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ladykailitha · 3 months

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The Harrington Pattern Part 2

A longer chapter today because it didn't want to end. It's Steve finishing all the costumes.

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

Part 1

****

Steve worked on Max’s costume first. Like Robin’s Max was going to be a pirate. He had the names of a couple of lady pirates in his back pocket for them to pull out if they ran across assholes at the Fair.

Because Max was underaged he set out to find a less form fitting costume then Robin’s.

He found a large men’s black shirt and pants and tailored the waist to fit Max’s slender form. Paired with the boots and the hippie vest he dyed red, she looked bitchin’.

Then he focused on Lucas’s costume in secret. Every time someone came by, Steve would hide it out of sight. He didn’t want anyone to see it before it done.

Whenever anyone would ask about it he would pull out the tunic that he had been working on for his costume.

It was blue and white in a checkerboard pattern. Blue on the right of the top portion and then on the left on the bottom portion.

The pants that he was using for Lucas’s costume were similar to Steve’s for his.

Not loose like Max’s, but not tight like Robin’s. He knows it’s technically inaccurate, but he wants to be comfortable and he’s not about to make a poor little sophomore to-be uncomfortable either.

He finishes it with a week to spare and then picks up the other outfits from the moms.

He throws a party and has them all make their own weapons for their costumes.

Lucas is the only one that didn’t join in.

Steve put his arm around Lucas. “So why aren’t you in there making something, too?”

Dustin is making a spear, Max is making a cutlass, and even El is making healing potions with water and food coloring.

“I don’t know what to make,” Lucas admitted shyly.

“What does your ranger use?”

“A bow,” Lucas said. “But I wouldn’t know even where to start with that.”

Steve smiled. “A bow’s easy. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He helped Lucas build up a stick with toilet paper and aluminum foil.

“Shouldn’t it be curved?” Lucas asked as Steve was putting on the handle.

“Nope!” Steve said cheerfully. “It curves when the bow is strung.” He added the long string and the bow bent. “See?”

“Oh!”

Lucas pulled back on the string and the bow bent further.

“It’s more for looks,” Steve said with a wince when the bow remained bent. He straightened it out. “But let’s make you a quiver. No arrows though, your mom would kill me.”

Lucas laughed.

“It’s so cool you know all this stuff, Steve,” Will said. “Why don’t you ever want to join us for D&D? I think you’d be really good at it.”

Steve flushed. “Too much math and I’m not very good at the role-playing part.”

“What would you do if you could play any character?” Eddie asked. “It doesn’t have to be any of the classes or races.”

Steve licked his lips. “You won’t make fun of me for it?”

Everyone looked down at their feet. They were swiftly learning that teasing Steve was one thing, but that they tended to take it too far.

“Go on,” Eddie urged. “If anyone makes fun of you for it, I’ll nuke their character to hell.” He grinned at all the kids.

“That has no effect on me,” Max said, tossing her hair back. “I’m not in your nerd game.”

“Whatever you say, zoomer,” Eddie said with a wink.

She gasped. “Who told?!”

El tilted her head to the side. “Why? Is a zoomer a bad thing?”

Max deflated. “No.”

Eddie winked at El and the girl blushed.

“So Stevie, what would you like to be?”

“The merchant.”

“But that’s–” Mike stopped when he saw Eddie’s glare. He licked his lips. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to be the hero?”

Steve tilted his head to the side and then scratched his cheek. “Um...I’m not trying to brag here. But I’ve been the hero in real life. It’s not fun. It’s terrifying. But being able to armor and arm the heroes? Make sure they have everything they need to succeed? Now there’s the dream.”

Eddie rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“That’s his DM thinking face,” Dustin said.

“Is that a bad thing?” El asked.

Lucas shrugged. “Sometimes. It can end in us fighting the worst Big Bad ever. But it can just make things more interesting. Like a tidbit of backstory for one of the NPCs.”

“So a former hero who has retired and settled down with the love of their life to sell the fruits of their travels...” Eddie spoke out loud more to himself than to everyone else. “Magic items, healing potions, weapons and armor the shopkeeper is willing to part with now that they’ve settled down.” He looked up at Steve with a grin. “I like it.”

Steve blushed hard.

Will lit up. “Does that mean the next merchant we meet is going to be Steve?”

Eddie’s grin got bigger. “Anybody have a problem with that?”

Everyone turned to look at Mike. “Hey, I don’t care what your NPCs do, man. As long as the story’s good.”

Steve’s blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down the column of his neck.

He cleared his throat. “Everyone done with their weapons? Because I think we should do a final fitting so we can make sure nothing needs to be adjusted.”

“Why?” Will asked. “Don’t you think our mom’s did a good enough job?”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Yeah. I thought you trusted our moms.”

Steve sighed. “It’s because you’re adolescences. Your bodies are always constantly changing. Lose weight, grow two inches, fill out in weird areas. I just want to make sure everyone is going to have a good time next week, okay?”

Will and Dustin looked at each other and then nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” Dustin conceded.

“There are three bathroom and four bedrooms,” Steve announced. “So there should be rooms for everyone to change into their costumes.”

They all grabbed their costumes and then dashed for their favorite rooms to try and get there first. Max beat Dustin to the upstairs bathroom, sticking her tongue out at him before slamming the door. So Dustin got Steve’s bedroom.

All the other kids went scrambling for the other bathrooms and bedrooms while Lucas was left standing in the middle of front room, looking down at his sneakers.

“Did you want to try yours on right now?” Steve asked, leaning down to try and look Lucas in the eye.

“I don’t know if I want to be an elf anymore,” he muttered darkly.

Eddie and Steve shared a concerned glance.

“Did someone say something?” Eddie asked. “You were really happy about it when you were making the bow with Steve.”

“Not really,” Lucas said with a shrug. “I just kept thinking about the ears. I know I can have Will draw some really good ones, and he wouldn’t give me shit about it, but...”

Steve sighed. “But you know that Mike would. Fuck, I’m going to kill that kid.”

Lucas waved his hands. “No, no. It’s fine. I’ve got an old pirate costume from a school play I did. I’ll just join Queen Max’s crew.”

Eddie licked his lips. He didn’t have them yet. Jeff was still making them. He shared another glance with Steve.

Steve nodded.

Eddie turned back to Lucas. “It’s up to you, man. But Stevie and I have something in the works regarding the ear situation.”

Lucas glanced between Eddie and Steve but couldn’t find any indication that they were mocking him.

“This isn’t a prank to make me look stupid, is it?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Scout’s honor,” Steve said holding up the correct salute.

Eddie snorted. “Of course you were a boy scout. Could you be any more perfect?”

Steve blushed and ducked his head bashfully. “I’m really not.”

“Anyway,” Eddie huffed, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “Try on the outfit at least. Because you don’t have to be an elf with the costume Stevie made for you. But at least see it before you dismiss the idea completely out of hand.”

Lucas took a deep breath. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t care what they think anyway. Just as long as I’m having fun.”

“That’s the spirit!” Eddie said clapping him on the shoulder. “So where is this masterpiece, my liege?”

Steve walked up to the sofa and pulled out a plastic bag. He thrust it at Lucas’s chest.

Lucas looked down at the bag a moment before taking it from him. He pulled out the warm grey breeches first. They weren’t the broad kind that Steve had made for Max, but they were loose enough that they would hang a little over the top of the boots.

“They’re so soft...” he whispered.

“They’re made out of light weight material to keep you cool,” Steve explained. “There will be absolutely no heat stroke or heat exhaustion on my watch.”

Lucas let out a small huff of laughter and he took that as one for the win column.

He then pulled out the pale blue gambeson, it was trimmed in antique silver ribbon.

“It’s not strictly historically accurate,” Steve said with a shrug. “But I figured I could take liberties considering it was supposed to be fantasy based.”

“Steve...” Lucas said, voice rough from emotion. “It’s perfect.”

He threw his arms around Steve and hugged him tightly and Steve hugged him back twice as fierce.

“Let’s put these away for now,” Eddie said gently tugging them from Lucas’s grasp. “You try them on after everyone leaves.”

Lucas nodded and let Eddie pull them away, but he kept hugging Steve.

Suddenly there was a burst of activity as the other kids came back. Robin, too.

Steve let go of Lucas to take a look at his ragtag crew of misfits. Robin and Max’s costumes he knew would fit to perfection. His exacting standards would bow to nothing less.

The costumes that Joyce and Claudia made were good too. He let out a little breath through his nose.

“Looking great, guys!” he told them. He tugged Will’s tunic a bit. “You grew some, there.”

Will looked down and blushed. “I didn’t even realize.”

“That’s because you’ve been wearing shorts,” Steve explained, “so you just didn’t notice.”

“You were right to make sure the costumes still fit,” he murmured, trying to pull the tunic down to the right length.

Steve’s shoulders sagged. “You were just trying to defend your mom, dude. It’s fine.”

Will and Dustin still shared a look of chagrin anyway.

“I can add a couple of inches to the hem,” Steve continued. “I have some ribbon that will hide the extra material.”

Will nodded.

Steve moved on to Dustin and tugged on the side of his shirt under the vest and then tugged on the waistband too. “Don’t tell your mom this, but you’ve lost weight. She’ll freak out and try to feed you the entirety of your cupboard.”

Dustin blushed. Claudia Henderson was notorious for constantly feeding anyone who came through her door.

“But I’ll just pin it in case your weight fluctuates again,” Steve said. “The hazard of being teenagers unfortunately.”

Dustin nodded with a sigh of relief.

Max’s was perfect, as was El’s beautiful red dress.

But she was looking at the ground twisting her hands together.

“What’s up, Supergirl?” Eddie asked.

She looked over at Will and then down at her feet again. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. Joyce did an amazing job.”

Steve tilted his head. “But?”

She sighed. “But I was wanting a gold trim, but Joyce didn’t have any and I didn’t want to make her buy some...”

Steve held up a finger and then dashed off.

But he was back before they even had time to wonder where he had gone. In his hand was a cloth bag that he handed over to her. “Pick your ribbon. It’ll take me a day to add it to the dress, no problem.”

El looked down at the bag in shame. “Steve...”

He clicked his tongue. “I don’t want to hear it. I have to extend Will’s tunic anyway, adding ribbon to yours would be cinch in comparison. In fact, why don’t you both pick a matching ribbon to be twins.”

Will and El perked right up and the two of them wandered over to the sofa and began sorting through what Steve had.

That left Mike. Steve walked around the outfit. It had a white, billowy top with broad black pants and red tunic to watch El’s dress.

“Looks good, Mike,” he said. “Is there anything you’d want a little different? I don’t mind adding to your costume, too.”

Mike chewed his bottom lip. “There is the one thing. I asked Claudia about but she said she wouldn’t have the time...” He looked over at Dustin and blushed.

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

“Little...” Mike grunted. “I don’t know what they’re called. They aren’t strings or tassels, but kinda a cross between the two to kinda hang down off shoulder of the tunic...”

Steve pulled out his drawing pad and doodled something out really quick. Mike peered over his shoulder.

“A little more spaced,” Mike muttered.

Steve erased and doodled some more.

“Yeah, like that.”

Steve nodded. “I can do it, but you want to see something cool?”

Miked nodded back and Steve left the room again. He came back with a weird little device.

“This is what I use to make tassels,” he explained. “I’m betting Claudia doesn’t have one.”

Everyone looked at Dustin.

“I’ve certainly never seen one if she has,” he replied.

Steve nodded again. “That’s what I thought.” He showed them how to make tassels and Mike’s face lit up.

“This so cool, Steve,” he whispered.

“Do you want to make your own tassels?” Steve asked, gleeful at finally finding a common ground with the prickly teen.

“Can I?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You’ll just have to do it here. I’ll get the leather scraps from the tanners on Saturday and you can come over on Sunday to do it, okay?”

Mike nodded. “Thanks, man.”

El and Will picked out a nice braided gold ribbon and he set it aside, making a note to grab another spool to be on the safe side.

Soon it was time for everyone to leave.

Eddie took home Mike, El, and Will. Leaving Steve to take home Max, Lucas, and Robin.

Steve turned to Lucas. “You okay with these two seeing your costume?”

He figured Max was fine, but Robin might be a no go.

Lucas looked at her thoughtfully.

“I can go make us all lunch if you don’t want me to see it yet?” Robin suggested.

Max hopped up. “I can help. I want to be surprised next week.”

Lucas let out a sigh. “Thanks, ladies.”

Max rolled her eyes and Robin snorted as they wandered toward the kitchen.

Steve tossed Lucas the bag and immediately he began to strip. He put on the costume and ran his fingers over the material.

“Steve you really out did yourself.”

Steve grinned. “Bend, twist. Make sure you can move in it. I don’t want you popping a seam.”

Lucas did as he was told and Steve circled around him.

“Looks good,” he said. “Now go take a look in the mirror. Then tell me what you think.”

Lucas nodded.

Five minutes later Lucas came out with tears streaming down his face.

“Oh no!” Steve cried. “It’s that bad?”

Lucas shook his head and then launched himself into Steve’s arms. “It’s perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushed. “You’re welcome.”

****

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @danili666 @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @vecnuthy @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @thespaceantwhowrites @paintgonewrong @mogami13 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #steve is a history nerd

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dontbelasagnax · 2 months

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little longer than a drabble tatooine husbands drabble 🫶

"You know what your problem is?" If anyone else said this to Cody, he'd break their arm. However it's Obi-Wan. And he happens to deliver it with adoration and hearts dancing in his eyes.

"What," Cody says in a drawl drier than the hottest day on this Force-forsaken scorched dustball of a planet.

"You worry entirely too much, my dear."

Cody looks at him. It's a long look. One that ferments the longer it goes. "Right."

"Mhm." He sounds so satisfied as he moseys into Cody's personal space that hasn't belonged to only himself in a considerable amount of time. "I believe I have the facilities to ease such a predicament."

Cody lets himself be nudged to lean against their kitchen counter. His hands find the soft woven tunic around Obi-Wan's unbelted waist. He'll allow himself to be distracted for this; if he's correct about where this is going. "You do?"

This close together, the wrinkles of Obi-Wan's face blur. "Yes," he says and warm lips meet Cody's.

Cody's eyes fall shut. His husband has a gift because, yeah, the soft, insistent press of his body wipes the thoughts from Cody's mind. Easy as anything he gets lost in kiss after kiss. A thumb rubs warm, tantalizing circles just under the hem of his hastily thrown-on top.

When Obi-Wan pulls away, Cody follows. Whiskers nuzzle his cheek instead. Words spoken are a quiet reassuring balm he would never ask for. "Rooh and the banthas are fine. They've likely wandered to graze." That in itself does not bode well but Obi-Wan continues, "No, the local Tusken tribe won't go back on their word and do anything untoward to the dears. They're more likely to return them to us. Our girls are just fine."

Cody exhales long and slow. He noses in closer as the tension releases from his body. A warm embrace.

"Okay?" asks Obi-Wan. Both his hands are under Cody's shirt now, rubbing up his back.

"Yeah."

He feels Obi-Wan smile against his cheek. "Now then," lips purse and lightly kiss him, "come back to bed. By the time I'm done with you the girls will have returned and the Lars will be expecting us for lunch."

Cody follows Obi-Wan back to their rumpled bed, fighting back a smile. When his back meets the mattress and he has a lapful of Obi-Wan he lets it melt away into the joy of life thrumming through his blood.

It's not always like this. They have their moods. The days when the past echoes too loud in the quiet of the desert. But he's here. He's alive. His joints ache and his hair is threaded with more grey than black these days. And, against all odds, Obi-Wan's here with his own hands worn with age that fit perfectly in Cody's.

The first sun starts to creep up over the horizon, filtering in through a slatted window, and Cody mind blurs to enjoy their lazy early morning lovemaking.

#needed them to kiss and none of my wips had the right vibes for it so i wrote this lil thing :3 #codywan #my writing #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #tatooine husbands

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danikamariewrites · 5 months

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Hi could I request a Xaden x reader where reader is super nice and kind of shy and is a marked one like Xaden. Possibly set during conscription day where Violet and Reader are in the same year and reader has to cross the parapet. Reader and Xaden are already in a pre-established relationship because they were in the same foster home.

Parapet

Xaden x reader

A/n: This is so cute anon omg 🥹

Warnings: slight anxiety, some angst, and fluff

Your heart was pounding as the end of Parapet grew closer and closer. The wind and rain making you wobbly on the narrow stone walkway. You would have lost your very small breakfast had it not been for the two kind girls in front of you. They gave you hope that the Riders Quadrant might not be terrible.

A few more steps. You can do it y/n, you're almost there and he'll be waiting for you, you thouught to yourself.

Two more steps, then you'll be on solid ground.

Violet jumped down. Immediately shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her body. You weren't ready for that and the nausea that would over come you. But you couldn't stay up here forever.

Without looking up from the ground you could feel Xaden's gaze on you. Leaping down onto the gravel you let out a deep breath. "Name?" A deep, familiar voice asks. Looking up at the man you love and have been separated from for two years your eyes sparkled. Tears threatened to spill out. You had to hold it together or you'd be targeted by whoever hates Xaden.

You could see it in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to pll you into a tight embrace. Xaden bit back that boyish grin you knew all too well.

"Y/n y/l/n." He wrote it down, telling you to wait in the courtyard with the other cadets. You set out to find Rhiannon and Violet, wanting to make sure they were doing ok after one of the most stress inducing tasks you had ever faced.

After being put into your squads you started heading off to the dorms. Along with Violet and Rhi, you had been put in Fourth Wing, which to your relief, Xaden is Wing Leader.

Xaden grabbed your arm pulling you aside in the rotunda. You looked up at him as he tilted his head toward one of the massive pillars away from prying eyes. You followed until the two of you were covered by shadows. Once Xaden made sure you couldn't be seen he scooped you into his arms kissing you fiercely. Pouring all his emotions and love that he had bottled up for over two years.

Breaking apart an eternity later you rest your hands flat against his strong chest. Good gods! How much muscle had he gained since getting to Basgiath. You knew he was trained from his teenage years by your foster family, but still.

Xaden cradled your face in his large hands. You felt the callouses he had earned from training over the years. Gods you want those rough hands all over your body. To get reaquanted with every curve and crevice he left behind.

Your boyfriend stared deeply into your eyes. Like he was making sure his memories of you were correct. His thumb ran across three little freckles on your top lip that had shown up just after he left. Xaden let out a breathy laugh. "Those are new. So cute, so you." He breathed out. You smiled again. Letting the tears pricking your eyes flow now that you were alone.

"I missed you so much Xaden." You say softly just for him. He let his tears go at the sound of his name on your lips. "I read all of your letters over and over again." Xaden pulled you flush against his chest again, resting his head on yours.

"I missed you too my love." You gripped his tunic so hard your fingers started to cramp. You just couldn't imagine letting him go now that he was infront of you again.

Reluctantly pulling away Xaden held you by your shoulders to see all of you. "Are you ok? Did anyone give you trouble?" You lightly shook your head. "No, but I think I made friends. The two girls I stood with in formation." Xaden nodded slowly. He looked as if he was debating telling you a big secret that was killing him.

"Stick with them. I'm glad you're in my wing, that way I can protect you." You nodded, giving him another smile. Gods you were too kind and delicate for the Riders Quadrant. He should've fought harder to have you put in with the healers. Unfortunately General Sorrengail wouldn't budge on her decision.

Xaden lightly traces your relic on the side of your neck. A shiver runs through your body making you giggle. Xaden melted. He missed that sound. He missed you.

"Just keep your head down, stick to who you can trust - especially Liam - he'll watch you. We'll get through this ok." You nod again. It felt like that was all you could do. You still didn't trust your voice. If you tried to speak you'd probably burst into hysterics.

Xaden started walking you to the dorms. He drops your hand putting his arms behind his back. "When you get your own room I can come and see you. For now we'll just have to the day time."

"I'll take what I can get with you." You sigh. Xaden stops halfway down the hall. "I have to go, but I'll see you at dinner." "See you at dinner." Xaden gave you one last longing smile before turning on his heel, heading back down the hall.

Taking another deep breath you push the door to the dorms open. It was loud. People talking, making friends, and fighting over who's bunk is who's. You immediately spot Rhiannon and Violet. They were fierociously guarding three beds. Violet makes eye contact with you, a smile gracing her lips as she waved you over.

You rush over to the girls, throwing your pack on the bed they saved for you. "Thank you." "We didn't want you to miss out." You smiled at the two girls as you all started to set up your beds.

Something told you this wouldn't be so bad. And that this squad is where you're supposed to be.

#fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fanfiction #xaden fourth wing #xaden riorson #xaden riorson fourth wing #xaden x reader #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson x you

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joelmillersmistress · 8 months

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☆Happy Ending☆~ 3k

Joel Miller x Massage Therapist!reader

Warnings: 18 + , p in v, blowjob

An: This is the first fic I've ever written. Please be gentle, but comments are always appreciated!

Your feet were beginning to ache. You glanced at the clock and saw it was almost three in the afternoon. It had been a busy Friday so far, but you were grateful, at least, that you could work inside. Your little room was warm, the smell of essential oils lightly filled the air and the soft lighting just added to its calming ambiance.

Sighing, you took one last sip of your now tepid tea, and made your way back to the staff kitchen. You rinsed the cup and left it to dry; patted your hands dry in a towel, and headed back to reception. The waiting room was as full, as it had been all day. All three sofas were taken; all here for one treatment or another, all eyes looked up at you expectantly to see if it was their name you would call next. You went to the desk opposite and picked up the form for your next client.

"Mr. Miller?" You called out.

Joel abruptly stood at the sound of his name being called. As calm as he may have appeared on the outside, inside he was burning with embarrassment as all the ladies surrounding him looked up, quizzical looks on some of their faces as if they had never seen a man in a beauty shop before. He couldn't blame them, he wouldn't have ever dreamt of being here, let alone having a massage, it was always something he perceived as being a girl's thing; but his friend had sworn by them, and after all his long years doing heavy labor, he was sure his muscles could use the help.

Finally, he locked eyes with the person whose voice had called his name, and he was sure his mouth fell open. Oh man, why so young, he thought to himself as he took you in. For the last fifteen minutes, he had watched a bustle of older ladies filter in and out calling names and leading people off through the archway which he was sure he was about to follow. He was already feeling self-conscious about being here, he knew it was just his luck he would be called by the prettiest one here. Your hair was pulled back into a messy bun and you wore little make up, but it was still enough to enhance your delicate features. The standard pale pink tunic and cropped trousers they all seemed to be wearing as a uniform, hugged your perfectly formed frame and did nothing to hide the curves underneath.

"If you would like to follow me," your voice bringing his attention back to you, and he merely nodded as he followed you through.

You opened the door and indicated for him to go in first. He looked in awe.

"It's a full body massage today, yes?" You asked, and again he just nodded, taking in the bed in the middle of the room.

"If you would like to take off your clothes, leaving your underwear on, and lie face down under the blankets, putting your face into the hole." You smiled reassuringly at him and closed the door. His mind spun back to the "leave your underwear on," and he felt stupid as he never wore any and hadn't thought to bother today. Shrugging, he undressed quickly, put his clothes in the chair in the corner, and got under the blanket, and marveled that the blankets were warm. No wonder women dig this, he thought to himself, as he finally put his face into the hole.

You waited outside the closed door until you were confident your client would be under the covers. You smiled at how uneasy he appeared, and gathered it was his first time having a massage. You had plenty of male clients, and for you it wasn't anything out the ordinary.

Lightly knocking on the door, you entered slowly, the way you had been taught to.

"Ready?" You asked softly, and when you heard his muffled reply, you entered the room, closing the door behind you. Gentle music played in the background, and you got to work. The first thing you always did was rearrange the blanket so it covered the client completely, it was hard to do yourself. You pulled the top hem to his shoulders and firmly brushed your hands across his shoulders, almost like you were pushing him flat onto the table. Moving to the side of the table, you did the same again, starting in the middle of his back and pushing one hand towards his head and the other towards his feet.

You took the top of the blanket again, and pulled it towards his waist, you went to tuck it into his underwear, which is something they all did to stop it from moving during the massage and to help protect their clothing from the oils. Surprise flickered across your face when you realised he wasn't wearing any. Without hesitation, you folded the blanket, picked up the warm oil, poured it onto your hands to check the temperature, and then down his back.

You slowly started to work the muscles in his back; feeling several knots which had formed across his shoulders.

"How's the pressure for you?" You asked quietly. Joel mumbled a great thanks, and you smiled as you worked through one knot after another. You could tell he had worked hard; his muscles were hard and quite unforgiving under your fingers. You worked his back, shoulder and neck muscles in turn, your hands moving through the sequence they just knew. He closed his eyes, feeling the aches leave his body with each passing moment.

Joel felt the sudden absence of your hands from his back and a hint of disappointment, as he felt the blanket cover his back again, although it felt warm and you pressed your hands across his back like before. He was surprised at the strength you had.

Suddenly, he was aware of the cooler air hitting his leg, and he realised you were lifting the blanket off. He knew you had already seen he wasn't wearing any underwear, and he felt himself blush again as he felt you carefully fold the blanket around so he was still covered. He hoped you wouldn't see anything else.

He felt your hands settle on his leg and could hear the rustle as you moved around the table and worked on his calf muscles. Closing his eyes again, he felt himself relax further as a different song drifted into the room, this one reminded him of being at the beach.

Joel's eyes opened when he felt your hands travel over his thighs. He could feel your fingers brush against the cheek of his ass, as you pushed your hands upwards from his ankles and then back down. He was now very aware of your movements as you came to stand beside him and massaged the muscles in the back of his legs. Every time your hands swept inside his thighs, Joel gritted his teeth.

"Okay, you can turn over now," your voice was soft and fear suddenly swept through him as he felt the blanket leave him. He knew you had lifted the blanket towards you so you couldn't see him, nor him you, this isn't what worried him.

What worried him became apparent as he shuffled around and onto his back, the attention to his thighs had caused his cock to grow solid, and with no underwear to tame it, it was now standing proud as you lowered the blanket back over him.

You tried not to notice the tent that was now evident in the middle of the blanket. You could tell by the blush creeping across his cheeks and his eyes screwed tight, he was embarrassed. It wasn't the first time this had happened, although it wasn't quite this noticeable usually. You carefully rolled the blanket across his legs, trying your best to keep most of him covered.

Standing at his feet, you began to massage his soles and toes, hoping this would help him relax again before you worked on his legs. You couldn't help but admire his broad frame as you worked. You applied a little more pressure with your hands as you rolled and pushed the muscles under your fingers.

After both legs were done, you folded back the sheet uncovering his chest and stomach. First, you worked his shoulders and neck, feeling them relax.

Joel held his breath as he felt you stand behind him. Your hands travelled lightly down his chest, then across his stomach, and back up where you circled his shoulders, pulling slightly at his neck. The second time, you pushed your hands further down and he could smell your perfume as you leant over him. The third time he felt your chest brush against him, as your fingers swept across his stomach right at the edge of the blanket. His cock twitched with every movement; but he was beyond embarrassment now, as he had never been so hard, or of needing release so badly.

He felt your fingers press against his temple as you massaged in small circles and then your fingers massaged his scalp. Head massages weren't something you would normally do, but you could feel how tense he still seemed to be, and you didn't want to end the massage with him not feeling relaxed.

Your fingers felt like magic and he began to feel himself relax, although as much as he willed his cock to go down, it didn't; but he stopped worrying about it. Finally, he felt you pull the blanket over him again; your hands firmly pushing on his chest and stomach.

"That's the end of the massage now," your voice bringing him back to the room, "stay laid down, relax, and I will go get you some water." He heard the door open, then close, and slowly opened his eyes. He sat up slowly, one leg hanging off the bed as the door opened, and you came in carrying small plastic cup of water.

"Here," you handed him the cup and he reached out to take it without looking. It felt like electricity shot through him as his fingers touched yours; your gasp was audible in the quiet room. Without hesitation and before he knew what he was doing, Joel's arm snaked around your waist and his lips were against yours. The cup of water fell to the floor between them as he searched for your tongue with his.

Suddenly, gasping, you pulled away. Your eyes were bright, your face flushed as Joel took your hand into his and pulled it to his lap, groaning as he felt your fingers against his hard cock.

"I can't... my job..." you panted, although you didn't move your hand as you let it go.

"No one will know," he said calmer than he felt. His heart thumping in his chest.

You struggled with your body as you weighed up what to do. His kiss had taken you by surprise, but it had ignited in you something you hadn't felt for a while... desire. You could lose your job if anyone found out, but as you looked at him, watched his breathing coming quick, his cock hard in your hand, you had already made up your mind.

"Lie back" you said. Your voice had lost its softness, and he did as you asked. Picking up the oil, you squirted some in your hand, as you watched him push the blanket off revealing everything to you. He was bigger than you thought.

Slowly, you wrapped your fingers around him, slowly moving your hand up and down his length. His moan was loud, as you felt him twitch in your hand. You smiled, this would be okay; you would help him cum, he'd be happy, and that would be all that happened, you told yourself.

Soon, you found a tempo that he liked; you could tell by his breathing that it wouldn't take long. You kept your grip steady and firm as your moved tour hand rhythmically up and down.

"Shit," he kept panting over and over.

You could tell by the way his cock jerked and his balls moved that he was close. You looked around for a towel, but there was none on hand. Before you could think, you leant down and took him into your mouth.

Joel nearly came when he felt your tongue swirl around the head of his cock.

"Fuck," he muttered and held it back, wanting it to last a bit longer. He pushed his hands into your hair and lifted his hips in rhythm with your mouth. He felt your groan as it vibrated down his cock and it was his undoing. He lost control of his thrusts as he came hard in your mouth.

Joel opened his eyes and saw you smiling at him. Your hair was a mess and your mouth looked swollen. He sat up pulling you to him, his lips on yours and you opened your mouth for him to explore. His hands travelled down your back and grabbed your ass, it was firm and he was rewarded with a whimper.

"Undress," his voice hard and direct. You looked at him for a moment, unsure. He cocked an eyebrow at you and watched as your fingers went to the buttons along the side of the tunic. Slowly you undid them, one by one, until it fell open and he could see the white lace of your bra and your nipples poking through. Next, you pushed the bottoms down and he could finally see all of you. He stood off the bed, picked you up with ease, and pressed you against the wall. His cock nestled hard against your stomach as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He ran his lips and tongue along your neck before dipping his head and sucking your nipple through the lace of your bra.

You bit your lip to stop the sounds from escaping as he devoured your nipples, one after the other. Slowly, he lowered you to the floor, your legs were shaky as he kept one arm around you as he led you to the bed.

"Put your hands on the bed," his voice still commanding and you did as you were told. He stood behind you and you felt him as he pressed against your ass. His hands came around the front and pulled your bra down under your breasts, pushing them up and together. It wasn't overly comfortable, but you were more distracted by the feeling of him pinching your nipples between his thumb and fingers.

You felt him move as he knelt down behind you, pushing your legs apart, he ran his hands up each side of your legs. Hooking his fingers into the band of your thong, he slowly pulled them down to your ankles, your arousal evident. He couldn't stop himself as he leant forward and ran his tongue along your folds.

You whimpered and felt your knees give way a little. You held on to the bed as you felt his finger slip between your lips and across your aching clit.

"Please," you begged, as he circled your clit over and over, his tongue softly stroking the entrance to your pussy. You felt him grin, and then felt his tongue go rigid entering you. You wanted to scream, but knew you couldn't, as his onslaught continued. With his pressure on your clit and the feeling of his tongue fucking you, you felt your orgasm build in your toes and wash over you as your body began to shake.

Joel felt your release wash through you. Abruptly he stood, and as you came, he pushed his cock into you, feeling your muscles quiver around him. He gave you a moment to adjust to him before he began to move; his thrusts slow and deliberate to start with. He loved feeling his cock hit your hilt as he rolled his hips, pushing himself deeper into her.

As you began to meet his thrusts with your own, Joel thrusted harder, deeper, without pause. Pulling your hips towards him, he parted your legs further and the new angle pushed him past your limit with each turn. The pain mixed with pleasure coursed through you, as he reached around and grabbed your tits roughly, massaging them as he fucked you hard and fast.

You came again, your whole body convulsing as you bit down on your lip, whimpering. Joel kept his thrusts steady and hard as he felt your pussy squeeze him tight. With a growl, he came inside you, filling you until it began to seep out and run down your leg.

Slowly Joel pulled out of you as he walked over to the sink. He found a small towel folded beside, grabbing it, he ran under the hot water. He stepped towards you as you leaned against the bed, trying to catch your breath, he pressed his lips against your jaw as he pushed the warm towel between your legs. You closed your eyes, your hands gripping the bed as you felt your body tingle again. Joel stepped away, cleaned himself over and dropped the towel back in the sink as he watched you pull your trousers back on and do up the tunic.

"If you get yourself dressed, I will wait for you in reception." Your voice shaky as you pulled your clothes together. Joel nodded and watched you leave the room.

The reception was almost empty when he walked through. He saw you bent over the desk, looking at the computer over your colleagues' shoulder, his cock stirring again at the sight of your tight ass.

"Mr. Miller, how was your massage? Would you like to book in another a date?" The receptionist asks as you straightened, your cheeks blushing. You weren't aware you were biting your lower lip until you felt his eyes on you. His gaze met yours as you watched his eyes darken as he booked in for another massage the following week.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x reader #tlou smut

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peapeapeapa · 8 days

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My Seven Friends redesigns c:

This is how they look in my AU/headcanons

Their clothes are inspired by what culture I think they're from based on their names.

Gabo - Spaniard (since Rosa is set somewhere in Spain, I gave him a nicer Spanish tunic. He works in the Castle Kitchens so he shouldn't be able to afford it, but Bazeema made it for him for his birthday)

Hal - North African (gave her a dress because I don't like the trend where the darkest skinned girl is the most masculine)

Safi - Arabian (I didn't really change his clothes to match his culture. He just wears the coziest clothes he can find as long as they don't trigger his allergies. Bazeema is his sister in my hc, and she made his clothes for him to help with his easily irritable skin)

Dahlia - Taiwanese (I didn't change her clothes much, I liked her design. I gave her a bandanna because she placed her hands on top of her head while thinking and doesn't want to get flour in her hair)

Bazeema - Arabian (Bazeema and Safi are siblings, and Bazeema likes to reflect her culture more in her clothing than Safi does. She's a seamstress and works at her mother's shop, and made Safi's clothes for him to help with his allergies and irritable skin)

Simon O'Donohue - Irish (Simon is a Hebrew name, but O'Donohue is derived from an Irish name, and because that's his last name I'm going with that one. Because this is his Knight outfit, its just the one from the movie without any Irish influences)

Dario - German (Dario is an Italian name, but his mother named him that after already arriving at Rosas and seeing others with the name, liking it)

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its-poojagupta-shree · 5 months

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https://www.articlefloor.com/the-pinnacle-of-style-top-kurti-designs-for-females/

The kurti, originating from the cultural tapestry of South Asia, has transcended geographical boundaries to become a timeless and versatile garment. Renowned for its adaptability, the kurti seamlessly merges tradition with contemporary trends, making it a global fashion staple adored by women worldwide. In this comprehensive exploration, we will delve into the intricacies of the top kurti designs, presenting a diverse array of choices that empower females to express their unique style and innate grace.

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k-anshika · 1 year

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#tunics #tunics for women #tunic tops for women #long tunics for women #girls tunic tops #long tunics dress #tunics dress for women #designer tunics online #womens tunic dress #kaftan tunics

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talesof-old · 2 years

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the light you gave me | g.r.

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warning(s): 18+, rough (ish?) sex, possibly ooc geralt, sex in the woods, unprotected sex, geralt needs better coping skills lmao, reader has a vagina and he calls reader witch and sweet girl, geralt tackles reader in the woods?, severely unedited and not proofread at all, i think i might actually rewrite this/add more once i get my shit together

word count: 1.6k

kinktober series

geralt saved you from a life that would’ve killed you, so if he wants a chase on occasion, you’re happy to give it to him

prompt: primal, rough sex/outdoor sex

masterlist

You paused, listening as the forest around you silenced. Your heart thundered in your chest, a plea to finally slow down. Something sounded from your right and you bolted, chest heaving as you wove through trees. Geralt had given you a knife, and it rested snug on your hip, a small solace given what monsters may lurk in this wood.

You panted, spotting your makeshift camp in a clearing. You’d been circling the site for at least thirty minutes, drawing Geralt out. It wasn’t too often that he got so riled up from a hunt that he needed to take his energy out on something other than a monster. Today, however, the monster found him first. You still weren’t entirely sure what it even was, but it had come out of nowhere as the two of you were traveling. You’d been knocked off your horse and thrown across the road, thankfully entirely uninjured except for a few nasty bruises on your back and arms. Geralt had yelled for you to stay down and drew the monster away.

By the time he’d come back to you, whatever elixir he had taken was still coursing through him, his eyes dark as night with spiderwebs of black reaching out across his face. The magic of elixirs was not lost on you. Interest swirled in your gut as you helped him set up camp, but you held back as you noticed his clenched jaw and tense shoulders.

It hadn’t taken long for you to strip your outer layers, stuffing them in a bag to avoid anything getting on them in the night while you slept. Geralt’s eyes followed your every move, and you kept your questioning gaze to yourself. Instead, you simply examined him back. His hair was damp from your forcing him to at least rinse off in the river, and you could see the still healing bruises on his collarbone. His shirt was revealing enough to give you a good view of his chest, and you smiled gently, an idea already forming in your mind. Running from Geralt wasn’t easy. He was fast, and had longer legs than you. Besides that, you were more of the healer type, and running didn’t particularly suit you.

It was after dinner, the few dishes you did use cleaned, dried, and put away before you started enacting the first steps of your plan.

Geralt knew you were up to something, saw the mischievous glint in your eye that was far too familiar to ignore. You’d unlaced a fair amount of your dress, showing cleavage that always seemed to grasp his attention. When you’d first done it, he was convinced you’d put a spell on him. He still wasn’t sure you hadn’t.

His eyes wandered over your skin, jaw clenching and blood simmering when he caught sight of a nasty bruise on your arm. What he didn’t realize was that you saw the shift, far too aware of how he was feeling.

You disappeared from his sight, entering the little tent you’d put up for privacy. It wasn’t something you used often, but you thought maybe it would be nice for after the hunt. However, you knew tonight it would not be used. Instead, Geralt would take you somewhere in the woods, after he’d done whatever he needed to get the anger out of his system.

You grinned, unlacing your dress further and tossing it into a corner. Your corset wasn’t particularly pretty, but it was functional, and would aid in your little chase. You made quick work of the lacing, switching into a thin chemise. Your tunic and trousers were discarded and neatly folded, resting on top of your bedroll as you relaced your corset and poked your head out of the tent. Geralt’s back was to you, a clear shot at escape. You drew in a deep breath and bolted.

“I know you’re close, witch.”

His voice took a turn, lowering with each word he spoke. You were drawn from your thoughts as warmth pooled between your legs and you silently cursed yourself.

The chase continued until you were wheezing, bringing yourself to a stop behind a tree, hoping no spider decided to crawl on you. The forest went silent and your heart skipped a beat. A deep growl sounded from behind you and you jumped, barely turning in time to see Geralt racing towards you. Your eyes widened and despite knowing there wasn’t a chance to outrun him, you tried. You’d barely made it a few feet when suddenly he collided with you, arms wrapped around you to soften the fall. You landed with a huff, struggling against his arms. No matter how many times he did that, and no matter how much you liked it, it was still annoying. He was hovering over you in a blink, fingers digging into your soft skin. You fisted your hands in his shirt. He growled again, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was a flurry of teeth and tongue, a convincing distraction as he hiked up your skirts and removed your undergarments.

Something stroked your lower lips and you jolted as he slipped his middle finger into your cunt. A moan escaped your lips, body arching into his. He chuckled, free hand gripping your ass to pull you closer. Geralt began to guide your hips, fucking you with his fingers as the night darkened. You grasped his wrist, bucking against his hand until he pulled away. You began to whine, all noise stopping when he slapped your thigh. His eyes were nearly all pupil when you made eye contact, both waiting to see what the other did.

He broke first, flipping you around and resting his hands on your hips, positioning you on all fours.

“Take what I give you.”

You hummed, ignoring the sound of ripping fabric and a slight pinching of the hem as he exposed your breasts to the cold forest air. Geralt tugged you back towards him, ass pressed against his pelvic bone as you both grounded against each other.

“You’re such a good girl, doing what I want.”

You only sighed in response, mind focused on the roughness of his hands. Calloused fingers roamed your skin, a wet spot forming on his trousers as your bare cunt rubbed against the fabric. He hissed, making quick work of the buttons and pushed them down to his knees, guiding his cock inside you. You gasped as the head pressed against your lips, unconsciously pushing back against him. He groaned, using his free hand to keep you in place as he inched inside. You moaned, fingers grasping at the rotten leaves on the forest floor. Geralt bottomed out, hips flush against you as you clenched around him, chest heaving. He trailed a hand down your back before resting it between your shoulder blades.

You shifted, urging him to move before you lost your mind. Geralt wasted no time.

He pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back into you, a cry escaping your lips as he hit some spot inside you that had you seeing stars. He kept up a relentless pace, grunts filling the air as he used you for pleasure. All you could do was moan brokenly, mind foggy. The feeling of him inside of you was too much.

He thrusted in and out of you, stimulating every spot that had you gasping. You clenched around him, arms and thighs shaking. He took mercy on you, sliding his hand further up your back until he could clasp your hair, tugging you backwards to rest on him. You gasped at the new position, arching into him and squeezing your eyes shut. Geralt kept a firm grip on your hair, tugging at it in time with his thrusts, using his other hand to tug at whichever nipple he felt like touching. You rolled your hips, back bent as you tried to chase your own pleasure. He just scoffed, continuing to play with your nipples until they were nearly sore and you were crying for release.

The tightness in your gut was too much, all encompassing as Geralt pulsed inside of you. You arched your body further, burying your face in his neck as he rammed into you. He brought his hand from your chest to your clit, ghosting over it to see your reaction. You barely registered the touch at first, too cock-drunk and lost in the sensations. Geralt growled against you, the sound sending vibrations through you as he began to rub furious figure eights against your clit. You cried out, pressing yourself against him further, desperate to run from the feeling. It was too much.

Stars burst behind your eyes as your orgasm began to wash over you, your limbs shaking furiously. Geralt grinned, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before sinking his teeth into your flesh, a broken sound leaving you.

Geralt mockingly cooed at you, releasing his grip on your hair as he thrusted hard into you, cock pulsing as he grunted. You squeezed tight around him, a hiss escaping his lips as he came. You followed not too far after with a hoarse cry, grinding your hips against his to ride out your high. Geralt wrapped his free arm around your waist, chests heaving as he pulled out of you. You whined at the sensitivity of your cunt, turning and nuzzling into his chest. He stroked your cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. The two of you stayed like that for a while, waiting for your hearts to return to their normal beats. Geralt started to pull away, chuckling when you whined and weakly pulled him back to the ground.

“We’ll stay here a while, sweet girl. We’ll move when you’re ready.”

#geralt of rivera #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #the witcher #geralt smut #kinktober

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

Read it on AO3:

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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alexagirlie · 2 months

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"Figure You Out - Part One" - Sihtric x Whore!Reader x Finan

A/N my first reader fic for The Last Kingdom fandom! Still got to have both my boys though :) Part two is HERE

Summary: Finan decides that Sihtric needs to learn how to please a woman. He takes him to see a brothel worker and is then convinced to join in!

TW: Whore reader. Virgin Sihtric. Ladies man Finan. Light dom reader. Light fem dom. Oral sex (f recieving). Fingering (f recieving). Implied m/m. Finan is a hands on teacher. Multiple orgasms.

Word count: 1,702

Taglist: @gemini-mama @valeskafics

It had been a slow evening in the Inn when you were approached by a tall, dark haired man you recognized as one of Lord Uhtred's top warriors, Finan you thought his name was. The smirking Irishman pressed a handful of coins into your hands, enough to pay for the whole night and then some.

“The lad needs to learn how to properly please a woman.” Finan said while nodding his head at a younger man at his back. He flashed you a wink before he reached back and dragged the other warrior forward.

You gave the lad a once over, please by what you saw. He was of a height with Finan but slimmer in the shoulders, with well muscled arms which he bared with a sleeveless tunic. He was clearly a Dane, with his hair pulled back in braids across the top of his head and the pewter hammer hanging around his neck, but you didn't mind. He looked up at you through his eyes and you glimpsed the most beautiful set of eyes you had ever seen. His right eye was a warm brown while his left eye was a pale blue, they shone with nervousness but you could see the excitement peaking through.

“Will you be joining us to ensure he is adequately taught?” You teased looking back at the dark haired Irishman, not at all put off by the idea of having them both. Finan had a reputation of treating the girls well and virgins were usually so much fun to play with. It didn't hurt that the young Dane was exceptionally beautiful and you knew you would enjoy the experience of teaching him.

Sihtric could feel your gaze burning into the flushed skin of his face as the two men shared a look. He wasn't repulsed by the idea of Finan accompanying them, of the older man watching, helping, Sihtric had approached him for advice after all. A silent conversation passed between them, an arch of Finan brown in question before the young Dane nodded his consent with a shrug.

Sihtric ignored how the heat already coiled in his gut burned brighter as Finan flashed him a cheeky wink before the Irishman turned to look back at you. “Yeah alright, gotta make sure he does it properly, don't I?”

You reached your hand out towards Sihtric and after a moment's hesitation he took it in his, mindful of how soft and delicate your hand felt in his, rough with scars and years of handling a weapon. You smiled encouragingly at him before you introduced yourself and asked for his name.

“I'm Sihtric, miss,” he answered, voice soft and gentle as he met your gaze shyly.

You were the most beautiful woman Sihtric had ever laid eyes on. Your hair was tied back away from your face with a few stands loose to dance around your shoulders. Your dress hugged your form perfectly and left little to the imagination, pushing your breasts up and he couldn't help but think they would be the perfect handful.

But his favourite feature had to be your eyes. Your eyes were bright and expressive with long lashes that framed them perfectly, shining with mischief as you led the two men up the stairs to your room.

He couldn't stop his mouth from hanging open as you unlaced your bodice and exposed your breasts to their hungry eyes before you pulled your overdress over your head and dropped it in a heap on the floor before sitting on the edge of the bed. You leaned back on your hands and enjoyed having their undivided attention. You loved bringing men to their knees.

You tapped a foot on the floor. “On your knees boys.”

You watched with hooded eyes as Sihtric knelt on the floor with barely restrained eagerness, Finan close behind but with much more poise. You knew this was not the first time the Irishman had found himself on his knees in the bedroom. The other girl always had lots of stories about Uhtred's second in command, that he was a very giving lover and, if the stories were true, incredibly talented with his mouth.

Your core throbbed and you grew wet at the thought of putting that mouth to use but tonight was about the young Dane currently crawling his way between your spread legs. His inexperience was obvious as he began pressing sweet, hesitant kisses up the skin of your inner thigh, long fingers shaking as they worked your underdress up inch by inch as he went.

By the time he had worked your dress up around your waist you were soaked, your cunt and inner thighs slick with the proof of your arousal.

Confronted with the sight of your wet cunt the young Dane lost his nerve and looked over his shoulder at his friend for assistance. Finan pressed himself to Sihtric's back and hooked his chin over the Dane's shoulder.

“What a pretty sight” He growled, his eyes were dark, pupils blown with arousal as they moved over your exposed flesh.

You licked your lower lip slowly and flashed him a smirk when his gaze met yours. You cocked an eyebrow in challenge, taunting the Irishman to show what he knows.

The older man's brow furrowed before he wrapped himself tighter around the younger man and began his lesson. “Just gotta touch her a little, warm her up for yer cock.” He told the younger man, reaching out with one hand to demonstrate.

You threw your head back with a gasp as two thick fingers slid through your soaking folds, gathering the wetness there and using it to slick the way for him to push them inside you. You opened for him so easy, with a breathless moan as the stretch relieved the ache that had begun to throb through your core. They way they moved together, pressing against your inner walls perfectly, brushing against that spot inside you that made you see stars.

Finan curled his fingers inside so they pressed harder against that perfect spot and your mouth feel open on a whine. His thumb rubbed slow circles around your nub, the pleasure building heat in your core, stroking the flames higher and higher. You were so wet and dripping that his fingers made a wet squelching sound each time he pulled them back to the tip before he plunged them back between your folds. You were moaning continuously when Finan pulled his hand away and you whined at the momentary pause in your pleasure.

He chuckled deeply as he grabbed one of Sihtric's hands and guided it between your trembling thighs to take his place. “Your turn, boy.”

The way Finan kept himself wrapped around Sihtric made for a very enticing sight and you wondered what they would look like wrapped up together, bare of their armour and clothing, their battle hardened bodies pressed together. The picture in your mind and the way Sihtric worked between your thighs, just as Finan had shown him, unexpectedly pushed you to what you knew would only be the first orgasm of the night.

You lost all strength in your arms and found yourself fully on your back as you shuddered and moaned as Sihtric diligently kept his fingers thrusting inside of you at Finan's insistence. Drawing your pleasure out until you were reduced to a trembling, whining mess.

You had barely come down or caught your breath when Finan gave his next command to the young Dane.

“Give her cunt a kiss,” he commanded the other man, guiding him down with a hand on the back of Sihtric's head.

Sihtric didn't hesitate to get his mouth on you, soft and sweet at first, with gentle kisses and soft licks as he tasted your release, cleaning some of the slick from your inner thighs and between your folds. He groaned against your skin and doubled down, attacking you with lips and tongue. He was a natural as he licked and sucked, devouring your cunt like he was a man starving. Finan whispered advice from over his back, voice deep and raspy with his arousal.

You struggled to push yourself back upright on your elbows so you didn't miss a single moment. You watched as Sihtric pressed his arse back against the hard line of the Irishman's cock, the lad whining desperately against your cunt when he was confronted with the proof of his friend's arousal. You smirked at how clearly the poor boy wanted to get fucked. An idea formed in your mind, one you hoped you could sweet talk the two men into.

Your mind wiped clean as Sihtric sunk two fingers back into your dripping wet core and crooked them just right. No matter how his body begged for his friend he stayed focused on you and kept his mouth working on your core, making the pleasure build again. You gasped out encouragement and praise until you peaked a second time with a drawn out moan, head thrown back and shuddering as he kept lapping at you, soft and wet, drinking down your release until you pushed his head away with a breathless laugh.

Both men slid back on their heels and gave you space to recouver this time, which you needed as you found yourself sprawled on your back again with your whole body weak and trembling from the strength of your second orgasm.

You panted up at your ceiling as your heart rate slowed and you collected yourself. As fast a learner as the Dane was proving to be you still had knowledge to impart.

You rolled yourself over onto your hands and knees and crawled further up the bed, giving your arse a good shake for good measure, feeling both sets of eyes on you.

“Take your clothes off Sihtric,'' you commanded over your shoulder and smiled as the man was quick to obey, revealing a lithe, well muscled body, spotted with the occasional scar, signs of his life as a warrior. You pulled your underdress over your head, baring yourself complerely to the two warriors before you settled yourself on your back against the pillows and spread your legs invitingly. “Come here.”

#kirstin's chronicles #the last kingdom #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric #finan #finan the agile #x reader #sihtric x reader #finan x reader #tlk fanfic #moodboard

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scarlet2007 · 8 months

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⊹ ₊˚꒷꒦︶⊹ To tame a mermaid's heart₊︶꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Pairing: Yandere! Adult trio x Mermaid! Reader. (Chrollo x reader in this chapter).

Side pairing: Illumi x Hisoka.

[ Master list ]

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Summary: After being kidnapped by Chrollo, a certain clown and assassin took an interest in her as her childhood friend, Kurapika Kurta, tried to free her from the clutches of those monsters. But perhaps, Kurapika has become one too.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Chapter: 1 of the miniseries.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Warnings: Yandere theme, Kidnapping and human/mermaid trafficking, drugs and overall, horror themes, oh! And i named the reader "Maki".

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Word count: 1.3k

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Requested by: @animerules898

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

The auction light burned her vision, making her cover her eyes as soon as the curtains were opened, the people letting out a gasp as they stared at the scene infront of them. Rumors has it that a mermaid was being auctioned off at the mafia auction this year, and from the looks of it, it looks like the rumours were true as they all watched her blink in confusion, her tail shining brightly as the light from the auction hall hit it, making the vibrant colours appears more mesmerizing.

They all stared at her, listening to the host intensely as everyone wanted the mermaid to themselves. After all, mermaids are rare, and if you managed to make one transform, it can provide great and powerful offsprings.

She looked confused at first before the situation finally dawn upon her as she tried to look for a way to escape, but being enclosed in a tank didn't help her case. As she looked at the crowd and the host in panic, the crowd started to bet more and more, competing against each other to buy her. She was beautiful, as all mermaids are, but what made her more desirable was how innocent and helpless she looked, which just fueled the desires of the people in the auction house more, with one common thought, 'I can't wait to break her.'

After almost half an hour later, she was auctioned off, and in her frantic state, she didn't look at who brought her as a lady started to push her tank towards the storage.

"Kortopi, are you going to make a copy of her too?" The lady that took her to the storage room asked, glancing at a strange man. He had a thick and messy mane of grey hair covering his entire head and obscuring everything except for his left eye. He also had a small mouth and round head. He wore a light blue tunic, light blue pants beneath it, and black shoes.

Kortopi nodded as the lady pushed her tank towards him, as another girl, seemingly called 'Shizuku' as the lady referred to her as, looked at the mermaid with great interest.

The mermaid shifted uncomfortably in the tank, trying to make herself as small and as far away from the top of the tank as she could as a man with blonde hair and black eyes tried to pull her out of it. He looked fairly tall and muscular. His most distinguishing features where his piercing eyes and lack of eyebrows, making the mermaid almost giggle before she remembered where she was.

Suddenly, she was pulled out of the tank in an blink of an eye, by a string as a girl with pink hair rolled her eyes. The mermaid, shocked at what just happened, laid on the ground for a few seconds before looking straight at the girl with pink hair. The mermaid's hair were wet, and so was her whole body as she pant heavily, finding it a bit difficult to breath as her atmosphere suddenly changed.

"Machi, be gentle! Leader told us to bring her without any bruises or cuts!" A man with blond hair and bright green eyes wearing a lavender outfit, exclamated.

"She wasn't going to come out on her own, Shalnark." Someone said as the mermaid was too busy being dragged towards Kortopi, struggling on her way as Phinks tried to keep her to stay still. The mermaid whimpered, feeling distressed at the whole overdeal as she flinched as Kortopi put his hand on top of her head, focusing on greating a copy of her with his fake gallery.

The mermaid watched in the mixture of fear and curiosity as her exact replica was created besides her, the only think that made her unique from her replica was that her replica didn't feel as lively as she did, making the replica almost look like a doll.

"Kortopi, why does the replica look... A bit different from the mermaid?" Shizuku asked, staring intensely at the replica and the mermaid infront of her. Phinks agreed before Kortopi began to explain.

"Mermaids can not be replicated fully, it's one of the things that make them so unique and rare." The mermaid nodded along in almost a child-like manner as she glanced at Kortopi.

Suddenly, the mermaid felt pain in her neck before her eyes were blindfolded as she began to loss conciousness.

"Good thing they are vulnerable to all type of drugs then." Was the last thing she heard before she lost her conciousness.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

The mermaid woke up in a tank, in the middle of a room inside of an abandoned building.

The mermaid groaned, bubbles forming from the action as she looked around before spotting a figure sitting nearby, reading what looked like a Bible. He had slick black hair that were pulled back, wearing a fluffy jacket without anything underneath with a weird tattoo on his forehead. The mermaid stared at him in silence, fear slowly creeping in the longer she stared at the man who was calmly reading the book with the help of the light generated by a candle.

The mermaid flinched as the man shut off his book, turning around to made eye contact with her.

"You're awake." He smiled as he approached her, making the poor mermaid swim as far back as the tank would allow to keep her distance from the man.

"Shhh, don't be, scared, love, you are mine, now. You shouldn't be scared." The man whispered as he stared at her.

There was something unsettling in his gaze, something more unsettling at the way he talked, making the mermaid fear him more.

The mermaid squeaked in fear as he grabbed her arm, pulling her out of her water tank as he pulled her towards his chest, sliding an arm underneath her tail to support it as he nuzzled against her neck.

"Mine... You don't know how long I have waited to get my hands on you, Maki." The mermaid froze in fear, 'Maki', no one knew her name, except her clan members and the members of the Kurta clan, even the people that were auctioning her off didn't knew her name.

Maki gulped in fear, as she glanced at his face, his gentle smile and calm demeanor making her question her own fear.

Why is he so calm? Why was she freaking out when he had been nothing but nice to her? Who was he?

Maki shook her head gently, trying to focus on the situation more and not on her thoughts as she finally spoke after months.

"How... Do you know my name..?" She asked quietly, her voice hoarse from not being used from months.

"Oh, Maki... I know everything about you."

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Author's note: Okay, so... This is my first ever mini-series, so I am kind of excited to see how it will turn out! I really love the whole idea so thanks to @animerules898 for the great idea! If anyone wants to be tagged in the future chapters, then feel free to send me an ask for it! Also, my mid terms are starting from 11th September so I might be a bit slow but I will try my best to be active! Thank you!

Oh, and requests are open but please be patient with them! Have a great day!

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

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sillymercury · 2 months

Text

Hey Lucien!

Lucien x Musical!Reader

Warnings: slight suggestiveness and some angst :p

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: You’ve been trying so long to make Lucien understand that he doesn’t have to try so hard for someone who doesn’t want him - not when you already love everything about him. When you decide to sing all the things you’ve been too scared to say, your mind can’t help but drift back to all the special moments that inspire you.

Based off ‘Hey Stephen’ by Taylor Swift

“Hey Lucien, I know looks can be deceiving

But I know I saw a light in you

And as we walked we would talk

And I didn't say half the things I wanted to”

The wind gently blew my hair carrying the salty smell of the Sidra with it. The lights of the city were dancing on the water and I felt an ease fall over me as we walked through the city that was winding down.

“I would’ve moved here ages ago if I knew how beautiful this city was,” Lucien spoke gently as he basked in the peaceful air. At his words I couldn’t help but steal a glanced over and at that moment all of my breath was stolen from me. He looked majestic in the soft light from the setting sun, the tranquillity that rested on his features had my heart doing flips.

His face looked as if it had been carved from marble with a gentle, steady hand. His strong jaw that contoured into perfectly high cheekbones. His pointed nose that rested above perfect plump lips that looked ever so inviting. I saw his russet eye whirl as he took in his surroundings and in my imagination my fingers danced over his scars. The tanned skin on his face was painted with freckles and I wanted to kiss every one. And his hair, gods, his hair. It flowed down his back in gentle curls with the top half tied back; his bangs framed his face like a curtain flowing in the wind.

I let my eyes roam his entire body, his lean and muscled frame. His classic navy blue and gold tunic cut to fit him perfectly and the dark long sleeves that showed off the muscles lightly flexing in his arm.

“If I even knew it existed,” he laughed and the ariose melody knocked me out of my trance. I shook my head and laughed as well, bringing a hand to my mouth to make sure I wasn’t actively drooling.

“Well you’re here now,” I beamed up at him as I looped my arm through his. “And thank goodness, I’ve been in desperate need of a friend.”

He looked down at me and smiled and for the second time my breath was gone. I’ve never seen someone lit from the inside, but Lucien, he glowed.

“Of all the girls tossing rocks at your window

I'll be the one waiting there even when it's cold

Hey Lucien, boy, you might have me believing

I don't always have to be alone”

I sighed as I turned around and motioned for the bartender to bring me another one. Lucien was chatting up a pretty blonde female who found him very funny. He was charming and ladies flocked to his flame like moths, I just happened to be the one he never noticed.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he would go home with her as I threw back what was left of my stiff drink. He very seldom did, he was serious about courting Elain but she had evaded him for years now so he indulged when he “couldn’t help himself.” Most females only lasted a night, either not wanting more or running when they learned of his mate. He always thought it was fair, “Who would want me when my mate doesn’t even want me” he would joke in a sad tone. ‘Me!’ I would chant in my mind.

I didn’t care about Elain, and I would never admit to my dark fantasies of making her pay for the pain she put him through by stringing him along. I waited for the day she would finally reject him and I could pick up the pieces but it seemed she enjoyed taking her time deciding.

Perhaps one day she will choose him and I’ll remain the same, an after thought in the background of beautiful picture. I slumped forward resting my chin in my hand with another sigh. I spaced out while staring down the cup at the swishing the brown liquor, not noticing the presence behind me until warm hands met my shoulders.

“Put your nose any further in that cup and you’ll drown.”

I whirled around at the voice, “Lucien,” I breathed more to myself. Quickly scanning the floor behind him I didn’t see the blonde female anywhere. Looking back up into his eyes I gave him a small smile that mirrored his, “What happened, did you scare her off?”

Lucien just laughed as he took the stool next to me, motioning to the bartender for a drink of his own. “Nah,” he shook his head, his hair was down today and it swished around his face. He looked to me and his smile got wider, “I just would rather be with you.”

He nudged my shoulder as he spoke and I had to look away to hide my blush, how I wished that were really true.

“Hey Lucien, I've been holding back this feeling

So I've got some things to say to you (ha)

I've seen it all, so I thought

But I never seen nobody shine the way you do

The way you walk, way you talk, way you say my name”

“Thanks,” I smile as I accept the champagne from the tray, the store assistant only smiles in response.

I sip the expensive drink as I take in the scene of the small boutique. There were only 2 other shoppers in the hidden store, both are touchy couples searching for matching sets. I wonder briefly on the events they’re attending, balls, dates, or dinner parties. For a brief moment I let myself pretend I’m waiting for my partner, in my fantasy he’s looking for the perfect Tux to meet my father.

The fantasy dies when my rational mind cohorts with my insecurities and reminds me of reality. In reality Lucien is preparing for a dinner party at the river house, his carefulness and precision is for his mate, not me.

He was so excited at the invitation, dragging me out of my apartment saying he “absolutely needs the female opinion.” My heart broke every time he brought her up, “should I bring her flowers?” “I wish I knew what color she was wearing so I could match” “I hope she lets me sit next to her” and “I’m going to try sending something down the bond. Love? No. Adoration? Maybe she’ll like that.”

I know I have no room to be jealous, my jealousy is unfair to every party. I just hate how much he has to overthink with her, every interaction is like a chess move. With me… he could be himself. It would be natural and easy, no forcing interactions or twisting arms for conversations.

I’m pulled out of my mind when the door to the changing station opens and Lucien strolls out. His walk is lax, with one hand in his pocket and the other rubbing his jaw. He’s clearly stressed but he looks so damn good, the view has me pressing my thighs together and shifting awkwardly.

He stops in front of me and the way he looks down has me biting my lip trying to control my bodies reaction. I couldn’t think of anything more horrific than flooding the intimate boutique with my arousal. In all my time I’ve never seen a male that can stop time, not like Lucien Vanserra. The world could catch fire and I would stop to stare, unaware.

He’s wearing a maroon suite with a white undershirt and he has his jacket pulled up, leaving every vein in his arms on full display. With his hair in a tight bun he looks positively divine. I look him over multiple times, greedily drinking in every detail.

“Y/N,” his smooth voice meets my ears and the way he says my name, low and methodical. I bite back the involuntary moan when it’s half way up my throat, leaving just an awkward grunt in response.

His face twists lightly displaying confusion before he continues, “I asked what you thought.”

I take the opportunity to inspect him one more time, and want to kick myself. The naughty thoughts invading my brain are shoved into a box with the promise of being delt with later.

“You’re beautiful,” I breathe out before I can conjure up a more appropriate response, a response fit to be given to a friend. “It’s beautiful, you look great.”

A light blush touches his cheeks and the butterflies in my stomach move with the force of a hurricane. The smile he gives me sets that hurricane on fire. He leans down and grabs both of my hands, pulling me into a standing position. Lucien’s lips connect with the skin on my knuckles and I lock my legs to keep them from giving out.

Just friends. Just friends. Just friends.

As if sensing what I need to hear he speaks, “Your such and amazing friend. Thank you.” He pulls me into a quick hug that I don’t return. I remain slack in his arms as I fight the tears away, giving them the promise of release later as well. He pulls back and smiles one last time before heading back to the changing room.

I fall back to the couch lamely and my hand presses to my mouth, as if that would keep all the grief from spilling out.

I remember hearing later that Elain also wore a maroon dress that night.

“It's beautiful, wonderful, don't you ever change

Hey Lucien, why are people always leaving?

I think you and I should stay the same”

“I think I’m going to cut my hair,” Lucien states casually and the book that was inches from my face falls to my lap, completely forgotten.

“What?” I respond not being able to hide the pure shock. Lucien’s hair was my favorite feature and I know he loved it too.

“I’m just thinking of trying something different,” he shrugs and my mouth falls open at his blaśe attitude.

“But you love your hair?” The statement turned to a question as it left my mouth. I think over all the times he’s gushed about his hair, his products, styles, and accessories. He loves his hair more than a lot of females I’ve met.

Yeah, I do but-“ his hesitation tells me everything and I know exactly where this is coming from. An involuntary sigh leaves my lips as he goes on, “it’s been long for so long, hundreds of years at this point. I’m ready to try something new. Plus it’s hair, it’ll always grow back.”

My lips fell into a thin line and I looked away briefly while shaking my head. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep the anger from shining through. Anger that he felt he hand to change for someone, anger that he was willing to do it, anger that it was for his ungrateful mate. I knew Elain didn’t ask or insinuate that he should cut his hair, but she made him feel like he should. That thought alone had my blood boiling.

“You don’t have to change anything,” I finally turned to him with pleading eyes. I hoped my convincing would be enough as I went on, “Just stay the same Lucien.”

“I’ll still be Lucien,” his words were softer, he knew I knew. He leaned in and placed a strong hand over mine, “I’ll always be your friend.”

Not having the strength for words, my eyes fell to the book in my lap as I just nodded.

The next time I saw him he had a low taper fade and I couldn’t help but recall a certain shadowsinger.

“They're dimming the street lights

You're perfect for me

Why aren't you here tonight?

I'm waiting alone now

So come on and come out

And pull me near

And shine, shine, shine”

I walk alone tugging my jacket tighter around my frame, every piece of exposed skin burns from the frigid air. Winter had come no holds barred, ice had taken the Sidra and snow coated everything. Winter in Velaris was breathtaking and I had no problem with the cold, but tonight it felt like my heart had froze.

I watched bitterly from the bridge as couple skated around the Sidra. Some held onto each other, helping whichever person had fallen. Some danced around each other, making lovely patterns in the ice. Some played a game of cat and mouse, skating in circles trying to catch each other. There were a plethora of couples on the bank that had taken to indulging in snowball fights, snow angles, and snowmen. The sun was sinking low in the sky and the dim fae lights cast a gentle glow across the city.

Love seemed to permeate the air, everywhere I looked I saw people happily enjoying the snow with their partners. People avoided coming near me, probably due to the resentful way I watched them. My heart ached to join, to enjoy the snow with the person I loved. But the person I loved wasn’t here.

Lucien had offered to take Elain dog sledding, much to everyone’s surprise she said yes. Her yes turned into multiple invitations so Lucien was spending the evening with most of the inner circle, being pulled through the mountains by groups of dogs. My frown deepened at the thought, my brain conjuring up images of all the fun he was having.

I was the one who told him about the activity, having mentioned going with my brother on many occasions as a child. My brother had since moved to Summer, opting to live with his mate and help run the apothecary she inherited from her mother. So I was alone, achingly alone.

A laugh pulled my attention, loud and boisterous, it echoed through the air. It was a man, his lover who was clearly a day court immigrant was using his powers to light up the snowflakes as they fell. The tiny flakes glowed as they swirled beautifully around the couple and they danced under it like no one was watching. The day court man pulled the other in suddenly and held his face, whispered something that earned him smile before sharing a passionate kiss.

Everything shone around them, the flakes falling, the piles of snow around them, and their lips as they met. The Velarian man pulled away first, smiling to his lover before pulling him in and dancing slowly as the glittering flakes continued to fall.

I looked away clutching my heart, I didn’t hide the tears or try to fight them. I let them fall. How I wished to be pulled in like that. How I wished to shine like that. How I wish it was all with him.

“Hey Lucien, I could give you 50 reasons

Why I should be the one you choose

And that girl, well, she’s beautiful

But would she write a song for you? (Ha-ha)”

Today was a good day, I didn’t feel like crying or raging while I sat across from Lucien. Today I was just numb, able to listen to Lucien rant and rave about the wonders of his mate. Our little friendly lunch day had only lasted 20 minutes before he brought her up.

“She’s just so beautiful,” he spoke wistfully with his eyes looking past me, imagining her. I just sipped the tea silently, ‘beautiful but inconsiderate, she doesn’t care to know you like I do.’

“I need to get this right. I have to fight for her.” I offer a small nod, ‘I’m the one fighting, your every insecurity, every fear, every tear. I fight for you everyday.’

“She’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” I have to actively hold back a scoff ‘Even though she doesn’t get your humor? Even though she won’t share a drink with you? Even though she won’t step out in the rain that you love to walk through? Even though she can’t stand the smell of the mirthroot you often indulge in? Even though-‘

“I’d do anything for her,” his words halted my thought and I just looked at him. I forced myself to smile as my soul screamed, ‘She wouldn’t even write a song for you’

“I can't help it if you look like an angel

Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain, so

Come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you”

I placed my six string on its stand and moved to the front of the sage, making a grateful gesture with my hand, I bowed lightly. I held out my hands for the rest of the band to take and when they moved forward to grab it we all did a full bow together. I smiled at the crowd as they cheered. Performing filled the aches that came from the crushing loneliness.

I had many friends once upon a time, ones that knew me backward and forward and cheered me on the loudest. All of that changed in the attack on Velaris. I was meant to meet them in the park that day, to enjoy the monthly group picnic we all carved time for. A fight with my neighbor over something I can’t remember now had me running late. I stepped outside only to be shoved to the ground and told to take cover, Hybren was brutally assaulting our peaceful city. I hid cowardly, tucked under a cabbage stall as I watched my city be torn to shreds. It was hours after the smoke cleared that I learned the park, our park, was one of the first places to be attacked. None of my friends were able to seek cover.

That was over a year ago, I was doing better. I finally left my apartment, I finally sang again, I finally decided to act like a person. Granted, it was still hard but I was at least functioning.

I had gotten used to the new cheers, they were loud but somehow still quiet compared to when my friends would flood the hall with whoops and yells. But tonight was different, there was loud whooping coming from the back and my eyes caught the culprit. It was a lean redheaded male with his hands cupped around his mouth to increase his volume. It felt like a fire had started in my heart, like a small flower had bloomed in a barren land. He was beautiful and he was all I saw, I was half convinced a spotlight was shining on him drowning everyone else in darkness.

He came to me when I was giving pleasantries to the regulars. It felt like the world around us was moving in slow motion when he spoke, “That last song was amazing.” I scanned the entirety of his gorgeous face, he looked like heaven personified. An angel taking fae form to come and drag me from my comfortable hell.

I forced myself to speak after a couple awkward beats of silence, “Thank you,” I bowed lightly, hiding my blush with my tipped head.

“You wrote it,” his tone was somewhere between a statement and a question and his eye shone with intrigue while the other whirled rapidly.

“Yea- yeah I did,” I couldn’t hide my smile as pride shone through my heart. This beautiful man liked my song.

“It was amazing, and your voice- perfect!”

The blush returned and I couldn’t help but beam, “Thank you…” I drew out the last word as I cocked an eyebrow.

“Lucien,” Lucien. In that moment I never wanted to say another name again. His large hand extended in between us and when I took it I felt pure electricity. Literally it seems as in that moment lightning struck outside, the light rain was slowly unraveling into a storm.

“I’m Y/n, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” I looked him over audaciously under the guise of trying to recognize him. I knew he was new in town, I would’ve remembered a face like that.

“Yea,” he smacked his hands together as he looked around the crowded hall, “I’m new around here.”

I smiled at that as I spoke boldly for the first time in over a year, “Well let me buy you a drink, as a welcome gift.” He smiled at that and I led him to a table to sit down.

One drink turned into six and soon we were laughing loudly in the now quiet hall. People had filtered out slowly over the last few hours and there were only a few tables left. The drinks help lower our guard and after some idle chit chat we shared our life stories as well as our most embarrassing ones. I felt an ease that had been evading me for so long, this Lucien was like magic, returning something I thought was lost.

He had mentioned his mate and that things weren’t going so well but if was so brief I almost forgot about it. I told him about my late parents, my brother’s departure, and the loss of my friends. He listened intently but didn’t respond pitifully, just a few tragic stories of his own.

After our last drink he offered to see me home which I gratefully accepted, stepping outside we were faced with the downpour we had been avoiding. I tried to tell him he didn’t have to walk me all the way to my apartment but he insisted, he also insisted on carrying my guitar case.

When we finally stepped out from under the awning I began to run only to be stopped by his hand around my wrist. Whipping around I yelled over the sound of the rain, “What are you doing?!”

“Oh come one!” He laughed, “Your not going to melt are you?”

It was my turn to laugh, “No.”

“Then let’s enjoy this,” his hand that was still around my wrist moved up to twirl me around earning a drunken giggle as I stumbled. “I love the rain.”

“Me too,” I breathed maybe a bit to softly for him to hear. That was never true before but seeing him with his head tilted back, smiling as water slipped down perfect cheekbones; I never loved anything more.

We danced some more, jumping around like children. He kicked a puddle in my direction earning a small scream, the devilish curve of his lips snapped something in me. His lips, I wanted nothing more than to grab his face and kiss him passionately. In my head it was playing out like some sappy romance but when I stepped towards him he took off laughing.

“Hey!” I yelled broken up by laughs as I took off after him. He was going into the opposite direction of my apartment but I didn’t tell him that.

“Can't help it if there's no one else

Mmm I can't help myself

Mmm-mm, mm-mm, mm-mm

Mmm-mm, mm-mm”

I strummed one last time after I finished humming. I didn’t have the nerve to look up so I just stared at my six string until I heard a small sniffle. Snapping my head up I saw Lucien sitting across from me, he was letting his tears fall freely as he stared.

He had asked me to a picnic and at first I hesitated, I never thought I would have another but the idea of doing it with him encouraged me to be brave. I decided to take advantage of that bravery when I grabbed my guitar on the way out.

Today was the day I would sing to Lucien, just Lucien, with the song I wrote for him. I spent weeks working on it, feeling it should reflect the perfection of the person it was for. I never thought I would be singing it to him, too afraid it would ruin this beautiful friendship. Looking in the mirror this morning, ready to send for Lucien and cancel on the picnic I whispered to myself, “Be brave.” I chanted it over and over in my head until I was walking out with my journal and guitar case.

“Lucien-“ I whispered, feeling my own eyes prickle at his brazen display of emotion.

“You wrote that song for me?” He whispered back, cutting me off from saying anything else. I just nodded slowly and in response he screwed his eyes shut forcing more tears out. When he opened them he was turning his head, staring at the fields of the park working on controlling his breaths. After a few minutes of him not saying anything I started to panic, my heart fell to the bottom of my stomach and my hands were clammy as they gripped my instrument.

I felt the impending heartbreak, he was trying to find a way to let me down gently, crying because he was about to lose a friend. “Lucien I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-“

“I was beautiful,” he cut me off again, his eyes finally coming to mine as they swam with something I couldn’t place. “I loved it. I loved all of it.” I just stared mouth opening and closing like a lame fish, not knowing what to say. He grabbed my hand, and pulled it close to him, “I’ve never had anyone write me a song before,” his other hand slipped to my cup my cheek and my heart jumped at the action. “I’m so glad it was you.”

I moved the instrument off my lap and dove to wrap my arm around his neck. I cried, letting all the emotions I’ve been holding in for years out. His arms wrapped around me tightly as he cried into my neck. We sat like that for a few minutes before he pulled back, both hands grabbing my cheeks as his forehead pressed to mine.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, the proximity causing his breath to fan across my face. I went to disagree but he just shook his head again before continuing, “No. I’ve been chasing a daydream- a fantasy- when everything I’ve ever wanted was right in front of me. It took me so long, too long, to see it and I’m sorry.”

I pulled back to look into his eyes and I couldn’t stop the tears, I let them fall freely and I probably looked crazy as I smiled widely at him. “Don’t apologize, I would do it for another two years. For you.”

He shook his head and a small chuckle slipped out, “Well now you don’t have too.” His smiled too before bringing his lips to mine.

The world exploded. Stars came to earth and burst, spraying everything with their technicolor dust. I pulled him to me tightly as I finally felt what I’ve been waiting-seemingly my whole life- for. Our lips moved in perfect sync and neither of us could help the chuckles and the smiles that slipped through.

When he finally pulled away he stared at me with a wide smile, “Think you could sing that song for me one more time?”

I laughed and kissed him once more before leaning back and grabbing my six string.

A/N: Okay this one was soooooo much fun to write, and my baby LUCIENNN he deserves a love like this. Taylor Swift is mother and every time I hear her songs I envision beautiful stories. So big shout out to my sister who told me to write for this song specifically.

If you made it this far I LOVE YOUUUU and my asks are always open for requests <3

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