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eddiesghxst · 4 months

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❆ Let It Snow - a christmas smutty special ❆

happy holidays lovelys!!! ilysm and i hope you all have a beautiful rest of your year, here is a cute n quick little Christmas smutty blurb as my gift to u <3

also, this is not proofread i apologize for any mistakes <3

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: roomate!eddie munson x reader

summary: your flight home gets canceled on christmas eve and Eddie just wants to cheer you up

contains: friends to lovers trope, reader loves christmas (she's so me), oral (f receiving), p in v (unprotected - be smart pls), creampie, lots of Christmas cheer, and eddie being the cutest most kindest boy there ever was <3

word count: 3.6k

-masterlist-

Christmas is ruined.

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve been rotting away in your room all day— it’s now almost six in the afternoon— and Christmas is ruined.

In the corner of your room, your bags lay in a pile, packed and ready to go for the flight home you were supposed to be on just less than an hour ago. Your mother was devastated when you called her to break the news that you wouldn’t be home in time for Christmas, and although she tried her hardest to mask it over the phone, acting was never really her niche.

You’d already cried once this morning, a pathetic sob that inevitably escaped the second you opened your blinds and saw the blinding-white thick blanket of snow covering Hawkins. It’s not common, heavy winter snows in Indiana, so when the news mentioned that there would be a chance of snow, you didn’t think much of it.

Wrong choice.

You should’ve changed your ticket immediately and got on the next plane to Oregon, where your family would be with warm laughter and endless amounts of food, not to mention the traditional tree lighting you’d miss out on. But now, you’re stuck in Hawkins, chest hollow and cold from the undeniable fact that you will miss Christmas with your family this year.

Suddenly, you hear a raspy curse from the other side of your wall, followed by haste movements and the rustling of sheets and clothes. Eddie’s finally up from his nap. You can’t wait to tell him how stupid you’d been to book a flight so late on Christmas Eve.

Before you can even think of getting up and going to Eddie’s room, the man bursts through your door with a frazzled look as his gaze darts around the room, “Why didn’t you wake me? You’re gonna be late for your flight!” He panics. It’s sweet, really. The way your roommate paces over to your bags and looks at you with a ‘Why aren’t these in the car yet?’ look. It almost makes you hopeful that somehow, now that Eddie’s bright and sunny self is awake, he can find a way to get you home just in time for Christmas.

Obviously, it's not happening, considering Eddie isn’t a god, but one can dream.

You groan, tossing over in your bed to burrow your face deep into your sheets as you mumble into the soft cotton, “I’m not going anymore.” You grumble.

You can hear Eddie’s frown when he responds, “What? What do you mean you’re not going?”

You huff, heart aching as you reply, “Have you looked outside by any chance?”

You don’t turn to watch, but you can hear the shuffling sound of Eddie walking over to your window, shucking the blinds open, and peering out into the parking lot of your apartment that’s covered in that godawful snow. Eddie lets out a sound, something between surprise and sympathy, and it only makes the frown on your face deepen.

“Well… shit,” Eddie says.

You turn over and sit up, huffing as you shove your sheets out of your way, “Yeah. Have fun trying to figure out a way to get me across the country with that type of weather.” You grunt, kicking your legs over the side of your bed to stand and shuffle over to the packed suitcases. You figure you may as well unpack since you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So when are the airports gonna clear, did they say?” Eddie asks.

You huff as you unfold jeans and tops, mind reeling with scenarios of what you should’ve done to prevent this. “Not until tomorrow afternoon. Christmas will be done by then, and most of my family will be back in their respective homes, so… looks like you’re stuck with me, Munson.”

Which, sure Eddie practically threw a fit when you told him you’d be out of town for the holidays, but you still feel as if you’re intruding. Eddie was supposed to have Wayne come over tomorrow, but you’re going to be here probably sulking, and it’ll be awkward and pitiful, and it’s just not at all what you’d wanted your or Eddie’s Christmas to be like!

“...Okay, well,” Before you can fully register what’s happening, Eddie is closing your suitcase and grabbing your hands, dragging you up to your feet and ignoring your confusion as he speaks, “You can’t spend Christmas like this, sweetheart. You’ll end up like the Grinch. Do you wanna be the Grinch? Don’t tell me you wanna be the Grinch.” Eddie rambles as he drags you out of your room.

You try to fight a smile at Eddie’s rapid fire of words, but you fail as you shake your head, “No, I don’t want to be the Grinch, asshole.” You grumble as he drops your hand.

Eddie drops your hand and claps loudly, a bright grin spreading over his lips when he turns to you, “Wonderful! Then we have to get in the Christmas spirit.”

Eddie leaves you confused in the small hallway of your shared apartment, watching as he chaoticly prances over to the kitchen. He slows down and turns back to you once he sees you’re not following him, a confused expression painting over his face. “Well? Are you gonna leave me to bake alone, or are you gonna join?”

And well, you’ve never seen Eddie even pick up a baking pan, so it’s safe to say this will be interesting.

Eddie is absolutely terrible with ingredients.

You and Eddie both decided to bake cookies, but instead of regular chocolate chips, Eddie pitched in the idea of using red and green M&Ms for the holiday effect, which you thought was pretty clever. The only problem is Eddie can’t measure for shit.

The recipe calls for two tablespoons of cornstarch, Eddie two and a half— damn near three. The next step says to mix in a third of a cup of cooking oil, but Eddie puts in much too little. It’s odd, considering his past with drug dealing, but you don’t mention it and instead opt to discreetly correct his mistakes whenever he turns his back to grab something else.

You both end up covered in flour because the pesky powder honestly just doesn't under the concept of gravity, and you laugh when you see some coating Eddie’s eyelashes. “What’s so funny, chef?” He asks.

You smile, “Nothing, you’ve just got… you got some on your eyes.” You reach up with a gentle hand, the sleeves of your sweater long enough to pull over your thumb so you can carefully dust off the white powder.

Eddie’s eyes are so bright and attentive this close, watching your every move with a type of sincerity you’ve only ever seen on screens from Grammy-nominated films and such. It makes your chest warm, and your knees quiver as his lips split into a smile, “Thank you, princess.” He softly says. You nod, and you swear Eddie’s eyes fucking twinkle.

You clear your throat, blinking away and stepping back to clear whatever trance from your mind, “Well,” You heavily sigh, “The cookies are in the oven for the next hour, so… I think I’m gonna go read.”

“Actually,” Eddie pipes up, softly reaching out and letting his fingers brush against yours, “I was thinking we could watch a Christmas movie. Unless if you’re sick of me, I totally get it; I’ll call you when the cookies are ready.”

Which couldn’t be further from the truth. You didn’t want to read. Hell, you don’t even have a new book to read; you’ve gone through your entire reading list.

“Oh! Well, what movie did you have in mind?”

“Home Alone. Obviously.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re a Christmas amateur, Eddie, did you know that?”

Eddie waves a dismissive hand as you begin to smile, reaching out to spin you around and shove you toward your room, “Just go get in some comfy clothes.”

You snort as you follow his instructions, shuffling over to your room to change out of your flour-coated clothing. It takes you some time to dig through your suitcase, but you eventually find the cute pajama set you bought for the holidays and slip it on, eager to return to the living room and join Eddie.

When you step into the living room, you don’t expect to see furniture pushed out of the way and Eddie standing in the middle as he pushes his queen-sized mattress down to lie right in the middle of the room—your heart races when you realize what Eddie’s done.

“Eddie, what are you doing?” You softly ask.

Eddie looks up at you, heavily breathing as he places his hands on his hips, “It’s Christmas Eve!” He beams. You tilt your head with a scolding expression, “I remember you saying you did this with your family, so I figured we gotta keep the tradition going.” He shrugs.

And god, Eddie’s so lovely. Too nice for his own good, really. Your entire body warms at the gesture, watching as he bustles around the apartment, grabbing blankets and pillows to make a comfy nest-like bed.

Seeing Eddie prepare the room wasn’t confusing because you kind of figured that’s what he was doing when you initially saw it, but you became concerned when you saw him drag a tall fake plant across the room.

Eddie steps back and gazes at the fake plant, face twisted in concentration, “Where should it go? The corner, right?” He turns to you. Your brows scrunch in confusion, “Uh… you’re losing me.”

Eddie blinks at you as if you’ve just asked him if the sky is blue, “The Christmas tree, doll. Where should it go?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s not a Christmas tree, Eddie, that’s a fake Cat Palm.” Eddie makes a face as if you’ve insulted him, “Says who?”

“Says anyone with general knowledge of the world.” “Why can’t this tree be a Christmas tree? As far as I know, they both have the same qualities that allow them to classify as a tree.” And you’re not going to argue with Eddie on that because he’s being sweet, and you’re interested to see what wacky plan he’s concocted in that brain of his.

So, for the next hour or so, you and Eddie sit on his comfy bed in the living room and use copy paper to cut out shitty snowflakes to put on the ‘Christmas tree’ as you watch Home Alone.

It’s undeniably the most fun you’ve had in a while, and you and Eddie turn your craft into a competition to see who can make the best snowflake, but you keep snipping the wrong spots to create an absolute disgrace of a snowflake. Eddie thinks they’re ‘fucking insane. In a good way!’ though, so you can’t complain.

“These are fucking awful.”

Home Alone 2 is playing, the Christmas tree is fully decorated, and you and Eddie have settled in his bed with a plate full of cookies. It’s a cozy little setup you’ve got, and your cheeks are warm from laughter, and you’ve never felt this content with anyone besides family. And to make matters even better, the cookies taste like absolute shit.

You look at Eddie, gazing at his horrified expression momentarily before bursting into a snort. Eddie looks at you, terror written across his face as you fold in laughter.

“These are seriously the worst cookies I’ve ever tasted.” He reiterates.

You manage to calm your laughter down just enough to respond, “They’re not that bad.”

You and Eddie share a look before you burst into laughter again, “Yeah, they’re pretty bad.” You admit. Eddie joins you in laughter, shaking his head as he offers you the plate of cookies so you can put your half-bitten cookie away. “Remind me to never enter a bake-off,” Eddie grumbles as he reaches over to set the cookies on the coffee table pushed off to the side.

You and Eddie settle into his cozy bed then, content on holiday cheer and the comforting presence of one another. You’re pressed close to each other so you can share the bowl of popcorn you’d made, and you try to ignore how the close proximity makes your insides squeal. You glance at Eddie as you roll an unpopped kernel between your fingers.

“Thank you.”

Eddie turns to you, eyebrows raised in alert. You gesture to the atmosphere of your apartment, “For this, I mean. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

Eddie makes a face and waves you off, “It’s nothing, princess. Couldn’t have you sad on your favorite holiday of the year.”

Your cheeks warm as you gaze at Eddie, chest feeling so much appreciation for his efforts today. Eddie didn’t have to do any of this. He could’ve just said sorry for your shit luck and called it a day, but he took it upon himself to make your ruined holiday into, arguably, one of the best Christmas you’ve had in a while.

“I mean, come on, you heard how badly I was begging you to stay home anyway. Some might even say I got Mother Nature to ring in a favor.” He jokes as he gently nudges his shoulder against yours. You roll your eyes, briefly returning to the movie as you respond, “You’re dramatic, Eddie. I was gonna be gone for two days.” You point out.

“Two days too long!” He stresses, “What was I supposed to do while you were gone?”

You snort, tossing popcorn in your mouth before speaking, “You were gonna be with Wayne anyway; you’d hardly even think about me.” You wave.

Eddie makes a displeased noise, poking at the popcorn in the bowl, “That’s not true.” He softly responds. You glance at Eddie, heart racing when he locks eyes with you. “Wayne isn’t half as pretty as you, so.” He jokes, a small smile spreading across his lips.

You shyly smile, “You think I’m pretty?” You tease.

Eddie smiles with his eyes, “I think you’re gorgeous, actually.”

And god, you think you imagine it when Eddie’s gaze falls to your lips, but then he’s reaching out to gently drag his thumb across your bottom lip. You lean into him on instinct, body aching for his touch, lips crying out to feel his lips on yours, and thankfully, Eddie doesn’t make you wait long before leaning forward.

Eddie’s lips are soft and perfect for kissing. Plump and addicting to the touch as he moves in tandem with you, hands gently caressing your face as you press into each other. You can’t contain the whine bubbling in your throat, and you almost feel embarrassed, but Eddie responds with a moan, hands moving south to softly grab your waist and pull you closer.

You almost can’t believe this is happening— you making out with your roommate on Christmas Eve— but you figure it was about time that you two shattered the thick wall of tension and desire that’d been building between you both. Stolen glances and lingering touches in the kitchen, too-close dancing at parties, and almost kisses during goodbyes have all led to this very moment as Eddie shifts to lay you back into the mountain of pillows.

You shakily breathe against Eddie’s lips when his fingers dust across your stomach, softly pressing into your warm skin to pull a squeal from your lips. You can feel the spread of his smile against the corner of our mouth, and you squirm as he peppers a few kisses there, “Gonna let me taste you, princess?” He asks, fingers caressing the skin just above the waistband of your festive shorts. You swallow heavily and nod, eyes dancing with his when he leans back just enough to see your face. “Words?”

“Yeah. Yes, please.”

Your voice hardly even sounds like your own. Needy and higher pitched and almost humiliating, but Eddie’s smattering kisses down your chin and neck, hands riding your shirt up your stomach so he can kiss the warm skin there. You softly exhale, reaching up to sink your fingers through his hair and gently tug. He groans against you, softly nipping the fat of your hip as his fingers curl over the band of your shorts. He drags the pants down your legs, sitting up to take them off and toss them to the side. He parts your thighs, a smug grin spreading across his lips as he gazes down at you, your socked feet digging into the sheets as he runs his ringed hands up your legs. “Stop staring.” You grumble.

Eddie chuckles, leaning forward to kiss your stomach and then the band of your panties, “Candy canes, huh?” He peers up at you as he plays with the tiny bow on your pelvis. Your face warms, center throbbing as you squirm beneath him. “Hey,” You frown, “It was a matching set and I thought they were cute.” You explain, nudging him with your foot. Which is true, the set came with a bra, panties, and socks, and it was on sale, so of course you bought it.

Eddie laughs as he settles on his stomach, “Oh, you’re fuckin’ precious,” He beams to himself. Your chest warms, and he leans forward to kiss just over your covered clit, “I love them, sweetheart.” Another kiss pressed to your hip this time. “I love them a lot, actually.” A kiss to the other hip, and you squirm. His lashes flutter when he peers up at you, fingers squeezing your hips as he speaks, “Unfortunately… they’re kind of in the way.”

You playfully roll your eyes, losing the fight to your smile as you respond, “Just take them off, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, hands moving quicker than you’ve ever seen to get rid of the candy cane printed barrier, happily settling back on his stomach and curling his hands around your thighs to pull you closer. He doesn’t give you any warning when he dives in, licking a thick and wet line from your entrance to your clit. He circles the tip of his tongue over your clit, grinning when you moan and twitch from the sensation. He hums as he suckles your clit into his mouth, licking and sucking as if his life depends on it, fingers squeezing at your thighs and hips. You’re drowning in pleasure, but you think you can hear the muffled sound of Eddie mumbling, ‘Fuck, you taste so good’ against you, and it makes your head spin.

You’re a goner when he sinks two fingers into you, expertly curling up against that toe-curling spot to have you crying out his name and arching up into him. He hums against you, nodding his head in encouragement as you cum on his tongue.

You’re blinking through a pleasure-filled haze when Eddie kisses up your body, sticky lips smearing wet pecks across your stomach as he pushes your shirt further up.

You help each other undress the rest of the way, your limbs shaky and clumsy from your orgasm, and Eddie chuckles but kisses you when you glare at him. Your hand wraps around his cock, but Eddie shakes his head, grasping your wrist as he pushes you back into his bed, “I can’t wait. Next time, yeah? Need you now.”

You wouldn’t dream of saying no.

The stretch of Eddie is so much yet so good. It burns, and it takes your breath away, but it sends chills up your back with the heavenly sensation as he presses into you, balls pressing against your ass as he leans over you and moans against your lips. “F–fuck. Jesus, you feel so fucking good.”

You mewl, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing your body into him. “Please, Eddie. Please fuck me, please.”

“Yeah,” He gently coos as he pulls out. He pushes back in, watching as your eyes flutter shut and your lips part in ecstasy, and he hums, “There we go. Taking me so well, baby. Gonna give it all to you— h-holy shit.”

He builds his pace slowly but surely, and you’re so embarrassingly close by the time he’s steadily pumping into you, the loud sound of your sex echoing between your bodies in tandem with your moans.

You moan, nails digging into Eddie’s shoulders as you breathe him in, digging your face into his neck and finding solace in the curtain of his curly strands as he holds you close. Eddie groans when you throb around his aching cock, and he nods, “Give it to me. Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.” He gently encourages you, a warm hand pressing into your back as he kisses your neck. You don’t know if you could get any closer, your chests pressed together, skin sticky with sweat as you grind against one another.

You tip over the edge quicker than you’d want to because you want this to last forever, but Eddie coos and holds you through it all, and you feel like you’re floating through clouds of stardust with Eddie kissing you and thrusting into you.

You’re out of it when Eddie cums. So far gone and high on pleasure that all you can do is moan and nuzzle into his neck to kiss and lick and bite as he empties himself into your pulsing cunt.

You’re both breathing heavily, Eddie collapsing against you but holding himself up just enough so he doesn’t crush you. You’re both silent as you catch your breath, softly running your fingers through Eddie’s hair as the ending credits to Home Alone 2 roll. Against the skin of your neck, you feel Eddie’s lips spread into a sleepy smile, and you can’t help but smile as well as you speak, “What?” You softly ask.

Eddie breathes, shifting so he can nuzzle his face further into your neck, breathing in the scent of you and sex.

“Nothing, just… I’m so fucking glad it snowed.”

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munson-blurbs · 3 months

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall.

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place.

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long.

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train.

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive.

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles.

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus.

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear.

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories.

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk.

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?”

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone?

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape.

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93.

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.”

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar.

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two.

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors.

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work?

That was sure to go over well.

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift.

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils.

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar.

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility.

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one.

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn.

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire.

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase.

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot.

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile.

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you.

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you.

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended.

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back.

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.”

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line.

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you. Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again.

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied.

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions.

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again.

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

taglist:

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @chrissymjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @reidsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @bewitchedmunson @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl @fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 4 months

Text

The Five Naughty New Years

A collab between @vanwritesfan-fiction and @w1ldthoughts

A series that follows Jack and the readers relationship through five years of celebrating New Years together in the naughtiest ways.

Year Five

Warnings: language, smut, references to dom/sub relationship

Written by @vanwritesfan-fiction

Jack hated begging. It wasn't very alpha of him. He'd rather walk away with his ego in tact then be caught begging.

Except when it came to you. For you, his baby girl, he'd live his life on his knees if it meant you were happy. He hated seeing you upset, especially if he was to blame, and on the off chance that it happened, he was willing to do anything to make it up to you.

Tonight, on New Years Eve, you were using that to your advantage. In your defense, he'd been teasing you all night. It was all for the buildup between you two, a little game you liked to play to see who could fold first before you were taking the other to bed. Usually, you were all for a little taunt, but only if you had the upper hand.

You could take the longing glances at you across the room as he talked to acquaintances, or the inappropriate touches as the two of you danced the night away in the middle of the crowd, but when you spotted him flirting with the waitress who kept replenishing his drinks all night, you knew he wasn't playing fair.

It was time to take back the power. You made sure he saw the pout on your face before leaving the ballroom, Jack making haste to try to catch up with you.

"Baby, stop", he called after you, chuckling to himself as he watched you hobble toward the elevator in your high heels. He told you not to wear the shoes, but you were stubborn because they went perfectly with the dress you'd chosen for the night. Now, you were cursing his name and Christian Louboutin in the same breath as your feet screamed at you in pain.

"Fuck off." You threw a middle finger over your shoulder without stopping, hearing his footsteps gaining on you.

"Y/N, you're gonna hurt yourself. Let me help you." His voice was gruff and louder, and you knew he was starting to get irritated. Good, he needed a taste of his own medicine. You weren't really mad at him, just a bit jealous, but you knew the more angry he got, the better the sex would be when he finally got his hands on you. It was time to land the final blow.

You turned on your heels, stopping in the middle of the hallway, giving Jack your most convincing upset face.

"Why don't you just go back to your girlfriend? 10 minutes to midnight, wouldn't want you to miss your first kiss." You had to work overtime to stifle a laugh. You could physically see where you'd struck a nerve with Jack, his jaw flexing so hard you thought he'd chip a molar.

"Ok, that's enough." He swept you off your feet so quickly, you couldn't even get your barings before he pushed you into the elevator. "You think you're funny, huh?". He let out a curt laugh as he pushed the ground floor button.

"I think I'm fucking hilarious."

You let out a gasp as he pushed you against the wall, his nose inches from yours. "Drop the attitude, before I fuck it out of you." He gave you a cocky smile, his hand trailing toward your core. "No." You swatted his hand away just as he crept underneath your dress.

"What are you doing?" Jack was confused as to why you weren't playing along.

"You have to ask. Nicely." You crossed your legs together. He tried to get to you again, but you were consistent. "Why would I ask for something that belongs to me?"

"Beg for it", you bit out, "or the only thing you'll be touching tonight is your own dick."

Jack let out a dark chuckle as he stroked his beard. He had to give it to you, you were brave. The elevator chimed as it reached your floor, but when you tried to move he held you back and knocked the emergency stop button with his fist.

"Jack, what are yo-". Jack dropped to his knees, his fingers toying with the band of your underwear before cleanly ripping them off your body with one pull. "You wanted me to beg?", he confirmed as he lifted your thigh to rest on his shoulder, exposing your glistening core to him. "This is me begging."

His nose grazed against your pussy as he latched onto your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud a couple of times. You let out a shriek, clamping a hand over your mouth as you heard the echo against the metal walls of the car. "Fuck, fuck, don't stop", you whispered, as he ate you out, your hand tugging at his curls to direct him to your most sensitive spots.

"Oh baby, that feels so good." You shivered as you felt the hum of his laugh against your core, your orgasm building quickly. "God, you taste so good, baby", he groaned, his voice vibrating your entire body. Jack looked up at you, his blue eyes piercing in the light, but you could barely focus, feeling yourself so close to release. The sight of you unraveling in his mouth had his erection straining against the zipper of his pants.

"I'm so close. I'm so close", you repeated over and over again as you ground your pelvis against his face, your release coating his beard as you orgasmed.

"For someone with a sharp mouth, you sure are all talk." Jack pulled you in for a rough kiss, making you stumble over your feet as your legs shook from exhaustion. You could taste yourself all over his lips and beard, slowly dragging your tongue along his jawline to get every bit of yourself off of him.

"I wanna go home now." You gave him your sweetest gaze, knowing it was his weakness, but Jack needed to make sure you knew your place before he gave you anything else. "Who does this belong to?" You knees went weak as he palmed your bare, sensitive pussy, making you jump from overstimulation. "Jack, fuck", you breathed out, his touch almost sending you over the edge again.

"Tell me who this pussy belongs to, or the only thing you'll be touching tonight is yourself. He grinned, throwing your words back in your face. You knew you'd regret saying that at some point. He pressed a large digit against your entrance. "Tell me, baby." He whispered in your ear, almost inaudible against your heavy breathing.

"Yours. This pussy is yours", you edged out between clenched teeth, sighing as he let you go.

"Good girl." He hit the emergency stop button again, and you felt the elevator jolt as it settled on the floor.

Tag-List:

@jacks-daycare

@livsters

@katiaw2

@xangelonmyshoulderx

@thatonegirlthatlikesthings

@j0hkiya

@bell3e

@isisosidixj

@caroline334

@lightsoutstyles

@hufflewhore128

@jackscurlyhair

@jackharloww

@brixo

@beautiifulpeople312

@bernelflo

@taniapri

@ageofthebarbarians

@honeyharlows

@aga21

@iheartharlow

@neon-lights-and-glitter

@w1ldthoughts

@jackslilsecrett

@harlowcomehome

@fantasywritersstuff

@exoticr0ses

@iknowdatsrightbih

@itsyagirljaz

@hoodharlow

@bobthe-turmpetman29

@wittyjasontodd

@purecinnamonextract

@fluidsentiment

@comehomeimissyou

#jack harlow #jackman thomas harlow #jackharlow #jackman harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfic

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coltermorning · 4 months

Text

A Christmas to Remember (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur have agreed to meet on the night of Christmas Eve. The evening and the following day turn out to be more than either of you expected.

Author’s Notes: Just some good ole fluff for the holidays! Set a year or so down the road from the events of RDR2, and in this instance Arthur never got sick and rides alone now.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, implied sex, fluff

AO3 Link

A Christmas to Remember

Word count: 5994

The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across the wooden walls, shimmers of gold rising and collapsing in the night. The room was warm, comfortable for all the drafty air threatening to cut through it. It never quite managed to get in, like the flames stood guard in their grate, pushing against the inevitable winter.

The room had been decorated for the season with a tree and garland and ribbon and light. This place had likely never seen such decoration until the end of the year, the woody smell seeping into the very walls it was so thick. The source of it, a small pine, was standing crooked in the corner. It was a promise of what was to come. Inviting and, had the room not already held its heat, warm. Perfect for the occasion.

On the night before Christmas, you were perched by the window, ignoring the beauty of the room surrounding you in favor of the company you awaited. Mr. Morgan, a promise to meet you here not having left your thoughts since the moment it parted from his lips. You had your gift, your best clothes, expectation wrapped around you like a bow. And yet, all there was to do was wait. To feel the anticipation for his arrival and let all else fall away.

The minutes passed, and soon there was a horse coming up the path with its familiar white spots flashing in the night. That white would normally stand out more but for the snow, falling thick and slow in the December air. It made Valentine prettier. It made the mud seem less untidy somehow, more familiar.

You felt a smile curve your lips when you saw just the man you waited for approach, his hat slung low, his blue coat fastened tight around him. You watched him encourage his horse onward until he rounded the building out of sight. You wondered if he would stable the animal or not, caring as always or too taken by his haste at seeing you. How that eagerness of his for you made you giddy. To be known and to be wanted anyway.

You left your place by the window and took in the room with a sweeping glance. The lights, the smell, the warmth. It was homey in the same way he was. A welcome respite to come back to, a place to look forward to when things got hard.

You stood closer to the fire, knowing sitting was useless when all you wanted was to embrace him the moment he walked through the door. It had been too long. So you remained standing if a little impatient, feeling the nerves that quickened your heartbeat course through you. You would be parting with more than just a gift tonight, and the very thought made you restless. But you owed it to him. He deserved it.

You fiddled with a piece of ribbon tied on the garland that framed the fireplace when you heard bootsteps in the hall, heavy and determined. They made you smile. But for all his bravado, he knocked softly on the door when he reached it, as if you would whisk away into nothingness the moment he did. Like a dream and nothing more.

“Come in,” you answered, and your gentle words were all it took for him to regain that sense of pride. The door swung open, and nothing could have suited you better than the smile he wore, the light in his eyes when they landed on you.

“Y/N.” It was a happy sound. Not a greeting so much as a satisfied release of breath. Your feet were moving before you could respond.

You hugged the man you had been missing for weeks, wishing like always that the pair of you could make this permanent enough to keep you together for longer than an evening.

“I missed you,” you whispered, sinking into the feeling of him holding you. His coat was cold but his warmth outweighed it, swallowing you in the scent of tobacco smoke and outside air. You had missed that smell so much your chest ached with it.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he said. Always so intentional. Always saying just what he thought. You adored that about him.

You pulled back to look at him but remained in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Morgan.”

“Christmas Eve,” he corrected. “We still have a few hours yet.” Then his eyes were filling with meaning like they always did before he kissed you. The look that said nothing in the world mattered more than this. You tilted your chin up, happy to greet it with all the love you held for him. He leaned in with that enamored look, and his lips met yours with the soft release of anticipation for all the days spent waiting. All the days apart that would be dreadful if not for the knowledge that you would have this again. You kissed him back just as slow and soft, like this was what it took to remember.

The pair of you got a bit lost in each other until you could hear his breathing grow heavy. It always did that, and it never failed to make your heart race in kind.

You pulled away and looked into those ocean water eyes. “I got you something.”

He quirked an eyebrow, running his lips together subtilely like he could still taste your kiss. “Did you now?”

“Yes.” He had told you not to. This was your first Christmas spent with him, the first chance you had to give him a gift. But, just like his birthday that had come and gone without your knowledge, he didn’t want a gift. Just your company. You had already gotten onto him plenty for letting his birthday squeak by. You wouldn’t let it happen again.

You stepped to the side and motioned to the bed, to the small parcel laying atop it. You had done your best with wrapping it, a small bit of twine done up around the paper with a bow.

“It’s two, actually. I’ve been working on one for a while.” When you turned back to him, the small flash of concern on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t worry,” you assured him. “I didn’t expect anything in return.”

His eyes snapped to you then. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said lowly, and before you could ask why, he was reaching inside his coat and pulling something out. A present, a little battered from his travel, the paper wrinkled and the tie around it crushed. You only loved it more for it. It was endearing in the same way he was.

“Arthur,” you chided with a smile. “You were just going to let me show up without a present when you had one for me?”

“‘Course.” He smiled with his teeth, that toothy grin that reminded you of the boy he had once been.

You gave him an incredulous look, and he laughed, the sound spiraling upward and into your bones like liquid gold.

“Fine then. You open mine first,” you said, unable to shake the high that was being with him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender before repocketing his gift and making for the parcel. You felt nerves flash through you, hoping against hope he would like it. One you knew he would, but the other was…a bit different.

“You didn’t have to spend your money,” he said, picking up the package and pulling the string so the bow slipped apart.

“I wanted to,” you told him. “It didn’t cost much anyway. More time than anything.”

He eyed you, the remnants of that grin still on his face, then the paper crinkled as he undid it. It finally gave way to fabric—his favorite color. He smiled.

“Darlin’,” he said endearingly as he pulled out a new shirt. Nothing special, nothing fancy, just something for him to ride in, the softest blue you could find. You always teased him that everything he owned would be blue if he had his say in the matter. “I love it,” he said with a smile bright enough to make you return it. “Thank you.”

He made to hug you but you stopped him. “Unfold it.”

He hesitantly did so, dropping the wrapping to the floor. He held the shirt up, and the moment he did, a loud thunk sounded—his second gift hitting the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, reaching for it.

You could only laugh. “It’s not breakable.”

He picked it up, and the low light in the room was enough for him to see the wood. To see what you had carved into it.

He flipped it over, examined it from every angle. “You did this?” He met your eyes with such an open admiration in his that you felt your face heat.

You nodded. “It’s for your shotgun. The stock. I made sure it was the right kind to fit your gun if you wanted to…swap them out.” You suddenly felt that was a little presumptuous of you.

He stared at it so long your nerves got the better of you.

“You don’t have to, of course-”

“No,” he said, meeting your eye with sincerity in his own. “I love it. I mean it. Thank you. I’ll get it put on there first thing tomorrow.”

You were beaming. “Really? It’s not too…I don’t know. Effeminate?”

He gave you a chiding look so you kept on. “You’re just…you, and I want you to like it, but you don’t have to use it if you-”

He stopped you with a kiss, sudden and sure enough to melt away your doubt. Then there was nothing but him. No worry about some gift that he ended up liking after all.

Arthur pulled away from you slowly, reluctantly. “Open yours.”

He pulled the parcel out of his coat and handed it to you as he sat on the bed, urging you to sit beside him. You joined him, admiring him as you took it. There was no nervousness about him like there had been in you. His mind didn’t even seem to be on the gift. He was thinking of you and little else. So you smiled when you opened it, knowing you would love it before you even knew what it was.

Sure enough, he knew you well. “A journal?”

He nodded as your smile stretched wider. You thumbed through the empty pages, yours to fill. The two of you had that in common—a need to record in drawing as well as words. He was heavier on the words, journal entries lining the pages of what little he had let you see of his leather-bound book. But you preferred drawing. Mimicking art. It was why you had carved the woodland scene into a gunstock for the better part of a month, knowing upon seeing its inspiration how special it was and that it needed to be remembered. So maybe now, that proud deer on the foreground of a valley would forever be cradled in his appreciative hand just as this journal would be cradled in yours.

“Thank you, Arthur.” You met his eye to show that you meant it then melted all over again at the way he was looking at you. You debated speaking the feeling that bloomed within you but didn’t, not when he picked up the stock again and brushed a thumb over your handiwork.

“This is fine work.”

The words made a blush tinge your face. You couldn’t help it. He always bragged on you in a way that would make any woman blush, much less the woman who somehow found herself on the doting end of this rugged, outlawed man. He was a blunt instrument, violent and determined, yet all he trained on you was softness. Kindness you didn’t know how you had come to deserve.

“I told you you was better than me.” This meaning your artwork.

You snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. And I told you, maybe I’d be a better judge of that if you let me get my hands on that journal of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm as the room surrounding you. But to your surprise, for the first time since you’d found out he carried a journal, he didn’t protest.

“Actually,” he said, reaching around to his satchel. “I got you two gifts too.” And, to your shock, he was turning back to you with said journal in hand, holding it out like a bough of hard-earned trust.

“What?” It came out as a whisper, all you could manage in your surprise.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out farther. “I used up all the pages anyway. It’s nigh time I offload it, and I’d feel better about it being in your hands than lord knows who else’s.”

“You mean…” You looked from it to him. “You’re letting me have it? Read it all?”

He nodded his head to the side, a self-conscious gesture. What it must take for him to trust you this much. What he must feel for you.

You took it from him and ran your hands over the worn leather face. All Arthur. Your heart leapt in fondness for him.

You set the journal down atop the new one he had gifted you and turned to face him fully. You felt so deeply for this man. You had for a while. And you wanted him to know it. The journal was just proof he felt the same.

Before you could utter a word, Arthur swept in close and kissed you on the cheek, then stood. He offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you up and against him in one fluid motion, his fingers tangling with yours, his other hand finding your back. Then he was moving back and forth. Dancing. Arthur Morgan, outlaw of the state, dancing.

You laughed aloud. “What’s this?”

He ignored whatever gruffness he would normally have over something so carefree and led you in a soundless dance around the room, the only music the warmth, the lights, the way you felt for each other.

“You know how to dance, don’t you?” he said.

“Vaguely,” you replied. “Do you?”

That really got him going. He gave you a roguish grin and spun you, making you twirl with his fingers alone before pulling you back in. And when he did, he crushed you to him. Then his lips were on yours, and there wasn’t anymore air in the room apart from the love he granted you, how it filled your lungs.

Now. Now, in this perfect moment. It was time. You pulled away.

“Arthur?”

His eyes were closed, his hands cradling your face as he rested his forehead against yours as best he could with his hat. And still he swayed, a subtle back and forth even though it couldn’t quite be considered dancing anymore.

“Hm?”

You didn’t care that his eyes were shut. Didn’t care that he didn’t know what you were about to say or how long you had mulled over saying it. Because you felt it. And it was never more real than it was when you were with him.

“I love you.”

He stopped swaying.

You watched his blue eyes open slowly, like he didn’t quite believe what he had heard. Then his gaze met yours, soft and searching under those eyelashes, complicated as he was.

He didn’t answer. Just held you, watched you. In disbelief, you realized. Or maybe wanting to hold onto this moment like you were, committing it to memory. Too bad he no longer had a journal to draw it in. The thought made you smile. Then words were spilling from you like a flood.

“I’ve loved you since the day I saw what kind of man you really were. I’ve loved you since I saw that page in your journal with the deer drawn on it. I’ve loved you for so long it’s like I was just waiting on you to get here. Like you were made for me.”

His eyebrows drew together in emotion. Still, he did not speak.

“I love you so much it hurts when you’re away,” you muttered, finding his coat in your hands and clutching it, pulling him closer. When you met his eyes again, he was so close you could see every fleck of color in the firelight, the blue and gold that crashed together into green. You kissed him, and this time he was reluctant. Unsure. So you moved back just enough to give him room to breathe, time to think enough to speak.

His eyes never left you as he said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

It was quiet and vulnerable. So true of him, that he didn’t think he deserved to be loved.

“You’re you,” you said. “And that’s enough for me. Enough and then some.”

He was pulling you to him in less than a heartbeat. Crashing his lips to yours with all the passion of a man born again.

He broke from it for a breath, whispering, “I love you too,” before kissing the words into your mouth.

Nothing would ever be better than this. Nothing. It didn’t matter that the feeling was temporary. That Christmas would be over, and he would be gone, and you would ache at the loss of him again. There was no losing this. This memory would hold on forever as the happiest you’d ever had.

Arthur pulled back, and you were both breathing heavy. Far beyond any arousal or want. This was deeper.

He held your face like he held his life in his hands as he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.” Just because he could. The privilege of getting to say it addictive.

You looked at him and couldn’t keep the smile on your face at bay. He met your gaze and kissed you softly, a press of his lips against yours. A guarantee.

Wordlessly, he led you back to the bed. Your heart started to pound with thoughts less innocent until he picked up his journal, flipped toward the back, and held it out to you again.

“I may not have admitted it until now but…well. See for yourself.”

You took the book and turned it toward you, sitting back on the bed. The page you were met with had a drawing of you on it. Patiently drawn, thought out enough that it truly resembled you. You had wondered that—if he had ever drawn you. And now you had your answer. There were no words inscribed beside it like usual, like he just wanted the memory of you down on the page. Absentminded fondness. It burned you up inside.

“Keep turning.”

You looked to him. He wouldn’t meet your eye, embarrassment keeping his gaze glued to his journal, but it was endearing on him all the same.

You did as he asked and saw drawing after drawing after drawing, a few entries here and there. A few animals, a few towns, and nearly every other page, you.

It amazed you. You had thought you’d fallen first, and hard, but seeing this proved otherwise. Based on the entries, these drawings were done mere weeks after you met him.

“I could never seem to get your likeness just right,” he admitted quietly.

“Arthur, these are…” You wanted to reassure him. That this warmed your heart to him more than anything. You looked at him. “Thank you. I never thought…” You had stopped on a page that drew your gaze like none other. Because it captured a look in your eye you had only ever given to him. It was your admiration for him sketched out on the page, all subtle shades of black and gray. And the entry beside it nearly made you tear up.

I get to see her again.

He had drawn a heart beside it. You sobbed a laugh, a sound so happy it was all you could speak.

“I’ve been pretty damn fond of you from the beginning,” he admitted.

You set the journal aside and rose to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you.” You said it on a smile. Because that’s all there was for it.

“Well if it ain’t obvious now…” he started. And he didn’t have to finish. Because you knew he loved you back.

You kissed him slowly then hugged him tight. He was yours.

You had a sudden idea and broke away from him, sitting back on the bed, reaching for the unused journal. “Here.”

“You don’t want it?”

Even the thought crushed you. “No, I want it. But I want you to christen the first page.”

“It’s yours,” he said. Like that would change your mind.

“I know it is. And every time I open it, I want to be reminded of the night I got it.”

He just stared, so you spoke. “Draw me.” Not from memory. Not without your knowledge this time.

“What, now?”

It was true, the pair of you didn’t have long together. But this was more intimate than anything somehow.

“Yes.” You smiled at him. And the look you gave him must have made up his mind, because he took the journal from your hand, the motion subtle and soft in the firelight. He went to the corner and pulled the lone chair over, setting it before you and sitting in it. He reached in his satchel and pulled out a drawing pencil. Then he sat back and looked at you. Really looked at you. He smiled. And he opened the journal, set pencil to paper, and began.

Every time he studied you, you admired him. The way his eyes focused, the way his pencil shaded gently. Such a light hand, easy in the same manner he was to you. A vast difference from when he was holding a gun, just as he treated everyone else so differently. This was the real Arthur. Only yours to see.

Minutes passed, and you shifted as you watched him, the big, tough man hyper-focused on the small journal in his hand.

“Hold still.”

When he met your eye, his were glinting with playfulness. You knew he was only kidding. You had seen him capture birds in flight, fish mid-leap out of the water, animals of all sorts on the run. He didn’t need you to be still. And just being here with him, letting him draw and joke and tease, filled you with such happiness as to make you want to plant this in your memory forever—a warm room and a man who loved you.

When he finished the drawing, he closed the journal and stowed his pencil, standing.

“Let me see.”

He shook his head with a lazy smile as he bound the journal back up. “Later.”

“Why later?”

Then he was stepping closer, the air in the room going thin as his eyes fixed on you.

“Open it when I ain’t here,” he said, eyes full with want. He tossed the journal on the bed and boxed you in with arms on either side of you, leaning in and kissing you slow and lazy. You soared. In this room full of merry light and special occasion, you soared. You hadn’t known what to expect when you first met this man, certainly not the gentle, easy love you had fallen into with him, but as he laid you back and began kissing you like you were the very air he breathed, you were more thankful than you ever had been. He was yours, and you were his, and nothing else in this inconsequential little life mattered. Maybe one day, it would even be enough to make him stay. Or better yet, for you to gain the courage to go with him. Whatever he asked of you, you would do it. For him, you would.

“I love you,” you whispered into his mouth again, eager to be able to say it. And then he was losing all semblance of patience and control, borne on the back of the desire that was having you all to himself for the night, those full words repeating and repeating.

“I love you,” he said, low and true. You smiled.

The following morning, Christmas morning, the two of you hesitantly stepped down the stairs of the hotel together, neither wanting to leave the other.

Sure enough, Arthur’s horse stood just beside yours, hitched to the post outside the hotel. He, like you, had been too full of anticipation over seeing you and had refrained from taking the time to stable his horse. No matter. The two animals had always seemed to get on well. Like they knew their owners had something special and got along like old friends, like siblings, because of it.

Arthur stepped up to his horse, giving it a treat and a loving pat. Not saying a word, not wanting the moment to end.

“Want to go get that stock put on your gun?” you suggested, knowing whatever else there was could wait.

He eyed you. Then turned, stepped closer, took your hand.

“Come with me.” He looked down at your hand as he spoke. Like the mere act of holding it was precious.

“Of course,” you said, a smile already forming.

The pair of you led your horses together down the main thoroughfare, the slight worry of someone recognizing Arthur lingering in the back of your mind. It had been a long time since that gang of his stirred up so much trouble here, but not long enough.

You got to the gunsmith without a fuss and offered to hitch Arthur’s horse while he went inside. He just rolled his eyes at you before taking your mount, leading them over himself. Ever the gentleman.

When he returned to your side with his shotgun strapped over his shoulder, he led you up the steps with a hand at your back. He used to be so nervous about touching you. It only made you fonder for him over time, and especially now that he had gotten over it.

He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, looking over the racks of guns, the counter display, the gunsmith. He eyed Arthur a little when he came in behind you but didn’t say a word about it if he recognized him. He only gave a Christmas greeting and an offer to help.

“Need to change the stock out on my shotgun,” Arthur said, laying the weapon down on the countertop.

“Sure. We have a fine selection of-”

“No need,” Arthur said, holding a hand up and using the other to pull the gift you had carved him out of his coat.

“This is a fine piece,” the smith said upon seeing it laid down.

“She carved it,” Arthur said with pride as he turned to look at you, eyes alight.

“You?” the man said, drawing your attention away from Arthur’s loving gaze. “Well, if you’re looking for work, I could use someone with this kind of talent.”

“Thank you but no,” you said respectfully. “I don’t live around these parts.” Just a passerby, choosing this spot to spend one perfect evening because you knew how the hotel room would be decorated, how homey and worn the town was. Just like Arthur.

The smith nodded his head and got to work, taking Arthur’s gun. When he was halfway finished and Arthur said, “That piece goes on first,” realization hit you like a slap. Arthur never said he needed to go to the gunsmith to get the new stock affixed to the gun, just that he would get it put on. He would. He knew how, likely knew more about guns than most gunsmiths. Including how to take one apart and put it back together. So why had he agreed to come here, pay what little penance the labor would cost?

When Arthur’s gaze shifted from his gun to you, the answer dawned on you. He wanted to spend what little time he could with you. Your whole being melted at the very idea. He was such a sap.

You held his eyes then let the moment pass when the smith announced he was finished. Arthur checked over his gun and smiled when he brushed his hand over the carved wood. “Perfect,” he said. You felt your face heat again, just glad that he liked it. Even more glad he was willing to carry it around like a badge of honor.

He turned to the smith. “What do I owe you?”

“You let me keep this stock and we call it even,” he said, holding up the old one. It was worth more than that, but Arthur let it slide, seemingly favoring his new one too much to care.

“You got a deal,” Arthur said, tipping his hat. “I appreciate it. And uh, merry Christmas.” He shouldered his gun and placed his hand at your back once more, leading you out.

“To you as well,” the gunsmith replied. Then you were out the door and away from any remaining worry that Arthur would be recognized.

The two of you ambled back over to the horses, wordless. Not wanting this to end so soon. Arthur stowed his gun. You stood and watched him. Then he turned and sighed as his breath plumed in the cold air, like he had to remember how to breathe when leaving was inevitable. Maybe one day it wouldn’t be.

He pulled you in for a hug, resting his head atop yours. You nuzzled into his warmth.

“When will I see you again?” The words had more sorrow in them than you intended. He must have noticed, as he moved back enough to place a finger under your chin and lift your head to look at him. The smile under his eyes was sad too, but filled with hope.

“Soon. Real soon if I played my cards right.”

“What does that mean?”

He just shook his head and smiled, that boyish grin. “Just write me when you feel like putting up with me again.”

That was odd. Normally he gave you a time frame. “That’s always, Arthur,” you said. “You may as well stay if that’s the case.”

He laughed. You’d been over this before. He only refrained from asking you to join him in fear of his past catching up with him. You used to want to keep a healthy distance from that past, but now you weren’t so sure. Things were different when love was involved.

“Well, if you’ll have me, I’ll be back then. How’s that?”

That still raised more questions than it answered, but you didn’t ask them. His smile was distracting you. He was normally more solemn than this when he left.

“Why are you acting so funny?”

He leaned in and kissed you, a quick peck on the lips. Then he held your eye, the look on his face smug. For the life of you, you couldn’t decipher why.

Finally, he gave some. “Just take a look in that new journal of yours for me. When I’m gone.”

Your eyebrow raised high. Or even higher. “Why not now?”

“Just…” He let out another long breath. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

The dashing, bashful smile he leveled on you would have had you agreeing to murder.

“Yeah. Of course. You know I do.”

“All right then.” He pulled you in for another hug. This one tighter. This one more like a goodbye. It was a strange place to end things, almost unlike an ending at all. It had you wanting to rip open that journal right now and figure what on earth he was on about.

He pulled away and, with a calmness in his eyes, said, “I love you.” He held it like a breath. “And merry Christmas. I’ll see you…real soon. I hope.”

As suspicious as you were, you let him be. If he wasn’t telling you what was up now, he had to have a reason. So you held onto the hope that the promise of soon was a surety, that you would see the love he had for you made just as palpable as it was right now, stretching across his face in the morning light.

You loosed a breath and gave in to that love. “I love you too. More.” He grinned, color reaching his face. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

“Indeed,” he said. Then he was kissing you again and letting you go. Heading for his horse all too soon.

He mounted and turned to look at you. “Remember, don’t open that journal ‘til I’m gone. Long gone.”

“Why? What’d you put in there, a stick of dynamite?”

He let out a happy laugh. “Oh, it’ll blow something up, that’s for sure.” That left you stumped. “Just relax. You can read it as soon as I’m down the way, how’s that?”

You shook your head at him but couldn’t help the smile that turned your lips. “You’re something else.”

“You love me,” he taunted. And he was right.

“Go then,” you said, shooing him. “Go on. I have journals to read.”

“Good day to you too, miss.”

You laughed, and he kicked up his horse, rounding you. He got close enough to duck down and lift his hat, planting one last, brazen kiss on your lips. It had you blushing like a kid.

He straightened and donned his hat, his face the same red as yours likely was, though neither could be contributed to the cold.

“Bye. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Arthur. It’d better be soon, or you owe me an explanation.”

“It will be. I hope.” There he went again. You just waved him off, and he passed you smiling wide, his horse stepping out into the muddy, snow-logged street. You watched him go with awe. That handsome, proud man. How you had ever won him over, you couldn’t be sure. But you had. And you were pulling out your new journal to find out why before he had even gotten halfway down the street.

You unwrapped its binding in haste, feeling the new pages crack and reluctantly give in your hands. You flipped and flipped and reached the first page and were…struck dumb. Utterly.

On the left was a drawing of you. Subtle and suggestive with its shading, perfect, the way all of Arthur’s drawings were. But on the right, in big, bolded letters: The future Mrs. Morgan. And underneath, May she forgive me for not having procured a ring yet. I’ll make it up to her in kind as soon as she’ll let me.

You could have cried. You couldn’t believe it. The decision to stay apart all this time had been both his and yours, and knowing now that he had changed his mind…

You looked up and found him to be nowhere in sight. You wished he still were. If he were, you would drag him back here and tell him a ring didn’t matter. Of course you would marry him. It didn’t require any thought. The decision was already made the minute he whispered that he loved you back.

The future Mrs. Morgan. Having that down in his writing, on the very first page no less…you could die happy.

You took one last look and shut the journal, stuffing it back inside your coat. And, riddled with giddiness, you faced the street and the daylight, soaking it into your bones. For all the chill the wind held, it couldn’t cut you. For all the months spent away from Arthur, you couldn’t feel sorry that you had needed to be so patient. Because this was real, and true, and unlike anything in the world.

On Christmas Day and for the first time in years, you faced your future with surety. And what a beautiful, merry sight it was.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

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tightjeansjavi · 8 months

Text

From Eden | AU Pirate! Joel Miller x Mermaid f! Reader

A/N: at long last, we have arrived. This fic was totally self indulgent for me as mermaid lore and pirates has always been a huge interest for me ever since I was a child (I blame pirates of the Caribbean) this is my first time dipping my toe in fantasy writing, but I am so excited to share this with you all. 🏴‍☠️🖤

~word count: 6.6k~

Summary: a prince with a desire for a new life, endures on a journey he’ll never forget. A journey that ends with you by his side always.

Warnings: angst, swearing, implicit smut, ambiguous ending that leads the reader to decide what has become of Joel, mentions of drinking, mild violence, awful mothers/fathers, arranged marriages, pirate talk, death, grief, magic, fantasy, mermaid lore, old English (that may or may not be historically accurate) reader has no physical description, no use of y/n minors dni! (+18)

The sea calls to me, mother. It beckons me. The salty breeze whispers my name. Do not fret where I have ventured. Tis be only in vain. Mourn me not for my departure. I will not live a life I wish not to live. I desire adventure and friendship. I do not wish to be pacified by marriage, and the duties forthcoming with it. I disdain the thought of growing old and grayed without discovering what the world has to offer. I will bear you no grandchildren, and our lineage will wash away with the tide. Pity me not, for I pity you. Leave thou tears unshed, for I will not shed my own in the thought of you.

-J.M 1721

On the eve of Joel’s wedding, under the flickering soft glow of candlelight, the husband-to-be dipped his feather quill lightly into the ink reservoir. He pondered what words would flow onto the parchment resting below his palm. The seconds ticked by as he sealed his destiny in ebony ink. Annabeth would find better. Someone more suitable for her mundane needs. Joel would not be her husband, she would not become his wife.

“My lady, does your mind ever drift and dream of faraway adventure? Does your heart not shriek in the darkest of night for more than these measly castle walls have to offer?” He gingerly took her hand in his own, fighting the bile that rose in his throat as his eyes drifted down to the ring presently shimmering on her finger. The ringer he dutifully betrothed her with.

“My prince, my only wish is to be your dutiful wife and bless you with as many sons and daughters my body can carry. Tomorrow brings new beginnings. In the evening light we shall be married, and you will bed me as you please. Is this no longer what you desire? My prince, what has become of thee?” The backside of her dainty hand rested upon his forehead for she was afraid he had come down with a delirious fever.

“Annabeth, my flower, I wish to see the world. I wish to know what lies beyond the steady horizon. To taste the sea upon my lips, to clench the sand beneath my palms. You speak of me as your prince, but I wish to not be addressed as one. I do not wish to bed thee.”

“Thou speaks evil upon thy tongue. My prince, oh how you wound me so. I wish not to be in a loveless marriage with a man who yearns for the caress of the sea. Why must your heart and mind wander? Why must you disobey your mother’s wishes? Have I not devoted myself to thee?”

A heavy sigh through the evening breeze. Joel’s forehead came to rest upon her bosom as his lashes fluttered shut. “Dearest Annabeth, thou hast not lived in happiness. Thou has lived by her mothers law since thou was just a babe. How cruel that you are expected to marry not out of love, but for status. Dost thou truly want to live a life imprisoned by marriage?”

She wept silent tears for she did not want to be married to a man that did not love her. She did not want to bear his children. She had dreams of a life far richer. Far away from silver platters, incessant lectures, and garments far too tight to breathe in. Her chin fell to rest upon his head as salty tears rolled down her cheekbones.

“My prince, I have always dreamed of becoming a poet. Mother disapproves. She believes that women cannot be anything but wives and mothers. I do not wish to bear children. It is expected of me, but I loathe it.”

Joel chuckled, pressing a kiss to the soft skin between the valley of her breasts where a smooth silver pendant lay. “Thou mother is an impudent cunt.” She giggled softly at his quick tongue.

her fingers threaded themselves through his hair, twisting ringlets mindlessly. “Mother would have thy tongue for use of such foul language.”

He snorted. “Dost thou disagree? Annabeth, it is just you and I in the gardens this evening. No one shall reprimand thee for speaking the truth.”

“My mother is a foul, loathsome, impudent cunt.”

“Recite it again, my flower.”

“My mother is a cunt.”

“Encore” he hummed.

“My mother is a cunt. I detest this all-too tight dress, and I do not desire to marry thee.”

“Bien joué, ma fleur”

“My prince, I thought thou despised French studies?” She pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“Oui, mon chéri.”

She sighed, soft and gentle as she laid back into the soft cooling grass, gazing up at the glittering sky above. Joel followed her body, resting the side of his head in the lap of her flowy fabric dress.

“My prince, where will thou venture?”

“Tortuga, my flower. There I will be a prince no more. My lineage will fall as my mother weeps, and I shall step into piracy, and sail the high seas just as I have always dreamed.”

“Thou wishes to become a pirate?” She queried.

“Indeed. Tis true, my flower.”

“Thou shall make a handsome pirate.” She softly giggled, gently stroking his soft curls that she would admittedly miss terribly when he would depart.

“Just as thou shall make a brilliant minded poet.” He assured her.

Dark maroon wax dripped languidly along the pale parchment. Joel sealed the letter with a practice hand. His heart raced within the depths of his ribcage as the realization set in that he would be a prince no more. No more pretentious royals, no more stingy small talk, no more ballroom dances, no more lectures.

Joel Miller was to be a free man for the first time in his 17 years of life. The dying candle along his desk was blown out as the smoke curled and lingered. Below his window and past the looming castle walls, Joel could hear the sea whisper his name. In a giddy haste he packed his necessities in a leather bag. He took one last gaze over his room before departing into the ominous night.

His midnight black steed was steady under the saddle as the moonlight guided their way to the port docks. They rode swiftly and silently through the cobblestone city streets. Moving through the shadows with a soft squeeze of his inside leg to spur Hendrix forward. Joel’s horse was one of his prized possessions. A jet black colt with a tiny star being his only white marking. He would be saddened to never see his hooved companion again.

He could taste the salty sea air along his taste buds as the crescendo of crashing waves neared. With a soft tug on the reins, Hendrix slowed to a steady walk along the dock. He was so close to freedom. It was there, in his grasp as he discarded the hood of his cloak around his shoulders. Joel had studied many books on ships and how to maneuver one. It was frowned upon by his mother, so for this reason he’d sneak out late at night and find himself enriched in the library on the east end of the castle. It was now or never for him to put his knowledge learned under a real test. So much for trial and error.

“My prince?” The old sailor hobbled from the shadows of the creaky dock. A lantern trembling in his weathered grip. A quizzical expression crossed his sagging features as he watched Joel dismount from his steed.

“Thou shalt not speak of what thy has seen. I offer my horse in trade for your ship. Hurry please, my fellow. Before they become aware of my untimely departure. I have gold to offer thee as well. My horse can carry you wherever thy desires to wander.” Joel uttered, urgency stricken in his tone.

“My prince..is thee not set to be married in the morn? What use do you have for my ship lad?”

“Good fellow, I simply wish to leave the life I once knew and explore the world and all she has to offer.” He pulled out a sack of gold coins from under his cloak. “All I ask of thee is to speak to no one. Take care of my horse. He’s a good steed, and I shall miss him dearly.”

“Aye, adventure calls thy name?” The sailor pocketed the gold and grasped the smooth leather reins in his palm. “Best be on your way then, laddie. Your steed will be in good hands.”

“Bless you, sir. I wish you good fortune in your days to come.” He gently patted Hendrix along his silky smooth neck. “I shall miss you, my dear friend.”

Just like that, Joel Miller was no longer a prince. His name held a title no more. The tide pulled him out further, and further as he let out a sound filled with glee. A ship of his own to sail the high seas, what a pirate's life f’me.

In the far off distance, Joel could faintly hear the panicked bells ring. The prince was found to be missing from his bed chambers. Where had he gone? No one except Annabeth and an old sailor knew the truth of the prince’s disappearance.

Being a pirate was not all it cracked out to be. Well, in the first few years of entering piracy. His hair had grown longer, longer than it had ever been. It was speckled with sea salt and curled at the nape of his neck. The curls were unruly both from the sea, and maidens that enjoyed tugging on the strands with slender fingers. His once clean shaven face had grown into a patchy beard. The whores he bed didn’t seem to mind how it would scratch the apex of their thighs as he went to town on their pulsing cunts. He felt far more like that of a man with his facial hair. Oh the horror his mother would feel if she were to know of how her once proper, budding son became a frequent customer at one of Tortuga’s many brothels.

He always paid in gold handsomely. It drew the eyes of company that he did not wish to partake in. He was strong, sure and able to fight without breaking a sweat but as soon as a pistol was pulled and he had yet to obtain one, he quickly realized he would not be coming out of this altercation unscathed. He did however get a few good punches in before ultimately handing over the gold coins he kept on his person.

He thought he had the opposing pirates out-fooled by keeping a stash of his gold back at the inn room he inhabited..until he returned later that evening to find his room ransacked and his gold stolen. So be it, he thought. At least they didn’t take the rum.

That’s how he presently found himself in a drunken stupor, wandering the streets, getting into more fights than he could count until a fellow pirate took pity upon him one early morning…

A swift kick to his gut from a heavy boot sent Joel coughing up the rum that was still sloshing in his stomach. He groaned, reaching for his pistol but it was knocked from his grasp and landed a few feet away.

“Get yer ass up laddie.” A gruff voice spoke above him.

“Who the fuck are you—”

Another swift kick had Joel scrambling to sit up as he finally grasped his pistol and cocked it at the intruder. “I suggest ye fuck off back to wherever ye came from.” He growled under his breath.

“Yer drunk, matey. Ain’t gonna get a clear shot even if ya tried.” The older pirate crouched down to his level with a low chortle.

“What’s it to ya?” Joel snarked back.

“Ye got a ship lad? A crew?”

“Aye. I have a ship..I do not possess a crew. Do ye not have a ship? What kind of pirate doesn’t have his own ship?”

“Lost ‘er at sea I’m afraid. Ye have a ship, but be needin’ a crew. I can provide the crew if ye provide the ship, savvy?”

Joel was weary of the older pirate’s offer. He had preferred to sail the seas alone but considering his current state..what more did he truly have to lose?

“Ye have a deal.” He nodded in agreement.

“Smart lad ye be.” He helped the younger pirate to his feet, clapping him on the back stiffly.

Joel had become a seasoned pirate in a short period of time under the guidance of the older pirate. When he passed of old age, Joel became the captain. His ship and crew echoed through the Mediterranean channel. He felt that he had become unstoppable. Driven with greed and the desire for more, he led his crew to their watery grave too soon.

“Captain! She’ll never fit through! You’re goin’ to kill us all!” His secondhand warned him as they steadfastly approached shipwreck cove.

“Aye, she’ll fit! Have I ever let thee down?” His grip along the helm was steady and true.

“No sir, thee have not!”

“Hold ‘er steady boys!” Joel’s confidence wavered when he faced the cold hard truth that his ship would not fit through the rocky channel. He turned the helm sharply to avoid a collision but he was too late, the bow struck true.

“Abandon ship! Abandon ship—” his men yelled in a panic.

a deafening boom

flames

blood curdling screams of his frightened men being dragged down to Davy Jones Locker.

blood oozed from a gash along Joel’s eyebrow as he struggled to pull himself up to his feet. His ears were ringing as he took in the sight before him. Everything in his sight was burning. The wood creaked and groaned as the growing flames licked at his skin. This was the first in many moons that Joel truly felt terrified. He dove into the depths below, using the strength he had left to swim to the nearest shore.

He swore through the murky waters that he caught sight of shimmery scales..a swishing fin. Or perhaps it was his deluded mind playing a trick on him. Mermaids were just old wives tales after all. Creatures of the depths that woo men to their watery graves with alluring songs and seductive beauty.

He struggled to breach the surface as exhaustion seeped into his veins. His lungs screamed for air as he fought against the strong current with everything he had left in him. Suddenly, everything went black.

As a young mermaid you were taught to fear men, whether their ships carried white sails, or black. All men were to be feared. Your father forbade you and your sisters from ever making yourselves known to the surface world. It was too risky especially with the uprising of pirates. Your sisters like to toy with lone sailors lost at sea. They used their beauty and their natural talents of song to lure their victims to the depths.

Their song was melodious, angelic, and addictive; it was almost as if the men were under a trance and unable to escape your sister's snares. It was all a game to your sister’s of course. When your father caught wind of what your sister’s were doing in the pitch black of the night, he encouraged it.

You had no interest in drowning men. You had no reason to cause harm to another being that had inflicted no harm to you. Why couldn’t men and mermaids live in peace?

You spotted the ship crash into the rocky channel from afar. You saw frightened men jump into the sea, thinking that they would survive to see another sunrise..till your sisters dragged them to where the sunlight never reaches. Ripping them limb from limb to become mere fish food.

You witnessed the last body to hit the water from the safety of a looming sponge coral. You watched his arms struggle to pull himself to the surface, desperately clawing for air. When he gave in to what he believed to be his fate, and his body began to sink like deadweight, you made the split second decision to save this man. You swam as fast as you could, gliding through the water as you wrapped your arms around his torso and swam towards the light.

He was heavier in the water, but you were strong willed, and determined to save his life. When you breached the surface the man in your steady grip made no signs of life as you swam to the shore and hauled his body along the wet sand. You discovered that he was quite handsome, with hair that fell in ringlets, and soft pillowy lips that paired with a strong aquiline nose.

This man, pirate or not, was stunning.

Your hand gently came to rest along his cheek, feeling the stubble along his patchy beard lightly prick your skin like a sea urchin. You checked his body for injuries in a haste. Your fingers gently pushed back his hair to find the gash along his forehead. It ran fairly deep into his brow line, while crimson blood continued to trickle down his face only to be washed away by the gentle waves along the shoreline. The sea had healing properties as you knew, and the many plants that dwell below the surface were rich in nutrients, and could heal even the deepest of wounds.

You worked quickly as your fear of the man waking up was becoming prevalent when you observed his dark lashes fluttering and his body twitch. You gathered up a bit of seaweed that was used to heal open lacerations on the skin's surface. You delicately lay a strand of seaweed across his dripping brow. The blood clotted as the miracle plant adhered to his broken skin like glue. Magic, or science? The world may never know.

Your eyes zoned in on the pooling of blood through the once white linen of his shirt. There was a stray fragment of splintered wood sticking out from his side. The intrusion went fairly deep and it would require a little more work.

“Oh, fiddlesticks. I’m deeply sorry, sir. If you can hear me, I’m afraid this is going to hurt a tad.”

Am I dreaming..or is that a maiden's voice?

I must be dead, for I have never heard a voice tis so soft and sweet sounding.

With a small huff you grasped the end of the jagged wood and gave it a firm yank.

Your jolly sailor bold let out a deep gravelly wheeze as his hand subconsciously went to clutch at his side. More seaweed was gently laid upon his open wound and when you were satisfied that beautiful man would not bleed out upon the sand, you turned your body to head back to the sea.

With a flip of your shimmery tail you disappeared under the waves surface, and back to the depths of your home. You didn’t wander far as your own curiosity got the best of you. You hoped that your jolly sailor bold would awake to see another day. Perhaps your sisters and father wouldn’t send a search party for you. Perhaps they would believe you to be crushed by the bow of the ship. For now, you waded in the coral reefs below the surface to patiently wait.

Joel awoke suddenly in a disarray to his surroundings. All he could remember was his prized ship crashing into the rocky channel, his men’s frightened screams, and then everything went to black. How did he end up on the shoreline? Did he swim?..The current was far too dangerous to tread. The waves would knock him down..did someone save him? Or, was it something?

He slowly rose to a sitting position as he tried to rack his brain for any missing important details. His head turned to the side as he glanced down at the apparent indentation along the wet sand. Someone was with him. An Angel? No, it could not be. Joel wasn’t a religious man by any means. Besides, why would an Angel help a pirate such as he?

“‘Must be dreamin’”, he concluded. “Or I’m really dead. Dead as a man can ever be. Forever lost at sea.” His fingers reached up to brush his hairline where he felt a dull pain. He expected to feel the coolness of blood on his skin instead he was met with a strange slimy, yet soft texture. His hand reached down to his side where the splintered wood had been wrenched from and he was met with the same feeling.

“Blimey. What Devil’s work be this?” He twisted his body to get a better look at the wound on his side. His eyes widened the slightest when he saw the seaweed adhered to his skin. Upon closer inspection, the plant was very much still alive, and he could see the tendrils weaving together slowly acting as a suture.

Confused, and ridden in exhaustion, his body flopped back down along the sand with a soft thump. He was unsure how many hours he had slept under the gentle sway of palm trees, and the steady sea kissing at his feet. When he awoke it was due to a voice he had heard. A whisper through the thick vegetation that lay a few yards behind him. It was the same soft voice from earlier. A woman’s voice; the most beautiful voice had ever touched his undeserving ears.

Struggling to his feet, he staggered towards the voice, and used the sturdy bases of the palm trees to balance him. His body was still fairly weak, but he’d be damned if he didn’t meet the maiden that possessed such a sweet sounding tune.

As he drew nearer, the voice became clearer and easily detectable. Oh, it was so beautiful. Chillingly beautiful. It would be fairly easy for a man to be driven into madness from hearing a song so saccharine.

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold

His hair it hangs in ringlets, his eyes as black as coal

My happiness attend him wherever he may go

From Tower Hill to Blackwall, I'll wander, weep and moan

All for my jolly sailor, until he sails home

He followed your voice till he was greeted by the lagoon tucked away in the jungle. The water was crystal clear and below there were all kinds of coral and sea life thriving. What he was first to take notice of was the fair maiden that laid basking along a smooth damp rock. He could only see your upper torso that appeared to be covered by shimmering silk that wrapped around your breasts like drifting seaweed. His lips parted in surprise as he had never laid his eyes upon a maiden so stunning in his lifetime.

A twig snapped under the weight of his boot as he crept closer. You had not caught wind of your jolly sailor bold till your keen ears detected the sound of a twig snapping. It was enough to send your mind in a fury of panic as you dove below the surface. Your tail flapped as you slipped off the rock, it created a wild splash from the movement.

“Wait! I do not mean to frighten thee! Please, don’t go. Are you the maiden that saved me? I awoke on the sand..confused how I came to rest there. Please, need not to be afraid. I promise I will not harm thee.” He slowly approached the entryway to the lagoon, crouching down onto his knees.

You slowly peeked around the corner of the rock you had previously been sunbathing on. “I am the one to save you sir, but I am no maiden.”

“What are thee then? You appear to be a maiden, one that I now owe my very life to. I will forever be in your debt.”

“I am one with the sea..one of her many children that dwell in the depths below. You do not owe your life to me sir. I only wished to do a good deed.”

“One with..the sea? Is this a riddle? My head hurts far too much for any riddles, my dear. Do ye have a name?”

“Tis not a riddle, sir. For I am a mermaid. The sea is my home. I cannot utter my name to thee as it is forbidden.”

“A mermaid? Poppycock. Mermaids are just silly wives tales. I do not believe in such stories.” He swallowed a scoff that crawled up his throat.

Your tail suddenly swished above the surface as Joel clambered back, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

“By god, I must be dreamin!’ How can it be? Body of a woman, tail of a fish. Are the tales true?” He asked in disbelief.

“‘You are not dreaming, sir. I am as true as can be. Do I frighten thee?”

“No, no. I am simply just awestruck. A real life mermaid. I have never been confronted with such beauty to behold.”

You cautiously swam closer. You couldn’t help but to be drawn to the thrill of danger, even when every fiber in your scaled being was screaming at you to not draw nearer. Your arms slowly rose from the surface and came to rest along the rocky shore as you looked up at him through soft lashes. “And you, are you my jolly sailor bold?” You asked softly, tilting your chin to rest upon the top of your wrist.

Joel’s cheeks inflamed. Never had he felt so flustered by another being. His hand reached up and nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve never been pressured with such forward questions. Are your kind allowed to dwell with pirates?”

“For a pirate such as thee, you are quite sweet, and charming. Are all pirates like you?”

“I’m afraid not, my jewel. Most of us are quite brutish in nature. I come from Royal blood, and no matter how many years I have been away from my old life, my manners always find a way to sneak through. My men—” he paused rather suddenly. “My crew..were they saved? Please, tell me that they’re alive and not forever lost at sea.”

“Your men..didn’t survive. I’m so sorry, sir. My sisters are not as kind as I. They dragged them to the depths..ripped them limb from limb. Father would have a heart attack if he saw me conversing with you.”

“Fuck.” He whispered as he fell back onto his haunches and buried his face in his hands. “It’s all my fault. I am the cause of their deaths. If only I had listened..if only my ego did not shroud my judgment, they would still be alive.”

Your hand gently came to rest upon his arm. It caused you great distress to see another being in pain. Physical, or the mental kind, you felt it through and through. “You cannot beat yourself up over what has already been done. Not when you are still breathing air into your lungs, and tasting the sea along thy tongue. Do not weep for the dead, sir. You will see them when the time comes.”

Joel flinched at the soft contact, as it had been many moons since he felt the touch of a woman on his skin. “Joel.” He whispered. “My name is Joel, and I wish for you to whisper it as softly as thou sings.”

“Joel..I like the way it falls from thy tongue. Where doth thou wander from?..how did thou turn to piracy?”

“I like the way it sounds rolling past thy lips. I ran away from home, many years ago. I traded my trusted steed for a sailors ship. I was set to be married and live a life that I did not wish to live. My wife to-be was the only person to understand me, and my dreams. For you see, the sea has always beckoned me, and I finally answered it.”

“You ran away? That sounds awfully exhilarating. I’ve always wanted to leave my father and home behind. I suppose in a way I have, now that I am here with you.”

“Oh, it was. I still remember the rush through my veins when the sea carried me far away. All my life I had been searching for a purpose, and once I finally had it in my grasp, I could not forfeit what I always dreamed of. My jewel, why did thee choose to save me?”

“Your actions are very admirable, Joel. I struggle deeply with allowing other beings to be in pain. It goes against my nature. That is why I have never partook in my sister’s ploys. I never desired to drag lonesome sailors to a watery grave. Your life is just as special as the next. I could not bear to see thee perish.”

Your words touched a place inside Joel that no woman had dared to try and reach. It wasn’t that he was closed off to affection, he just simply didn’t have the heart for it. He bed women for an evening and he’d return to the sea the following morning. It was like clockwork. He only had felt for Annabeth, and even then he felt that it was platonic over romantic. He loved her, but not in the way that made his heart race and his palms sweat.

“I appreciate thee for saving my life. I do not feel that I am deserving to live while my men have died in a brutal fashion, but perhaps I shall take thee as a blessing.”

“Joel, every living being is deserving of life. Your woes shall burden you no longer. Doth thou wish to be happy, and at peace?”

“I wish for that, yes. How do I live with the grief in my bones?”

“You learn to forgive, and forget. You see the world for its simple pleasures of beauty, and grace.”

“Such as thee?” He boldly asked.

“If you wish it.” Your palm gently rested upon his own as you coaxed his hand from his face. “I have never thought pirates to be so..handsome.”

He leaned into your gentle cradled touch along stubble covered cheek. “How do you find such beauty in danger? I’ve killed many men. I’ve played the fool, and the instigator. I’ve made honorable decisions, and piss-planned mistakes. I am that of a scoundrel.”

“No, my jolly sailor bold. If thee were to be that of a scoundrel, you would have brought harm upon me. You are gentle at the core.” Your hand slowly drifted down to his exposed chest, feeling his heart skip a beat under your palm.

“You speak of that as a poet. I’d fancy to hear more of your honeyed voice.”

“Only if thou tells me tales of being a pirate.”

“Deal, my jewel.”

For many suns and moons, you and your jolly sailboat were engrossed in one another’s stories. He’d steal glances at your lips every few sentences as your fingers were gently toying with his soft ringlets. He’d recite to you stories of his past life, and present. Stories of adventure and thrills above the surface.

He craned his head to catch a glimpse of your shimmering tail below the surface. He was fascinated, as much as he was enamored. “Do you ever wish that thou had legs?” He softly asked as you twirled a curl gently.

“Sometimes I do wish for it. The sea has so much life and color to offer..but the surface land does spark my curiosity from time to time. I’ve seen ladies in fancy dresses upon ships with white sails. They always look so beautiful.”

“My dear, those ladies may look beautiful in their garments, they however can hardly breathe in them. You would be miserable in that life. Unless you somehow found your way to freedom.”

“Oh, would I be expected to marry for status? Not for love? I had no inclination to believe that their garments were suffocating, how dreadful.”

“Yes, your parents would have picked out a husband for you, before you’d properly experienced a childhood. You’d be forced into incessant lectures, proper etiquette, training and how to be a functioning member in society. Did I fail to mention you’d be forced to attend fancy parties and engage in mindless small talk? Life above the surface as a royal was draining at best.”

“My father has already picked a husband out for me. He is a fine merman, he just..doesn’t make my heart sing. Oh, how I’d love to dance under the moonlight. To hear a live orchestra..or an opera singer..”

Joel turned his nose up when you stated that you already had a husband picked out by the hand of your father. “I see.. Well, you did run away, did you not? You no longer have to marry. Not when you’re here with me. If you wish so terribly to dance, then we shall. All you have to do is wish for it, my jewel.”

“Joel, how are we to dance when you have legs. and I possess fins..” your lips curved in a soft pout.

“My love, in the crystal water you dwell in of course. Do you trust me?” He slowly sat up to rest upon his strong elbow.

“Of course I trust you. You have given me no reason to not trust you. Do you wish to dance with me under the moonlight, my jolly sailor bold?”

“I do, my jewel.” His words whispered against your skin like a soft warm breeze.

Just like that, Joel had stripped himself of his belongings, his holster that held his pistol and sword were discarded to the side as he struggled to unlace his boots. He had the ghost of a boyish grin across the shadow of his jawline. He truly was that of beauty.

You slowly swam backwards, wading in the gentle water as he swung his legs over the ledge and slipped in. His body was fully healed by now and only a scar along his browline and side were visible.

“Promise not to laugh..I am not the strongest of swimmers.” He chuckled as he swam towards you.

Under the pale moonlight and stars above, you were captivated by his golden tanned skin that was now speckled with water droplets. The gold that hung around his neck shimmered like your scales and the rings that encased his fingers.

“I’d only ever laugh in good fun at thee.”

“I never knew a mermaid could hold such humor.” He winked coyly.

“I never knew a pirate could be so..cheeky.” Your arms slowly looped around his neck as his gentle hands rested upon your scaly waist.

You slowly began to move your bodies under the water, mimicking that of a man and woman dancing to the sweet sound of a violin. The water rippled as the crickets chirped along the shore.

Joel Miller had never been in love; he decided now that his heart belonged to you, a mermaid that he believed was brought to him by fate alone. How blessed he was to be given a second chance at a fruitful life. He didn’t need a ship, or a crew. All he needed was you.

“Joel..” you whispered through the calm evening air.

“Yes, my jewel?”

“Do you believe that it’s ever too soon to tell someone you love them?”

“No, my love. I do not believe that there is ever a time too soon, or too sudden to confess your love for someone.”

“Then if that is to be true, I love you.”

“I love you, my sea.” His forehead gently came to rest upon your own as his hands slowly and delicately slid up your body. He stroked your hair, your cheekbones as his thumb dragged across your lower lip. “I wish to kiss thee. Do you wish it?”

You leaned into his gentle touch as your fingers threaded through his sea-salt speckled curls. “I wish to feel thy lips upon my own.”

He turned his head to the side, nose gently brushing against your own as his lips met yours. His hands were now gently cradling your face with the utmost care as he kissed you like a lover does for the first time. Your lips moved in synchronized harmony, you and your jolly sailor bold.

Upon one summer's morning, when the sea was at her angriest and the wind howled a ghostly tune as the skies above darkened to pitch black, Joel had decided that a life above the surface was a life he no longer wanted to live. He wished to be with you, forever.

“My jewel!” He yelled for you as he raced for the lagoon that had become yours and his personal oasis.

You swam up from the surface of the lagoon, his voice was like that of a beacon. “My Joel, you shouldn’t be out here. You must find shelter. The storm is picking up and I am frightened that you will be caught up in her fury.” Your tone was urgent as he crouched along the edge of the lagoon.

“My Jewel, my light, please. Please listen to the words I speak. The storm does not frighten me. I have no desire to seek out shelter when I am safe here. I wish for you to take me to the depths. I wish for you to take me to your Eden. Please, my heart aches terribly that I can not be with you fully. The surface world has become my prison. I don’t wish to dwell in it any longer.”

Your face fell upon his confession. Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head vigorously, grasping his hands in your own. “No, my jolly sailor bold. Do not wish such a thing. You are not suited to dwell in the depths of the sea. I forbade it.”

“Please. Please, I am begging you. I have given thee my heart, my soul, take me all; for I am yours.”

“Joel..my heart breaks for thee. You will never return to land if you make this choice.” His hand gently cradled your cheek as he wiped away your tears.

“It is a choice I am willing to make. I wish to be with you for the rest of eternity. Till the sun rises in the west, and sets in the east. Till mountains crumble, and the sea dries, and the earth cracks and shatters to dust. I wish to be with you, always.” He murmured softly.

“Take my hand, and never let go.”

“Never, my jewel. I will never let go.” He promised to you.

He grasped your hand bravely in his own. He kissed you swiftly, holding your face as close to his as possible. He could taste the salt dripping from your tears mixing in with his own. He took his final lungful of air, before you dragged him below the surface.

Joel Miller, once a prince turned a pirate; Was never seen by the surface world again. Some say he was driven mad by the loneliness, and grief that he took his own life and drowned in the sea's treacherous depths. Others say the sea always called his name, beckoned him to return home, and so he did. The sea claimed him, and he her, just as it had been written.

Tagging people I think will enjoy: @dinsdjrn @cavillscurls @sinsofsummers @thetriumphantpanda @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tessa-quayle @saradika @chaotic-mystery @kirsteng42 @korynnekorynne @amanitacowboy @last-girl @lovers-liability @pedrostories

Banners made by the lovely @saradika

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #joel miller angst #pirate! Joel Miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller story #joel miller one shot #joel miller self insert #from eden #tight jeans javi fic

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ceaseless-watchers-special-girl · 23 days

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me: oh, vivid imagination, my bosom friend, what fine entertainment hast thou for me on this fine spring eve?

my imagination *peter nureyev voice, in dokana's trash dump next episode after they realise the executives are after juno*:

Juno. Please. Leave me here. You have already left me once, I—... I am asking you to do so again. I will not— I cannot drag you down with me, I can't. I know what it means to sign your life away for someone you love, and it is not worth it, I won't let you, Juno! So... please. Rita is waiting for you. And... [RESIGNED. THIS IS THE ONLY WAY IT COULD HAVE ENDED, AND HE KNOWS IT] Slip, whatever they have made him into, is waiting for me.

#disclaimer this is not a prediction this is my brain being angst central because i haven't slept #tpp #the penumbra podcast #peter nureyev #juno steel

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 4 months

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Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia - Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

The primal urge to survive oft drives decisions made in haste.

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Slight angst, Otto Hightower, flashbacksssss

Word Count: 8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: Happy Christmas Eve to all who celebrate! Finally, the long awaited chapter 9. I hope you enjoy! (and psst, a small Christmas surprise coming soon! Unfortunately, it's not chapter 10, but hopefully you'll be as happy ;)

lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics !

The smell of rose oil permeated the air of Queen Alicent’s chambers, and the sounds of Aegon smashing his wooden dragon toy against his wooden tower toy could be heard, as the boy made roaring noises. Alicent watched the scene with slight amusement, as Helaena sat on her lap, docile, a rare moment of serenity. It was much needed, especially after the recent scandal that rocked the Red Keep and her contentious conversation with Rhaenyra a week prior.

Speaking of serenity…

Alicent trailed her gaze to a forlorn looking figure, sitting next to Aegon on the lushly woven Myrish carpet, her skirts splayed as she absentmindedly fiddled with a wooden dragon toy.

“You’ve been quiet,” Alicent noted, trying to breach your diminished figure. She hesitated on whether to verbalise what she knew your mind was occupied with, “Are…are you still angry at Prince Daemon’s latest transgressions?”

Once again, the tranquillity of nightfall had descended upon the Red Keep. The King’s solar was empty after the boisterous dinner that Viserys was lording over, elated to have his brother by his side again. Viserys and Rhaenyra had long since retired to bed, and now, there was only you and Daemon.

Daemon lay sprawled on the large settee, looking bored as he twirled a newly forged dagger in his hands, gifted by his ever generous brother to celebrate his return. The firelight glinted off the large ruby set in the pommel, and he weighed it between his hands. Not Valyrian steel, like Dark Sister was, but he tended to cherish any gifts his brother gave that were not disappointment or frustration. Which was a rarity.

Daemon’s bored gaze trailed to your figure, looking far too relaxed as you sat on the other end of the settee, face burrowed in a heavy tome. Daemon groaned, trying to get your attention and stop reading that godsforsaken book, but you only hummed, nonchalant, flipping to the next page. Daemon narrowed his eyes.

Your attention was fully invested in a chapter about the medicinal properties of hemlock in the newest tome you had successfully bribed the maesters for, when a sudden poke at your cheek caused an indignant noise to be elicited from your throat. “What in the Seven Hells,” you snapped your tome shut to glare at Daemon’s smug face, resting so close to your lap it made your heart thud in your chest. “Are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention,” he said simply, putting his dagger down onto the tea table.

You levelled an unimpressed look at him. “And that required you to poke me in the cheek? What are you, five?”

“Perhaps.”

You huffed, vexed, picking up your tome again. “Byka zaldrizes, I gave up precious time that could be spent doing something else just to spend it with you. Surely, you can spare this forlorn prince of yours some of your attention.”

“Well, no one asked you to,” you said drily, your eyes flickering as they darted between the lines. “And we all know that your time will be spent mucking about in the Street of Silk, in some unlucky whore’s bed or getting drunk in your cups like some undignified ruffian.”

“Anyone who has the good fortune of bedding me is touched by the gods themselves,” Daemon’s snarky tone made you roll your eyes. Him and his overinflated ego. “And your assumptions wound me, byka zaldrizes. Do you not trust that my time in the Stepstones have made me more mature?”

Daemon was delighted by you putting your book down again, only to be greeted by your deadpan stare. “...are you still in possess of a cock?”

Daemon cocked a brow, eyes shifting down as if pretending to check. “I do believe so, yes. It would be a tragedy if I wasn’t.” You flashed him a sweetly sardonic smile, “Then I do believe no more needs to be said.”

Daemon groaned when you returned to reading your book, debating on the merits of just slapping it out of your hand. It would result in some very colourful language bursting from your lips, but it would be fun.

“Truly, your faith in me is awe-inspiring,” Daemon remarked sarcastically. “And what if I said that this time I promise to stay for the foreseeable future?”

You tilted your head to the side, detracted from your book once more. “Somehow I do not believe that. Trouble always seems to find you one way or another.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, flashing you a devastatingly handsome grin that you had to fight a strange squirming sensation in your stomach. “Then I swear to the Seven Gods that I will stay out of trouble. I won’t curb my excursions to Flea Bottom of course,” Daemon added, seeing your incredulous look. “A man does have his urges. And you know of my nature.” Daemon smirked. “But I think I’m capable enough not to commit another act that would warrant exile. Don’t you think?”

Your answering laugh echoed throughout the solar. But for a brief moment, you had believed him. After all, what more trouble could Daemon possibly incur?

You finally broke out of your empty daze, letting out a low, slightly hoarse laugh. “I am. But he is not the only object of my ire,” you admitted, sighing as you lowered your eyes to where Aegon was banging his wooden dragon against the carpet. Thank the Seven it was soft or he would’ve dented the dragon by now.

Confusion wrinkled Alicent’s features, but then her eyes shone with comprehension. “...are you perhaps feeling some anger towards Rhaenyra?”

Your head snapped up, a slightly horrified look painted on your face. “No, of course not. Daemon is fully to blame for this situation.”

You took a deep breath, feeling shame course through you like boiling water through your veins. You had known, that in some awful way, your conversation with Rhaenyra had indirectly led to the explosion of this scandal. Now, Daemon was exiled again - though you couldn't care less about that - Rhaenyra’s virtue had been called into question, and she was forced to hastily wed Ser Laenor. And the guilt had been eating you alive ever since. But you had not known your harmless words would lead to such a catastrophic end. ‘I am not cut out for this,’ you thought glumly to yourself. ‘That wise paragon of advice I was trying to emulate. I never was any of that.’

‘How foolish of me to play at a role I lack the foresight for.’

Nonetheless, your thoughts returned to the person who is mainly to blame for this situation.

‘Stupid, stupid Daemon,’ you cursed in your head, fingers tightening around the wooden dragon toy. ‘How stupid of me to believe that he could’ve changed, that he couldn’t sink any lower. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

At least one somewhat good thing had arisen out of this mess. The ‘resignation’ of Otto Hightower.

Though many knew it was just a term meant to preserve the dignity of the former Lord Hand.

You were not sorry to see the man go - you had disliked him ever since his orchestration of the debacle with Alicent and Viserys years ago. However, you were sorry to see Alicent’s distraught state for the past few days. You understood her - she was all alone now, this was almost as great of a loss to her as Aemma’s loss to you was. Being bereft of a figure of comfort and support.

You studied Alicent, noting the slight eye bags under her eyes. You made a mental note to brew her a stronger chamomile tea - both to alleviate her stresses after pregnancy and to improve her quality of sleep.

A sudden knock sounded at the door, and Alicent’s older cousin and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Malena Hightower, entered the room, curtsying. “Your Grace,” you were surprised when Malena turned to you instead.

“Lady Y/N…a messenger came by earlier. He wished for me to convey the Hand…I mean, Ser Otto’s,” Malena recovered from her bluster with a slight flush, but you noticed Alicent’s face briefly crumple when she heard her father’s title reversion back to Ser. You felt a twinge of sympathy. “He wished for me to convey that Ser Otto wishes to have a discussion with you.”

The clattering of a teacup on the floor startled the both of us. Alicent looked embarrassed at her clumsiness, as a servant rushed in upon hearing the noise. “Pardon me. Malena, did my father disclose the reason why he wishes for an audience with my chief lady-in-waiting?” You were unnerved by Alicent’s uncharacteristic sharp tone. It was like…she was angry at her father.

Malena looked similarly unnerved. “Your Grace, I apologise. I do not know. The messenger just said that Ser Otto requested for Lady Y/N’s presence in his study whenever she was available.”

Alicent kept a calm facade, but inside, her heart was thumping like a surge of wild animals. ‘Is what I have been fearing about to come true? Y/N-’ Alicent swung her gaze to yours, where you were conversing discreetly with Malena.

“Thank you, Malena. If the messenger is still there, tell him I will be with him momentarily.” Alarm surged through Alicent’s body. She quickly handed Helaena over to the startled servant who had just finished picking up the shattered cup and disposed of it, stepping towards you.

“Y/N, I do not think you should go.” The words were out of her mouth before she could suppress them. Perplexed, you stared at the younger girl, noticing her panic. It unsettled you.

You tried to shoot her a reassuring smile. “Alicent, Your Grace-” Alicent immediately motioned for Malena and the servant holding Helaena to retreat out of the room when she noticed you addressing her by her title. They evacuated the room with haste.

Alicent seized both of your hands in hers, a gesture that startled you with its intensity and urgency. “No, do not go. Please,” she begged, her eyes flickering with a violent storm of conflicting emotions. She knew she should be obedient to her father, and that the meeting could be harmless, but a wrenching gut feeling told her it was not so.

You looked worried: what exactly had gotten into Alicent? It was unlike her to break her composure, and by such a simple request. Alarm bells began tolling in your head, and just as you were about to tell her that you wouldn’t go, a knock sounded at the door, and you and Alicent promptly broke apart from your intimate stance.

Malena re-entered the room, along with a man you recognised as one of Otto’s household knights, Ser Garrick Pommingham. This was bad. Alicent made a strangled noise in her throat as she beheld Ser Garrick. It was serious enough that her father had sent a household knight to deliver the message, but Ser Garrick? He was one of her father’s oldest household knights, and fiercely loyal and trusted by Otto. It was clear that the invitation was not one that both you nor Alicent had any say in.

“My Queen.” Ser Garrick bowed reverently to Alicent, before turning to you and giving you a smaller bow. “Lady Y/N. Shall I escort you to my liege?”

Any of Alicent’s protests were immediately silenced, as she wrung her hands helplessly. There was no fighting against Ser Garrick, who was an extension of her father, and a bull-headed man at that - always priding himself on completing all his tasks to perfection.

You knew as well, so you could only give Alicent a small, reassuring smile, trying to comfort her. Steeling yourself, you turned to Ser Garrick with a composed smile.

“Lead the way, Ser.”

The Tower of the Hand had been the site of a flurry of activity over the past few days, as various servants and household knights bustled in and out of the rooms, carrying and loading up boxes of belongings into carriages to be transported back to Oldtown.

Otto watched his servants move his things out of his nearly vacant study with an oddly impassive look, as he stewed in his own thoughts at his dismissal. He never thought that he would take up residence in Oldtown ever again, but how quickly the tide could be changed here in King’s Landing.

The sound of a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and soon enough, his loyal household knight, Ser Garrick, showed in the guest he had been expecting.

“Ah, Lady Y/N. I thank you for coming on such short notice.”

You entered the room, the skirts of your rose pink gown swishing as you moved into the study. Wariness was woven in every bone of your body, your muscles taut with tension. “Ser Otto,” you nodded at him, not missing how the former Hand’s frame turned stiff at the reversion of his title back to Ser.

“What matter has caused you to ask me to your study at such a busy time?”

Otto took a seat at the lavishly appointed chair at his desk. The same desk where he had spent so many nights toiling for King Viserys. Though the chair could no longer be called rightfully his, he leaned into it, gesturing for you to take a seat. Which you did so, though not without reluctance.

"I do not wish to take up too much of your time, as my own time is precious too," Otto stated, his voice blunt as he leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the oak of the desk.

"I have a proposal for you."

A frown furrowed your eyebrows, but you tried not to show it, smoothing out your skirts instead. “And what is that proposal? I am most interested to hear it.”

Otto smirked slightly at the small note of sarcasm he detected in your voice. Normally, he would be irked at such disrespect, but it was evident from this that you wished not to play any games. ‘A woman who cuts straight to the chase,’ he thought to himself. ‘No wonder Prince Daemon was drawn to her.’

It made things much simpler anyway.

“I’d like to ask for your hand in marriage,” Otto stated bluntly as he waited for your reaction.

Meanwhile, you were frozen, as if roots had suddenly sprung from the ground and trapped you in the chair. ‘My hand in marriage?’ The words echoed through your brain. You suddenly recalled Alicent’s guilt stricken expression as she watched you leave her apartments.

“Ser Otto,” you said quietly. “Surely you are jesting.”

Otto looked unruffled at that. “I do not jest about such matters, Lady Y/N.” You let some of the incredulity you were feeling slip into your expression. “Allow me to explain the merits of our match,” Otto said calmly, leaning back into his chair.

“Though I am ashamed of having done so, I had overheard your shouting match with your father at the Kingswood many moons ago.” This made you wince. You did not blame the man, the both of you probably shouted loud enough that those at the Wall could hear you.

“I understand you are seeking a match, by the end of this year in fact. Which is less than two moons away,” Otto observed you as you tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Quite a pressing predicament.”

Otto sighed. “I know, my dismissal has not made me the most…appealing of matches. What with my status as a second son, standing to inherit nothing short of some wealth and meagre land holdings. However, as you well know, you are not the most appealing of matches as well.”

When you looked offended, Otto only went on blandly, “Please, do not take offence, Lady Y/N. My words do not come from a place of malice. It is true though, is it not? While you are lovely, your age is not one to be overlooked. You are turning- twenty six? Twenty seven this year? Many lords in Westeros consider this to be well past your prime.” Otto’s eyes glinted. “And the reputation of your…ah, headstrongness, is well known across the Seven Kingdom. As well as your long string of marriage rejections.”

Otto shrugged, “That aside, think pragmatically. I am moving back to take up residence in Oldtown once more. Should you go with me, you would be much closer to home than here in King’s Landing.” Otto could still see the dubiousness in your eyes, and he knew he had to sweeten the deal up a little more. “And besides, I would not require any children of you.” He knew he had you again when your gaze shot up from looking down fixedly at the wood of his desk. “I am already a widower, with a daughter as Queen and four other strong sons. You would be under no pressure to produce heirs for me. And as a second son, my children stand to inherit next to nothing anyway. Moreover, if you are worried of any mistreatment, fret not. You are my daughter’s dearest companion, and a mother figure to her too. I will treat you with utmost respect”

You eyed him warily, finally speaking up. “You’ve stated many demerits of this match as well, Ser Otto. Do you truly think it worth it for the both of us to pursue such a match?”

Otto’s eyes glinted. She was more crafty than he thought. He would have to hammer down the point a little. “Though my inheritance is not rich in titles, I can assure you, it is not something to be overlooked. You would live comfortably, and be free to pursue any of your interests. I heard from the Maesters that you have an interest in healing and scholarly affairs. What better place to expand your knowledge than in Oldtown, home of the Citadel and some of the finest minds in Westeros?”

Your gaze sharpened at that, he clearly had been keeping tabs on you for a while now. Though his offer was not without temptation of its own. “But why me?” you pressed. “As you have said, I am past my prime and have a wild temper at that. The only merits I possess are my lineage and heirship to Highgarden, and my father has already taken a new wife, so that hangs in the balance as well.”

Otto smiled, “And that alone is enough.” Otto stood up, slowly walking over to your chair. He took your hand gently, and kissed the back of your hand softly. A frown was etched on your lips, and Otto knew it was best to let the matter go. For now.

“I shall give you some time to consider it,” Otto rumbled softly, helping you out of your chair. “But the clock is ticking, Lady Y/N. Both for you and I. Once I depart for Oldtown in a few days, the offer shall be rescinded.” His expression was one of faux concern. “And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?”

‘Even now he was not telling the truth, and trying to use wily means to stoke your deepest insecurities to his own gain,’ you thought, regarding the man before you in disdain. The both of you knew the truth of why he sought your hand, not out of compassion or sympathy, but to climb his way back up the political ranks. All of court knew how close you were with the members of House Targaryen, and that you were an ear of the King. otto was clearly trying to use you for his own designs, the same way he had used Alicent, and foist Aegon up onto the Iron Throne, whilst gaining more influence over Viserys - as if he hadn’t have enough already. Disgust pulsed through you.

You shot Otto a haughty look, brushing off his hand. “This is still a personal matter, Ser Otto, and I mislike the tone of your voice. As a stranger, you would do well to refrain from making comments on my personal life.”

Otto nodded stiffly. “Of course. I apologise. I overstepped. Shall I escort you back to my daughter’s chambers then?”

“No need, thank you.” You were eager to put as much distance between you and Otto as soon as possible. And you couldn’t possibly see Alicent with your mind in such a jumbled state. You bowed your head stiffly, “I bid you farewell, Ser. I will…consider your proposal.” He nodded, but you could see his gaze was filled with calculation as you turned your back on him and walked away.

“Lady Y/N.” Otto’s voice halted you just as your hand was on the door handle. “Just a question.”

“Do you really think that staking your bets on Prince Daemon would result in a good end?” You stilled, turning around to face him yet again. Your eyes met his cool green ones. “I do not understand what you mean, Ser Otto.”

“What I meant was,” Otto’s voice was blunt. “I do not think marrying Prince Daemon would bode well for you, if you wish to be closer to the centre of power.”

You stared incredulously at him, swivelling around to face him fully once again. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ser. I never had that sort of intention.”

“Ask yourself, do you really believe that?” Otto’s voice was challenging. “Because I do not think you know your heart well enough..”

Astonished and angered by his boldness, you took a step back closer to the door. “Forgive me, Ser Otto, but I do not think you would know my heart better than I do.” You turned to leave, pulling open the door.

“Search your heart deeply, Lady Y/N,” Otto called out. “You will find my words will ring true.” You didn’t respond, instead choosing to shut the door firmly behind you, leaving Otto Hightower and his delusions of grandeur behind.

The Red Keep was blessed with a particularly pleasant chill this day, in the midst of a harsh autumn and an impending harsher winter. But you couldn’t bring yourself to admire the red and russet leaves as you normally did, instead wandering aimlessly around the Red Keep like a wraith.

It was completely absurd for Otto Hightower to think that you got close to Daemon for ulterior motives. Marriage? With that insufferable punk? You snorted. You could barely stand his presence most of the time, let alone marriage.

It was strange, however. Daemon had always been handsome, dangerously so, and charming, and that had never had an effect on you in the least. But ever since Aemma’s death…ever since his return from the Stepstones. You couldn’t lie, there was something there. The first stirrings of a fire.

Well, that fire would never burn on damp logs anyway, and that was all thanks to Daemon’s stupidity. You grumbled to yourself, shuddering that you might have carried a torch for Daemon fucking Targaryen.

You decided to venture into one of the courtyards found in the Red Keep. Perhaps some greenery would restore your senses, and provide a balm for your dilemma. Whatever were you supposed to do? There was no escaping the fact that it was nigh impossible to find a good match within two moons, one that would satisfy both you and your father’s expectations. But was marrying Otto Hightower really your only option? In all your worst nightmares, you never imagined that it could get so bad. While you did not share Daemon’s intense hatred for the man, the man made your skin crawl, with his pleasantries disguising a shrewd mind of warped traditional beliefs.

‘Could I really be happy with a man like that?’

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise you had company until you caught sight of a tall figure with blonde hair, sitting under the shade of a huge willow tree, an intent expression on his face as he sketched away on a piece of parchment. Curious, you approached the lone figure to get a closer look. As you stepped closer however, your heel crunched on a branch, causing the mysterious stranger’s head to snap up. Your eyes snagged onto the sigil pinned to his tunic.

A Beesbury.

You inclined your head apologetically, “Beg your pardon, I did not mean to disturb you.” The young man from House Beesbury laughed, scooping up his parchment before walking towards you and bowing. “Lady Y/N. Do not apologise, my day has been made infinitely better by your presence.”

You let out a small chuckle at his flattering, giving him a discrete once over. Exactly who was this man? Clearly you were not subtle enough, given the fact that he bowed once more, placing a hand to his chest as he did. “You must forgive my rudeness, my lady. My name is Alan Beesbury. My father, Lord Lyman Beesbury, serves on the Small Council as Master of Coin.” You let out a surprise “Oh!” before dipping your head politely. “Ser Alan. You must forgive me, I did not recognise you.”

Ser Alan smiled brightly, unbothered. “Tis alright, my lady. Granted, I have never been introduced to you in a formal setting, so it is understandable you do not know me.” “How did you recognise me then, ser?” you inquired. “I visited Highgarden with my father a few years ago, and caught sight of you with your lord father. I deeply regret that I was not able to make your acquaintance then. Although it seems,” Alan grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief, “That I am lucky enough to behold your beautiful visage once more, my lady. You have only grown lovelier throughout the years.” You couldn’t refrain from snorting lightly, “You have quite the honeyed tongue, ser.” “Well, it is a useful skill at court. And to charm the ladies I have taken a fancy to.” he winked. “Would you grant me the honour of your company, my lady? It has been naught but two days since my arrival, and I find that I am in need of a guide to this vast keep.” An amused smile graced your lips, as you thought about his offer. He might be a flirt, and awfully forward, but he seemed a jolly enough fellow, and it would be rude to reject his company. And…it would be a good distraction.

“I am at your disposal, ser.” He gallantly offered you his arm, and you took it. As you strolled through the hallways of the Red Keep, passing servants shot you strange looks, but you ignored them. “So, what brings you to the Red Keep, ser?” “Ah, my lord father summoned me to court to attend the upcoming nuptials for Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon.” Alan made a face that was so offended you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “He also thought it a good window of opportunity for me to find a lady wife.”

“Oh,” was all you could say, your mind going back to your unpleasant conversation with Otto Hightower. Not wanting to seem impolite, you quickly added, “I wish you luck in your search, ser.” He smiled, although the joy did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.”

Ser Alan halted abruptly, startling you when you noticed you had stopped next to a flowering bush. Carefully, he plucked a gorgeous, striking yellow rose, moving to tuck it behind your ear. “A magnificent rose, befitting a charming lady as yourself, my lady.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his spontaneous show of chivalry. “I have to admit, ser, that you are the first man who has shown me this courtesy. I thank you most humbly.”

“My father has always educated me about the importance of courtesy, especially to a lady.” Ser Alan shrugged, a sheepish grin painted on his features. “So long as it makes you happy, milady.” You strolled through the garden, chatting as he inquired about your life at court, which you happily indulged. Gradually, you forgot about Otto Hightower and Rhaenyra and Alicent as you conversed with him, too lost in trading anecdotes and playful jabs with each other about some rather insufferable personalities at court. You realised you found his company rather pleasing: he was attentive, and clearly a gentleman, but not to the extent where it was ridiculously cheesy. He wasn’t dreadful company either, he seemed sincere to get to know his talking companion, instead of endlessly bragging about himself or his long list of achievements. And behind his sweet words, he also hid a sharp sense of wit and humour. He was an ideal husband, the thought struck you like lightning. You could feel the cogs in your head begin to turn. You might have just found a way to escape Otto Hightower’s offer after all.

“May I confess something, my lady?” Ser Alan’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You may speak freely with me, ser.” you hesitated, before asking him, “Is it alright if I call you Alan, instead?”

Ser Alan’s eyes widened, and you were a little afraid you had pushed your boundaries a little too far, but he soon broke out in a genuine smile. “If only I can call you Y/N in return, my lady.” You found yourself returning his smile with one of your own. “Then it is settled then. What were you going to say, Alan?” “To be honest, Y/N, I was extremely elated to run into you today.” Catching sight of your puzzled face, he hurriedly rushed to explain, “You see, I had sent a few marriage proposals to you before. Well at least my father has. I thought you quite brilliant despite my brief encounter with you at Highgarden. You radiate warmth, even at first glance, and I was rather drawn to you. Which was why I was so happy to have been able to have the fortune to bump into you here today. The Seven have truly blessed me.”

“I see…” you murmured. “You are rather forward, aren’t you, Alan?” Alan looked unashamed of that. “I am a firm believer that being coy often robs us of opportunities in life, Y/N.” An amused smile twitched at your lips, “A bold philosophy, though certainly a wise one.” You took some deep breaths, debating on the gamble you were about to take. It was risky as hell. You barely knew anything about the man. It could end in disaster. But then again, your recent track record of decisions had led to bigger disasters than this.

‘And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?‘

How life could change with just one decision.

“Alan.” you began slowly, swallowing as you braced myself.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“...does your marriage proposal still stand, by any chance?”

Throughout your time at court, you had not been well acquainted with Lord Lyman Beesbury. A jolly enough man, and sharp of wit and tongue despite his old age was all that you knew of him.

What you did not expect was how excited the man could be.

“Oh, this is fantastic, wonderful news,” Lord Lyman exclaimed, grabbing your hands and shaking them vigorously. You looked over to Alan with a bewildered expression, and he simply smiled and mouthed, ‘He’s always like this. Don’t mind it.’

“To think my son would finally settle down, and to Lady Tyrell at that,” Lyman continued to ramble on, and you were a little worried that the old man might collapse from the joy. “A fine, fine choice you’ve made, son. A fine choice. I couldn’t be prouder…”

You were mortified at how eager Lord Lyman seemed to be at the prospect of your marriage, but inside, you were secretly relieved. Otto Hightower had not sent word after news of your engagement with Ser Alan had disseminated through the castle, in no part thanks to the gossips who sniped at how the two of you barely had a courtship before your engagement. You had heard many whispers and murmurings of how desperate you must be to be driven to this point, but you didn’t care. You would take marrying Ser Alan any day over Otto Hightower.

No one was, of course, happier than Lord Matthos Tyrell at the word of his daughter’s engagement. From the way the reply to your letter had a few suspicious stains here and there, it seems a few tears had been shed. You could only muster a small smile at that, however.

Alan had been the perfect gentleman over the past two weeks, showering you with gifts such as flowers or jewels - as fitting a suitor does to a lady - spending time with you, taking strolls with you, oftentimes visiting you while you were carrying out your duties as lady-in-waiting to Alicent and the like. Time after time, you would find Alicent’s gaze trailing across Alan doubtfully, like she was trying to scrutinise him for any signs of ill will, but you had reassured her in private that he was wonderful. But all she had to say was:

“It is in human nature not to show who they truly are until later on, Y/N. I am just concerned.”

Alicent’s words made you a little ill at ease, as you knew as much. You’ve heard so many horror stories over the years from ladies whose husband’s affections for them evaporated like morning dew upon their marriage after all, and seen enough examples.

But you had made your gamble, and you must live with the consequences. No matter how dire they may be.

The candles in the King’s private bed chambers and living space flickered as the doors opened with a loud creak, and you stepped in quietly. The room looked empty, and so you decided to walk around for a bit.

And that’s when your heart nearly stopped.

There she was.

Rendered in vivid oils, the likeness of Aemma stared out at you with that gentle, comforting smile. Her visage encased within an intricately carved gold frame with dragons, and a makeshift shrine with candles decorated her portrait. Your heart was suddenly gripped with unbearable pain.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Viserys’ voice rang out from behind you, as he walked slowly to stand next to you, staring almost reverently up at her portrait. You couldn’t speak, your throat was closing up at the threat of tears that threatened to overwhelm and spill out from your eyes. You tilted your head down, unable to look anymore at that familiar, haunting smile.

The press of a small white candle into your hand startled you. Viserys regarded you with a knowing sadness. “I thought you might like to honour her. We haven’t…done so in a while. Together as a family.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Gingerly, you reached over and lit the candle, placing it on the shrine. You bowed your head, thinking of how much things have changed ever since her passing. How much you have had to change.

“She would be so pleased to know that you were getting married,” Viserys lamented, gently touching oil-painting-Aemma’s hand. “From what I can recall, it had always been one of her greatest wishes to see you happily married.”

You offered him a hollow smile at that. The joys of marriage had not yet made itself known to you, if you were even capable of it. And now, your head was too occupied with memories.

“You’re in a terribly grumpy mood,” Aemma commented, as she reached for a roll of warm buttered bread to go with her third cup of tea. Her light blue eyes were filled with amusement as she watched you prop your head up from where you had lain it on the table, a disgruntled expression on your features. “Dare I inquire for the reason?”

“Father has sent me another list of eligible bachelors,” you grumbled, helping Aemma refill her teacup, which she sighed exasperatedly at that. When it was just the two of you alone, she preferred for you not to serve her as lady-in-waiting, instead being more at ease and natural with her as her friend. But despite your attempts at overturning this habit, you found yourself unable to. Touch and small gestures were how you expressed your feelings after all.

“From which kingdom is it for this time?” Aemma asked in a joking tone, putting a strawberry tart in her mouth as she stroked her small baby bump that had begun to show after four moons.

“The Stormlands this time,” you sighed, dispiritedly popping a tart with an unknown yellow fruit in your mouth. The tangy sweetness, yet slight sourness of the fruit made you cheer up a little.

“That’s a mango tart. Some merchants from the Summer Isles exported it to us,” Aemma explained, carefully noting your expression.

“I wish I could live in the Summer Isles,” you sighed, popping another one of those tarts into your mouth. “And be done with all this bother. For Seven’s sake, I’m only twenty one. There’s still plenty of time.”

“Yes, for you to develop wrinkles,” Aemma jested, letting out a laugh at your mortally offended face. “My queen, is it customary for you to insult your subjects in their time of distress?” You asked with faux hurt in your voice.

“Perhaps I am a secret tyrant,” Aemma smirked slightly, lifting her teacup to her lips. “I am serious though, Y/N. You've been by my side as my lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and we have known each other since we were children. You watched me get married to Viserys, be crowned as Queen, and giving birth to Rhaenyra. When will I get to witness some of your happy moments?”

You gave her a deadpan look. “Aemma. I truly see no joy in getting married now. I’m still too young.” Aemma tried to hold in a sigh. “”And when will that be? Moons later? Years? A decade? When you’re old and grey?”

“When I am ready, Aemma.” You stated, voice tinged with determination. “But when?” Aemma pressed. “Not to fear, I will definitely get married sometime during your lifetime,” you reassured her in a joking tone. “Perhaps when you’ve lived to seventy years…”

Aemma threw the throw cushion she was holding in her lap at you, and you caught it, laughing, as Aemma shook her head in fond exasperation. “You’re insufferable.”

Aemma looked at you, laughter dancing in your eyes as you changed the topic back to how you were going to answer your father’s newest letter. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Do whatever you want, Y/N. I just hope that you will never sacrifice your happiness for the sake of something else.

A small tear plopped to the weathered ground of the King’s chambers as you managed to choke out, “She would be. I just wish…she could be here to see it.”

Viserys had a slightly guilty look on his face as you turned your gaze back to the portrait, confronting all the painful, bittersweet memories in all their blazing intensity.

It was time to stop running.

“When did you get this portrait commissioned?” The small semblance of a smile appeared on Viserys’ face again. “It is a story in itself, actually. Back when Aemma was…” Viserys’ voice hitched. “Pregnant…with Baelon, I had commissioned an artist from Volantis to paint it, as a gift to Aemma. Honouring her for giving us our-” Viserys choked up, his voice cracking. “For giving us our son.”

Your fists clenched slightly. “And then when Aemma…I was so lost. I couldn’t bring myself to look at any portraits of her, so I stopped work on the painting.” Viserys looked like he wanted to pull portrait Aemma out of the frame she was trapped in, by sheer will of anguish.

“But I had a change of heart. Three months after I named Rhaenyra as heir, I had moved on. I finally felt…peace. Like I have taken a step to atonement. So I gave word for the artist to continue, wanting to place it in the Gallery of Dragons after it was done.” The Gallery of Dragons was an art gallery in the Red Keep which honoured previous Targaryen rulers and royals who had passed. “But then he died when Alicent and I married.”

“Oh dear,” you murmured softly under your breath, and Viserys let out a ragged laugh, before bursting into a fit of coughing. You moved to help him to a chair, but he held out a hand, his focus on Aemma.

“I thought it a sign from the ancestors, from the Gods, that I should let go,” Viserys voiced out tiredly. “And so the painting remained untouched, and I thought I’d never see it to its finish. That the chapter would remain closed forever.”

“Then when Helaena was born, the head royal artist decided to take on the job.” “Why?” You asked. You knew that the head royal artist, an old kindly man, had deeply revered Queen Aemma, for he was of the Vale and Aemma had brought him to court as part of her entourage, where he quickly rose up in the ranks. His previous occupation as a woodworker apparently served his artistic abilities well.

“He was in his final days, and he wished for that to be the last painting he ever did.” Viserys smiled, his head drooping. “And I am glad he did.”

Silence fell over the room as you two continued admiring the painting of your beloved Aemma. “Her eyes seem imbued with life, don’t you think?” You mentioned in a soft voice. “It’s like she is about to start talking any second now.” Viserys let out a hoarse sounding laugh, coughing again. This time it sounded more serious, but he waved away your concern all the same. “They are. The artists did a good job.”

You were surprised when Viserys shuffled away to a chest on a table, rummaging through it before taking something out. It turned out to be some strange looking thin red sticks.

“In Old Valyria, while there were many gods that people worshipped, the way they honoured their dead were the same,” Viserys explained quietly, handing you a stick, which you took, bewildered. “They would light it, then bow three times before the deceased’s portrait. It was said that a soul connection would then be forged between you and the person you were mourning, and you could convey a message to them.”

“It sounds…” you tried to find the words to describe it. “...poetic.”

“I thought so too. Shall we?”

The two of you lit up the sticks, and a sweetly smoky smell emitted from them as they were lit. you followed Viserys’ lead, bowing your head three times, before closing your eyes.

You hesitated on what to say, but eventually settled on, ‘I’m getting married, Aemma. I wish you were alive to witness it…but I know you would be delighted in the afterlife. I hope you are doing well.’

‘I hope you’ve seen how much I’ve grown. I hope you’re proud of me.’

“Are you happy, Y/N?” Viserys’ voice broke you out of your thoughts. For a moment, you look lost at what to respond. Were you happy? Though you didn’t feel the typical, dizzy excitement that the poets talked about when getting married, you felt something steady, something reassuring. Contentment.

“I am.”

“Truly?” Viserys’ pressing made you hesitate a little, but you pulled a smile on your face and answered. “I am. Really. Alan is a good man, and I am ready to begin a new chapter in my life.”

Viserys finally began to relax, the tension visibly seeping out of his muscles. “Then I am most pleased for you. Though I never envisioned you to marry, and a selfish part of me wishes you would not have to leave this court, I am happy for you.”

You bowed, a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Viserys. It means a lot to me.”

His next words made you temporarily stunned into silence however. “Of course, I have also prepared your dowry. I have made sure that while it is lacking compared to Rhaenyra’s, that it is not to be underestimated. A ransom of jewels and gold as well as some antiques - Lord Beesbury does love his antiques. Some of those diamonds and sapphires are the finest I have ever seen.”

Your mouth was agape. “Viserys, there is no need for you to-” Viserys talked over you, taking your hand. “But there is.” He looked at you with heartfelt gratitude and affection. “You are family to me, Y/N. It is the least I can do for you, for such a momentous occasion.”

Your gaze softened as you began tearing up. “I cannot accept this. My father is already-” “I know, Y/N,” Viserys silenced you again. “But it’s not just for your dowry. Majority of the jewels and gold are for you.”

You were now even more horrified and confused than before. “For me?” Viserys regarded you with a fond exasperation that almost made you weep at his similarity to Aemma’s. “For you, you silly goose. In the event…you are unhappy with your match, those jewels and gold should be sufficient for you to start a sizeable fund of your own. And of course, I will welcome you back to court with open arms at any time.”

You couldn’t see past the blurry haze of tears and the painful throbbing of your heart, but the next thing you knew, Viserys was hugging you tightly back as you embraced him, choking with quiet sobs. He was crying himself a little too. “I only hope that you will be happy for the rest of your days, Y/N,” Viserys murmured, gently patting your back. Your body shook with violent sobs. “I…will. I promise. I thank you most gratefully for your generosity.”

The two of you stayed like this for a while, before you awkwardly broke apart when the tears had stopped flowing. “The hour is quite late,” Viserys noted, feeling a little fatigued. You smiled weakly, still reeling from the shock. “That it is. I should be returning to my chambers then.”

Viserys nodded, looking at you with fondness in his gaze. “Of course. You must still help me plan for Rhaenyra’s upcoming nuptials. And for your own. I would not want to impose on you any further.”

You curtsied slightly, “Then I shall retire for the night then.” You hesitated, looking at Aemma’s portrait one last time, many thoughts running through your head. A final goodbye. “Good night, Viserys.”

Viserys watched her leave, and the world suddenly seemed darker, much heavier. Like it had been since Aemma died. Coughs shook Viserys’ body, and he wearily took out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, careful not to let his spittle fly. A crimson stain slowly pooling at the white cloth was all he saw when he removed the handkerchief from his mouth.

‘And now, I am alone once more.’ Viserys thought grimly, looking back at Aemma. ‘My last reminder of you is gone, and only Rhaenyra remains now. My strength, and my consolation. And my regret.’

Somewhere far away in Pentos, the squawks of a raven could be heard as first light broke across the city. Daemon Targaryen awoke, hair tousled and a disgruntled expression on his face, despite last night’s pleasures. He had dreamed of her. Again. It seemed she was a wraith plaguing his mind ever since that fateful day in Flea Bottom.

His annoyance rose tenfold when he stalked up from his bed to receive the messenger raven. Unfolding the parchment, he took note of the familiar, rather wonky scrawl of someone who had only learnt to write recently. His eyes trailed over the words ‘the Hand has fallen from his high horse’, and he scoffed, smugness lining his features. The next two lines gave him pause, however.

‘The Princess has been betrothed to Ser Laenor.’

‘Lady Y/N Tyrell has been betrothed to Ser Alan Beesbury.’

‘From your loyal companion, Mysaria.’

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666 @saay-karani @dumbhxeredrose @syviiss @nyenye @ahristata @hiraethrhapsody @babypink224221 @mckenziewhite2005 @justrybca @omgsuperstarg

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301 @hc-geralt-23 @babypink224221 @mckenziewhite2005

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form!

A/N: One more chapter until the end of Act I!!! AAAHHHHHH. I deeply apologise for my repeated promises to publish only to chicken out at the end, so I shall now refrain from making promises that I cannot make 😭 I hope to get Chapter 10 out before 2024 officially hits (new year new me lol), but no promises there. I'll do my best, however!

As always, thank you for reading this far! Let me know what you thought about this chapter in the comments 💕

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blockgamepirate · 5 months

Text

Bolas Rojas Playlist

And the Hero Will Drown : Story Of The Year

Evil People : Set It Of

Twist : Korn

It's Been So Long : The Living Tombstone

Breaking Me Down : Soil

Rules of Nature - Platinum Mix : Jason Charles Miller

Unsainted : Slipknot

oops! : Yung Gravy

Break Stuff : Limp Bizkit

Friday Night Fire Fight : Aligns, Rubicones

BlastZone (ЗонаПоражения) : BONES

SugarCrash! : ElyOtto

Aerials : System Of A Down

King For A Day : Pierce The Veil, Kellin Quinn

Down with the Sickness : Disturbed

Witness : Mindless Self Indulgence

Throne : Bring Me The Horizon

Numb : Linkin Park

Freak On a Leash : Korn

BREAK LAW : Dog Blood, Skrillex, Boys Noize

When It Cuts : Ill Niño

GAS GAS GAS - EXTENDED MIX : Manuel

Becoming Insane : Infected Mushroom

Bricolen : Copain du web

Duality : Slipknot

Waltz of the Meatball Man : Gooseworx

I'm Not Okay (I Promise) : My Chemical Romance

Ani Mevushal : Infected Mushroom, Bliss

Laid to Rest : Lamb of God

Before I Forget : Slipknot

Renegades Of Funk : Rage Against The Machine

Downfall : TRUSTcompany

Hate Crew Deathroll : Children Of Bodom

Savior : Rise Against

Given Up : Linkin Park

Falling Apart : zebrahead

B.Y.O.B. : System Of A Down

Wait and Bleed : Slipknot

The Hand That Feeds : Nine Inch Nails

Stricken : Disturbed

Toxicity : System Of A Down

People = Shitm : Slipknot

In the End : Linkin Park

The Government Knows : KNOWER

We're Beautiful : ABSRDST, Diveo

Ponyboy : SOPHIE

Dumbest Girl Alive : 100 gecs

GOTTASADAE : BewhY

NIGHTMARES : Alice Glass

Can You Feel My Heart : Bring Me The Horizon

Kingslayer (feat. BABYMETAL) : Bring Me The Horizon, BABYMETAL

Goat Type Beat : harvoYT

Du hast : Rammstein

Zombie : The Cranberries

Squishy Caterpillars Riding On Bullets : Istasha

Captions Are Automatically Generated . Istasha

Rédeas : Project46

Wherever I May Roam : Metallica

For Whom The Bell Tolls - Remastered : Metallica

Path Vol. 2 : Apocalyptica, Sandra Nasic

White Rabbit : Jefferson Airplane

Animals : Architects

Tokyo Drift (Fast & Furious) - From "The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift" Soundtrack : Teriyaki Boyz

Roots Bloody Roots : Sepultura

Tenebre Rosso Sangue (ULTRAKILL Original Game Soundtrack) : Keygen Church

Parasite Eve : Bring Me The Horizon

We Got the Moves . Electric Callboy

EXILADA : NIKKO, Istasha

BRAZILIAN DANÇA PHONK : 6YNTHMANE, RXDXVIL

Flashback : MIYAVI, Ken Ken

Get Got . Death Grips

Controllah (feat. MC Bin Laden) : Gorillaz, MC Bin Laden

Hayloft II : Mother Mother

Automotivo Bibi Fogosa : Bibi Babydoll, Dj Brunin XM, KZA Produções

ワールドイズマイン-初音ミク「マジカルミライ 2021」Live- (feat. 初音ミク) : ryo (supercell), Hatsune Miku

Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na) : My Chemical Romance

BxMxC : BABYMETAL

Not Gonna Get Us : t.A.T.u.

Pleasure Model : Noisia, Former

Volcano : Woodkid

Misfit Toys (from the series Arcane League of Legends) : Pusha T, Mako

Snakes (from the series Arcane League of Legends) : PVRIS, MIYAVI

Idiots Are Taking Over : NOFX

Dead Limit : Noisia, The Upbeats

Sober : TOOL

The Pot : TOOL

All Falls Apart : Polyphia

How I Feel : La Dispute

Given Up : Linkin Park

Run : Bring Me The Horizon

Still Waiting : Sum 41

Bodies : Drowning Pool

Side by Side : BewhY

Falling Away from Me . Korn

One Step Closer : Linkin Park

Your Betrayal : Bullet For My Valentine

Tears Don't Fall : Bullet For My Valentine

Vicinity Of Obscenity : System Of A Down

Papercut . Linkin Par

The Diary of Jane - Single Version : Breaking Benjamin

#bolas rojas #qsmp team bolas #qsmp bolas rojas #qsmp purgatory #qsmp bolas #grabbed these from the preview so idk if these are all of them?

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autumncottageattic · 7 months

Text

countryhomemagazine

"To Autumn" by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

#john keats to autumn #john keats poetry #john keats #autumn poem #autumn atmosphere #autumn aesthetic #autumn colors #autumn nature #country autumn'#fall season #country living #autumn garden #cozy cottage life #country aesthetic #cottage garden

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the-lonelybarricade · 22 hours

Text

A Blaze in the Dark - (11/13)

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

Buckle up because this chapter gets spicy 🌶

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

The ceramic vase shattering against the marble floor was a distant, far-away sound.

Elain found it reminiscent of submerging her head in a bathtub, the way she was enveloped in warmth while the details of the outside world became muted. Blurry. If she tried to focus away from the heat blooming on her skin, she could pick out an awareness of some things. Like the water spilling over the console table, seeping into her skirts and dripping over the edge, where it collected into a puddle atop the fragments of the vase below.

Her damp skirts may have been of greater concern to her, where they not presently bunched over her hips, thrown across the table as haphazardly as the bouquet of scarlet geraniums that had once occupied the space she was sitting in.

She’d handpicked those flowers with Vassa yesterday morning. They still had plenty of life in them, and she would need to scold Lucien for acting with such haste in discarding them.

Another time. Currently, she—

“Lucien!”

The gasp was involuntary, as was the arch of her spine, her body taken over by some ravenous creature that demanded to be closer, to be touching him, especially when his teeth grazed over her collarbone.

“I told you what would happen if you misbehaved,” he said, flicking his eyes to her face only briefly, just long enough to let the authority of his words linger, pressing against her as firmly as his strong body.

“I have never—” she sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth closed over her breast. Her nipples hardened beneath his lashing tongue, sending ripples of heated pleasure coursing through her. “Never— ah, misbehaved… in my life.”

That used to be the case, at least. Her governess had always asserted that Elain was the most perfect of her sisters. And by that she’d meant the most quiet, the most restrained, the most obedient.

At this, Lucien lifted his head, releasing her from his torment however briefly. Elain couldn’t help but shiver at his expression, the dark hunger within it. She held herself still, like she was standing in the line of a predator’s gaze, as he drew his lips to her ear and said in a rich, low voice, “I thought you’d know better than to lie to me, sweet wife. If you’ve never misbehaved, then tell me what you’re doing at this very second?”

He paused, waiting for her to answer. The sound of her panting filled the silence, and she wondered how he was so perfectly composed. How she didn’t hear a sound from him, despite how his mouth hovered just beside her ear.

“I’m sitting atop a table,” she said, tugging pointedly at the arm he’d looped beneath her knee, keeping her spread open before him. “Because my husband—”

“There you go again,” he chided.

She cried out, knowing what was coming even before his teeth sunk into her neck as retribution, followed by the slow drag of his tongue to soothe away the hurt. She squirmed in his hold and he made a deep, rumbling sound in the back of his throat, something similar to laughter but lazier, more taunting.

“You can be so petulant when you want to be. Where’s my good girl?”

This was a side of her husband she hadn’t been anticipating. He’d been so sweet, so gentle the first time they’d made love that she hadn’t known there could be this other side of him. The Lucien who was firmer, more demanding, but underneath always, always, loving. And when he discovered how much she enjoyed his firmer touch, well…

Lucien’s hand—the one that wasn’t holding her leg captive—raised from where he had been stroking her inner thigh, his fingers perpetually creeping just close enough to where she wanted him, but never any further.

Now, they wrapped around her throat.

“Remind me what I told you, wife.”

His lips returned to her neck as he waited, covering her skin in small nips and licks that made it extraordinarily difficult to focus on his question. Particularly when he ground his hips forward, using his clothed erection to offer her the barest amount of friction. Only to retreat when Elain pushed forward, desperate to chase the small fraction of pleasure.

Ducked against her neck, she could feel his lips pull into a smile, insufferably pleased at every twitch and huff he elicited from her. Initially she tried to restrain them, if only so he couldn’t have the satisfaction, but all that seemed to achieve was making the game more interesting to Lucien.

And now, with his fingers tightening at her throat, she knew he was growing impatient.

“We have to be quiet,” she said, repeating his earlier instruction. There was a strange thrill in the sensation of her words straining against his palm. “Otherwise someone will come down this hall and catch us.”

Lucien hummed in approval. “And wouldn’t you be mortified if someone were to catch you like this? So indecent, so eager to let your husband fuck you over a table.” He clicked his tongue, but she knew he loved seeing her like this. Knew because of the stark affection in his voice as he added, “Then everyone would know that sweet Elain Vanserra isn’t as prim and proper as she pretends.”

The shaky breath that parted her lips was one of relief. She relished knowing she could be like this with him. Bold and reckless and willing to take what she wanted, even if that risked being seen for who she was.

“I’ll be good,” she said, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat to him. Pliant, but only because she wanted to be. Docile, but only because she was in full control of who she did and did not obey. “I’ll be quiet.”

As a reward, Lucien kissed her temple and murmured against her skin, sweet as melted sugar, “Good girl.”

Elain’s eyes fluttered shut. His praise lit something deep and warm inside her. It was more than a craving. It was an addiction.

He knew its effect on her, knew how to drip each dose of it to keep her wound and wanting, willing to do anything he asked just so she might hear him whisper it again. For now, he chucked and offered her one more sweet kiss against her brow before instructing, “Stay still for me.”

That was one direction that she was never very good at following. Even as a little girl, when her governess would make each of them stand with proper posture and recite poetry, she would always be reprimanded for fidgeting with her skirts. Feyre used to accuse their governess of creating rules with the purpose of setting them up for failure.

Now, Elain wondered if her husband was just as cruel.

His hand returned between her legs, broad fingers curving in until they brushed over the arousal coating her inner thigh. Elain took a deep breath, recalling how they’d ended up here.

I have a secret, she’d said, giggling and a little bit drunk on the wine they’d shared at dinner.

Oh? One that you might trust on your husband’s ears?

She’d stopped and pulled him down an unlit hall that she knew was scarcely used, even by servants. There wasn’t a single candle lit in this direction, and the thick drapes over most of the windows were drawn, meaning that they had to fumble their way through the darkness until Elain was satisfied that no one would find them. Lucien had been patient with her, humouring it all with his soft, bemused laughter. That was until she corralled him against the wall and whispered her condemning secret into his ear.

I’m not wearing anything under my skirts.

Then all of his charming humour faded, like paint scraped from a portrait. And Elain had barely any time to prepare herself before her husband had erupted on her in a fervor of kissing and tearing at each other’s clothes that had amounted to this—

To Lucien swearing under his breath, continuing his exploration until his fingers finally, finally, sought the small bump at the apex of her thighs. He circled his thumb lazily around her clit, still not touching it as he smirked at the wetness he found, at how easily his fingers slid against her.

She whimpered, and that small noise was enough for him to withdraw. Her frustration was beginning to take on a sharper edge, the ache more persistent. More consuming. He’d been teasing her like this for what felt like hours.

“Please.”

Lucien cooed with false sympathy. “Poor thing. I’ve given you so many chances. Now you’ll have to earn it.”

“How?”

“Open your mouth.”

Familiarity tugged at the corner of her memory, but like the shattered vase and the trampled flowers, it was a far-away detail. There was only Lucien, his teasing touch and heated voice, which made her feel as though she’d swallowed something warm. That she was melting from the inside out.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she said, overwrought and breathless and still daring to be bold with him.

She parted her lips, holding her mouth open. She didn’t realize she was expecting his arousal-coated fingers until he leaned over and spit onto her waiting tongue.

It took her a moment to process what he’d just done. In the dim light, his eyes were the only bright thing, like the smouldering pits of a bottomless forge, glowing molten gold and copper. Elain’s heart was hammering, keeping herself perfectly still beneath his appraisal. Her mouth was still open, still presenting his spit to the open air, not quite certain what would please him.

“Hold that on your tongue until I tell you to swallow.”

She couldn’t answer him, not without disobeying his order. So she nodded instead, keeping her tongue cradled in position, trying to ignore the saliva already welling in the back of her mouth.

Meanwhile, Lucien unlaced himself from his trousers. At this point in their marriage, Elain might very well have seen her husband naked more often than she’d seen him clothed. She would have thought that their weeks of rabid love-making would have cured some of the shock of seeing him undressed. Yet, as her eyes welcomed his impressive length for the second time that day, she was immediately seized with a sharp, aching need to feel him inside her again.

Lucien closed a fist around his cock, offering her a slow, leisurely pump that was all for show. Her attention narrowed to the arousal beading at the tip of his flushed head, and there was something about staring at his cock while holding her tongue on display that made her long to taste it.

Maybe he could see the filthy imaginings behind her eyes, because Lucien looked at her and smirked. “You’re going to be good for me aren’t you, sweetheart? Going to do what I say?”

He notched himself at her entrance without waiting for a response.

She tried to restrain herself. She did. But as he pushed in, stretching her so full, she couldn’t help the small whimper that built in the back of her throat. Her head started to fall back, her eyes fluttering shut, when Lucien caught her at the chin, pulling her gaze to meet his as he thrust the rest of the way in, forcing their hips flush.

This time, there was an ounce of derision as he asked her, “You’re not going to swallow are you, Elain?”

She shook her head, panting through her nose. Drool was collecting beneath her tongue and she could feel Lucien throbbing inside her. Not moving, not giving her the friction she was desperate for.

“Show me.”

Elain stuck out her tongue, tilting her head back to prevent excess saliva from spilling over her lips. Lucien brushed his thumb to wipe away the small amount that trickled out of the corner of her mouth.

“Look at you,” he praised. “Desperate and drooling for me. You can be such a good girl when you want to be.”

He withdrew slightly, and she could feel him drag against every sensitive nerve. She anchored her nails into his shoulders, but nothing prepared her for his next thrust and the way she practically choked to keep herself from gasping, from swallowing.

Lucien grunted, “Fuck, Elain.”

There it was. The first crack in Lucien’s facade. It was only a matter of time before her husband became equally as desperate, as undone, as she was. One of her hands slipped into his hair, knowing precisely how to expedite his unravelling.

Weaving his scarlet hair between her fingers, Elain tugged with a measure of aggression equal to his own. He let out a startled noise before snapping his hips forward in response.

“My wife wants to play rough?” He asked, driving his hips forward harder, faster. The console table was beginning to wobble beneath the momentum, knocking into the wall in what would be a rather transparent announcement of what this corridor was being used for if anyone were to walk within earshot.

Elain was beyond caring, as was Lucien, who pulled her leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts so that his cock pierced impossibly further, demanding space in her body she wasn’t certain existed.

She screamed, thought it was gurgled by saliva, and she worried if she didn’t swallow she might very well choke. Lucien grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her neck back as he demanded again, “Open.”

She obeyed, allowing her husband to spit in her mouth a second time, the act punctuated by his brutal thrusts and his bruising grip.

“Swallow,” he said, taking mercy.

The reprieve was short lived, because the minute she opened her lips to suck in a greedy breath, Lucien’s was there, tongue pushing past her teeth to claim her mouth. He had her practically folded in half, perfectly moulded to take every inch of him. Flushed and drooling and covered in love bites, there wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t marked as his.

But it was just as well, when his unkempt clothes and tousled hair and damp skin marked him as hers. The Prince and the rake and the gentle, tender husband all uniquely combined into this man who was unleashing his full self upon her, giving her everything she wanted, everything she craved.

Her whines, smothered by his mouth, rose into a fever pitch, and that was when his fingers in her hair loosened, then fell away altogether. Their lips parted, a string of saliva still connecting them, as he murmured so sweetly to her, “Come for me, Elain. My beautiful wife.”

At last, his fingers returned between her legs, rubbing at that spot she’d been desperate for from the very start. Her head fell back against the wall and he chased her, laying kisses anywhere he could find as he babbled a string of sweet, gooey nonsense. I know. I know, honey. You’re doing so well. Taking me so well. You’re so beautiful.

My love.

My Elain.

My wife.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

It always ended this way, no matter how roughly they fucked. Whenever the rhythm of his hips fractured and light burst behind her eyes, it was always to a string of I love yous. She murmured it back, between her gasping and shuddering, until his hips slowed and stopped entirely.

And then they were folded atop the console table in the corridor of their palace, mostly undressed, and kissing each other like there wasn’t a single thing else that mattered in the world.

Her head was spinning when Lucien, with what seemed a great deal of reluctance, finally pulled away. They were both panting, still gripping onto each other as they anchored back into reality. The awareness that a world existed outside of her husband came back in slow, trickling pieces.

The first thing she noticed was Lucien’s dishevelled hair. He’d worn it so nicely at dinner, with pieces braided back from his face and tied in a knot, the rest spilling over his shoulders like red ink. Now those braids were torn loose, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to smooth some of them back into place.

It was as she reached for him that she noticed candlelight gleaming off the scarlet strands—a startling revelation, when before, the corridor had been smothered in darkness. Elain’s eyes flickered to the far wall, trailing from one golden sconce to the next. She marked with awe that they were all lit. Every single candle, spitting and flickering light down the entire stretch of the hall.

She giggled at the revelation, drawing her attention to the likely culprit.

“What can I say?” Lucien offered her a roguish grin as he tucked himself back into his trousers. “My love for you is a burning flame.”

It wasn’t the first time it happened, though it’d never occurred at such a large scale. Lucien tilted his head down the length of the corridor, assessing his handiwork with what she could only amount to pride.

Elain couldn’t hide her own smile. She happened to enjoy the phenomenon—so much, in fact, that she kept a candle at their bedside that she’d barred anyone from lighting through conventional means. Her goal was to see the entire stick of wax melted by her birthday.

Her joy at the display of candlelight was fleeting, however, once she caught sight of the mess it illuminated. Beneath the table, the vase they’d knocked over was completely shattered and had sent pieces of painted pottery flying in all directions over the marble floor. She hoped the vase hadn’t been expensive and further, that it’d held no sentimental value.

Even so, most of her grief was directed towards the limp geraniums, whose once vivid petals were now crushed and wilted.

She couldn’t keep the despair from her voice. “We ruined the flowers.”

Lucien spared a glance toward the collateral of their love-making and frowned. He took her hand, raising it to his lips in apology. “I’ll set off tomorrow and get you a new bouquet,” he promised. “What’s your favourite flower?”

It was such an innocent, off-handed question.

At first, Elain’s lips curled into a smile, prepared to tease him for not remembering, before she recalled with shackling clarity that Lucien hadn’t been the last person to ask her that question. It had been her True Love, in a dream that felt like centuries ago.

In my leisure, I like to plant flowers.

Do you have a favourite?

Sweet alyssum.

Lucien, oblivious to the riptide of memory tugging her under, began the patient task of fixing her dress into a somewhat decent state.

“Is it another secret?” he teased.

The recollection was disorienting. Some part of her mind insisted on inserting her husband in the memory, when she knew it’d been someone different. She could picture his smug lips, inches from her ear and whispering so softly, And why’s that one your favourite? She could see the flash of scarlet hair, though there’d been no light. No features at all to distinguish one gentleman of her heart from another.

“I have many favourite flowers,” she said, fighting against the confusing images. She didn’t want to be remembering the dream at all; she wanted to cast her True Love and all thoughts about him permanently in the past. “It depends on which quality I’m using to assess them.”

Lucien smiled as if endeared by her answer. “What are the qualities?” He asked, pressing at her shoulder to urge her to swivel on the table, just enough so he might slip her dress back up her torso and begin lacing it.

“If I were to choose a flower for its appearance, it would be gaillardia.”

“Why’s that?”

“They remind me of you,” she said, growing shy at the admission. “Red and copper and gold. They’re one of the most vibrant flowers I’ve ever seen.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “And what about before you met me?”

“Even then.”

Elain marvelled a bit at that. As if subconsciously, she’d always felt some sort of draw to him, even before she’d known his name or his face or the colour of his eyes. That admission must have warmed him, because he paused his task to drop his head and press a lingering kiss to her shoulder.

“And your other favourites?”

“Sunflowers,” she hummed, “because they’re easy to grow, in addition to being beautiful.”

Lucien used his nose to trace the path of her shoulder, gliding up and along the crook of her neck, where he nuzzled himself closer and mused, “A bright, beautiful thing that thrives in adverse conditions? That sounds like you, sweet wife.”

A warm, wonderful feeling bubbled inside her. She leaned into his touch, wondering if this was what complete and utter happiness felt like.

“Are there any others?” He asked, offering one last, departing kiss so that he could return to his task.

“Just one,” she said, feeling less wary about it. She could reclaim the flower, make it something special to them. “Sweet alyssum. I like it for its meaning, worth beyond beauty.”

Lucien halted, the ties of her dress still lifted in his hands. “Is… is that a common flower in Carterhaugh?”

“I suppose,” she said, having never considered its abundance. “It used to grow very generously on the grounds of our manor. I used to collect the blossoms and dry them for tea. Allegedly, it’s meant to have soothing properties, though it never seemed to have much effect on my sisters’ tempers.”

He wasn’t saying anything. She waited for his response, allowing the silence to stretch beyond considerate thought, until the icy hands of anxiety began to stake their grip. Had she said something wrong? Elain glanced over her shoulder to find him staring at her, not moving an inch.

It was an effort to keep her apprehension from showing. “Is everything alright?”

Lucien shook his head as if he could physically dispel his thoughts. “Everything’s fine,” he said, though his eyes were still wide. “You reminded me of a story I’d once heard before, that’s all.”

“Oh?” She tried to turn further to face him, but he gently placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place, insistent on finishing. “Will you share it with me?”

“Another time,” he said, with an apologetic kiss along her spine. “I think right now, we should focus on making ourselves presentable and cleaning up this mess.”

His voice held a tightness that told her he was hiding something. That whatever he’d recalled had set him off balance. Curiosity burned at her. Enough that she almost pressed, prepared to accuse him of still keeping secrets. But she thought of his scars, recalling the weight of the memories that plagued him, and decided to hold her tongue.

She knew her husband loved her, and she trusted him enough to offer him the freedom to process his thoughts. He would reveal the truth to her in his own time. When he was ready for it.

Elain went to sleep that night in the large circular room in the corner tower of the East Wing. Lucien’s bedroom, or so it used to be. Now it was hers, too, and she cherished the intimacy of sharing a bedroom with her husband.

Whatever bothered Lucien had disappeared by the time they made it to their bedroom, and hadn’t prevented him from continuing his nightly tradition of laying her out on the bed, kissing his way down her stomach, and burying his face between her legs.

Beneath his slow tongue, her body became the strangest combination of weightless and heavy. Taught and loose. Lapping back and forth between the shores of pleasure and slumber until she settled somewhere in the middle, capable of only soft, contented sighs and drifting thoughts.

You’re so sweet like this, she heard him murmur to her, his voice just slightly louder than the fire popping and crackling in their hearth. My sweet Elain. My sweet wife.

My sweet soul.

That one couldn’t have been right. Must have been a figment of her dozing mind, blending reality with memory until she was delivered into the depths of a warm, caressing darkness.

When she next opened her eyes, she was startled to find that the space beside her was empty. Where she’d fallen asleep in the arms of her husband, she now sat up in her bed alone, his side vacant and cold, as if he’d never been there to begin with. Elain was prepared to light a candle and search for him when a voice drifted through the dark.

“Hello?”

Lucien? She thought. She nearly called to him, his name shaping her tongue before other oddities crept into her awareness.

The bed. The bedding wasn’t right. Lucien liked to sleep with the window open, inviting the biting autumn into their chamber, and when she’d complained about the cold, he compromised by piling their bed with fur-lined coverlets and thick blankets. They were nowhere to be found on this bed, nor were they necessary given the breeze circulating the room that was too light, too warm, to belong to the Eastern Kingdom.

She was not in the bed she’d fallen asleep in. She was not awake at all.

“Is that you?” Elain called. After all this time, she still didn’t have a name for him. “My True Love?”

A floorboard creaked beneath his weight.

“It’s me,” he said.

It was a relief, perhaps, that Lucien hadn’t abandoned her in the middle of the night. But one that was short-lived, given that she was alone with another man. In a dark, intimate space. Naked, just as she’d been when she’d fallen asleep in her husband’s arms. The room was completely dark, devoid even of moonlight, and still she scrambled for a sheet to cover herself.

It felt like a betrayal of Lucien to be here, but she wasn’t certain how to leave. This was the first time her True Love had been the one to summon her to their dreamland. She was wary of why he would choose to do so now, when they hadn’t communicated since the day they were to meet in Carterhaugh Gardens. Nesta’s note said he hadn’t shown up, and Elain was so preoccupied by her relationship with Lucien that she hadn’t properly considered why.

Why insist on meeting, why send her the coin to do so, if he wasn’t going to be there? Did he know that she hadn’t been there either? Given his absence, she’d assumed that they’d parted ways mutually, though she supposed there hadn’t been any proper closure. No heartfelt goodbyes, no explanations for what had gone wrong.

“You didn’t meet me in Carterhaugh,” he said. There was no accusation, only simple curiosity as he asked, “Why?”

His question surprised her. How would he know if he hadn’t been there either? It was a test, perhaps.

“I was there,” she protested, recalling Nesta’s letter. “I waited at the labyrinth’s center as long as I could. I did not see any man with a rose behind his ear.”

Her assertion was met with a moment of stunned silence.

Then he said, “Impossible. I was there from the moment the sun rose and a good while after it set.”

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Nesta would have seen him. Would have assessed every man in the center of the maze, and would have told her the truth if he’d been there. Wouldn’t she? Elain wasn’t certain who to believe. She’d never known her sister to lie, not about something like this.

“You must have had your head turned,” she rationalized. “And the flower escaped my notice.”

Had Nesta not looked properly? Had she gone at all? Elain couldn’t make sense of it, though she told herself that regardless, it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to know who her True Love was. She was happily, blissfully married.

“My mistake, then, to rely on your scrutiny. Were there too many men in the labyrinth’s center to pay each a thorough assessment?”

He couldn’t see it, but Elain crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t care for your tone.”

“Answer me truthfully, then. Did you come to meet me that day in Carterhaugh?”

Elain didn’t see a reason to keep the truth from him. “I sent someone on my behalf. And they told me that no man suited your description.”

“I see.”

Without being able to gauge his expression, she couldn’t determine if he was angry with her. His voice revealed no emotion at all, though she imagined that she would be frustrated in his place. From his perspective, he believed that she was in a loveless marriage. That she was miserable and was too much of a coward to pursue their life together.

Though it was all built on a lie, she began to feel defensive. Of Lucien, of her life with him, of her reasons for staying. “It is easy for you to cast judgment when there was no risk for you. You demanded an impossible task—it would have been a two day journey to meet you, an absence my husband would certainly have noticed.”

“And tell me of your husband.”

“What of him?”

“I was going to help you flee him,” he reminded her. There was an edge to his voice. “I didn’t consider it an impossible task because I believed his notice of your absence would be inevitable once we ran away together. Unless you were planning to go back? Has your desire to escape your marriage changed?”

This was it. This was the moment to tell him, to end things between them for good. She swallowed back her guilt, knowing that any resulting heartbreak would be her burden to carry. She’d been the one to place the first butterfly under tongue, despite knowing that they would always end up here. Saying their goodbyes.

Her True Love deserved a happy ending, and she wished she could give that to him. But her heart belonged to Lucien. She suspected it always would.

“My husband is not the man I thought him to be,” she said. “He is good—kind.”

“There are plenty of good and kind men that do not treat their wives as well as they deserve.”

Even in her dreams, even from someone who did not know Lucien, she would not tolerate such accusations. “He treats me better than anyone I know.”

Her True Love paused, like he was inclined to argue, but instead asked, “Are you happy with him?”

Elain didn’t waver, didn’t hesitate for even a second.

“Yes.”

It was the honest, simple truth.

She was met with further silence as her True Love processed this answer, what it meant for him. For them.

“Then consider this our last meeting,” he said cordially. “I will not disrupt your marriage any further. I truly wish you happiness, lady.”

To his credit, he sounded sincere. And she thought he must be a very decent man. One who could perhaps learn to find happiness in his circumstances the same way she had.

“Wait,” she called to him.

He paused. Curious. “Yes?”

“Your wife… Do you think you could find happiness with her? I feel a kinship to her,” she admitted, pressing her hand to her chest. “I hope she can find happiness in her marriage as well.”

Her True Love laughed, and there was a warmth to it, an affection, that swelled her heart. “My wife is extraordinary. I promise I will endeavour to make her happy.”

That brought her more peace than she could have hoped for.

“Then perhaps we were not meant to find each other in this lifetime,” she said. “Perhaps the Mother willed our lives to walk in parallel. I hope we can each find fulfillment on our separate paths.”

There was an ounce of whimsy in his response, his tone a touch too knowing as he said, “Perhaps one day our paths will converge outside our dreams. I’ll be looking forward to it until then, my sweet soul.”

When Elain next opened her eyes, it was to one eye of russet and another of metal. Lucien was watching her sleep, a soft smile parting his lips. The kind that was rare to see from him. Not sarcastic or smug or self-satisfied, just… happy.

A low humming noise rumbled in his throat. “Good morning, wife.”

He leaned down to kiss her, slow and unhurried, like the steady creep of fog drifting just outside their open window. The air was fresh with dew, but too chilly to coax her from the warmth of her husband’s body and the pile of blankets.

He asked between a trail of kisses along her neck, “Did you have a nice dream?”

For a moment, she panicked. Did she tell him? Would he understand? The last thing Elain wanted was for her husband to lock himself in his study to try and track down her True Love. It was over. There was no need to plague his mind with it.

“I… I don’t remember it.” She said, shuffling closer to press her face into his chest, hoping to distract him from the lie by dragging her lips across his throat. “Did you? Have a nice dream?”

“I did.” His fingers lovingly traced the shape of her spine, and he was still wearing that beautiful, unrestrained smile. “I dreamt of you.”

If only Elain could have been so lucky.

“Couldn’t have been so nice, then,” she teased, nipping at his neck.

He made another of those rich, throaty noises that she only seemed capable of eliciting in the mornings.

“You’re mistaken. There is no dream lovelier. Though I doubt any could compare to this.”

“To what?”

Lucien placed both hands on her hips and heaved her up so that she was practically lying atop him. His eyes were so rich with affection she almost couldn’t stand to be the sole focus of it, could feel her face heating as though she were standing directly in the sun’s path.

“Waking up to the sight of you.”

He pushed one of her curls behind her ear, studying her face like he was memorizing every detail. Elain was beginning to suspect an ulterior motive.

“You’re being rather complimentary, husband.” She trailed her fingers suggestively over the planes of his chest. “Is there something you’re after?”

“A good many things, Elain.”

Lucien kissed her, and she could feel him harden against her stomach. It was a pattern she’d noticed before, and this time she couldn’t contain her curiosity. She retreated from their kiss in favour of pulling up the blankets to glance down their bodies, admiring the thick appendage that was already swelling to attention.

“Does it always do that in the morning?”

He chuckled. “It will do that so long as you are naked in bed with me.”

Elain continued to stare, feeling her mouth grow dry as she realized she had a great many curiosities when it came to her husband and his body. “That thing you do with your mouth,” she said, recalling the way he’d licked her just before they’d fallen asleep. “Does the equivalent feel nice for you?”

From the way his cock twitched in response to her question, she thought Lucien might have found the idea appealing. Even as he said, “It’s not necessary for child making.”

She glanced at him flatly. “That’s not what I asked.”

When he didn’t say anything further, Elain elected to take matters into her own hand. She shuffled down his body, reaching until her palm wrapped around his length.

“Fuck,” he bit out as she pumped her fist experimentally, the same way she’d seen him do it. “Yes, Elain. It feels nice for me, too.”

“Then show me—”

“You don’t have to.”

Elain ignored his protest and shuffled the rest of the way down his body, until she was crouched between his legs. “I want to be a good wife.”

“You are already a good wife.” His voice was becoming strained, particularly as she leaned over his cock and tentatively swiped her tongue over his head. “You’re—fuck. The best wife.”

“Then I don’t want you to ever forget it,” she crooned, repeating the small licking motion over the bead of moisture gathered at his tip. It was saltier and slightly more bitter than she expected, but the way Lucien shuddered warmed her blood. She kept the rest of him in her fist, continuing to move her hand up and down the length of his shaft. “Like this?”

“Elain—”

She giggled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

His cock was pleasantly warm to the touch. Softer than she’d expect—not so different from silk, the way she could slide her palm against him with so little resistance. She wanted to know what it would feel like to take him in her mouth. What he would taste like.

“Cauldron,” he groaned.

Elain flicked her eyes up to see Lucien was watching, his eyes half-lidded and still utterly fixed on what she was doing as she slowly opened her mouth and slid his head between her lips. She swirled her tongue around him, marvelling at the taste, the sounds she was coaxing from him, how his hand speared into her hair and tugged.

“Stop—Stop, sweetheart, please. You’re going to make me come.”

Elain pulled her head up, but didn’t stop working him with her hand as she asked, “And that’s a bad thing?”

“If you want a child, it’d be a waste for it to go in your mouth,” he said candidly. His eyes were glazed, and he seemed to hesitate before adding, “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing myself all over your lips.”

Oh? Elain grinned, then lowered her mouth back down, taking in as much of him as she could manage. He was enormous, and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to fit all of him in her mouth, but Lucien didn’t seem to mind. His head had fallen back into the pillows, his lips parted open in pleasure. She hummed, delighted to see he was enjoying himself, and nearly gagged when his hips bucked in response.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

Lucien’s voice was ordinarily decadent. Rich and low and a little bit raspy. In the mornings that raspiness became thicker, more raw. And when he was like this, still half asleep and drunk with desire, it became the most exquisite sound she’d ever heard.

She hummed again to see if she could elicit the same response. It was exhilarating to be able to drive him senseless for a change, to watch the way he came apart as she hallowed her cheeks and continued bobbing her head. He was able to manage only a few more passes before his fingers tightened in her hair. His hips jerked forward, and a low guttural noise was all the warning she was given before he spilled into her mouth.

Elain waited until his body stopped shuddering before she swallowed and gently pulled away. She met his eyes as she sat up, swiping his spend from her bottom lip and sucking it from her thumb with a flourish. He made an odd sound in the back of his throat.

She sang, “Looks like you’ll have to make it up to me another time.”

Lucien shook his head. “Now,” he said, reaching for her. Elain yelped as she was dropped back atop his chest, and he was pulling her down to kiss her again and again, paying no mind to the taste of himself. He grunted, “I’ll make it up to you now.”

She believed that he would have made good on that promise if there hadn’t been a knock on the door.

“We’ll take our breakfast later,” he called.

The knock came again, more insistent. This time, followed by Vassa’s voice.

“Your Highness, I’ve received an urgent notice from the guards at the gatehouse. They say that King Beron is on his way. He’ll be arriving in a matter of minutes.”

#A Blaze in the Dark #Elucien #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain #Elucien fic #Elucien fanfic #Elucien fanfiction #ABITD

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