremonial gown swirled around his bare legs as he paced the floor, incandescent with self-satisfied vitriol. “...and inspiration such as that, I shan’t find behind those doors. Especially not as the third act to my father and brother’s sequential onanism.” “Onanism, brother?” Thor scrunched his eyebrows as a low cheer echoed from the hall next door, the sign that Odin’s contribution in the ceremony had been secured. “Self-pleasure, you cretinous rube.” the dark-god muttered, staring out the window-arch at the pink glow settling over the city below. “It’s time, Thor.” Frigga said, sensing the approach of the guards to usher her blonde son to his duty. He tossed the half-eaten apple towards Loki, a flick of his brother’s wrist making it vanish in mid-air. “Time to give the people want they want.” Thor grinned, throwing Loki a wink as Frigga tightened the belt around his hips. “Prepare yourself, Loki...I shan’t be long.” he rumbled smugly, making his way towards the now-open golden doors to the side, striding past the guards with arms outstretched. Loki could hear his brother working the crowd, their welcoming applause making him shudder. Two-hundred of Asgard’s dignitaries waited through those doors; standing in the side-wing of the great hall. Murals of past ceremonies decorated the alcove, visual reminders of memories that Loki would rather forget. Fifty witness spaces were balloted to the citizens of Asgard, the right to attend considered the highest honour. ‘The Ceremony of the Sacred Seed must be witnessed. We must be seen to be benevolent’, Loki thought, recalling his mother’s words in the lead up to his first experience with this accursed tradition. He rolled his eyes silently, making Frigga chuckle. “I shall leave you now.” she murmured, touching his arm lightly before her dress was but a whisper across the marble floors. For the first time, Loki felt the clench of nerves in his stomach. A thumbnail scratched at the gold edging of the robe by his heart, slipping to rub the muscle beneath. He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as he summoned familiar thoughts of the one he adored from afar. The one he craved. The forbidden one.

His hand slid down his chest between the soft fabric, the tie of his robe loosening. Massaging his soft cock, he could feel the first stirrings as his mind perused well-trodden fantasies. Slipping down the shoulder of her dress to plant a biting kiss, a tug of her wrists fastened to his bedpost, one slick soaped-up calf rising seductively above the rim of his claw-foot tub. Loki shivered, a wave of desire rolling down his spine, ass clenching. The loose fist he had made around his manhood pressed outward, the flesh thickening beneath dangerous thoughts. He was ready.

On cue, respectful cheers rumbled through the wall signalling that Thor’s dutiful service to the realm had been a success. Quick and artless, as usual; Loki thought with a smirk. The engraved golden doors swung backwards, palace guards setting themselves at either side in wait of their prince. Loki took a deep breath, striding barefoot across the marble floor. The flow of his ceremonial garb grazed his ankles with each long step, his shoulders squared; jaw set. He stared ahead, as imposing in the luxurious garment as he would be in his battle armour. The god’s dark hair rested behind his shoulders, one curl falling forward as he gave a curt nod to the high-priestess standing in the centre of the alcove. She raised an arm with difficulty, the long draped sleeves of her white gown made of the same intricate material as his robe. Don’t think about the knobbled crones, Loki thought; cursing himself inwardly.

“Loki Odinson. Prince of Asgard. Second son of our most sacred royal lineage...” Her voice was strong and commanding despite her advanced age, the white of her hair strewn across the back of her dazzling gown. “God of Mischief and Chaos; sworn protector of Asgard and its people. Do you consent to a ceremonial offering of your most sacred seed this night?” Loki’s eyes went out of focus momentarily, the temptation to roll them almost overwhelming. “I do.” he muttered, to a murmur of approval from the shuffling crowd. He ran his gaze around the half-moon congregation, two-hundred spectators waiting with a mix of trepidation and awe as Loki took his place in the centre. His stare crawled across familiar faces from council meetings and feasts, dignitaries and statesmen who had roamed his father's halls all his life. Their presence was to be expected.

In the middle of the crowd, the Asgardian citizens stood, their clothes noticeably less refined. Less...gold. Many held their hats in their hand, reverent and disbelieving at the sights they had seen thusfar as sunset drew closer. Four guards stood in a square around the dark prince, each holding a pole from which white silk hung like a flag. They all turned; eyes cast upward as they raised their posts to conceal the prince from the waist up. Loki heard a disappointed hush of whispers from his left, tilting his head in half-interested acknowledgment of their discontent. Of course, he thought with a smirk; observing a small group of women. The wives and daughters of Asgard’s political elite. With one notable exception. “It is time.” the high-priestess announced, passing the infamous golden platter to her disciple. Loki nonchalantly untied his ceremonial robe, letting the exquisite green fabric fall loose at his chest. He threw a knowing glance toward the women leaning forward in rapt attention as the silk-chiffon slid down his shoulders, catching on the curve of his biceps. They giggled, quickly hushed by their elders. Every inch revealed more of the legendary landscape of his body, forearms tensing as his broad shoulders rolled back. Several of the women gasped audibly, the ceremonial robe pooling on the floor around his bare feet with a soft rustle. Loki knew that the dying rays of sunlight from the circular window behind would be radiating across his skin, sparking the gloss of every strand of raven hair. He raised his chin upward, letting the crowd admire their prince as he gave a nod to the high-priestess. A sudden scent wafted in his nostrils, making them flare. Poppy. Only one person in this palace wore the scent of poppy.

His stomach fluttered, excited murmurs from the crowd becoming white noise as his eyes fell on she who haunted his thoughts. She slid beside the gaggle of women muttering to each other. There you were. Your face collected; dutiful. Beautifully impenetrable. In every way. She’s not supposed to be here, Loki thought; biting his lip as he extended his hand, one of the guards pouring oil into his palm. “Begin, Prince Loki.” the priestess proclaimed theatrically.

Loki’s gaze fell to the man kneeling in front of him, head bent in dutiful reverence with the golden receptacle outstretched, ready to receive his offering. The platter bearer, Norns; Loki thought. Best seat in the house. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply with his chin tilted upward. The scent of your perfume hung in the air like smoke, tendrils invading Loki’s mind as it began to whirl with lust. So close. You were so close...and you would see him as you had never seen him. As you had been forbidden to see him. Loki smirked, loose grip running up his thick arousal. Sneaking into the Ceremony, against her father’s wishes? What a naughty girl. Long fingers flexed around the base of his girth, giving it a tight squeeze. His lips parted, a low sigh of need escaping under the smallest movement of his hand. His oil slicked palm slid up his member...all the way up, achingly slowly. A gruff ahh caught in his throat as his fingers grasped the sensitive tip, imagining your plump lips sucking brazenly in their place. Loki’s grip tightened; his teeth gritted in concentration as he widened his stance. The marble was cool beneath his bare feet. How many times Loki had envisioned how he would take you upon this sacrosanct floor. The skirts of your dress pushed around your waist as your nails clawed down his back. He would unmake you, devour you, he would free you from every modesty you had ever learned...starting with that beautiful cun- “Fuckkk...uhhh..” Loki moaned, the echo creeping to every corner of the hallowed alcove and beyond. His head fell back further, waves of his hair brushing against the centre of his shoulder-blades as he stroked himself shamelessly under the spell of fantasy. “G-gods...yes.” A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. The Ceremony was usually a silent affair, perhaps a whine or two at completion from its participants but nothing so...enthusiastic. From the level at which they stood, the crowd began to shuffle, craning to catch a better view of a god lost in his own ecstasy. Above the silk panels, his strong torso was visible from the navel, every thrust of his hips against his palm making that powerful stomach clench. The fading light cast shadows across deep abs, spasms of restrained desire making the muscles at his ribs jolt beneath the taut skin. Loki’s face was marble in motion, exquisite cheekbones sharpening and softening with each biting clench of his jaw, panting sluttishly to the muraled dome above. Loki’s mind wandered to the day he had returned from battle, coated in blood of a thousand foes: dead by his hand. You had run to him, concern etched across your brow, before you realised that the blood was not his own. How innocent you were. If only you had known the things that he would do to you. That he would have you do to him.

In his fantasises, he envisioned you pushing him against the balustrade, ravenously thrusting your tongue into his mouth. You would have relished every drop of him mixed with the sweat and filth of war that clung to his skin; consuming the grime as you would the one that wore it. Dirty girl, Loki thought; his stomach flipping with a wave of adrenaline, dangerously close to climax. You would be such a dirty slut for me. And only me. Loki thought of how your fingers would make quick work of the crusted ties holding his leather trousers at the hips. Of your hands slipping down to grasp his furiously hard cock in your delicate grip. His knees would buckle, delicious cleavage pressing against his bloodied armour; red streaks smeared across your cheek as you savagely took his pleasure at any cost. “Uh-uh-uh...Uh hhhh- y-yes...don’t stop...Gods.” Loki grunted wantonly, his face falling forwards with his mouth hanging open. His cock was bursting, flexing outward against the tight clamp of white knuckles. Blood thundered in his ears, a thick haze of feral lust coursing in his veins as he raised his gaze slowly, ceasing his heavy strokes to a crawl. The disciple at his feet raised his head in expectation, bringing the golden platter forward; flinching back down when he realised his mistake. Loki’s eyes locked to yours, watching him with that same concerned expression that you had worn in the hallway the day he returned. Or wait..., Loki thought as he palmed his cock gently upward, a shiver of desire rolling down his spine; Not concern. Need. Your lips were parted, brows knitted in concentration as you shuffled beneath his simmering gaze. Loki’s eyes ran covetously over your frame, your breasts rising and falling against the corset of that pretty dress. They may not know how much you wish to be behind these silk curtains on your knees choking on my cock, darling; Loki smirked to himself, as you let out a staggered breath beneath his smouldering stare. But I do. He let out a low growl, eyes rolling back as a thumb pressed up the centre of his wide manhood. The oil on his hand was hot with friction, slipping around the velvet skin beneath. Loki’s eyes never left yours, tilting his chin upwards again. His hair fell around his cheekbones, a strand sucked across his lips as he began to pant beneath the renewed pace of his palm. He observed you through half-lidded eyes, biting his lip as his ass clenched with every smooth swipe of his hand against that forbidden pleasure he knew you craved. How he wanted you. How he had always wanted you. Loki hoped your father could see the eye-fucking occurring amid this most solemn of Asgardian festivals. An honour: Loki thought with a sly tug of his lips, that even that odious old fucker could not deny, surely. “Oh-oh, f-fuck...yess.” Loki groaned, close to release; syllables dripping from his tongue like double cream. His fist flexed around his length, palming himself mercilessly while thoughts of you ravaging his cock invaded his senses.

The god’s eyebrows slanted upward, his jaw slackening. A murmur of excitement rolled across the crowd, seeing the prince’s shoulders tense and tighten. Biceps bulged as his free hand grasped his naked thigh beneath the silk panel, an audible gasp from the spectators as he threw his head back. The veins in his throat stood out, jawline sharp as Vanaheim steel in the embers of smouldering sunset. The curtain-bearers tenses in position, the manservant serving the golden platter forward as the muscles in Loki’s legs strained against the precipice of orgasm. His eyes squeezed shut. Knowing you were watching him come undone...that would need to be enough. For now. He could feel breaths catching in his throat, panting like a wolf on the hunt. Stars flashed and simmered behind his eyelids, mutters of anticipation rising from the crowd as his dark moans of shameless pleasure reverberated around the marble walls. In his mind, you were lying in his bed. Legs spread to welcome him as he lowered between your open thighs, melting into the curve of your breasts. “Take me, Loki.” you would whisper against his skin, as you guided his aching cock inside your wet, hot cunt. “I’ve been waiting for you.” With a thundering groan that would wake the dead, Loki came. It rang around the alcove, bouncing to every nook and cranny of the great hall beyond. He heard the group of women gasp in unison, their quiet whines peppering the air as he came undone. Glorious, pure white seed spurted across the outstretched golden bowl as Loki juddered. He steadied against the shoulder of one of the stoic curtain-bearers as shallow pants racked his body. Loki squeezed up from the base of his cock, every drop of his essence secured. For none could remain. Slow claps dotted the crowd, growing louder as the spectators showed their appreciation for his dutiful service to the realm. The god's eyes flickered to where you stood; a coy smile pressing against your dimples as you applauded demurely with a mischievous glint in your eye. He swiped the ceremonial robe held out to him, making a show of whirling it around his body, allowing you a final gratuitous look. Loki tightened the cord around his hips, straightening and smoothing his hair back as the curtain-bearers raised their poles to reveal his whole form once more. I’m still hard, Loki thought, realising immediately that he didn’t care. The high-priestess approached, giving a small bow. She smiled, leaning in toward him. “One can always count on Asgard’s second son for some...unorthodoxy.” she whispered. “It is nice to see that a millennia has not changed you, Loki.” She winked, accepting the golden platter and its contents from the kneeling man shuffling on his knees across the floor. Loki rolled his eyes. “Will that be all?” he quipped, pursing his lips. She nodded, the same smile tugging the corner of her mouth. He gave a curt nod to each section of the crowd, lingering a moment longer toward the one where you stood. Loki could swear there was a thin sheen of sweat on your collarbone, that you pressed your lips together to contain a bite as he raised his eyes to yours.

I have been waiting for you, he thought, feeling his heavy cock throb as he began the short walk back through the golden doors from whence he came. Tonight, my forbidden one; we shall wait no more.

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