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1644s · 25 days

Text

ruination

warnings/tags: minors DNI, dark themes, Bridgerton!AU, woc!reader, playing fast and loose w/ how things work in the regency era, Prince!Charles, soft dark!Charles, manipulation, peer pressure, possessive behavior, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 6.4k (this is so aksdfljas)

summary: Royalty and greed go hand in hand. Prince Charles is no exception to this rule. If he must ruin you to have you, then so be it.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

rewatched Bridgerton, thought about Charles, and here we are :) obligatory unedited, unbeta'd etc. please let me know your thoughts! and happy reading :P

You wonder how one finds themselves in a position such as your present one.

He is dripping water onto your floors but your other choice was to leave him to his devices and so really, there was no choice at all. You can only hope your cousins remain engrossed in their conversations with the King and his ensemble. Though, you are certain they would find much more enjoyment in finding out you’ve snuck a boy into your quarters right underneath your parents’ noses.

You bring him all of the towels you have and thrust them into his arms. “The bathroom is over there. I left some of my cousin’s clothes in there but…” you trail off, unsure of how to tell him they might be too big. Your cousin was quite testy at this age and you do not wish to further ruin this boy’s day.

“Thank you,” he says politely, a far cry from the bumbling boy you were ushering into your room just minutes ago. The red in his cheeks hasn’t faded away yet but he no longer resembles a tomato.

You sit on your bed, feet dangling, as you wait for him. Luckily, the day is warm and sunny so his clothes will be dry within the hour. Unluckily, you do not know if you have an hour to spare.

Chewing on your cheek, you wonder how you’ll manage to keep this boy hidden for so long and without suspicion. You are due for lunch soon but there should be a delay due to the royal family coming for a visit. Your father is a man unable to not try and seize every opportunity given to him and these types of opportunities can only be taken advantage of with the absence of children.

The bathroom door opens. There’s a disgruntled look on the boy’s face as he tries to adjust his sleeves to no avail. They hang limply over his hands and it takes every ounce of your etiquette training to not giggle.

“Don’t worry. Your clothes will be dry soon,” you say. Unfortunately, nothing can be done about the wrinkles that are certain to appear. But that is an issue he must deal with so you don’t bother to apologize for it.

“Oh, sorry about the water,” he says, noticing the puddle by your vanity. He drops one of the damp towels on top and half heartedly wipes it away with his shoe.

“It’s fine. I think.” The dirt at the bottom of his shoe is going to leave a mark but you’ll worry about that later. The dress your mother put you in has ensured that you won’t be able to do anything other than breathe carefully and sit upright until the King and his entourage leave.

“If it’s not, I can let my father know and he’ll find a way to fix it,” he says unhelpfully. An almost resigned expression flits across his face but he quickly smooths out the wrinkle of his nose with a bland smile.

For some reason, his immediate assumption that you will take him up on it irritates you. He will be long gone by the time a punishment comes if one is to come. Instead of acknowledging his offer, you ask, “How did you end up in the fountain?”

He blinks, surprised. Then he averts his eyes. “I tripped.”

You twist a loose strand from your bed covers around your finger. “Ah.” If only you had come by five minutes earlier, you would’ve had something to laugh about during lunch. “You aren’t bleeding anywhere, right?”

“No.” But he’s looking over himself as he answers you. “No,” he repeats, more assured. “Mother would’ve killed me if I showed up to lunch with my clothes in disarray. Again.”

“You’re going to the lunch too?” you ask, tilting your head. As far as you know, your family and the King’s immediate family are the only ones allowed. Surely, one of the King’s own wouldn’t find himself in such a silly position.

He cuts you an aghast look. “I’m the Prince.”

You can’t help yourself from giving him a once over. “Are you?”

His clothes are quite nice, you will admit to this. It was the first thing you noticed when you saw him toppled over in the water. But what sort of prince falls into a fountain? And wouldn’t the King ensure his sons are by his side his entire time? You glance out your window as if you’ll suddenly see the Kingsguard crawling up the walls and to your room.

“Yes! I am,” he says, flustered.

He seems sure of himself so you choose to believe him. Maybe the kingdom of Monaco is a much more relaxed place than you have been led to believe. “Alright,” you shrug.

“I’m Charles,” he introduces. Charles stands expectantly as if awaiting a dramatic reaction.

It takes a second for his name to register. The spare as he’s been so crudely called.

You give him your name easily. Your father is a lesser known Earl. He’s clawed his way into his position so you aren’t surprised when there is no flare of recognition in Charles’ eyes. Your title hardly matters as you are merely a pawn for your father to move around the board as he sees fit.

“That…makes sense,” he says after a moment. “I was wondering why you were in the garden without a chaperone.”

Distaste sours your mouth. Ever since your first cycle, you have not been left alone without someone to watch over you whenever guests are around. Fortunately, your estate is not plagued with visitors but it is annoying having to seek out one of your cousins when your family does find itself with visitors. You tend to avoid any man older than you by default so you believe you have more than earned the right to wander your own home no matter how improper your mother finds it.

“Speaking of chaperones, where are your guards?”

At the reminder, he scoffs. “I snuck away from them.”

It’s nice to know even the prince feels smothered at times. “And here I thought you lived a charmed life.”

He wavers and then sits a polite distance from you. It should feel illicit—because it is illicit—but the shame never comes.

“I’m old enough to be on my own,” he complains. “It’s not as if Father forces me to train because he thinks I find it fun.”

“Do you find it fun?”

“I do. But that is not the point,” he huffs.

“What a trial it is to have a father that loves you,” you say with a hand to your chest. “Oh, the travesty!”

Your dramatics earn an amused scrunch of his nose. He flops on your bed, head just below your pillows. He tucks an arm underneath his head and sighs. “It sounds bad when I put it like that, huh?”

“No. I get it.” However, to a lesser degree. For all the freedoms Charles is granted in comparison to you, there are restrictions you can not even imagine that he must have. “Somewhat.”

The bed creaks as he shifts to his side. “Really?” he asks.

“Really,” you confirm with a nod. And then you shrug. “But it will not be forever.”

“It will not,” he agrees quietly. “Once I’m of age…”

You wait for him to finish but he doesn’t continue. But it doesn’t matter for you hear your maid knock on your door with three rapid raps. You scramble off of your bed and hold the door closed.

“I’m coming,” you call, hoping the reediness in your voice isn’t noticeable.

The handle stops turning. “Hurry.” With that, she leaves.

You exhale. You do not want to imagine what would have come if Karina had barged in as she usually does.

“You should leave first,” you say. The spike of anxiety has yet to retreat so you sound harsher than you intend.

Charles does not need to be told twice. His gait is stiff as he leaves. He looks back at you before he disappears around the corner.

After a respectable amount of time passes, you walk to the dining room. You can hear your mother chiding one of your cousins and pray she is too distracted by whatever mischief they’ve gotten into to notice your late arrival. And because you are not known for your luck, you accidentally come across Charles and his mother as they enter.

“Why are your clothes damp?”

You’re close enough to catch the Queen’s question to her son. Charles tries to wave it off but she pinches a cuff between her fingers and asks again.

The resigned downward curve of his mouth is what drives you to interrupt them. “It is my fault, Your Majesty. I was getting a drink of water and managed to spill it on His Highness. I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Her eyebrows raise. She inspects her son further. Something about him must amuse her for she smiles in that knowing way all mothers do and says, “It is fine, my dear. Let us go eat.”

Charles tries to catch your eyes during lunch but you keep your gaze steadfast on your cousins whenever you speak. It is only when the adults turn their attentions away from your section of the table that you meet Charles’ earnest gaze with a smile. You tip your chin in the direction of your father and give the barest hint at a shake of your head.

Before he and his family depart, Charles pulls you aside. Your parents are too focused on saying their farewells to the King and Queen to notice you’ve been sequestered away. Unfortunately, Charles draws the attention of his older brother much to your horror. Your urge to stomp on his foot is only quelled when Lorenzo shakes his head with a little laugh and holds a finger to his lips.

“Write to me,” Charles says in one breath. “Please.”

“Your Highness,” you say, unsure.

“Charles,” he corrects. He digs into his pocket and slips a folded piece of paper into your hand. He closes your fingers around it. “I’ll await your letters, my lady.”

He’s hurried off to his family before you can say another word. Shaking off your bewilderment, you tuck the paper given to you into your sleeve, and go to join your parents in wishing the Leclercs a safe journey home.

Hours later, when you are finally alone are you able to unfold and read what Charles has written you. It is an address with instructions on how to write it so that any letter of yours arrives at his personal quarters.

You press your tongue at the back of your molars, a little impressed at his confidence. It is not unfounded as that same night, you pull out a piece of paper and begin writing to him.

It is seven long years before you see Charles and his family again. But it is as if no time has passed as you and Charles exchange letters in your time apart.

You were able to conceal your correspondence with Charles with the simple lie of having befriended one of the maids the Leclerc’s brought along with them. Guilt did not swirl in your stomach at the disappointment in your father’s face when he realized the sturdy letter in his hands did not come from the King or Queen asking for your hand in marriage whenever you were eligible. It is pure luck you happened upon your father receiving the mail and were able to extinguish his hopes with a nonchalant lie.

He’s funnier than a prince ought to be. It doesn’t take long for you to forget you are talking to a prince and not one of your peers and formality becomes a thing of the past. By the end of that year, you considered Charles one of your closest friends.

You were one of the first to find out about his father’s passing. It took hours of convincing and a smidge of bribery to coax your cousin into bringing a gift to Charles from you the next time he went in for training at the palace along with your condolences. Letters from Charles ceased for a handful of months understandably but you sent your weekly letters faithfully. You detailed everything from your days to your studies to the little warm pockets of memories you had of his father and his kindness to whatever else crossed your mind. You didn’t know how else to comfort him from so far but when Charles finally returned his pen to the page, it was to thank you for allowing him some respite during the worst of his grieving period.

The years pass and while communication becomes strained as you two come to grow into your respective roles, you still consider Charles a very good friend. He’s one of the first to hear about your woes on your upcoming debut into society. You are approaching your twenty first year and you are sweating at the thought of what’s to come. You detail to him the families that have begun sniffing around you as if to test the waters of what sort of prestige your father is expecting. It is taxing but you deal with it well. You have no other choice after all.

Charles is strangely reticent at the topic of your debut. He offers a sympathetic ear but struggles to reassure you in ways that don’t make you vaguely uncomfortable. You can’t quite put your finger on why but his insistent claims that you will not have to worry about the men circling you like vultures does not set you at ease as you suspect he thinks it does. It reeks slightly of ownership but you brush it off as surely his written word is more one dimensional than his thoughts. It is far more likely Charles thinks to soothe you by the implication of an order of protection as he has no way to actually prevent someone asking for your hand. It is the thought that counts, you think.

This time around, the Leclerc’s visit is rather unexpected. You are due to travel to Monaco in a week’s time to make your debut but you cannot say you do not welcome the chance to see your old friend sooner.

Except, he is not the Charles you have kept so dear to your heart over the years. He is a man grown now. And you do not recognize him.

“Hello, Your Highness,” you greet, curtsying as suited for your station. You do not let yourself linger on him, to soak in how much he’s changed over these years.

It feels like a slap in the face even though it is to be expected. With your correspondence spanning from childhood until now, it should not come as a surprise to see Charles as the prince he is. But foolishly, you’ve held onto the image of him as the boy whose sleeves were a tad too long and whose smile hadn’t quite grown into the charming one he’s sporting now. Before, you could trick yourself into believing Charles was a friend of equal standing. But now you know that has never been the case.

He has always been Prince Charles Leclerc.

You greet his younger brother next, dutifully reciting your introductions to one another. A flash of recognition crosses his expression and his eyes flick to Charles for a moment. You pretend you do not notice.

His older brother, the king, makes idle conversation with your parents. Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your lehenga. The weight of your necklace is suddenly stifling and you bring your hand up to adjust it.

“Are you excited about your debut?” Arthur asks politely.

Seeing as your parents and the king have left the three of you to your own devices but within their eyesight, your shoulders loosen. “If my mother asks, I told you I’ve never been more excited in my life,” you say, sharing a conspiring smile with him. There is little doubt in your mind that Arthur is expected to happen upon a wife during this ball somehow.

“And if I ask?”

Charles’ voice is smooth and playful. He is not someone you can ignore regardless but you wish he made it a little easier to look at him without feeling blinded by his beauty.

“I am dreading it,” you confess. And he is well aware of that.

“Still scared no one will ask you for your dance card?” Charles teases.

You look up as if considering the possibility. The thought crossed your mind months ago but your mother had quickly assuaged those fears. “No,” you say. It isn’t arrogance that fuels your adamant denial. It will be a shock if not one man approaches you for a dance at your debut of all things. “More that I am scared my father will throw me to the first man who extends his hand.”

Your dry confession wipes the smile off of Charles’ face. “He would not do that.”

Arthur looks aghast. “Would he?”

“He would,” you say seriously. “We all have our duties do we not?”

You manage to shut Charles up while encouraging Arthur to complain about how his mother plans to spring a bride upon him to keep her wayward son home. Said mother beckons to him after ten minutes to point him towards Lorenzo’s guard, leaving you and Charles with the illusion that you two are alone. Hyperaware of his presence, you take a step back. You may not be searching for a husband but it does not mean you can tarnish your reputation by being careless. You turn to head back to your room with the intention of feigning ill. Except, a set of footsteps echo your own.

Charles follows after you. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

Not particularly, you think but force the thought into the recesses of your mind. “While that sounds lovely, your Highness, I really must go.”

His hand wraps around your wrist before you can take another step away from him. “Must you be so cold?”

“Your Highness,” you whisper warningly. Your voice pitches at the end as your eyes dart around the two of you. There are eyes in every corner and none are to be trusted.

“Charles,” he corrects. “I’m Charles.”

His grip isn’t so tight that you cannot pull away and yet, you do not make an attempt. You stand there with his hand around your wrist and your heart in your throat like a fool. “We cannot be alone, Charles.”

“We’ll sneak off then,” he implores. His voice lowers. “Please. I’ve missed you.” The words linger as if he has more to say but he limits himself to this vulnerability.

The ache in his voice threads through your ribs until it wraps around your heart and squeezes. You chew on your lip for a moment you do not have to spare and then admit defeat. “Wait for me in my room,” you whisper. “I trust you remember how to get there?”

A boyish grin tugs at his lips. “How could I forget?” And then he is off, walking through the halls as if they are all he’s ever known.

You make your way to the kitchen with half a mind to sneak off into the gardens on your own. But you banish the thought, having briefly imagined the disappointment on Charles’ face if you do not show up. You quickly pack lunch and loop your arm through the handle of the basket.

It’s easy enough to get to your room without any prying eyes but you can never be too cautious. You peek around yourself, angling the basket so it looks smaller than it is to a wandering eye, before opening your door. Charles is digging through your vanity and spins around when he hears the creak of your door.

There’s something crumpled in his hand that he quickly shoves into a pocket. He grimaces. “You are back.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “I am. Are you ready for lunch?” You do not have the patience to question what he’s taken as a souvenir. It is likely something innocuous and something you’d give to him without thought anyway. Nothing you have is of value to a prince of all people.

“Are we to eat in here?”

You shake the basket hanging from your arm. “Of course not. We shall eat in the garden.” Eyeing the worn out throw on your couch, you point to it. “Take that so we may sit on it.”

Charles acquiesces, carefully bundling it in his arms. The hallway is empty and there are no echoes of hurried footsteps so you motion for Charles to follow you. Instead of leaving how you came, you lead Charles towards the rarely used back hallway. With two quick turns, the two of you find yourselves near the unused lower quarters.

Charles glances around himself, mildly surprised. “I was not aware these were here. Even from the outside it looks so…”

“Decayed?” you offer, amused at how he doesn’t correct you. “My grandfather never bothered to include these in the renovations so they remain empty. Every once in a while, someone will come down and clean it but if anyone is down here, it’s either me or my cousins.” You think it’s haunted as well but you don’t tell Charles that.

Pushing open a door with your back, you bring Charles to the very edge of your mother’s garden. A quaint pond sits off to the side, hidden from view.

Once the two of you are settled atop of your blanket with food in your hands, you ask, “Is this the season you intend on finding a wife?”

Charles chokes on his sandwich. You jerk back, nearly dropping your own due to his coughing fit. He thumps at his chest a few times before clearing his throat. With watery eyes and a raw voice, he says, “No. It is not the right time yet.”

Charles is twenty two to your twenty. He is considered young in a way you are not granted. Envy begins to drip into you but you quickly cauterize the entry point of it. The freedom you long for is no fault of Charles.

“You do love your dalliances,” you agree teasingly.

Embarrassment scalds his face to a deep red. You are confident if you were to hold your hand up an inch from his cheek, you would feel the residual heat.

He splutters, unable to form a string of words in defense for himself.

You laugh loudly. His reputation as a rake has preceded him. You don’t think it to be as scandalous as higher society wishes to believe but there must be some kernel of truth mixed in with the rumors. Despite the rumors circulation, it certainly hasn’t affected his value on the marriage market.

“I don’t—“ Charles presses his lips together and sighs. “Okay, that is true. To an extent.”

“Oh, is it now?”

He throws a piece of carrot at you. The red in his cheeks is receding but not by much. “I’m young,” he defends. “And I am trying to be patient for her sake. Or else, I would already have a betrothal in the works by now.”

Your ears perk up. “There is someone you wish to wed?” you repeat excitedly. He has not mentioned anyone in particular to you but perhaps they are someone he wishes to keep close to his heart until the match is secured. While so far none of your letters to each other have been placed into the wrong hands, some subjects are too delicate to risk the chance.

Charles looks off to the distance and then back to you. A crumb rests on the corner of his mouth and the casualness of it is at odds with the severity that pinches his face. “Yes.”

“Do they know of your intentions?” You try to think back on if Charles has accidentally hinted at someone being in the picture but you are drawing a blank.

He scoffs. He sounds almost bitter but when you look at him, the purse of his lips is closer to self-deprecating. “Not in the slightest. She would run in the other direction if she knew.”

“Oh please, you are a prince,” you say, exasperated. “You will be hard pressed to find a woman who wouldn’t swoon at a proposal from you.”

“You would be surprised.”

You knock your shoulder against his. Many dream of becoming a part of the royal family and romanticize it to an extreme degree. The insight Charles has given you over the years has proven it is anything but and you do not envy the women who will find themselves by the Leclerc’s sides.

“I am surprised. Besides being a prince, you’re charming too,” you say thoughtfully.

“And handsome.”

“And handsome,” you agree much to his delight.

“See? I knew it. I knew you thought this as well.”

“So then you understand why I think it is absurd you are so hesitant. You’ve always been brave. But maybe that is a testament to how fond you are of her.” You will have to make sure to keep a careful eye on who captures Charles’ attention at the ball. Perhaps, you may even need to deploy Arthur to gather some intel.

“I am very fond,” he says softly.

You look up at him to find his eyes already trained on you. Unease weaves itself through you, opening a pit in your belly. But you ignore it. “Hopefully, you will invite me to the wedding.”

He is silent for a long enough time that you fear you’ve overstepped some boundary you weren’t aware was in place. Before you can apologize, Charles brings his hand up. For a moment, you think he will lay his hand against your cheek and you begin to move away. But he merely picks a stray rose petal that has somehow found flight in the wind and tangled itself in your hair.

Whatever look is on your face softens him and the intensity radiating from him peters off into something less stifling. He leans back and examines the petal in his hand. It’s ruby red and faintly fragrant. It seems to center him for Charles says to you, “Save me a dance?”

Your answer is an easy, “Of course, Your Highness.”

Seven short days later, you find yourself in Charles’ home. The ballroom is stunning but its beauty cannot take away the nerves that have overtaken you. Your bones feel soft and weak and you fear you won’t have the strength to stand in front of the Queen. You long to hold your mother’s arm, clinging to her as a child once more, but you force yourself to take each step into the ballroom by yourself. You take a cursory look around, relief overlaying your anxiety at how many other nervous debutantes there are. Your anxiety is fully extinguished once you see Charles chatting with who you believe is Pierre. As if sensing your attention, he slowly turns to your direction and finds you almost instantly.

You give him a mockery of a curtsy.

He gives you a wink.

And so, your debut comes and goes with Charles dominating your dance card. Arthur manages to sneak himself on there as well as Pierre but other than the Leclerc brothers, Pierre, and a few others, your dance card is barren of any of the men your father hoped to potentially marry you off to.

A sticky sort of relief coats your lungs at managing to delay the inevitable for a while longer.

“Last night would have been awful if not for you. Thank you.”

You must head back to your home this afternoon but somehow, you have managed to carve out some time after breakfast to sneak away to say your goodbyes. It took the length of one dance to convince Charles to abandon his duties to allow you to say goodbye. It makes you think perhaps it is a good thing Charles was not the first born.

The glances you keep taking over your shoulder are more instinctual than anything. According to him, this part of the castle is secluded.

“I am indebted to you.”

Charles puts a hand on the ledge to lean forward until he’s all you can see. This close, you can the brown ring around his irises. He studies you, studies how you can’t help but sneak a peek at his mouth, and hums.

“I’ll be sure to collect my debt then.”

You enter your twenty fourth year with no prospects in sight. It horrifies your father.

You have become accustomed to it. The disappointment used to sit bitterly in your stomach but now you’re able to set it aside and put acceptance in its place. You’ve joined your younger cousin for her debut as her chaperone. The castle is as you remember it and so you’re able to impart onto her the two places she can go to for a breather if the chance arises and is needed.

She’s already danced with three gentlemen when she makes her way back to your side. You almost shoo her away but she grabs at you insistently. “The Prince is looking at you,” Sarish whispers.

“He’s probably looking at you,” you whisper back, distracted. You’re tempted to rip your bracelet from the thread it’s caught upon but with your luck, you’ll end up unraveling a good portion of the delicate seam work your mother labored over.

“No, he is not. Look,” she says urgently.

To appease her, you look around until you find one of the younger Leclerc brothers. Arthur has been coerced into a dance with another young woman but Charles remains off to the side. As Sarish says, he is looking at you.

He raises his champagne flute to you, earning the attention of those around him as he does. People crane their neck to see who has caught the eye of the ever elusive Prince Charles Leclerc.

Thankfully, the ballroom is so full, it is impossible to pick out who Charles motioned towards. You have learned to be grateful for the little things and that does not stop now.

“See!”

“I see,” you say through gritted teeth. “Oh look, more gentlemen are coming.” And then you leave your cousin to the swarm of men coming her way because while you are a chaperone, you never promised to be a good one.

It is surprisingly easy to escape to the backyard. Fleetingly, you think they should have more guards around but the lack of them works out in your favor.

You head towards the fountain a few feet away. The gentle lapping of the water soothes you and you take a fortifying breath. Charles can afford to be reckless but you cannot.

Gravel crunches beneath someone’s feet behind you and you whirl around, a hand to your heart. But you find that it is only Charles.

“I hear another betrothal is in the works for you,” Charles says after the silence stretches on for a moment too long. He adjusts his cuff links, smile thin and eyes devoid of all feeling.

You cast a wary glance over his shoulder. The party is in full swing and the guests haven’t quite yet begun to trickle into the backyard. “You called me out here to speak to me about rumors?” you ask doubtfully. Your father, a greedy man with an even greedier extended family, has been anguishing over your lack of proposals. The few courtships you’ve had have extinguished before they could get off the ground. And it is not for a lack of trying on your behalf either. Marriage may not excite you but you see its practicality. It helps that marriage will mean you are no longer be under your father’s thumb and beholden to his politics.

As the months drag and your various suitor’s indecision remains, your father’s hopes at finding a match lessened until he’s now grasping at straws.

“Your father has sent a letter to Carlos,” Charles informs you in a tight voice. “Expressing his interest in potentially being a foothold for the Sainz in Monaco.”

You close your eyes, cursing your father. He must truly be desperate if he thinks to weaponize his little influence to sway an outsider. “The Sainz are a smart family. They will not entertain such a clumsy scheme.”

The gravel shifts underneath his shoes. “Do not worry. I am the only one who saw the letter and I do not think your father so stupid as to think he can insert himself into matters such as this. Desperate, yes, but not stupid.”

The ironclad grip on your heart releases. “Thank you.”

“You have met Carlos though.”

He does not frame it as a question but you answer it like one anyway.

“Yes.” It had been a peculiar week when the Duke’s son found himself at your family home. An accident you still find hard to believe. You smile at the memory.

Charles grinds his teeth. “He is considering making his own offer for your hand.”

That stops you short. “What?”

“He sent the letter before your father’s arrived. The Duke was kind enough to inform me of your father’s…lapse in judgment. He also let me know of his son’s intentions.”

You did not think you left such an impression on Carlos but alas, maybe your luck is looking upwards for once. You cannot control the grin that graces your mouth at this information. If you must marry, you suppose he is a fine choice for a husband. He is certainly someone you know you can come to love and it would be far from a chore to do so. “I see,” you say diplomatically.

“Will you marry anyone then?”

His tone is disapproving and it immediately makes your hackles rise. Charles is a second prince and with his nephew’s arrival, he is no longer considered the spare. He is free to choose who he wants rather than what is good for the nation. Surely nothing holds him back from marrying the girl he loves he mentioned just a scant four years ago.

“I will marry anyone my father finds suitable,” you correct coolly. “It seems you forget my station.”

He rubs his mouth angrily. “Why haven’t you considered me?”

One second you are capable of breath and in the next, you feel as if your lungs have been compressed. The corset is much too tight and there is a sudden lack of air.

“Pardon?”

Charles steps towards you. A perverse sort of torment crosses his face. “Have you not thought of me as I have thought of you?” Another step. “Not even once?”

You must not hide your expression quick enough for his eyes light up. “Charles,” you say with a touch of warning.

“You must have,” he decides, advancing forward. A pleased smile stretches across his mouth.

“If I have, it was fleeting,” you say, taking an equal step back. “I do not dare to wish for more than I can be granted.”

“But you can be granted me.”

“But I don’t wish to be a part of your family, Charles.” Your head is spinning. “I am ill suited. I cannot be your wife. I cannot handle those expectations with grace, Charles.”

“And I cannot bear to be without you,” he interrupts desperately. “I tire of waiting. I tire of waiting for you to come to your senses.” He says your name, a longing whisper on his lips. “I tire of you refusing me.”

Your blood turns to ice. There is a brief swoop of your stomach as you take another step back from Charles. The back of your heels hit the fountain and you nearly buckle backwards.

“I think you should go inside now, Your Highness,” you say, voice caught in the back of your throat.

Charles has no care for your personal space and neither your propriety for he comes closer. He cups your cheek with a too warm hand despite your flinch. This point of contact is damning. “Why would I do that?”

“Charles, I don’t have a chaperone.” The music is winding down and perhaps that is why your heartbeat sounds deafening in your ears. It will be no time at all before the guests begin to trickle out to enjoy the night air.

If Charles will not course correct, you will. You have every intention of slipping off and fueling a different type of rumor but Charles doesn’t move out of your way. Instead, his thumb rubs across your bottom lip with reverence. His touch anchors you to your spot.

Dread runs sluggishly through your veins when his eyes trail down your face. You are beginning to understand that there is only one way this night will end. And you are a fool for not realizing it the moment Charles stepped foot in this courtyard.

Your ankle scrapes against a sharp edge on the fountain, reminding you of your place. You have nowhere to go and nowhere to hide from Charles. He’s set the trap and you’ve found yourself a willing participant in your demise.

“You haven’t had a chaperone with me for years, my lady,” he points out softly. “Must you start now?”

Charles doesn’t wait for an answer.

For all of Charles’ gentle appearance, he kisses you like he’s starved. He dips you slightly, placing his other hand flat against the small of your back for stability. Without his foresight, you might’ve taken you both into the fountain.

Your hands weakly push at his chest but he pays no mind. Instead, he deepens the kiss. Scandalized does not cover what you feel when his tongue slips past the seam of your mouth.

A gasp is what allows you to pull away from Charles. Shock still clings to you, making your limbs stiff and your reaction delayed. His hand cradles your face even as you turn your head ever so slightly to gauge the damage.

And with the multiple pairs of eyes staring back at you, all with varying degrees of incredulity, you know there is no way for you to sweep this under the rug.

He gently turns your face back to him. A satisfied smile rests upon his mouth. Victory lurks behind his smile as he says, “Spring is a lovely time for a wedding, mon amour.”

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

#charles leclerc #Charles Leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fic #Charles leclerc imagine #soft dark!charles leclerc #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine #x reader #dark fic #writing: charles leclerc

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serpentandlily · 6 months

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Untouchable VII - Azriel x Reader

Untouchable - Azriel x Rhysand'sSister!Reader

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you have always had feelings for Azriel, your court’s spymaster. But after centuries of watching him pine after your own cousin, hoping he’d eventually move on, your wish came true. He moved on—with Elain, your brother’s mate’s sister. Unable to watch him fall in love with someone else again, you flee from Velaris, from him. But things are a lot more complicated than that—more complicated than you ever imagined.

Warnings: angst angst angst

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III ➻❥ Part IV ➻❥ Part V

➻❥ Part VI ➻❥ Part VII ➻❥ Part VIII ➻❥ Part IX ➻❥ Part X

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part VII

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“Are you alright?”

Feyre’s voice knocked you out of your own head. You swallowed audibly, looking at her before following her gaze down to where you were holding your wine glass, white knuckled. You let out a sigh and set the glass down on the table, putting your hands in your lap.

“I’m fine, sorry,” you said, to get her attention off of you. “Just thinking about my last trip to Hewn City, that’s all.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed but she nodded.

Your eyes flickered back to the other end of the table, where Elain and Azriel sat. Elain was basically halfway out of her chair, leaning into Azriel’s space. A knot formed at the back of your throat. Azriel wasn’t exactly encouraging her, but he also wasn’t trying to put more distance between the two of them.

Jealousy roared its ugly head inside of you. Especially as you watched her place a hand on his arm, laughing at something he said. A hand that wouldn’t hurt him, unlike yours.

You looked away, unable to bear the sight of it anymore. You just wanted this stupid dinner to be over already.

Everyone seemed to have paired off into conversation. Feyre and Rhys, Cassian and Nesta, Helion and Mor, Amren and Varian, Elain and Azriel. You pushed around the food on your plate, feeling alone.

There was one another person here who looked just as lonely as you. Lucien sat across from you, his eyes glued on his mate who was flirting with your…with your Azriel.

Elain laughed again, drawing your attention back to her. This time, Azriel had a soft smile on his face as well.

You couldn’t take it anymore, thankful everyone seemed to be finished eating dessert. You cleared your throat, standing up and drawing everyone’s eyes to you. You kept your focus on Helion though.

“I'm going to turn in for the night. It was lovely seeing you again, Helion,” you said politely. “Goodnight.”

You couldn’t get to the balcony fast enough, summoning your wings to make the short flight back to the River House. You ignored the soft stroke of your brother’s claws against your mental shield, not in the mood to make up excuses for your behavior.

Once you were in your room, you started ripping the pins from your hair and tossing them on your vanity. Just as you were finishing letting your hair down, the shadows in the corner of your room seemed to expand until a dark figure stepped out of them.

Azriel approached you, concern written on his face.

“Y/n? Why did you take off like that? Is everything alright?”

You didn’t turn to face him, instead you looked at him through the mirror.

“I’m fine. I-I just didn’t feel too good.”

“Don’t do that, princess,” Azriel said, stalking forward until he was right behind you, still able to look at you in the eyes considering he was a foot taller than you. “I thought we were being honest with each other now.”

You let out a sigh and turned around, placing a soft hand on his chest. “I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t stand watching you with her. After what I saw that night—” You choked on your own words for a second. “It’s hard to be around you when I can't be with you.”

Azriel placed his hand over yours. “I cannot apologize enough for that night, princess. But it is only you that I see. It meant nothing to me then and it means nothing to me now. You are the only one who owns my entire heart. I can only pray that a day comes when I can let everyone else see that too.”

You softened, staring up at his beautiful hazel eyes. They were gold right now in the moonlight shining into your room from the balcony doors, a perfect compliment to your own violet ones. But then his jaw clenched and the moment was stolen away.

You pulled your hand away from him, letting your arm fall limp at your side.

“This is also why I left,” you breathed out. “It pains me to see another person get to touch you when I can’t. I hate it, Azriel. I hate that I bring you pain.”

“I’d drag myself across the burning fires of hell for you, princess” Azriel brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, before leaning down to whisper, “I’ve never been a stranger to pain, y/n. Quite the opposite. I’ve learned to like it.”

The heat in his gaze—his words—made you melt right into his hands.

“Is that so?” Your voice was a mere whisper as your hand trailed down his chest, lingering on the waistband of his pants before palming his hardened length with a ghost of a touch.

Azriel groaned, his head falling against your shoulder. “Don’t tease me. Not tonight.”

“Oh, I won’t,” you purred, stroking against his mental barrier.

When he let you in, you showed him exactly how the two of you were going to spend the rest of the night.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

You bit your lip, tossing more of your clothes out of your wardrobe and onto the floor of your bedroom as you dug around, searching for your journal. It wasn’t in the place you normally hid it, but that hadn’t been too concerning. You did often throw it about after writing in it for hours. But not being able to find it at all? That was a first.

“What are you looking for?”

You screeched, falling backwards onto your butt at the sudden voice. A masculine chuckle, accompanied with the scent of night-chilled mist and cedar flooded the room. You peered up to see Azriel hovering over you. You pouted at him and his antics.

“It’s rude to just appear in a ladies room, you know,” you snipped, causing him to snort. “I’m looking for my journal. I can’t find it anywhere. Have you seen it?”

Azriel shook his head, offering a hand to help you off the floor. “I didn’t even know you kept a journal. I can help you look.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

Before you could say another word, Azriel surged forward to kiss you. You let out a small gasp before giving yourself over to him. He kissed you with a familiar passion, bringing heat to your core and causing your heart to beat fiercely.

The kiss ended far too soon.

“What was that for?” you panted.

“Can’t I just kiss you?”

You gave him a look that had his lips twitching. “Fine. Cassian needs help in Windhaven so I’m going to be gone for a few days. I wanted to see you before I left.”

You frowned as he played with the straps of your dress, his eyes as pained as yours were at the thought of having to spend time away from each other.

“Do you really have to go? Can’t Rhys go help him? He’s the High Lord, not you.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to your lips again, smiling.

“Is someone going to miss me?”

His eyes softened when the look on your face didn’t change.

“It’s just for a few days, princess,” Azriel said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I suppose you don’t have a choice.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Do I at least get more of a goodbye?”

Azriel let out a small groan as your body pressed against his but to your displeasure, he merely kissed you on the forehead and stepped away. “I wish, princess, but your brother asked me to meet with him before I leave. I’m sorry.”

“Why is he always getting in the way?” you grumbled, more to yourself than anything.

Azriel placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Okay,” you sighed. “Be safe. I love you.”

“I love you too, Princess,” he murmured, giving you one last kiss before disappearing in a whirlwind of shadows.

His scent trailed behind him…but then you stiffened, another lingering scent was attached to it.

You sniffed the air.

Jasmine and Honey.

Elain’s scent.

Your heart dropped to your stomach. Why did he smell like Elain? Had he gone and said goodbye to her as well? Had he been with her before coming to see you? You could feel your blood rushing to your head and you forced yourself to calm down.

You sniffed the air again, only smelling his night-chilled mist and cedar this time. You let out a long breath, sitting down at the edge of your bed. Perhaps you had been mistaken. Perhaps your own insecurities were making you paranoid.

But something awful curled in your stomach.

And a feeling of dread rushed through you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

You busied yourself while Azriel was away. It had only been a day so far, but you already missed him so much. You had buried yourself in reports from the Court of Nightmares and correspondence from Eris. But still, nothing could fully distract you from your thoughts.

You kept going back to that scent in your room.

Had you made that up?

But why? Why would you do that to yourself? You hadn’t even been thinking of Elain. You wrestled with the idea that maybe Azriel had seen Elain before you, to tell her he was leaving. They were friends, after all. It could be something harmless.

But that night kept flashing behind your eyes every time you shut them. Elain on the counter, her dress pushed up to her thighs, Azriel between them, as they ravishingly kissed each other. Elain and Azriel at the dinner table, her hand on his bicep as he made her laugh.

It made you feel sick to your stomach.

The words on the parchment you were reading blurred together and you set it aside with a sigh.

You were overthinking things. Azriel had told you time and time again that he wanted to be with you. That he’s always wanted to be with you and it was your own brother that had kept him away.

You dropped your head down on your desk, sucking in air. You were just being paranoid. You were letting your insecure feelings get in your head. Azriel wanted you. Azriel wanted only you. He loved you. He always had…

Right?

A giggle in the corridor outside your door caught your attention. You sat up straight, recognizing it to be Elain’s. You froze for a second before quietly getting up and walking to your door, pressing your ear against the cold wood.

Another giggle, a bit further down the hallway this time.

You slowly pushed the door open a crack, peering into the dark corridor. Another giggle and the sound of someone shushing another. A streak of golden-brown hair slipping around the corner. Azriel’s scent wafted through the space and your stomach turned over.

You stepped into the now quiet hallway, following after the sound of Elain’s giggles and Azriel’s scent.

He was supposed to be in Windhaven. Why was he here? And why was here with Elain in the middle of the night? Your heart was pounding in your chest. You felt like throwing up. But you pushed yourself to follow despite your better judgment.

A door around the corner slammed shut and you could hear the sound of rustling clothes. Tears pricked your eyes and you darted forward now, pushing the door open.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of the empty room. You blinked once. Twice. You couldn’t hear Elain’s giggle anymore, couldn't scent Azriel either.

Had you imagined all of that?

You rubbed at your eyes, exhaustion settling into your body. Gods, you were going crazy. The lack of sleep was finally getting to you. That was the only logical explanation you could give yourself. You left the room and returned to your own.

Just a few more days.

A few more days and Azriel would be home.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The next two days passed in a blur.

You had a stack of reports in your arms as you made your way towards your brother’s office, ready to deliver them. You had been staying in the Townhouse the past few nights, needing space away from Elain–hoping it would make your delusions go away.

It wasn’t her fault that you were going crazy, wasn’t her fault that your own brother had pushed Azriel away from you all those years. You didn’t want to take it out on her, so you figured you’d just remove yourself from the Riverhouse until Azriel returned.

You were passing by a closed off room when a familiar voice made you stop in your tracks.

“Fuck, Elain,” Azriel moaned. “You feel so good.”

You shook your head but the sound of two people panting didn’t go away. You froze, just like last time, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping it would go away. You were truly going crazy. You had to be.

“Gods,” Elain panted. “Please, Azriel, don’t stop.”

Your eyes shot open as your heart dropped to your stomach once more. That feeling of dread came again as bile rose up in the back of your throat. You put your hand against the door, slowly pushing it open, praying that you would be met with the sight of an empty room just like last time.

You choked silently on your breath as you peered into the room through the crack in the door. Your hand shot to your mouth as the sight of Azriel and Elain came into view. You blinked once. Twice.

It didn’t go away.

There was Azriel, holding Elain against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist as they kissed. Your heart snapped into a million pieces, your eyes stinging with tears that had started falling.

What the fuck?

How…How could he do this?

They pulled away from each other and Azriel rested his forehead against hers.

“How much longer must you pretend to be interested in Rhys’s sister?” Elain asked, closing her eyes. “I’m tired of hiding, Azriel. I don’t care what Rhys thinks. I want the whole court to know how much we love each other.”

“It’s better this way for now, Elain. If Rhys is suspicious of me messing around with his sister, then he will take the news of us together more lightly. He’ll be relieved it's not her I’m after. Hell, he’ll probably throw us a wedding himself.”

Elain giggled, pecking his lips. “I just hate watching her pine after you. It’s a little sad, honestly. You’d think she would’ve moved on after all this time.”

“I know,” Azriel agreed. “But it’ll be worth it. I promise you.”

You couldn’t bear to hear anymore. You silently took a step back, closing the door as softly as you could. You felt your vision go in and out of focus as you forced your legs to keep moving.

Azriel…Azriel had been using you this whole time? He had been wanting your brother to think he had moved on from Elain to you in hopes that your brother would be outraged by the thought, leading him to be relieved that it was still Elain he desired, not you.

You wanted to throw up.

Wanted to scream at the top of your lungs.

You…Gods, you were such an idiot. You had believed every single thing Azriel had said to you. Had never doubted him until these past few days.

No. No….you couldn’t…you couldn’t do this. You were going to be sick.

You were walking still, not even sure where your legs were taking you. You wanted to winnow to Illyria and throw yourself off a cliff, wanted to curl up in a ball in your room and cry, wanted to…Gods, you needed to get away. Needed to get the hell out of here.

“Dove? Are you alright?”

You blinked, your vision coming back into focus to realize you had walked to your brother’s office—your mind likely on autopilot. His violet eyes were staring at you with concern, tracking the tears falling from your eyes.

The reports fell from your hand, scattering to the floor. Rhys rose from his desk, striding over to you quickly. A sob escaped your lips as he grabbed you by the arms, shaking you a bit.

“Dove, what happened? What’s going on? Why are you crying?”

The words began spilling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Azriel was seated at the kitchen table in Rhys’s family cabin, across from Cassian who looked as miserable as he did. It had been a long day of dealing with Devlon and the other Illyrians.

A shadow curled over his ear.

The High Lord approaches. He is angry with you, master.

Azriel swallowed audibly as a wave of darkness overtook the cabin, Rhys stepped out of it looking like a prince from hell, his violet eyes set on him with a burning rage.

Azriel knew the moment he saw Rhys what this was about. He had finally figured it out. He finally knew what was going on between him and his sister. That was the only reason he could think of.

“Azriel!” The High Lord growled, causing Cassian to jump to his feet, his brows furrowed with confusion. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Azriel braced himself but didn’t move. He deserved Rhys’s wrath. He knew he did.

Rhys tackled him, splintering the wooden chair into pieces as the two males landed on the hard ground. Cassian shouted at them to stop but Rhys began to pummel Azriel with his fists.

Azriel didn’t bother fighting back. He just laid on the ground, letting Rhys beat him even as he began to spit up blood.

He always knew this day would come. Knew that he deserved to be beaten into an inch of life for what he had done. He had taken something as pure and good as y/n and fully corrupted her, marked her, ruined her.

He had never deserved to lay his hands on her perfect skin, her perfect body. Not when his hands were so flawed. Not when his hands had done such terrible things.

Suddenly, Rhys was being yanked off of him by Cassian. Rhys growled at his other brother, trying to push him away but Cassian held strong.

“Azriel, get the fuck up,” Cassian grunted. “Why the fuck didn’t you try to fight back?”

Azriel stood, slowly, wiping a hand at the blood that was beginning to dribble down his chin. He spat out more blood, already feeling the bruising that was going to be scattered all over his jaw.

“Because he knows he deserves it,” Rhys snapped. “You fucking piece of shit! I trusted you! I fucking let you into my home, took care of you like a brother, and this is how you repay me?! I swear to the Gods if you don’t get out of my way, Cassian—”

“Stop!” Cassian shouted. “What the fuck is going on? What the fuck happened?”

“Tell him, Azriel, tell him what you’ve done! Tell him how you’ve been messing around with my little sister behind my back!”

Cassian’s eyes widened, his head whipping back and forth behind his brothers. “Rhys, calm down. I don’t know who you heard that from but that can’t be true. Right, Az? I mean, fuck, the bargain we have wouldn’t even—”

“It’s true, Cassian,” Azriel cut him off. “It’s true. Let him go. I deserve this. I fucked up.”

“Azriel,” Cassian murmured in disbelief, his eyes full of disappointment. Azriel couldn’t bear the sight of it.

“You’re fucking sick, Azriel,” Rhys growled. “You held her as a baby! You watched her grow up for fucks sake! I thought I could trust you!”

“Oh fuck you, Rhys,” Azriel said, baring his teeth at the other male. “Don’t make this into something it’s not. I love her! I fucking love her, alright! I always have! And you knew it! That’s why you made us make that fucking bargain with you in the first place!”

“Oh you love her?” Rhys snapped, sarcastically. “You love her so much, huh? Is that why she’s in her room crying over you right now? Is that why you fucking used her to get back at me for telling you to stay away from Elain? I’m going to fucking rip your throat out!”

He lurched forward again, but Cassian took the brunt of his weight, holding him off.

Azriel froze, utterly bewildered.

“Az…what is he talking about? What does he mean you’ve been using y/n?”

“I don’t know,” Azriel spat. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, Rhys. I’m not using y/n and I never even wanted Elain. I was trying to move on from…from loving your sister for gods’ sake.”

Rhys laughed bitterly. “If that’s so, then tell me why my sister came crying to me a few hours ago after catching you and Elain fucking each other?!”

“What!” Cassian swiveled to look at Azriel again. But Azriel looked as shocked as he did.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Rhys? I’ve been here all day with Cassian. I don’t want Elain and I certainly wouldn’t be using your sister to get with her!”

“You’re a fucking liar, Azriel! She showed me what she saw, you prick! Cass, you better fucking let me go—”

“He’s not lying, Rhys,” Cassian interjected. “He really has been here with me all day. I don’t think he’s left my sight once. You can go into my mind and look, but I swear it. If…if what you’re saying is true, then I’ll fucking help you kick Azriel’s ass but I think there’s some miscommunication here.”

“Y/n is in her room crying…because she thinks I’ve been using her? I don’t… I wouldn’t,” Azriel murmured, mostly to himself. “I need to go see her.”

“If you move a single muscle, I swear I’ll tear your mind apart, Azriel,” Rhys yelled. “Don’t you dare even think about seeing her right now! You have no idea what you’ve caused!”

“Rhys, I swear on my life that I haven’t touched Elain since winter solstice! And I would never use your sister. I love her! She’s all that matters to me! I need to go to her. I don’t know what she saw but it wasn’t me!”

“Rhys, please, listen to him. I know you’re upset, I am too, but come on, you know Azriel. Does this really seem like something he would do?”

“I saw her memory of it, Cass. I saw him fucking Elain! I saw him talking about using her!”

Azriel stepped forward, glaring. “I haven’t fucked Elain and I wouldn’t, ever! I don’t understand…I’ve been here with Cass all day.”

“He really has, Rhys. There’s got to be something else going on here…I don’t know what y/n thinks she saw or heard, but it wasn’t Azriel.”

Rhys cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need to get home. I need to get to the bottom of this. But this is not over, Azriel! Even if you didn’t use her or cheat on her! You should’ve never even put your hands on her in the first place!”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Cassian pushed him back. “One thing at a time. I think finding out why y/n saw what she did is more important right now!”

Rhys glared at Cassian but backed off. He shot Azriel another scathing look before disappearing into the darkness, winnowing away.

“I need to go, Cass. I need to see her, need to tell her that whatever she saw wasn’t true. I don’t care if you hate me now too, but I won’t let you stop me from going to her.”

“I don’t hate you, Az, but fuck, what were you thinking? I warned you not to hurt his sister,” Cassian sighed, before holding a hand out. “Take me with you.”

Azriel grabbed Cassian’s hand before shadow walking to the River House. The foyer came into view a second later.

Feyre was there examining Rhys’s bloodied knuckles. She peaked over at them as they appeared, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Azriel’s face.

“I tracked down Elain,” Feyre spoke. “She wasn’t even here this morning. She spent the night at Lucien’s apartment.”

She whispered the last part, glancing at Azriel but he wasn’t even paying attention. His eyes were on the staircase that led to Rhys’s sister’s room. He needed to get to her, needed to make sure she knew whatever she had seen wasn’t real.

“Don’t even think about it,” Rhys snapped, his violet eyes glaring into Azriel. “Mor is with her right now. You stay down here, in my sight, until this is dealt with! Don’t think this has absolved you of anything.”

“Rhys, stop,” Feyre barked. “Now is not the time. Can you remember what your sister showed you? Was there anything weird about the memory?”

Rhys let out a frustrated breath. “No—I don’t know. I was too angry to even think.”

“Well, we need to go talk to her,” Feyre said. “Have her show you the memory again. I don’t know how but someone must’ve planted it or something.”

“Why would someone do that?” Cassian questioned. “Who knew that her and Azriel even had a thing together and would try and get in between it?”

Azriel was stewing in his own thoughts, pacing in front of the fireplace. He couldn’t stand this. Couldn’t stand knowing you were upset thinking he had cheated on you and used you for Elain.

“Azriel,” Rhys barked. “Did anyone else know about the two of you? You better be fucking honest or I swear—”

“You’re not being helpful by being angry right now, Rhys,” Feyre cut in.

Azriel racked his brain for anyone who might have known they were together. They had been careful but there was one person…

“Cedric,” Azriel answered. “Cedric knew we were together. He knew she turned down his proposal because of me.”

“The Prince?” Cassian asked. 'Wait, you and y/n have been seeing each other since you traveled to the continent?"

"Cassian, not the time," Feyre snarled again.

Azriel could tell Rhys’s mind was racing with his thoughts and he too, paced back and forth.

“Fuck,” Rhys suddenly cursed loudly, causing Feyre to jump. “The Prince…his family’s magic specializes in illusions. Could he have…but how? Why?”

“Maybe he’s upset she rejected him,” Feyre suggested. “You need to go talk to her. You need to look into that memory again, see if you can poke through it.”

“He can’t talk to her,” Mor said, walking down the stairs and drawing everyone’s attention. “She left for the continent an hour ago. I was packing some of her stuff for her to send over.”

“What? You let her leave?” Rhys shouted. “Where did she go?”

Mor narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t let her do anything. She’s a grown female, Rhys. She went to Vallahan. I guess Prince Cedric said his doors were always open for her and she wanted to get away.”

Rhys cursed again. “No, no! Fuck, Mor! You had one fucking job! Not to let her out of your sight!”

“Well, sorry! I didn’t know we were considering the possibility that someone has been making her see things! She wanted to go and I wasn’t going to stop her.”

“We need to go,” Feyre interjected. “If it is the Prince who caused all of this, then who knows what he’ll do to her now that she’s back over there! He might manipulate her into marrying him.”

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Cassian said. “I have a question. So maybe the Prince knows about her and Azriel, but that doesn’t explain how he knew the background between Azriel and Elain.”

Something clicked in Azriel’s head. “Her journal. Fuck, her journal has been missing. He must’ve stolen it when we were at his castle. You said she left an hour ago, Mor?”

Mor nodded, her mouth in a tight line.

“Shit. That means she’s probably there already,” Azriel growled. “I’m going. I’m leaving right now and I’m going to get her back.”

“No you’re not,” Rhys ordered. “I’ll go and bring her back.”

“We can all go,” Feyre snapped. “Go get in your fighting gear just in case. We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes so we can go save y/n from that Prince.”

Azriel didn’t need to be told twice.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

You brushed your tears away, not wanting anyone to see you had been crying. The castle came into view and you hurried forward, eager to get inside and away from watchful eyes.

You had written a quick letter to Cedric asking if you could visit and he had readily replied with a yes. You needed to get out of the Night Court, needed to get as far away from Azriel as you could.

Your heart was broken, snapped into a million pieces. Your throat was hoarse from sobbing the past few hours. Your entire world had collapsed and you had never felt such despair.

The castle doors finally came into sight, a group of soldiers standing guard with Cedric. He smiled brightly at you as you walked forward.

“Princess! I wasn’t expecting you to be back so soon,” he greeted. “Please, come inside!”

You greeted him with a smile, scurrying inside the castle. You turned to face him. “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice, Cedric. I—”

“Seize her.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, at the coldness in his tone. Before you could react, the soldiers surged forward and grabbed you by the arms. You let out a scream, trying to wiggle from their hold as they snapped a pair of faebane handcuffs around your wrists.

“Cedric! What—what are you doing? Let me go!”

Cedric gave you a menacing smile. “You know, I thought this might take a little longer, getting you to come back here. Who knew your insecurities about the shadowsinger ran so deep? I’ll have to send him a thank you after all of this.”

“What are you talking about? Why…unhand me, now! This is…Cedric, what is this? Let me go!”

The soldiers dragged you forward as Cedric stood in front of the doors, hands behind his back looking quite pleased with himself. “Oh no, there is someone very important I need you to meet.”

He grabbed you by the upper arm and a second later, the familiar feeling of winnowing whisked you away.

You landed on soft ground, right beside a lake. Your eyes widened on the shack that sat in the middle of it.

“Cedric, please! Let me go!”

You tried to wiggle out of your restraints but the guards held you with unflinching strength. You let out a tiny scream as a figure emerged from the water. A figure made of smoke.

“Hello, Princess,” Koschei purred. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

a/n: ooppp sorry for all the rage/upset I might've caused you with this one. The series is coming to a close though! Two more parts and an epilogue is what I have planned rn! Thank you guys for all your support!

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#acotar #azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand #rhysand sister #azriel x rhysandssister #azriel fanfic #azriel imagine #azriel acotar #azriel x y/n #azriel angst

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itsgameofthronesimagines · 1 year

Text

The Good Queen

(Gif not mine)

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Pairing(s): Viserys Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Harwin Strong x Alicent Hightower, Harwin Strong x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen x Alicent Hightower, Daemon Targaryen x Harwin Strong (I won’t apologize for everyone being gay for each other)

Tag: hotd the good queen

Warning: Fluff. Happy ending. No one dies (except Aemma, sorry love) and everyone lives. Age gaps. No feud. No greens or blacks. Slight gore.

Word Count: 3,901

Summary: The King must choose a new wife, and Alicent’s older sister, Y/n Hightower, is a suitable choice and a perfect match. For once, Viserys makes a decision that benefits everyone and upsets little few. The Seven Kingdoms are better for it.

Author’s Note: Not a request. Oddly enough, plenty request Otto imagines but never King Viserys. I thought I'd give it a try since I had an idea. But to be honest, Viserys x Reader are sort of background pairing/onlookers of this.

(I do not consent my works to be reposted/copied)

It was the most logical choice to pick the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower. It was also all part of Lady Y/n’s plan. After the death of her mother, she had become the guardian figure her younger sister, Alicent, truly needed in her time of grief and loneliness. Older and far more mature in beauty and wisdom, The Lady Y/n Hightower was determined to still give Alicent whatever was left of her childhood and did everything in her power to make her little sister feel loved and accepted. So if there were whispers regarding Alicent, Y/n likely knew about it. One night, her handmaid came into her room and warned her of whispers involving her little sister and the King. The maid spoke of Lord Otto placing Alicent where Viserys could see her after the death of the late Queen Aemma, and Y/n was beyond disgusted and furious.

However, instead of confronting her father, Y/n went behind his back and also placed herself where Viserys could see her. While she couldn’t stop Alicent from seeing the King at night without raising suspicion, she did, however, visited the King between meals and even ask Princess Rhaenyra if she could attend the Small Council meetings to act as another cupbearer. Rhaenyra, excited with the prospect of another woman being a part of the meetings, accepted the proposal. Y/n made sure to fill Viserys’ cup modestly and had even accompanied him in the royal gardens a time or two after that. It didn’t take much effort before he announced to his small council his engagement to her. Rhaenyra, sad but relieved her father found another wife, gladly welcomed Y/n into the family with open arms and was even more excited at the idea of Alicent being ever closer to being a part of her family.

The Hand of the King, however, was less than happy and voiced how displeased he was of her when finding time alone with his eldest daughter, “What have you done?”

“Done?” Y/n questioned from her vanity mirror, removing her earrings after a long day of the people of the court congratulating her.

“He was supposed to marry your sister.”

“Why would he want Alicent, Father?” Y/n tilted her head innocently at the reflection of Otto standing at a distance behind her, “She’s but a child.”

“In the gods' eyes, she is a woman grown.”

“So am I. I am the eldest, so why must she be married off first?”

“She’s the most comely lady in court.”

“If you think me ugly, Father,” she snarled, finally standing up and turning to face her father head-on, “Just say it and be done with it.”

“I had wished to marry you off to your cousin.”

“Ormund is Heir to Oldtown. Surely my uncle would want a better match for him to ally another large house to ours instead of within our own family. You’re a political man. Try to be smarter than the second son desperate for power.”

The insult strained their relationship if it hadn’t been strained already. Lord Otto barely spoke to his eldest daughter after that unless common courtesy compels him to do so, like complimenting her wedding dress before he gave her away to Viserys. Y/n may not have felt love when the King kissed her with the promise of affection and commitment, but she felt relief. Upon watching the way Alicent danced and laughed during the feast that night, entirely unaware and still innocent of childhood, Y/n knew she made the right decision.

It wasn’t long before Y/n was pregnant then the world as she knew it imploded with excitement. The maesters, after tending to all of the former Queen Aemma’s sickly pregnancies, were astonished to see Y/n flourish in quite the opposite direction. In a strange way, she was excited to be a mother, and practically raising Rhaenyra and Alicent helped with that dream.

At first hesitant, the princess grew to love Y/n as her stepmother, especially since the new Queen was her best friend’s sister. Even though Y/n was rumored to be carrying a son inside of her, Rhaenyra tried not to openly worry for her sake. She may be Viserys’ shiny new heir, but the idea of Queen Y/n having a son bothered Rhaenyra, even though Y/n tried easing her worries with the promise of always openly advocating for the princess’ right to the throne. This aggravated Lord Otto for obvious reasons. After Aegon was born, the Hand tried reaffirming his position over his daughter in order to persuade her into raising Aegon as the future king. In return, he got a stone wall, unmoveable even in the strongest of storms.

“You may be the Hand of the King,” Y/n had sneered at her father one night in the safety of her chambers, “But I am the wife to the King. I am the Queen.”

And with his daughter as Queen, Lord Otto found himself in lesser power than when she was just a lady of the court. With her baby boy on her hip, Queen Y/n attended many Small Council meetings, shameless at the stares of men around her when she took her seat next to Viserys, stealing the spot away from his Hand. Over some time, Y/n became to lean towards Rhaenyra when the princess poured her wine and offered small treats to her little half-brother. With the proper influence, Y/n had also convinced Viserys to grant his daughter a seat at the table, no longer a cupbearer. Y/n then happily stepped aside and let Rhaenyra sit next to her father while the Queen sat next to her own. By then, Lord Otto never felt further away from the King, physically and cognitively.

Even less so when his younger daughter was married off under his own nose. Like a carpet pulled underneath him, Lord Otto was forced to walk Alicent down the aisle and be handed off to her new husband, Harwin “Breakbones” Strong. Some wonder who could have ever picked out such a perfect match, while others looked no further than the Queen herself. With her father’s pawns now swiftly taken from him, Lord Otto begrudgingly asked King Viserys for his blessing to resign. Although shocked, Viserys only had to look to his wife before granting his Hand a dismissal.

Tail between his legs, Otto Hightower left for Oldtown, never to return to King’s Landing, even when his daughters produced him grandchildren. In his place, Lord Lyonel Strong was named Hand of the King and he was a better-suited friend to the throne, and most importantly, an ally to his Queen.

Queen Y/n was a busy woman, even while pregnant. Especially while pregnant. She couldn’t afford anyone trying to take away her power and influence when she was knocked down and so she was constantly on the move, no matter how round she got. Her daughter, Helaena, came quicker than Aegon, and so the Red Keep was filled with delight at the announcement of a new princess soon to roam the halls. Rhaenyra was delighted. She was spotted trying to teach the baby girl how to walk, letting her little sister hang onto her hands and trot over her own feet. Alicent was already a proud aunt, but she doted on Helaena much like Y/n used to dote on her own younger sister. It seems as though the Queen had been quite the influence between Rhaenyra and Alicent, both now fully grown, beautiful and proud.

If Alicent was missing her father, she never showed it. Instead, she spent her time excited when she learned she would soon be a mother herself. Watching Y/n raise her children, Alicent had grown to wish to be just like her sister one day. Harwin was kind to his young wife and understood his place in her heart must be shared with the people around her. He knew Alicent loved her sister, the Queen. He knew she loved her niece, Helaena, and nephew, Aegon, and above all, he knew she loved the Princess Rhaenyra. Harwin couldn’t blame Alicent. Harwin had grown to love her, too.

Y/n and Alicent were soon pregnant together, and it felt as though the Seven Kingdoms could not have had a more beautiful, plentiful summer that year. Everyone was happy, whether of the royal family growing or from the prospect of the harvest. Most of King’s Landing was always celebrating and most stomachs were full and warm. With the Queen and her sister expecting, the castle was alive with happiness and love.

However, Y/n knew there was one individual who was internally unhappy. She was no fool. The Queen saw the way Rhaenyra looked at Alicent and the way Alicent looked at Rhaenyra. Surely, Alicent’s unborn child sparked a deep-dwelling of sadness within Rhaenyra, longing still evident in her eyes. Eventually, Y/n saw the way Ser Harwin stared after the princess as well and knew that something had to be done. She wouldn’t dare dream of separating the three, but she knew that Rhaenyra had to marry soon or who knows what sort of rumors might blossom should someone else notice the tension between the princess, Alicent, and Harwin. Rhaenyra needed a husband, despite the princess making it difficult to find a suitor. Y/n knew where to look, but unlike the other times, it would take a lot more effort to convince the King of this match.

“No,” Viserys smiled, despite the clouds looming overhead, “Absolutely not. Daemon is not worthy of my daughter.”

“If you could have your way, no one would be worthy of her,” Y/n sighed, briefly smiling at her husband while rounding the Small Council’s table towards him, her hand brushing over the surface. They were alone at the moment, waiting for the other members to join them, “But she is your heir, and she’s no longer a child. She is unwed, and last I heard, Daemon had recently lost his wife, Lady Royce. As I understand it, their marriage was left unconsummated.”

“Others will look to him to be King, instead of Rhaenyra their Queen,” Viserys retorted.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Not everyone will be happy, no matter what decision you make, Your Grace.”

She reaches the King, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders as she crossed to stand behind him, rubbing his aging shoulders and physically feeling his body slowly uncoil and relax. Viserys sighs, long and exhausted, his fingers rising to rub his eyes, but instead reach further back and clasp Y/n’s hand instead. She squeezes his hand encouragingly, while Viserys still looked hesitant and forlorn, “He’s not worthy of her...”

“No,” Y/n leans down and kissed the top of his head, “But he does love her. And I think she loves him, too. They are dragons, Viserys, and your kin. Your house sigil requires three dragon heads. If Rhaenyra is to be Queen someday, then she will need heirs of her own. She’ll need dragons. This marriage proposal is not an unheard-of custom, especially for a Targaryen. This alliance will keep your legacy strong long after you and I are gone, and your reign over Westeros will remain peaceful long after Rhaenyra has passed on.”

The Small Council meets that evening, and Viserys announces Daemon and Rhaenyra’s engagement. For supper, that night, King Viserys and Queen Y/n sit beside Rhaenyra and invite the children and Harwin and Alicent along for the celebration as well. Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled again for the first time in a while, and if Y/n noticed the tight grip her stepdaughter had on her hand, she didn’t comment.

Thankfully, Daemon was on board with this proposal and made no fuss when he was summoned to King’s Landing. Both he and Rhaenyra were married by the end of seven, long days of festivities. The newlyweds decided to temporarily part for Dragonstone, but both rushed back on their dragons when they received word of Queen Y/n and Lady Alicent both going into labor.

Aemond was a difficult delivery, but Y/n was, as always, overjoyed to have the infant brought into her arms. Down the hall, not long after Aemond was born, the Queen could hear a different cry coming out of her sister’s room.

Alicent birthed a son, Jacerys Strong. The whole kingdom rejoiced over their new prince and little lord. Many spoke about the bond the two would share growing up and strengthening the alliance between House Targaryen and House Strong. Lifelong friends were born that day, and Y/n could not wait to raise her children alongside her sisters'.

Rhaenyra quickly became pregnant as well, and by this time, Y/n had noticed the way Rhaenyra and Alicent hold onto each other as they roam the gardens, both of their husbands following them in tow. The Queen doesn’t miss the way the four often spend most of their time together, day and night. Sometimes, Y/n feels as though she’s intruding when watching them all interact. Rhaenyra and Alicent are usually glued to each other’s side, but if not, sometimes Y/n noticed Daemon accompanying Alicent and Harwin attending to Rhaenyra. There are times when even all three are attending to the princess as her stomach slowly grows. Now that she noticed this, Queen Y/n noticed other things as well, like how intense those training sessions between Daemon and Harwin can be.

For the most part, Y/n turns a blind eye and makes no complaint. She doesn’t say a word to Viserys, but she’s seen the way the King watches his daughter with her... group of confidants, and part of Y/n wonders if her husband sees it, too. Perhaps she is not the only one turning a blind eye in order to see Rhaenyra happy with the family her father always wanted her contented with.

Daemon and Rhaenyra’s firstborn is also named Aegon, nicknamed the Younger. Aegon the Elder was delighted when Rhaenyra confessed she named her child after her brother more so than the Conqueror. Viserys was a proud grandfather/uncle, holding the babe in his arms as he sat upon the Iron Throne to announce Aegon’s birth to the court. During the festivities, Viserys even made a lighthearted joke about how his darling wife was so young and it was nearly impossible to believe that she was now a grandmother.

More children came after that, though Daeron would be Y/n’s last after she broke out in fevers once she birthed him. She survived, but after that, both she and Viserys agreed that Daeron would be their last one. Alicent and Harwin bore two more sons, Lucerys and Joffrey, while Daemon and Rhaenyra had another son and a daughter, Viserys II, and Visenya. Despite a few age differences in between, all the children were raised together within the Red Keep and grew up nearly forgetting that they were, in fact, not all direct siblings. They were taught together. They trained together, sewed together, and fought together.

Ten years passed and they were the best years of King Viserys’ life, or so people claim. Even as his health declined, he made no room for sorrow, only joy when his children and grandchildren were involved. One of his favorite pastimes was overlooking the courtyard and watching as his children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews all played together. All of the Targaryen children’s dragons, still small with age, curiously watched them play as well, acting more like large dogs than fiery beasts.

As they got older, some of the boys got rougher. As siblings-who-are-not-really-siblings do, they all occasionally fight or they take their anger out in training. One unfortunate incident was between Aemond and Lucerys. Whilst training, it was clear that the cousins were angry at each other over something minuscule and so they tried to vent using the swing of their swords. Unfortunately, Luke swung hard and Aemond didn’t sidestep in time to avoid it. The very tip of the Strong boy’s sword slashed across Aemond’s eye, leaving behind an unspeakable scene full of blood and screams.

The Queen was summoned right away, directed to Aemond’s chambers where her son was already abed with the Grand Maester tending to him. It was a gruesome scene, even with the wound already cleaned. Aemond’s eye was swollen and angry, a long, ugly cut running through it, trailing down his cheek and over his eyebrow.

The maester moves away from the bed and allows the Queen to take his place by her son’s side as he explained, “I have given as much Milk of the Poppy as I could, Your Grace, but for a child of his size, it would be too dangerous to give him the proper doses he would normally need to relax. The pain has dulled, but it will linger.”

The Queen sits on the edge of Aemond’s bed, “It will heal, will it not?”

“The flesh will heal into a scar... but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

Y/n’s face crumbles in distress, taking Aemond’s hand in hers while brushing some of his silver hair from his young face, “What happened?”

“An accident in the training yard, Your Grace, as I understand it.”

“Luke cut me!” Aemond cried in anger, “He cut me and I should have left my mark in return! I had my chance and I couldn’t take it! I wish I had!”

"Aemond," his mother warns, eyeing him with a look that only a mother could threaten with her child, “You don’t mean that. I understand your anger and your grief, but at the end of the day, what happened was an accident. Tragic, yes, but an accident. Luke is your cousin. He is a part of your family and he loves you. He would have never intentionally harmed you and you know it.”

She leans forward then and kisses his forehead, just above the top of the cut, "We can get you something to cover it up. Or, once it fully heals, we can replace it with a false eye. A diamond, perhaps? Ruby?"

Her lightheartedness softens Aemond’s anger, slightly, as he relents to his mother’s touch, leaning into her embrace as he entertains her idea, "Sapphire."

She leans back so he could see her smile of approval, "A fine choice, my love.”

The Queen stands up, taking her time to help Aemond lie down and get properly tucked into his covers. She lovingly pets his hair down as she turns to the maester beside her, “Grand Maester. Have some essence of Nightshade brought up to my son’s chambers. He needs time to rest and heal.”

“At once, Your Grace,” the maester bows then exits the room.

Y/n leans back down to her son one last time, bringing his hand up to her face to kiss his fingers, “Be hopeful, son. Women like men with scars."

She leaves the room and makes her long trek to the kitchens. Rounding a corner, she comes across her sister. Alicent was distraught and full of guilt, grasping the Queen's hands in hers as she cries, "I'm so sorry... Harwin and I will punish Luke accordingly."

"There's no need," Y/n is quick to reassure Alicent, her sisterly instincts kicking back in. The instinct never truly went away. It was dormant, but Y/n will always protect her sister, no matter how old she gets, "It was an accident, Ali. Aemond will not resent your son for it. I can imagine Luke is very distraught about what happened. You must attend to him. Reassure him that he was not at fault and I would never hold this over my nephew."

After she sent Alicent back to her family, Y/n returns to her original task and heads to the kitchens. She returns to Aemond's chambers a little while later, carrying a tray of food and drink for her son, ignoring the servants when they offered to carry it for her. Behind her, Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron are hovering in the doorway, poking their heads into the room and trying to get a good look at their brother abed. The Queen sets the tray down and turns back to the doorway with a knowing glance, “Come along. Dine with your brother but then leave him to rest.”

A picnic was made in Aemond’s bed, his mother and siblings surrounding him as they nibbled on bread and cheese. They talked about other things to distract the injured prince, telling stories about their day or laughing at a joke Aegon said. Viserys, in search of his family, limped into the room with his cane not long after, smiling softly at the scene before him.

After sending her other children away to let Aemond sleep, Y/n takes her husband's arm and carefully walks with him to her own chambers. His hair had begun to thin out and a hunch in his back drove him to lean forward or off to the side as he walked crookedly. He was no longer the peaceful, handsome king Y/n had married, and a small ache in her heart hammered every time she looked into his eyes, age spots and wrinkles beginning to form on his pale skin. Despite his troubles with his health, he still never looked happier.

"You are a wonderful woman, Y/n," Viserys held her arm in a firm grip, his kind smile pulling those wrinkles further up his face. His eyes dazzled warmly, happily, without a sign of a lie, "You're a good mother, a good queen, but most importantly you're a good wife. Had I not married you... I am not sure I would be surrounded by the most loving family and ruling such a prosperous kingdom. What would I do without you?"

Y/n smiled back, patting his arm affectionately as they make it down the long hallway of their home, "Best not to dwell on such a question, my love. The Seven Kingdoms are better off without knowing."

~~~

Viserys dies in his sleep a few years later. His health had gotten worse and the only thing he allowed the maester to administrate was the Milk of the Poppy to dull the pain. Otherwise, he didn't ask for a cure, nor did he try to even fight his illness. Many often wondered if, in the end, he was waiting to die. Others thought that guilt was a deadly illness and whatever secret the King had, died with him. After being given a window to mourn, the now Queen Regent, Y/n Hightower, crowned Viserys' rightful heir herself.

Queen Rhaenyra's coronation was grand, as what Viserys would've wanted for his beloved daughter. Daemon, his brother, proudly took the name, King Consort, while Rhaenyra named her firstborn son, Prince Aegon the Younger, her rightful heir. Lyonel Strong remained the Hand of the Queen, but his son, Harwin, was named Commander of the City Watch and was given a place at the Small Council's table. His children with Alicent were given titles to many lands, their oldest son heir to Harrenhal. Aegon the Elder was permitted the claim to Dragonstone, while Rhaenyra's other half-siblings were appointed as squires and cupbearers to her court, some were even betrothed to the Strong children.

Y/n, however, remained in King's Landing, despite being granted permission to go back to her family's home, Oldtown. With Rhaenyra's permission, she remained in the Red Keep where she had made a home among her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. Y/n Hightower -once called the Good Queen- died in her bed many years later, after briefly meeting her first great-grandchild to her son, Aegon, and his wife and niece, Visenya.

There were no Blacks. There were no Greens. A hundred years will pass and everyone will know the story of how one woman stopped the Dance of Dragons from ever happening. Or better yet, no one will have ever even heard of it.

~~~

A/N: I know, I switched everything up and made everyone confused. This was a form of therapy for me after I wished that everyone in the show would just get along.

Part Two

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moog-rt · 3 months

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GO TO HELL [ch. 2]

[Lucifer Morningstar x Fem!Reader]

Previous: Chapter One

➨ Chapter Two

Next: Chapter Three

Premise:

You love your friends. You really do. But sometimes it needs reminding when one of them accidentally sends you to Hell.

Despite falling into the hands of Hell’s loveliest princess, finding a way back to the world of the living proves difficult as you tiptoe around its king.

Warning(s): daddy issues, invasion of personal space

If you'd prefer to read on Ao3, here is the link:

Otherwise, enjoy!

♡ ♡ ♡

CHAPTER TWO

Once again, you found yourself having no clue what you signed up for. At this point, it was on you. You should have learned your lesson the last time you put your trust in someone.

This time, instead of being booted through a portal into hell, you were being dressed up like a doll. The outfit you arrived in wasn’t ‘hellspawn’ enough so Charlie was throwing a plethora of outfits at you and seeing what stuck. You had to admit, you liked how the new clothes looked on you, but Charlie would scrutinize them before changing them again.

Personally, you thought you were being a pretty good sport about it.

Just when you thought it was over, she dragged you in front of her vanity before darting out of the room. This worried you. It was safe enough to assume she was going to do something with your hair or makeup, but what did she need that wasn’t already here?

You began looking around her bedroom, taking in the details of the rich maroon wallpaper and the way the wood paneling complemented it in both shape and color. Her bed was truly something to be envious of, though. It seemed to be even bigger than a king, and the canopy frame allowed her to have translucent and opaque purple curtains draped in layers above it.

It was possible the entirety of the hotel could look like this once it was thoroughly scrubbed down and decorated. A diamond in the rough, if you will.

You could probably afford to stick around for a day to help deep clean. They were doing so much for you despite being a stranger who had (politely) broken in. Had you been in their shoes, you would have done them in with an iron skillet first and asked questions later (in the courtroom).

You jumped as Charlie came scrambling back in with what seemed to be tubes of paint. You couldn’t help but feel concerned for what was to come.

The paint was squeezed into a bowl with a squelching sound similar to a ketchup bottle towards the end of its life. She reached across you to grab a makeup brush and began mixing it together.

Where did she think she was gonna put that?

You barely had time to react before she dragged the cold wet brush across your cheek. It only took her a minute to completely lather your face. You dared to look at yourself in the vanity mirror as she moved on to cover the rest of your exposed skin. Her gentleness tickled as the brush swept across your arms. She kept it rather neat to your surprise.

“Don’t worry. We just need to get the base down, and then we can spruce it up!” she chirped.

When you asked what there was to get ready for, this was not what you imagined. You could understand not wanting to look like a bum when meeting new people, but to go this far… Meeting a parent shouldn’t even matter if you’re not dating their kid. There was nothing you had to prove to Charlie’s father. Especially since you wouldn’t see him again so long as everything went according to plan.

The actual reason Vaggie suggested this was far more reasonable.

No, they weren’t just doing this to make you look pretty. They wanted to hide you completely. The idea was to make you look like a demon to the best of their ability in hopes of avoiding any unwanted attention. You understood why. Your first hour or so in Hell was pretty traumatic to say the least.

Vaggie went on to list all the things that could happen to you if you were found as a human, which did not help your nerves one bit. You could end up on someone’s dinner plate, or your teeth could be sold on the not-so-black market for a pretty hefty price. Your bucket list may be lengthy, but having your parts being used as someone else’s decor was sure as shit not on it.

Charlie tried to reassure you that her childhood home wouldn’t be so dangerous. However, she couldn’t promise her dad would have a positive reaction to a human wandering around, so it would still be safer to go in disguise. It would also draw far less attention from the staff, meaning you wouldn’t be stuck there so long.

You really got the vibe that she had daddy issues from how much she emphasized it being a quick trip. Not to mention her reluctance to go in the first place…

Charlie finished up the base coat of paint and moved on to add details to make it more realistic. She then adjusted your hairstyle to cover your hairline where the edges of paint were most noticeable.

“Okay, okay, now the final touch…” she said as she bounced over to her closet behind you.

You couldn’t see what she was grabbing. You only felt something being placed on your head. Before you could look in the mirror, Charlie invaded your view and shoved a pair of glasses onto your face.

You were dragged over to her golden cheval mirror.

“Grand reveal!”

You certainly didn’t look human anymore. Your natural complexion was completely hidden, and the thing Charlie placed upon your head was a pair of fake horns, which she was bobby-pinning in place to ensure they’d stay put. The outfit itself you really liked, but the glasses she had chosen were in the shape of large hearts with bold red tint.

You felt so goofy.

You’d rather be offered up to one of the demonic cannibals than be caught looking like this in the living world. Your only solace was that the majority of people in Hell looked even stranger than you. That, and the amount of coverage you had made you feel like you were wearing a mask that you could hide behind..

“You look…amazing!” Charlie sang, hopping up and down a little. You may have felt a little embarrassed by your get-up, but the joy on her face nearly made it worth it. “Come on, we have to show Vaggie!”

You trailed behind her down the stairs where Vaggie was waiting to send the two of you off. She couldn’t tag along due to prior arrangements. If you remembered correctly, she was going to be interviewing potential guests for the hotel. Real guests rather than a human who had washed up on their doorstep.

“Vaggie, Vaggie, look!” Charlie called. “You would never guess she was human, right?”

Vaggie looked you up and down analytically before locking onto your face.

“It turned out pretty good, but, uh…” She gestured at her own eyes rather than pointing at you. “What’s with the shades?”

“Well…Her eyes were the only thing I couldn’t really disguise, so the sunglasses will keep them from being visible!” Charlie said with a big grin, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. “They’re also so cute.”

She and you must have very different tastes, but who knows, this could be what was trendy here in Hell. Even if it wasn’t, she made a good point. Of the few demons you’d seen, none of their eyes looked like a typical human’s.

Two beeps from outside the hotel were your cue it was time to head out.

“It’ll go great,” Vaggie said to Charlie, rubbing her back.

“Right…we’ll be back soon!” Charlie said as she led you outside where a white and pink limo was waiting.

Oh. So she was rich then.

You figured the hotel itself wasn’t too cheap, but the condition it was in didn’t make it seem like it would break the bank. This was a clue into Charlie’s status that had yet to be revealed to you.

The drive through town allowed you to take in the sights rather than watching it all blur by whilst running for your life. There was a good range of shops between ‘normal enough’ to ‘I’d expect no less from Hell.’ Some sold electronics and furniture while others advertised hitman services.

You were pretty sure you passed a vending machine that sold hard drugs.

Watching the denizens made you thankful that you were in the safety of the car. A woman in a business suit doing lines off a public bench before waltzing into the city library. A sketchy dude hanging around the outside of a rundown playground… He seemed to be mocking one of the kids before it launched itself at him, going straight for the jugular.

You looked away before you witnessed something you’d regret.

Charlie caught your eye, shooting you a wide grin. You did your best to smile back.

You wondered where her father would fall on the spectrum of people here. Would he be out for blood like the majority of folks you’d seen? If so, you’d be with Charlie trying to get out of there as quickly as you could.

“Park down here, please!” you heard Charlie say to the driver after a while.

Your surroundings hadn’t changed much from where you started out. The city did seem to be a bit more residential in this area, but the level of chaos remained the same.

You followed Charlie out of the vehicle, expecting to walk into one of the many townhouses lining the uneven street. Instead, she took you down a few blocks and around a corner. It was as if she didn’t want your arrival to be known. To be fair, you didn’t either. The thought of any interactions with Hell-dwellers beyond Charlie and Vaggie made you nervous.

You found yourself standing in front of tall golden gates attached to a stone wall that encircled a grand manor. It was massive, at least twice the size of the hotel, with elegant gold detailing around the windows and pillars. Even though it was gorgeous, you were a little thrown off by its odd shapes and red stripes that reminded you of a circus tent.

It was quite the niche aesthetic…

The front door opened as soon as the two of you reached the top of the stairs, greeted by a small red demon. He had black and white striped horns and wore a cute little suit that reminded you of a butler.

“Welcome back, miss,” he said, dipping his head a bit as he stepped aside to let us in. “I was unaware you would be visiting. Is your father expecting you?”

“Oh, no…” Charlie began fiddling with her hair. “We were just passing by when I remembered I wanted to…pick something up! It’s good to see you. I wish we could catch up, but my friend and I are on a tight schedule.”

Her laugh was forced as she grabbed your shoulders and began pushing you down the hall, ignoring the way you stumbled along. She told you that there would be a room where her dad kept an array of magical tools and artifacts. Most were gifts to earn his favor, she explained.

It made you wonder what sort of industry he was a part of where people were trying to suck up to such a degree.

Pictures lined the hallways with the majority having Charlie as the subject. Their golden frames contrasted nicely against the striped red wallpaper.

You couldn’t help but stop to look at one from when she was in an awkward preteen phase of her life. She was quick to notice and pull you away with a red face. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

Your relationship with Charlie was nothing deep. The two of you had only met the day before, afterall. But seeing bits of her past like this felt intimate in a way one would share memories with a friend. You hoped it didn’t embarrass her too much.

Maybe you would show her some of your baby pictures to make up for it later.

“Oh, this was my old bedroom! One second, there’s something I do want to grab,” she said as she pulled you to a stop before darting inside.

You peeked in through the doorway. It was similar to her current bedroom in some ways, another canopy bed with a plethora of drapery around it and a beautiful vanity with a soft glow emanating from behind it. Yet it was clear that it once belonged to a child from the stuffed animal collection and softer color palette.

Charlie had wandered over to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, rummaging through it as she searched for whatever it was she remembered.

You waited outside the doorway. It felt inappropriate to enter a place so sentimental to someone who was largely still a stranger to you. Seeing so many portraits from her past already seemed like a breach of her privacy even though you couldn’t help it. It’s not like you could wander around the halls with your eyes closed.

As you turned away from her room, a small man came strutting around the corner, donned in all white save for a red waistcoat and black knee-high boots. He was about to proceed down the hall perpendicular to yours before skidding to a halt.

His head whipped around to face you, and you froze.

Shit.

His pale blonde hair, ghostly white skin, and rosy spots on his cheeks made him nearly identical to Charlie. He had to be either the father or a brother that she had yet to mention.

He stared into your damn soul, unmoving. You wondered if he could see right through your disguise. Through the paint on your skin to the blood that pulsed underneath. Past your skull to the thoughts racing through your mind.

You stood stalk still in your spot, as well, staring right back at him. You felt it was the only thing you could do. It was either that or book it, but you weren’t paying attention to the turns you took to get to this point. You’d be lost in a heartbeat. Imagine how stupid you’d look then.

So you opted to harness your inner statue. You didn’t dare move a muscle in case–by some miracle–he could only detect movement. If you were lucky, he would shrug and continue strutting away.

Manifest…manifest…manifest–

“Who are you?” He demanded in a deadpan voice as he jabbed his cane in your direction.

Shittt.

“I’m–uh…” Your eyes darted to the side before landing back on him. “Who are you?”

Meeting the parents was never your forte.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dad!”

Thank fucking god.

His eyes lit up and a massive sharp-toothed smile spread across his face, completely forgetting about you the instant Charlie entered the hallway.

“Charlie!” he practically screamed, arms spreading wide into the air. You had to duck out of the way as he threw himself onto his daughter. One would think he was attempting to squeeze the life out of her with how tightly he was holding on.

She looked miserable.

You did your best to hide your smile at the exchange. You could remember all the times you were embarrassed by overly affectionate loved ones shamelessly kissing and cooing at you in front of your peers. You were sure that at least half the time it was done so with malicious intent.

On the flip side, it was always quite enjoyable to witness it happening to others.

“I know, Dad. It’s good to see you, too…” She was patting his back, an attempt to signal she was ready to be let go.

“Why didn’t you tell me you would be visiting? We could have planned something fun to do ahead of time–”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing! We weren’t originally planning on dropping by, but I remembered there was something I wanted to grab, so…” she lied.

You were unaware she hadn’t given her dad any sort of heads up at all. You felt bad that you were sneaking in without his knowing. Especially since he seemed so overjoyed just to get to see her.

“Speaking of,” she redirected, stepping aside and turning to you. “This is one of my friends–”

“Ah, it is so nice to meet you!” he eagerly cut in.

You were only going to exchange a small wave, but he practically jumped on you, grabbing your hand and shaking it with exuberance.

“My goodness, Charlie never brings her friends over. This–this is so exciting!”

He was so close that it gave you goosebumps. He looked less human than Charlie, but not quite animalistic like the other demons you’d seen. His red pupils were much smaller than hers, bordering on snake-like slits, and all of his teeth were akin to daggers. She must have gotten her more human qualities from her mother.

You did your very best to smile as genuinely as you could.

“It’s nice to meet you, too–uh–Sir.”

He drew back, finally giving you space. Then his eyes lowered to your mouth.

You quickly sealed your lips.

Was he looking at your teeth? They wouldn’t give you away, would they? Charlie and Vaggie had mostly dull teeth aside from their abnormally sharp canines. If he asked, you could tell him you wanted to see how far you could file them down…

Worrying about your appearance made you uncomfortably aware of the paint coating your skin. It felt so thick all of a sudden. So sticky but also dry. And the fake horns were so heavy. God, you wanted nothing more than to rip it all off.

Your heartbeat was picking up speed.

Did his eyebrow just twitch?

His eyes narrowed slightly but that grin held fast. He briefly looked down to his hands before returning to your face, rubbing his gloved fingers together. It was as if touching you left an uncomfortable feeling behind that he was trying to get off.

“I’m glad we got to run into you, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so we should get going,” Charlie said, laughing nervously as she tugged on your sleeve.

“It was nice meeting you,” you repeated with a dip of your head before following her down the hall.

You could feel his eyes on you while you walked away. As you turned the corner, you glanced back to confirm you were just paranoid.

His red eyes were locked onto you. He hadn’t moved from his spot, and his smile was gone.

Relief washed over once you were out of his line of sight. There’s no way he knew you were human. He couldn’t have been able to tell from just your teeth.

But then why did he look at you so strangely?

Your anxiety began to let up more and more as you got further away. Glancing over at Charlie, you could tell she, too, was bothered. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips pursed. She kept silent until you finally arrived at the room you came here for in the first place.

It was filled with shelves that held a wide variety of objects. From books, to statues, to strange glowing orbs on pedestals…

If you could find what you needed quickly, none of this would matter. You wouldn’t have to worry about Charlie’s dad figuring you out. You would be back home, safe and sound.

Where it was a good thing you were human.

Where the only things you had to worry about were bills and boy troubles.

“Alrighty,” Charlie said, closing the door after you. “I’m not really sure where to start, but some of these should have labels or descriptions or something.”

That was reassuring.

You each got to work, filing through piece by piece. She wasn’t wrong about some being labeled, though their names often told you little to nothing about what they actually were or what they could do.

As you went to flip through an old book similar in appearance to Devon’s, it was engulfed in purple flames. You gasped, backing away and colliding with something behind you.

Spinning around in hopes of preventing whatever you bumped into from falling, you came face to face with Charlie’s father.

Your heart stopped.

“Might I help you find something?” The smirk adorning his lips as he leaned closer was not comforting whatsoever. You were beginning to understand Charlie’s distress. This man had no concern for personal space.

Wide-eyed, you glanced over at Charlie who looked nearly as alarmed as you to see him there. You side-stepped away so that you were no longer sandwiched between him and the shelves.

“Dad…” Charlie drawled. “Don’t you have something more important to be doing right now?”

“What could possibly be more important than my favorite daughter? It’s been so long since I’ve last seen you!” he said, facing her.

“I’m your only daughter,” Charlie groaned.

“Uh-huh, which is why I want to spend as much time with you as I can~” he sang as threw an arm around her shoulder. “Say, have I gotten to show you my newest ducks yet?”

“No…look we’re really busy right now.”

“Right, right. Looking for something that you need,” he said, waving his hand in the air as he recalled her previous words. “In this room of all places?”

That made Charlie stiffen.

“Ah, well–uh…”

“She was just showing me around while we were passing,” you spoke up. You were so thankful that your smile didn’t falter when his half-lidded eyes turned to you once more. “It would have been a shame to have missed out on so many amazing relics.”

“I’m sure,” he hummed. “If you’re curious about any in particular, I can tell you all about them.”

He relinquished Charlie to step up to you again.

“Were you a historian when you were alive?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Ah…No…” you said, looking off to the side. There was a moment of silence before you realized he was probably expecting you to specify your occupation. “I was a clinical technician. Items such as these would be interesting to anyone though, I’d imagine.”

“And what did you do to wind up here in Hell?”

What?

“Um, I didn’t…”

“Many would assume working in the medical field would earn you a one-way ticket straight to Heaven, so what could you have possibly done to land yourself here?” His tone turned serious, eyes narrowing.

You needed to calm yourself down. He was probably just interrogating you to ensure his daughter was keeping good company. You’d likely do the same if your child was surrounded by a bunch of sinners with some of the worst track records known to man.

What answer could you give him that was justified enough but didn’t make you sound like a psycho?

You stole a bunch of human blood and used it in a satanic seance.

He didn’t need to know that.

Premarital sex?

No, he had no business knowing about your sex life either.

“I cheated on a test once,” you answered with a guilty smile.

He gave you the most deadpan stare you’d ever seen.

“Premarital sex, too.”

“That’ll do it!” Charlie chimed in.

“That’s the whole reason Charlie and I met actually,” you said, trying to redirect the conversation.

Both gave you odd looks. That probably wasn’t the best way to follow up that statement, but oh well.

“She told me all about how I can redeem myself at the hotel she’s running! I hope to one day reclaim my virginity until I find that special someone.”

You smiled sweetly in hopes that it would earn you a few more brownie points. Weren’t you just the most precious little sinner?

“That’s right! She only recently got here, and she’s already seeking redemption! Isn’t that fantastic?” Charlie placed herself at your side, presenting you as if you were a class project. “She hasn’t even heard about the extermination yet!”

“The what?” You turned to face her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she waved you off.

Her father had both hands propped upon his apple cane as he squinted at the two of you. You were clearly hiding something but he had yet to figure out what.

Trumpets began to blare from right beside you, causing even more strain on your frantic heart.

“Hehe, sorry, one second,” Charlie said, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check whatever notification caused that horrid noise. There was a moment of silence as she read the message before her eyes widened, and she went slack jawed. “Shit.”

Well. That didn’t sound good.

Her father looked concerned about her reaction, as well, placing himself at her side with a hand on her arm as he looked up at her.

“Is everything alright, sweetie?” he asked in a soft tone.

“It’s nothing,” she shook her head, pulling away from him. “It was nice seeing you, Dad, but we really have to go now.”

She grabbed your wrist and dragged you out of the room with her, leaving her father behind without a second glance.

Next Chapter

♡ ♡ ♡

tag list: @spookysisters @for-hearthand-home @crescent-z

#lucifer magne #lucifer magne x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #demon summoning #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer morningstar #occult #daddy issues #charlie magne #charlie morningstar #lucifer hazbin hotel #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer

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superprincesspea · 22 days

Text

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 14 - Secrets and Sapphires

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

Masterlist

~~~

Maris’ anger had not diminished in your absence, and she was certainly glad of the thunderous scolding you received from your father.

His finger pointing, his voice booming so loudly you imagine half the keep can hear it.

Stupid, careless, girl.

He was right, you had been careless. You’d lost yourself in Aemond’s company and what could be more careless than that?

Except, that wasn’t why he was angry. You'd gone missing for hours and your mothers' cheeks were still stained with tears.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it, “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You shouldn’t even let her join us in the hall tonight!” Maris pipes in when the shouting has dwindled down to a halt, her eyes narrowed and vengeful.

But her attempt at siding with your father is soon thwarted because Borros Baratheon doles out the punishments, not his daughters, and a fresh wave of anger washes over him.

“Quiet girl!” he snaps, before returning his attention back to you, his voice booming again, “you’ll get changed and you’ll do it quickly or so help me!”

You don't need to be told twice, and rush to your room, pulling a yellow gown from your armoire before thinking better of it.

Maris already thought you were trying to steal Aemond and, in her mind, yellow was the colour to do it in. So, you reach for the sapphire blue, making tonight its third outing of the summer and perhaps its final one too.

You’re still fiddling with the tiny buttons when Cassandra sneaks into your room with a pitying look.

She sits patiently on the bed, waiting for you to finish before picking up your brush and nudging you onto the stool next to your vanity.

“We can’t have you looking like this,” she says, her voice cheerful as she gently pulls the brush through all the knots which had formed in the rain.

Trying not to wince each time she hits a snag, you sit quietly, miserably , worrying the skirt of your dress and wishing your father had forced you to stay behind.

You're still shaken from the way his voice had boomed in your ears, and you’d rather curl up in a ball and cry, instead of facing an evening of polite conversation and Maris’ seemingly endless supply of anger.

“She’ll get over it,” Cassandra says, and you know she’s right but that doesn’t make it any easier. If you could skip forward to a place where Maris didn’t hate you, you would, but there was no quick fix, only time.

“And...” she begins, waiting for you to meet her eye in the mirror, “ I think we both know she never had a chance.”

Heart suddenly in your throat, you look at your hands, hoping to hide any of the thoughts which may have escaped onto your face.

But Cassandra doesn’t need any confirmation of what she already knows to be true.

“I do not believe I’ve ever seen Prince Aemond look at Maris the way he looks at you,” she says, and you stiffen, it was exactly what the Queen had said at the tourney.

“If you knew why , you would be ashamed to have me as your sister.”

You look up from your hands just in time to see Cassandra’s eyes widen with horror, the brush stopping its progress.

“Do not tell me you have given him your virtue?”

“No! ” you say quickly, surprised by her suggestion.

Though, for one brief moment, you can’t help but imagine what that would be like.

High Valyrian rolling from his tongue, long fingers wrapping around your waist instead of books. Would his kiss be gentle, hesitant even? Just a soft, momentary press of lips to test your willing.

Or would it be certain? Urgent? Would he push you up against the bookcases, hard and feverish, his lips devouring yours before finding the racing pulse at your neck, his hands moving from your waist, hitching up the skirts of your dress and-

Clearing your throat, you banish the thought away, but not quickly enough. Your cheeks are more than a little flushed when you admit, “I met him before we came to court.”

“Where ?”

“On the beach below the keep.”

She laughs, her brow knitted with confusion, “why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because I was alone… and I was…” you hold your tongue, could you really tell her the truth?

“I was swimming ,” you whisper, and it feels both cathartic and terrifying at the same time.

Cassandra’s fingers fall from your hair altogether and you dare not look at her in the mirror. Instead, you turn to meet her, face to face, your heart pounding harder than before, your palms slick with sickening nerves.

Yet, instead of shame you find anger, an emotion which barely ever registers on her face, and her voice is low, tense .

“Did he hurt you?” she demands in a hushed whisper which is no less powerful than your fathers bellowing.

“No ,” you gasp, knowing precisely what she is thinking as you reach to touch her arm and reassure her, “he only looked, but he has teased me about it all summer.”

She laughs then, relieved , her hands returning to your hair. “No wonder he looks at you like that .”

“Like what?”

“Like he is constantly on the brink of kissing you.”

Your cheeks flush yet again, but Cassandra’s tone hardens, scolding you. “You know you really should have told me this months ago. And Maris. How could she ever stand a chance when Prince Aemond had already fallen in love with you?”

“He loves tormenting me, nothing more.”

“If you say so,” Cassandra teases before shaking her head, “I still cannot believe you thought you could keep this a secret. Heavens, you can be so wilful sometimes.”

“But you’ll promise not to tell anyone?” you say, desperately, and by ‘anyone’, you mean Maris.

“We are sisters, your secrets are mine to keep, not to share,” she reassures, sliding the last pin into your hair and you relax, turning on the stool to hug her tightly.

It was strange, but despite all your torment, you hadn’t realised just how much you’d needed such comfort until her arms were wrapping around your shoulders and she was kissing the top of your head.

It was no secret that you and Cassandra had never been as close as you and Maris, who were like partners in crime compared to your perfect, angelic, older sister. But her embrace is so steadfast, that it seems impossible to imagine you could have any better friend or sister than her.

“You know...” she starts, as you pull away from the embrace, “we never did get to the bottom of who sent us these gowns...”

You look down at your dress, the sapphire bodice glimmering with gems, and she was right. After trying to thank Tyland Lannister, you hadn’t really wanted to think who could have bought them. Or why.

“Helaena told me that when Aemond lost his eye, they offered to replace it with gold,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “he chose a sapphire instead.”

“A sapphire?” you choke, picturing the way it might glitter beneath the patch across his eye. So beautiful, so radiant. Just like your gown.

Then you think of the times you’d wore the dress in front of him and feel as though you might be sick. From nerves, from anger, from the sheer audacity of the knowing smiles you’d seen on his face each time.

Were you really wearing something he’d picked out?

You didn’t want to believe it, but who else could afford such a thing?

Who else would choose this exact shade of sapphire blue?

Hurrying towards your armoire, you reach for the yellow gown once again but it's too late. Your father's voice is booming into your room and it's time to leave, whether you’re ready or not.

Cursing the entire situation, you trail behind your family all the way to the hall, wondering how long it would take them to notice if you decided to slip away. If you hadn’t gone missing this afternoon, you would chance it, but you’re not sure you can withstand any more of your father's anger.

Instead, you think, so what if Aemond chose your dress? It didn’t mean anything .

Except, you can’t even hold that lie in your brain for more than a moment before it falls apart. Because it did mean something. Everything he’d done meant something .

He’d met you on the beach in spring and thought of you often enough to invite you here for summer, to choose the books on your nightstand, and purchase the most beautiful gown you’d ever seen, for no other purpose than to see you standing in a room wearing the exact shade of his eye.

Yet, the same man who’d done all those things, had also stolen more than one look at your naked body, threatened all your suitors, toyed with Maris, told everyone you couldn’t dance, embarrassed you in front of his mother, and killed Ser Glover in cold blood.

He was impulsive, arrogant and completely ignorant to anyone’s feelings but his own. You still hated him, a few hours in the library couldn’t change that.

You could only pray that he would not be in the hall tonight because hating him and facing him were too very different things.

Yet there he was. Across the room. A dark line of fine black leather, his eye meeting with yours, holding all your attention before it slowly sinks to your dress.

The slightest twitch of a smile quivers at his lips, and you know, beyond any doubt, that he was the mysterious secret admirer who’d sent three gowns to the Baratheon sisters. One pink, one lilac and one sapphire blue.

You swallow hard and he begins to move, abandoning the people he was in conversation with, his usual cocky gait carrying him quickly across the room and, more importantly, directly towards you.

He’s already made it halfway before you jump into action.

Seven hells!

What was he thinking?

He was Aemond Targaryen. When he walked, people watched.

Maris watched.

He couldn’t just walk right up to you like this. He wasn’t the kind of man who walked right up to anyone- unless he was threatening them.

Breaking away from your family, you skirt around the edge of the room, and he changes direction. Another smile twitching at his lips, as though he’s enjoying the chase. But you’re not going far, just far enough so Maris cannot see past the crowds.

You wait for Aemond by a thick stone column and, when he’s close enough, you push him behind it, so you can be hidden from all the prying eyes that might be watching.

“We can find more privacy than this if you wish to have me alone, issa jorrāelagon,” he says, a devilish smirk now filling his cheeks entirely.

You sigh sharply, “that is the last thing I want!”

“Are you certain?” his gaze scrapes down, to where the tips of your fingers are still pressed against his chest, “then why are you pinning me against a wall?”

Embarrassed , you snatch your hands away, knotting them behind your back, your heart thumping as he laughs, enjoying every ounce of your torment as per usual.

Then you let out an exasperated sigh, wondering, yet again, how you’d spent so many hours with this man.

“You cannot just walk right up to me in front of the entire room,” you warn and, though a small frown creases into his brow, amusement still holds sway over his face.

“How else am I to ask you to dance?”

“You cannot!” you exclaim tartly, appalled to think that was what he was planning on doing. “You cannot even speak to me in front of them. I forbid it .”

“You forbid your prince?”

“Yes , Maris hates me enough as it is and, if you consider yourself my friend , you will do no more harm between us.”

At that, you try to leave, feeling you have already spent far too long with the most conspicuous man in the room, but his hand slides to your waist, holding you still.

“Do you consider yourself my friend?” he asks, and you cannot think of anything more dangerous than friendship with a dragon, but you’d say anything to placate him.

“We can be friends if you stay away from me.”

He snorts, “that's a strange recipe for friendship, would you not say?”

“Not if the friendship is already strange,” you retort before pulling away from his grasp and heading straight towards your family, only to be intercepted by Lord Boremund before you can even make it five paces.

“Little cousin,” he says, taking your hand, “please allow me the honour of your first dance this evening.”

You accept, glad to be away from Maris for as long as possible and surprised when Ser Robin asks for your next dance, then Lord Thorne for your third.

It seemed Aemond had not only allowed Tyland Lannister to resume the pursuit of your hand, but half of court too. Yet, like Tyland Lannister, it only made these men seem both spineless and fickle.

Were they all afraid of a dragon?

So, instead of feeling pleased to be dancing with them, you find yourself feeling increasingly annoyed, and you’re not the only one.

Throughout every turn you make around the floor, you see Aemond pacing the edges like a caged animal and three dances is all it takes before he breaks.

He strides fast, unconcerned by the movement swirling to avoid him, and you watch his every step with both heart pounding surprise and gut-wrenching exasperation, as he sweeps into Lord Thorne’s place and steals your hand without a single word to the other man.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath, extremely conscious of the scene he is creating.

“It seems I cannot be your friend, ” he retorts, but you hardly hear him, you’re too busy looking around. Pleased to see that people are not pointing or staring, and the dance is continuing as though nothing is amiss.

It’s only Lord Thorne who looks out of place, his cheeks flushed with anger, his steps faltering as he tries to move around the other couples.

At this point, you think it might actually draw more attention if you stop dancing, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about the situation. You’re so mad at Aemond, you could stamp on his stupid foot.

“You could have at least waited for the next dance,” you scold, knowing you would have rejected his offer, if he had actually asked.

“I want all your dances, including this one,” he says, leading you into a turn and when you’re facing him again, you glare, ensuring he knows that, despite your current actions, you’re still very much annoyed.

“And you think nothing of what I want?” you say. It was not half an hour since you’d told him not to speak with you, let alone dance with you. Yet here you were, in his arms.

“Would you rather dance with them instead of me ?”

Words stick on your tongue, and you're glad for another turn, so you can think of an answer, because you can’t exactly tell him ‘no’ .

You wouldn’t rather dance with them.

Lord Boremund was your cousin, Ser Robin was far too tall, and Lord Thorne was perfectly fine and perfectly handsome, except his touch did not set your skin ablaze as Aemond’s did.

You face him again, and you must say something, so you think of propriety and all the rules which had been drummed into your head since you were old enough to walk. “As an unmarried lady, I shall not be obliged to give special treatment to anyone, even his grace.”

“Then marry me.”

What?

You’re so surprised, you can’t help but laugh, your mind spinning, your cheeks heating beyond reason. “ Be serious, ” you say, almost choking on the words as they splutter from your lips.

“I am,” he replies with a low voice, and he isn’t joking. He’s waiting, wanting, but you cannot possibly give him the answer he craves.

You cannot even speak as he draws you in, holding you far closer than any man should in a room full of people. One hand on your lower back, the other brushing the length of your arm before he curls his fingers into yours.

If there had been butterflies in the library, there are dragons now. Hatching carelessly in the pit of your stomach. Hot and dangerous, long wings reaching to the very tips of your toes until you feel flimsy in his sturdy embrace.

You open your mouth, but there are no words, and what’s left is far worse than any words could ever be. You hate the sound which pants breathlessly from your lips, soft, submissive , welcoming his advances wholeheartedly.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you were enjoying this. But you’re not. You don’t want him. Not as a friend, not as a husband.

Yet your eyes still graze his lips, and you find yourself wondering, for the second time in a single evening, what it would be like to be kissed by him.

"Marry me, Lady Baratheon,” he says again, and you both miss a step in the dance, almost colliding with another couple, before you regain control of your senses and wedge your free hand between your chest and his.

Gods. You cannot meet his eye.

“You do not dance well enough for me to condemn myself to marriage,” you whisper, your voice strained, before you force another laugh to break the tension.

If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it, his tone is still light, playful even. “Is it marriage you disapprove of, or your prince?”

You breathe out another shaky breath, but your voice is a little stronger when you say, “I do not disapprove of marriage. ” Only dragons.

Aemond’s huff of amusement is light, meant only for your ears, and you’re grateful when the dance requires you to break from his arms and weave between the other partners.

Inhaling a lung full of air, you’re certain not to let him reel you in again. Instead, you hold yourself rigid, your palm pressed against his chest to prevent any further encroachment into the battlements you’re trying desperately to defend.

“Now behave yourself or I shall be forced to return to my room, for yet another evening,” you warn, daring to meet his eye.

“Good ,” he smiles triumphantly, seeming to enjoy the way you’re struggling to hold him at bay, “I shall meet you there.”

“With the guard outside the door?” you say hotly, imagining the look on Ser Maurin’s face if Aemond tried to waltz into your room without a chaperone.

He leans in harder, forcing your arm to cave against his strength, “I shall climb in through the window.”

When you turn again, you jab his rib, not too hard but hard enough to make him wince and remind him how difficult climbing would be with such an injury, “I think not , and in any case, I shall bolt it to be certain.”

He chuckles and, though you’re not looking at him, you can picture just how smug his smile must be as he says, “you imagine a bolt across a window could stop me?”

“No ,” you glance back to meet his eye, “but I’d hope his grace would not force himself into someone’s company if they had asked him to stop .”

The music finishes before he can reply, and all the other couples break away with bows and curtsies to find someone new.

But not you and Aemond. Aemond wants all your dances, and he does not relinquish control of your hand despite your efforts. He holds it tight, possessive, and you can feel as people begin to stare.

“I shall scream if you do not let me go this instant,” you hiss under your breath, trying to remain composed.

His jaw tightens, frustration seeming to cling to every muscle in his body just as he loosens his grip, sliding his hand behind his back so his stance is as formal as it is unyielding.

When you turn to leave, you notice Maris who’s been staring at the whole scene with daggers instead of eyes.

“If you truly care about me at all,” you begin, purposely avoiding his gaze, “you will ask someone else to dance this instant or I fear Maris will never forgive me.”

Aemond snorts, “when you are here and she is in Storms End, it will not matter what she thinks.”

“It matters to me!” you say, a little too loudly, but you’re so painfully annoyed with him that you can hardly be expected to contain your temper, “not that you seem to think of anything but your own selfish desires.”

When you walk away, you feel him step to follow before he hesitates and turns on his heel to walk in the opposite direction.

Not that you dare to look back or feel any relief that he has not followed you, you’re too anxious for that.

Instead, you make it to where your sisters are standing with Belis, and Maris laughs as she says, “it seems Prince Aemond is pitying all the wallflowers with a dance this evening.”

Then you do look at him and, just as you’d asked, he’s escorting another to the floor. Lady Staunten, who’d not danced all summer and seemed more terrified than pleased to be in his company.

“Shall we take a turn of the room?” Cassandra offers with a warm smile and you’re grateful for another opportunity to leave Maris’ bad mood behind.

“Did you ask him about the dress?” she says, when you are far enough away from the others and, quite honestly, you’d forgotten about the dress altogether.

But you don’t say that, or anything, you’re too distracted, craning your neck to watch Aemond as he moves methodically across the floor, as though the dance holds no joy, only steps.

Did he really just ask you to marry him?

It was such a surprise, it felt like you could have imagined the whole thing. In fact, you wish you had imagined it. Then you wouldn’t have to think about it, and you were quite certain you could think of little else.

It wasn’t every day a man asked you such a question- o r ever. But you couldn’t be entirely sure of Aemond’s motives. Did he truly want marriage and all that it entailed, or was it just another hot-headed impulse?

Though you suppose none of that really mattered, since there were no circumstances in which you would agree to be his wife. Even if he wasn’t the most arrogant man in the world, he was still a Targaryen, and they were a strange family with even stranger proclivities.

Yet, by the time you’ve walked an entire circle of the room, he’s asking another wallflower to dance, and you feel the unmistakable claw of envy, scratching at your skin.

You turn away, wanting to forget about him but there was really no forgetting Aemond Targaryen.

There wasn’t even safety in the bosom of your family. There was Alicent, talking to your mother with a coy smile and, for one heart stopping moment, you wonder if she knows . If they both know.

Because marriage would not be a choice if your mother was involved. There would be no question about it, you’d be given to the crown without a single thought for your wishes, and that would be that .

“Ah, Lady Baratheon,” Alicent says, noticing the way you’re lingering in her periphery.

You curtsy politely, heart pounding as she waves her hand to beckon you closer.

“We were just discussing how pleasant it would be to enjoy the last days of summer with a picnic in the Kingswood. Do you ride?”

“Yes ." You even enjoyed it under usual circumstances.

"Good,” she laughs, the curls in her hair bouncing with the movement, “there is not much room in the wheelhouse for so many ladies and the fresh air will give you vigour.”

You start, thinking your mother might have something to say about the suggestion but she’s nodding along with the Queen. “You mean for me to ride all the way to the Kingswood?” you confirm, thinking it an unlikely ask for a high borne lady.

“I’m sure one of the men will keep you company,” Alicent says as though it's the most natural thing in the world. But what she means is, Aemond will keep you company .

Without thinking, you turn to look at him, annoyed that you cannot seem to retain autonomy over your own gaze, which seems intent to seek him out despite your wishes.

When you turn back to look at Alicent, her smile reminds you so much of her son that you almost tell her to hell with the Kingswood and to hell with Aemond. But you’re sure your mother would have some choice words if you humiliated her in front of the Queen.

So, you return her smile, thanking The Seven that Alicent has no idea her son just asked you to marry him. But she’s expecting it, you can see it on her face.

What had Aemond said in the library?

That she would finally think he was consenting to giving her a grandchild. Well, you aren’t consenting. As far as you were concerned, you had two older sisters and it was only proper that they should marry first.

~~~

Thank you for reading!

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #romance #female reader #enemies to lovers #aemond targaryen x oc #prince aemond #slow burn

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big-tiddy-bi · 1 year

Text

Without ao3 I became inspired. Ok so being tired of the justice league not helping/believing brakes into the tower while a meeting is taking place to show one of the heroes what is happening I.E. you failed and don’t come here we don’t want you, we don’t need you. You come here and you will be treated as a super villain and dealt with as such.

—————

Danny was sick, tired and powerful. A dangerous combination for most peoples. Myths and legends written throughout every religion every people every and every world based on gods feeling those exact things, and that is the thing Danny closest too, not ghost, not human, but a god. Even if he does not himself as such.

Today was the justice league’s last chance, Walker had decided to change up his tactics. Instead of going after Danny directly he was going to play dirty. Imprisoning 300 living for ”harboring a fugitive”. The justice league was called, one last chance before thing got out of hand. 300 people held captive in another dimension should be a priority for a group called the justice league.

Their response “the justice league contact system should only be used for emergencies, pranks will not be tolerated”. a simple response. directed and to the point. A metaphorical death sentence for the justice league and the people of amity’s faith in them.

No one died, thank the ancients, but blood was spilled. Red and green fell to the floor like water from the large cuts on Danny’s arms and the side of his torso, he was mostly fine, a couple stitches, about a gallon of filtered ectoplasm and a trip to the nasty burger had fixed him up. Meaning that every time he tried to move his arms he felt like he was being stabbed and he could not breathe without pain, which in all fairness was kind of normal for him, it sucked but it was normal.

The real problem was the 300 people I’m the hospital, ecto contamination, not to the extent of being fatal but extremely painful. That could have been avoided if Danny had more help than just his team of 4 other teenage vigilantes and his adult sister.

So after that fiasco Danny did something, else, something more political, he mad deals. With permission from the most important people in town the ones who keeps everything running, IE Mr lancer and Jazz. He also got permission from the mayor, bribed with Danny going to a Green Bay packers game with him.

Johnny 13 and kitty could joy ride before 12 am and after 9am as long as property damage stays at a minimum, a couple smashed mailboxes, broken windows and spray painted cars/buildings paid for by the mayors office was better than bad luck to the entire town and people disappearing.

Skulked got to hunt Danny in a building made for that purpose, Spector-cameras installed in it so people could stream it live to “witness the greatest hunter of the ghost zone”.

Ember got to play her music and travel on tour as she pleased as long as she didn’t mind control people.

Some wouldn’t take the deals but most of the heavy hitters did, it calmed down a lot, but as they say it the calm before the storm.

With the viewers of the “ghost battles” (it was basically a game of extreme tag) and embers fans talking, the ghost situation became a known thing

And again the justice league responded. “we will be there in a month”

No apologies for not believing them no apologies for not helping, just a we are on our way 8 months after the incident and they were going to be there 9 months after. All the people where health again, Walker was punished, locked in his haunt for the next 100 years. The justice league has nothing to do. They have no point in coming to amity. Where they just going to show up, say “sorry for not helping you, welp peace” and then just leave.

Maybe that was the point, that though crossed Danny’s mind as he read the message out loud to his team. They didn’t have any to do, a vanity project, help the small community that they abandoned so that the people don’t go blabbing to the papers, a pr move.

Sam and Valerie had voiced the same opinions on what the justice league was doing. The rest of the team agreed after a short conversation.

This led to Tucker hacking the league computer system to find the next meeting date and we’re it would be held. “Unhackabal my ass” and a plan was made.

So here he is, invisible, intangible and floating above the justice league. Batman walked up to the podium and began to present.

“8 and a half months ago the league got a report of 300 people being kidnapped and sent to the ghost dimension, this was believed to be a prank and filled as such, we were wrong” he said while clicking through slides, some of medical reports of the victims, some of the photos taken of him helping people out of the portal next to the hospital he mad to help the victims faster. Then he said “ this is the city’s resident hero team” the next slide showing the picture of Danny, Sam , Wes, Valerie, tucker and jazz receiving the key to the city.

“We one know of this misstep because of videos posted online of phantom pictured here” he pointed an Danny receiving the key, another picture of him helping a man to the hospital appeared “and here”

“Do we know who trained them they don’t look older than sixteen” Wonder Woman asked. Before batman could answer Danny revealed himself, though he made his skin slightly translucent to show his bones, it was all part of the plan.

He floated down to the floor and looked directly at her “we trained ourselves”

He turned to face the whole room. “ I am not here to fight you” he said as a couple of hero quickly moved from their seats. “ I came to warn you”

He took in a breath “ I came to warn you, stay out of amity and stay in your lane.” He put a small amount of his ghostly wale into his voice, just enough to shake up their hearts. “ we don’t need you. We don’t WANT you” he cold the room slowly a couple degrees a word. “ do not ask around for us ghosts, do not look for us, if you find one of us. RUN.” He dropped his voice louder as emphasis. “ if you find one of us causing trouble, send us a message, but otherwise don’t acknowledge us or amity, the dead have nothing to give to you” his eyes became fussy staring at nothing green tears fell out of his eyes,and his Lichtenberg scars began to glow Ice blue, but his voice did not waver,.“ you may not have killed us yourself but you signed our death warrant long ago, you have ignored us far to long” is voice soften at the last word.

Then his eyes turns red, as fast as he could he pulled Superman out of his chair and pushed him to the wall. Danny’s hand went intangible as he pushed in into Superman’s chest. His hand wrapped around Superman’s heart, Danny soften the intangibility so Superman could fell the hand but not get hurt. “I can rip your heart out without a single fight” his skin became entirely invisible to show his skeleton. “To all of amity” Superman’s breathing quickened “to me” he move close to Superman’s ear “you are villains, and will be treated as such” he dropped Superman to the floor.

“Stay in your domain and I’ll stay in mine” ice began to form at his feet, looking mor like crystals than ice. “Come to us with please of forgiveness is as pointless as asking of it from your god” ectoplasm dripped from his mouth onto the floor. “Do not come to amity” and with that he went invisible again and watched the room in amusement. He was kinda freaking out at how awesome he sounded.

A couple minutes of silence followed. As John Constantine entered the room, “what did I miss?”

———————-

Hope y’all like it <3 Sorry for spelling mistakes. I don’t think this need trigger warnings but if you think so please comment so I can add them. I started writing this and I couldn’t stop. If only I had that energy for the original story’s I want to write lol Have a nice day/night and drink some liquids that aren’t caffeinated and/or poisonous <3

#danny fenton #danny phantom #sorry for spelling mistakes #fanfic #fanfic ideas #dc x dp #dp x dc #justice league #Eldridge Danny phantom

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fuckmyskywalker · 5 months

Text

❄️ 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡 : 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐩 - 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐤𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫.

— CW: 18+. Smut. Tit sucking. Mention of oral. | Word Count: 1k (not proofread!)

— a/n: Third day of the Anyafest let's go <3!

— Anyafest 2023 + Taglist!

“You are home early,” You say from the couch with a blanket draped over your lap. Lowering your holo-pad, Anakin eyes you as if saying ‘Why are you home early?’. “Bad day?”

His expression says it all. He just sits next to you with his arms crossed. Reading Anakin’s mood is not something hard, but finding out the predominant emotion can be quite tricky. He isn’t exactly used to vocalizing his emotions unless necessary. Patience has always been the answer. Anakin just stares at the wall and you can hear his breathing.

“Do you think I’m a bad Master?”

Placing your pad on your side, you scoot closer to him. “What happened?” You place a comforting hand on his bicep, tracing the edges of his armor with a concerned look.

“I feel like I’m not good enough to train Ashoka,” His words make you frown. That was unlike him. “I… I kind of messed it up today. I had my head wrapped around the mission that I forgot she is still learning.”

“And?” You politely ask him to continue. He takes another deep breath before, looking at you with a mixture of guilt and remorse.

“I yelled at her, and I felt terrible. I lost my temper… again.” Anakin sighs. “It wasn’t even her fault. She did everything I commanded and she did it flawlessly— I don’t know if I am being too demanding, or am I being too senseless—”

“Ani,” You stop his rambling. Your hand cups his cheek to bring his face closer to yours. “You are a wonderful tutor and Master. I understand stress can get a hold on you sometimes, I mean— Those types of missions aren’t easy” With a gentle smile, you kiss his cheek. “You can apologize, I’m sure Ashoka will understand. Remember that not long ago you were in her place. Stop self-doubting yourself.”

Anakin’s eyes soften and the ghost of a smile dances over his lips. He leans closer to meet your lips this time. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He whispers against your face. Pressing his forehead against yours, Anakin is relieved to once again find support in you. “What would I be without you?”

Standing up, Anakin gives you a curious look. “I know you would be lost without me, but wait a second. I think I have just the right thing to brighten up your mood.”

Fleeing to your bedroom, you fumble inside the boxes of leftover Christmas decorations looking for the big red ribbon roll. Anakin calls your name from the living room but you ignore him; instead, you remove your top, cutting a long piece of ribbon with your teeth and carefully wrapping it around your chest. Staring in the vanity mirror you twist it and maneuver it so it covers your nipples and squeezes your breasts together, before mindfully leaving a big bow in the middle. It’s a cheap plastic ribbon but at least it did the trick. The door opens and Anakin walks in, stopping in his tracks when he sees you. He calls your name with a chuckle, crossing his strong arms again. “What’s this?” His eyes twinkle with excitement as he takes slow, deliberate steps around you, almost circling you like a predator. Those same eyes eat you up and down. “Is this supposed to be my gift?”

“Call it an early Christmas” You shrug, extending your arms open for him to come near. He takes the message immediately and within seconds his hands are caressing your sides. His thumb traces small circles over your belly button, the cold leather making you shiver. “So, are you going to unwrap your present?”

“Maybe. I kind of want to look at it a little more.”

He sits on the bed, bringing you to his lap and biting his lip as his eyes fixate on you. His lips kiss your collarbone, each little smooch getting him closer to your chest. With his teeth, Anakin pulls one of the bow ribbons, untying it as he pulls away. Your hands run through his short hair, twirling your index finger in the curl that always lays on his forehead. The bow finally loses and the ribbon falls around you, sliding around your hips before landing on the carpeted floor.

Anakin gasps, giggling under his breath as your tits brush against his warm face. “Is this my present?” It doesn’t matter how many times he sees your chest, or your entire body for that matter— he always acts as if it was the first time. Amazed and excited. “Didn’t know I could eat it…”

His tongue licks your left nipple, flicking it and sucking it. If there’s something he could do for hours is suck your tits, and he had mentioned it many, many times. He switches sides, biting and teasing until both nipples are erect and slightly swollen.

“Yummy.” He laughs, rubbing his face in the middle and inhaling your scent, closing his eyes and shaking his head from side to side. How can a man be so fascinated by a pair of tits? You have no idea. Anakin returns his mouth to your nipples, greedily sucking again as his hands grope and fondle your ass, slapping it playfully and sliding them inside your pajama bottoms to feel the soft, supple flesh. Your hips begin to grind against him, seeking the smallest hint of relief. Anakin grunts against your chest, enjoying this little treat.

“Did you like your present?” You ask breathlessly and he nods.

He releases your nipple with a soft pop, licking his lips sensually. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you—” He kisses your nipples, loving the way you jolt. “Or for your tits, now that we are on it. But I have another idea to make my day even better.”

He lifts you, always showing off his strength only to put you down on the bed. He settled comfortably in between your spread legs. “And what’s your idea, General Skywalker?”

“I already unwrapped a gift, but what if you wrap your thigh around my head as I eat your pussy?”

#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 anya writes!#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 anyafest 2023!#anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin x reader #anakin skywaker x reader smut #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skwalker #anakin skywalker fan fiction #clone wars anakin #clone wars anakin x reader

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ddarker-dreams · 7 months

Text

Nexus IV.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit not SFW, alcohol consumption, Space Politics, possessive behavior, yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 15.4k.

Nexus index.

Time plucked away at the few petals still clinging to Kafka’s roses.

The insipid end brought an inexplicable sense of relief. An irrational foreboding cast suspicion upon the bouquet; you considered it an ill-omen. You observed it religiously as one would an upside-down hourglass. Waiting, anticipating, dreading. When the last petal fell, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was late by then, so you decided to throw the remains away in the morning.

Presently, you examine the vase.

The once wilted stems stand tall, pridefully lifting its crowning gem on a green pedestal. Ruby-colored petals burst forth, wickedly beautiful and fragrant.

Is this a practical joke? Some little parlor trick intended to unnerve you?

The latest developments in holograms include olfactory stimulation. Consider this, you decide to test its authenticity. You reach out, expecting your hands to glide through an incorporeal image.

Your fingers meet resistance.

You try again just to be certain — the results are the same.

You’re more determined to get rid of it now than ever.

You pick up the most vain rose by its stem. It delays its demise by pricking you, earning a temporary pardon along the white veneer of your vanity.

Blood pools into a crimson dome on your finger. You watch it, mesmerized, taken aback by memories that emerge alongside it.

The voice of a haughty girl echoes throughout your being.

“What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, don’t we?”

The LOTUS-EATER has always been your home.

So long as it wasn’t open for business, you were free to run amuck. Of course, you refused to run amuck — how unladylike is that — but you did enjoy roaming. There were a lot of interesting things to look at. Anything was better than spending hours in front of that dumb blue screen with its stupid made-up people with stupid made-up problems. You didn’t get it. Everyone always said you’d grow up to be a super amazing Arbiter. You’d get tons of clients, make them all happy, get mountains of credits, buy the IPC, and then fire their staff.

Miss Calliope, your teacher when mother was busy, said it took most twenty years to get to where you’ve gotten in one. This reinforced an argument you’d practiced for many cycles. You thought for sure you could convince mother.

It didn’t work out that way.

Mother said you had to keep studying before you could make a link with an organic being. You really wanted to argue, but you chose to act like an adult and be angry in silence instead. She tried to win you over and offered a ride on the nectar guides. This bribe almost swayed you from your mission. To ensure she knew how serious you were, you said you’d pass, calmly enough for her to know you weren’t actually calm.

She went off somewhere to discuss boring things with boring people. You seized this opportunity to further refine your strategy and paced The Lounge’s hallways. Maybe if you broke the blue screen, mother would have no choice but to let you learn through experience. This idea greatly enthused you, until you remembered they could just get another blue screen. For this mission to succeed, you needed to cause the ‘collapse of supply chains.’ This was adult for ‘we can’t get the stuff we want’ from what you could surmise. The problem was, you didn’t know where these important chains were located. There’s Thelx, the good place, Ade, the weird place, Mele, the boring place, and Arc, the scary place.

You stood and contemplated. If you had to hide something important, you’d put it in the scariest spot. Arc it is then.

A mission of this magnitude would be unlike anything you pulled before. You’d need a… what was that term again…? Accompanied lice…?

Accomplice!

That’d be the crux of the whole thing. It couldn’t be any of the adults either, they’re all snitches. You required someone who would do your bidding. You closed your eyes and concentrated. There were three people around. Two on the first floor, one on the second. You sought out the latter.

A little boy with long blonde hair and dull blue eyes sat by himself in the break room. He hadn’t noticed you yet, he just stared off into space and halfheartedly kicked his legs. The workers sometimes brought their kids along and stuffed them in here, where there were snacks and games. He didn’t seem interested in either.

What resolve, you thought. What fortitude!

You walked in front of him, pointed, and loudly demanded, “What’s your name?”

“M-Miss Phaeales?” He squeaked.

“No, that’s my name,” you sighed. Maybe your intuition was off. “What’s your name?”

He hung his head and frowned.

“Oh, um… I’m Vincent.”

You squinted. “Huh? That can’t be right. Vincent’s the bartender. You can’t do that.”

“He’s my dad. We have the same name.”

You felt a strange feeling from tinier Vincent; the kind of strange feeling that made your stomach and head hurt. Mother said you’d be able to block it out as you grew up. You hoped you’d grow up soon.

“Well, that’s dumb. I don’t like that name,” you decided. He remained silent. “Pick a new one.”

“I don’t think I can…?”

“You can because I said you can. Pick a new one, or I’ll pick one for you.”

He stared at you like you had three heads. You did the scary thing mother does when angry — you counted down from three to one in a mean voice. Not-tinier-Vincent just sat there and looked confused. You scrunched your face up when your mean counting finished. You didn’t get it, that always worked on you. He must be immune to pressure… a quality your mission required.

Maybe he had his merits after all.

“Alright, I’ll pick one. From now on, you’re… hm… Lear.”

You placed your hands on your hips and nodded. This is a great name, you thought. It rhymes with so many things.

Lear tilted his head. “Uh… alright?”

“Great. Onto the next business order — how old are you?”

He put up five fingers.

What luck you have!

You grinned. “I’m seven, so according to the law, you have to listen to me.”

“The law?” He questioned.

“Yeah, the law. It’s what you have to do or you get in trouble.”

Lear processed this new information and nodded. “Okay. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“From now on, you’ll be my ac—”

You covered your mouth with your hands. Wait a moment, you can’t tell him he’s an accomplice! He might not help you then. That was a close one. You considered alternative titles, but none of them sounded as cool as accomplice. What a shame, but it can’t be helped. Missions required sacrifice.

“From now on, Lear, you’ll be my best friend.”

…

A few cycles later, you convened on the balcony outside of mother’s office.

You liked the balcony. No one made you use the blue screen there. Sometimes, when you weren’t monitored, you’d grab a chair, pull it to the railing, hop up, and stare. This is Eris, you’d think. A cold planet far away from the stars. Stars are big fireballs that make everything nice and warm. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see one. It’d be cool if I could.

You displayed a vital object for the mission.

“Lear, do you know what this is?”

Lear stood still with his hands in his pockets. “A circle?”

“No. Well, okay, yeah, it’s a circle, but this is called a hair tie. You use it to tie your hair.”

“That’s cool.”

You held it out to him. “For this mission, full visibility is required. I’d cut your hair, but mother hid the scissors from me.”

His tiny hand grabbed it. Lear regarded your gift blankly and glanced back at you, his eyebrows furrowed. Did he not know what to do with it?

You sighed because that’s what mother did in these situations. You started to get why. You took the gift back, tied your hair up, then returned it. He managed to do it on the fourth try. Relieved that the trial was over, you clapped and smiled. Your effort has been rewarded.

“Good job, Lear.”

Lear’s head rose at that. “What?”

“I said good job. When someone gets something right, that’s what you say.”

“... It is?” He murmured. You nodded. You didn’t think you needed to teach him the basics, but an accomplice must be capable. Miss Calliope said that extra effort was always worth it. She changed her mind after you grabbed a stool to mix the adult drinks. You’d like to think she still meant it.

“Since that’s finished, we can get to the main event.”

You pulled out a paperclip from a pocket inside your dress. The object was subjected to your immense strength, manipulated, and reforged. It went from a boring shape to a useful shape. You took a deep breath, brought the paperclip’s edge to your pointer finger, then stabbed down. Lear released a choked sound when blood surfaced.

You cleaned the paperclip’s edge with your dress’ hem and handed it to him. This would go on to determine the rest of your life, you decided. It needed to be done well.

“I read that doing this makes your promises stronger. Since we’re gonna make an important promise, it has to be extra strong,” you explained. The color drained from Lear’s face. “What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, right?”

Lear refused to take the paperclip. “A promise? Miss Phaeales, I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to press hard. It barely stings, anyway.”

“B-But...”

You pursed your lips. “Lear, we have to, or the promise will be weak.”

Lear shook his head and took a step back. There were lots of weird feelings that came from him. They confused you, you couldn’t think of a word to describe them. It didn’t hurt, but it felt heavy on your chest. What did you do wrong? Were paper clips that scary? No, it had to be something else. Mother said you can’t focus on another person too hard because it’s unfair. If they don’t tell you it themselves, you shouldn’t know it.

“Lear…?”

He stood on his tiptoes and reached for the number pad. You revealed the top-secret passcode to him, since the balcony was to be your top-secret hideout. Every top-secret hideout had to have a top-secret password. The detective books you read said so.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” Lear apologized. His voice sounded tiny. “I’m really sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say to stop him or if you should try.

Was this what people meant when they called you pushy? You wanted to complete the mission, but you also didn’t want Lear to be sad.

The door opened and quietly closed.

With that, the first friend you ever made was gone.

…

The next time you were allowed on the balcony, you were curled up in a ball.

You hugged your knees to your chest and sniffled. Mom was mad at you. Miss Calliope was mad at you. Mister Caicias had scolded you. The other Arbiters were less nice too. You don’t think they ever liked you, but at least they pretended they did. It’s okay to hate you for now so they stopped pretending.

You could hear their thoughts. You didn’t want to, but you could anyway.

What a spoiled child.

If anyone else had done what she did, they’d never be allowed in this line of work.

I hope the Exalted Arbiter lives a long life, if this is to be her successor.

Your throat was sore, your eyes burned, and your chest hurt. You didn’t know you were spoiled. You never thought you were better than anyone. You hadn’t realized your attitude was awful. You just wanted to be confident like mom. That way, no one would be worried about the future. Everyone on Eris relied on mom. Everyone on Eris will have to rely on you eventually.

You looked at the black sky, the only sky you’d ever known. It always felt sad. The gray clouds were like little discolored tears.

You wondered if Noct ever felt bad that they made a planet where everyone was unhappy.

Someone’s coming, you realized. Is it moma?

It isn’t.

It’s the little boy with blue eyes and long, blonde hair. This time, it’s pulled back into a ponytail. You hadn’t changed the top-secret password, he must’ve used it to gain entry.

You hurriedly rubbed your tears away, and he looked elsewhere until you gave up on your task. Afterward, he sat down beside you. He hugged his knees to his chest as well.

“Are you okay?” He murmured.

You nodded and sunk your head into your knees.

“... Those kids are mean, anyway,” he reassured. “I dunno what they said, but it’s not true.”

“It is too. The adults think it but they don’t say it,” you whispered.

You know it’s true. Your mission to Arc almost caused what Miss Calliope called ‘a scandal.’

You snuck out of the LOTUS-EATER by yourself.

It wasn’t as difficult as you expected. You just borrowed a staff member’s lanyard, pressed it against the door, and it opened. You stuck to the shadows and navigated your way south. You could tell when an adult was close if you heard their thoughts. The thoughts were rarely happy. You pushed on until you encountered an alley, where some older kids were gathered.

You froze; you hadn’t accounted for kids. Their thoughts weren’t as loud and terrible. You didn’t hear them.

This bunch, though… they had a kid’s build and the expression of an adult. You counted four in total. One was tall, another was scrawny, the tiniest covered in dirt, and the last kid wore a tattered shirt that reached their knees.

The tall kid spat on the ground.

“This is our spot,” he said. “Get lost.”

You fidgeted.

“Hello, um… could I just pass over that fence? I’ll be quick,” you reasoned.

“Are you deaf or something? I said, get lost.”

The scrawniest kid squinted at you. “Hey, wait a sec, J. I feel like I’ve seen her before.”

“Really? When?” The tiny one squeaked.

“Y’know, during those big events for when Arc folk move over.”

“Huh, now that you mention it…” the tall boy trailed off, “You’re [First] Phaeales, right?”

He said your name like it was a disease. It made your heart hurt.

“Can you read my mind? What am I thinkin’ about, huh?” The scrawny kid called out.

“Hey, be careful. I heard those things can make your head explode with a single look,” the kid in a long shirt whispered.

The tall boy guffawed and stepped forward. “Really? Is that true?”

You took a step back.

“What? You gonna run away? Can’t stand to see people like us, huh?” He remarked. “Must be nice, getting everything you ever need handed to you. Yeah. Real fuckin’ nice.”

“I don’t—” your voice gave out. You ignored how they snickered and pressed on to finish your important sentence. “I don’t think that about you! When I grow up, I wanna help—”

The tall boy stormed over and lifted you by your dress’ collar. “Help? Help? You can’t do shit. You people never do anything! You promise and promise and never come through!”

You didn’t understand, there was too much to process. Anger and sadness mixed to become a storm that you were caught in the middle of. You closed your eyes and hoped the pain would go away. Maybe you prayed to Noct, maybe you cried out for your mom, you don’t really remember.

When you reopened your eyes you saw a music box. It was simple, small, and made of wood. There was nothing else around it. No ceiling or sky, floor or ground. You couldn’t speak, so you couldn’t scream. Nothing felt normal. This wasn’t Eris. Did you float into space? Can anyone save you? Would anyone find you?

The music box’s handle creaked; the lid lifted like a yawning mouth. No song was played. Voices came out instead, though they sounded far away. There was nothing else to do but listen.

“At this rate, she’s only going to get worse…”

“You don’t know that. I have a few more items I can pawn off, and then…”

“... Temperature of 102 degrees…”

“How much longer will this embargo last? Why can’t they just give in to the IPC’s fucking demands already? We all know they’re going to, but we have to sit and suffer while they play politics!”

“Honey, keep your voice down, the children are trying to sleep…”

“... Temperature of 104 degrees…”

“My wedding ring! There’s still my wedding ring! We have— we have to go fast, the pharmacy closes at 3400!”

“Jason, your mom and I need to run a very important errand. I need you to keep an eye on Iris, okay? Can you do that for me? I know it’s scary, but it’ll all be okay, I promise. We’ll be quick.”

“Hey… big bro?”

“You shouldn’t get up! Here, lay back down. There you go, take it easy. Mom and dad will be back soon. They’ll get what you need, and… and… it’ll be okay. They promised.”

“I’m sorry… for making everyone sad.”

“No, no, that isn’t true! When you get better, we’ll be the happiest family there is. We’ll— we’ll take a trip to the entertainment district, get tons of yummy food. I’ve been saving up my allowance so I can spoil you. You can have cookies, cakes, whatever you want, it��s yours.”

“... Pudding too?”

“Of course, pudding too. You’ll have so much, you’ll need an entire lifetime to eat it. A long, long lifetime. So… just wait a bit longer. They should be back any minute now.”

“You want to hear the music box mom gave you? That’s all the way in the— no no no, don’t look at me like that, I’ll go get it. See? Keep an eye on the door, lift your head just a little bit. I’ll be quick.”

“Hey, look what I found. Works like a charm too. Hm? Did you fall asleep? That was fast. It normally… it takes… normally takes… l-longer…?”

The music box slammed shut.

The tall boy — Jason — released his grip on you and staggered back. His friends ran to his aid. You squeezed your head in your hands, fell to your knees, and tried to disappear. It hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt, a pain you’d never experienced before. It felt like your chest was stabbed over and over again with something sharper than a paperclip. This pain, his pain, it was too much.

A few guards that’d been dispatched to search for you overheard the commotion. They ran over, worried that you were injured. Nothing was wrong with you physically. The pain came from within. You thrashed and screamed when they picked you up. You wanted to be left alone, you wanted it to go away.

You looked at the tall boy one more time before they pulled you away.

Tears fell from his eyes and they couldn’t stop.

You don’t think those kids were mean. They were just really sad.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” the little boy said. His voice wavered. “I was scared.”

You felt numb. “Of me?”

His eyes widened and he waved his hands as if he’d caught on fire. “N-No, well, kinda, but not like that. You’re nice. You don’t tell me to smile or to stop looking sad.”

Your lower lip trembled. “But I made you tie your hair up.”

“I see better now.”

“And— and I said your name was dumb.”

“... I don’t like it,” he said. The strange feeling reappeared. “That name. It is dumb. You know that I guess, ‘cause of the mind stuff.”

“Isn’t that scary?”

“Maybe if you did mean things with it, but… that name made me sad. So you picked a new one. Lear is cool. It rhymes with stuff.”

You lifted your head. The little boy wasn’t lying, you could tell.

“Why’d you leave then?”

His little hands balled into fists by his side.

“I was scared. I was asked to make a promise before, and I lied. It was a promise I didn’t like,” he explained.

Then, he lifted his finger. A droplet of blood dripped from it. “I shoulda said something. I’ll try, I’ll really try, so please don’t be sad. It makes me sad. I want… I want to be best friends!”

A lump formed in your throat. Tears stung your eyes, the strength of his words pierced through your sadness like an arrow. A friend. You never had a friend before. You didn’t think you’d ever get to have one. Mom said it’d be difficult, that if you wanted it, you’d need to try harder than you’d ever tried before.

You launched at Lear, your arms outstretched, and wailed loudly. He caught you awkwardly with a gasp. You pressed your forehead to his shoulder and hugged him tight.

“I don’t want you as an accomplice anymore! You’re my best friend! I really mean it this time!” You exclaimed in between sobs.

“Eh? Accom-police?” Lear struggled to repeat the new word. Then, for the first time since you met him, he laughed. “I don’t really get you, Miss Phaeales, but… I wanna.”

That kid, Jason… is he okay? Did he ever go back home to his parents? You wonder. I used to think I could prove him wrong, that I just needed to grow up faster so I could fix everything. And yet, these past two years have been some of the worst economically.

You grab the rose by its petals and return it to the vase.

The crystal lotus shines beside it, its multiple surfaces flickering between brilliant hues. This gift, while beautiful, never particularly stuck out to you before. It wasn’t until Blade expressed an interest that it stood out more.

You sit in front of your vanity.

Mom… was I a good daughter?

You brush foundation along your face.

I always thought you never understood me, but…

Mascara darkens and thickens your eyelashes.

… I never tried to understand you.

You slam the makeup drawer shut.

It has officially been three months since the IPC instituted its travel ban on Eris with seemingly no end in sight.

Unemployment rates have crept up from 5.3% to a staggering 15%. We reached out to a financial advisor for Metis Mining from Mele, a company that has laid off one-third of its workforce.

“It’s an awful situation,” he said. “Essentially, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. I’ve been in this field for some 150 years — never have I seen anything like this. Thelx is our heart. If it stops pumping, we stop getting the blood we need to live. We need tourism. We need our heart to beat again.”

An advisor for Chrysus, however, is singing a different, more upbeat tune.

“We’re feeling optimistic. The negotiations have been going well. None of us want this to last longer than it has to. We’ve cooperated fully with the IPC’s requests, working endlessly to provide the necessary documentation for them to drop this unfounded charge. We ask that the people of Eris stand together. I will not be accepting questions at this time. Thank you.”

“What is Chrysus doing,” you groan. “The optics on this are terrible. ‘We ask that the people of Eris stand together,’ sounds like a bumper sticker for a spaceship.”

The comment section on the article expresses a similar sentiment. The most upvoted post is a picture of Eris on fire with bottom text that reads, ‘Don’t worry, just keep standing.’ The second is a screenshot of the advisor’s comment with the caption ‘me when i lie.’ To make matters worse, the user’s profile picture is the lead singer for Mushroom Mania but with a flower crown photoshopped onto his head.

You squint at the tiny text beneath it.

Your friend banona69 liked this post.

“Blade, can you cut my phone in half?”

He throws you a disinterested glance.

“Riveting conversation, as usual,” you lean heavily on sarcasm to reel him in.

“You’re working. I won’t interrupt,” he drawls.

Or maybe it didn’t, who knows, he’s as easy to read as an esoteric tome in a lost language. It is true that you’re working. Keeping up with clients, overseeing reimbursements for canceled appointments, apologizing for circumstances you have no control over; the usual. Your latest torment involved your bank’s servers going down when your employees’ paychecks were due. They’re testing out a new customer service android, but yours had a bug that caused it to repeat everything you said.

That predicament came to an end and five more popped up in its place.

You stretch your arms above your head. “If I handed you over to the IPC, do you think they’d lift the travel ban?”

“Find out for yourself.”

“Huh?” You swipe your monitors away so you can gauge him better. “What do you mean by that?”

Blade kicks himself off the wall and uncrosses his arms. “If you can subdue me, you can turn me in.”

That’s one of the biggest ‘ifs’ to ever if. You narrow your eyes, like that’ll help your ability to discern his intentions. He’s standing there, intimidating as ever, his countenance betraying nothing. You decide he has to be joking. It’d be a major inconvenience for Kafka and her cronies to break him out of IPC holding. You know precious little about Blade, but you do know he takes his job seriously.

Regardless, this cycle has raised your blood pressure to unprecedented levels, so you play along. A little fun never hurts.

“Didn’t Nona tell you about my mind-liquifying technique?”

“Screeched it, more like,” Blade dryly recalls. “It’s a bluff.”

You swivel around on your chair and get up. He remains perfectly still as you languidly approach, his burning eyes never leaving yours. An electrifying sensation courses through your body the closer you get. It’s unfair how beautiful he is. His dark hair that shifts into a crimson shade, broad shoulders, narrow waist, his surprisingly soft lips that are almost always drawn in a straight line; the wanted posters don’t do him justice.

You have to crane your head to look up at him, the man’s so ridiculously tall. You’ve never liked it when people look down on you — this must be the lone exception.

“And if it isn’t?” You challenge.

“You would never,” Blade insists. It isn’t your eyes he’s focusing on anymore, it’s your lips. “You’re too…”

On the occasions you can get Blade talking, he’s never at a loss for words. His cadence has a quiet confidence. If he’s in the mood, he’ll have a rebuttal for every possible sentence you could concoct. It’s immediate too, as swift as his bladework. It’s unusual for him to trail off for this long.

“Too…?” You encourage, tilting your head.

“Forget it.”

You don’t have the luxury of pressing the issue. He quite literally sweeps you off your feet, taking long strides to your office’s couch like he owns the place.

“You missed your chance,” Blade lays you down on the cushions and crawls over you. “Unless you’d still like to try.”

You glare at him halfheartedly and prop yourself up on your elbows. This guy must have a thing for manhandling you, because every chance he gets, he goes for it. You splay your hand against his chest and lightly push. He gets the message and moves back, allowing you the space necessary to lift up your blouse. He’s all over you immediately after, kneading your chest and trailing hot kisses down your neck. He stops at the spots with bite marks or bruises, giving them extra attention so they don’t fade.

“Maybe I could, who knows? Perhaps I’ve extended you mercy,” you breathe out.

Blade pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his amusement evident. “You’d be the first.”

He leers at your cleavage like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His lips are back on your skin, starting at your collarbones and then moving down. He lavishes your chest in lovebites, his teeth practically married to your skin. Your low-cut shirts will be collecting dust in your closet at this rate, he’s seen to that. He kisses down your navel and stops shy of your skirt’s waistband.

“Is this for me?” He plays with your skirt’s short hem, raising it to reveal your thighs.

You did choose this risque skirt to see how he’d react, but he doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing this.

“You’re not the only person I ever see,” is your cheeky reply.

He doesn’t look impressed.

“I’m the only one who can fuck you, though,” he says, as plain as someone describing the weather.

You frown and twist your head to the side. He picked up on that, huh? You don’t know if it’s definitive, but you haven’t conducted tests to find out. It is exhilarating to lose yourself in carnality without fearing the repercussions. Still, you don’t want him to believe that gives him an exclusive claim to you. You’ll both enjoy yourselves, he’ll get recalled from this job, and that’ll be the end of it. He’ll be nothing but a story you drunkenly recall to Nona. Nothing more, nothing less.

Possessive men are a turnoff. If they wanted to own the thing they stick their dick in, they could buy a sex android. You’re not a sex android. You don’t run out of battery power in six hours or incur hilarious yet painful-sounding reasons for lawsuits.

“Pouting again?” Blade taunts.

Long, gloved fingers lightly glide against your inner thigh.

“I don’t pout,” you sigh as his hand dips past your waistband. “I brood.”

“Mhm.”

His fingers are quick to find your clit. He rubs the sensitive nub in slow motions, applying minimum pressure. Your breath hitches and you look up at him through lidded eyes. His towering form cages you in. This couch is one of the few surfaces he hasn’t taken you on yet. Your bed, your office chair, your desk, hell, even the wall; he’s fucked you on almost every object with the geometry to permit it.

Your head tilts back as he steadily drags his fingers down the length of your pussy. His ring and middle finger barely slip in before he pulls them out, returning to their previous task of gathering your slick. There’s enough for each swipe to create audible sounds, despite the relaxed rhythm he’s set. This detail doesn’t go unnoticed by him. No, he grins at you, his eyes practically shining.

“Shut up,” you grumble, covering your face with your forearm.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to, it’s written all over your— ah!”

His fingers plunge into you without the slightest resistance, all the way up to his knuckles. You gasp at the abrupt intrusion. Normally, he takes surprising care when pushing anything inside you — whether it be his cock, tongue, or fingers — gauging how your face contorts to ensure you aren’t in pain. He couldn’t have been touching you for more than a minute and yet your body produced enough lubrication to easily suck him in.

“My what?” He probes, lowering his face close enough for your noses to touch. His soft black locks tickle your cheeks.

Blade curls his fingers as if beckoning you toward him, which is exactly what he gets; your back arches and you curl your arms around his neck for purchase. He’s noted this clinging tendency of yours and has taken great pleasure in pointing it out. You mewl as he carries on his ministrations, loving the contrast of the cold leather against your warm insides. He finger fucks you nice and slow. His lips find yours, kissing you in a way that can only be described as tender. You reciprocate, though the lustful haze permeating your mind desires something rougher. This is the sweet kiss of a lover, not a… whatever the two of you are.

Blade pulls back an inch when you run your tongue over the seam of his lips.

“Are you ever satisfied?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you huff. “Do you have any idea how much shipping Plan B to this planet costs?”

He exhales sharply in amusement. “You like when I finish inside.”

Your walls clamp down on him before you can protest this claim.

“Would you look at that,” Blade hums, his voice dropping in volume as if he were sharing a secret. “I can’t even move my fingers, that made you squeeze them so tight.”

You’d like to think he was exaggerating, but it does take a few seconds for him to comfortably slide his fingers in and out again.

“You’re delusional. That’s… an involuntary muscle contraction.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

His fingers abandon their prior creed. He embraces a new tenet — one that seeks to make your lips part in pure pleasure. You writhe beneath him at the unrelenting onslaught. He angles his palm so that it rubs against your clit with every thrust of his fingers. You’re quick to sync up with his sharp movements. Every time his fingers glide back in, your hips rise to meet him halfway. Soft gasps and moans fill the air as your peak grows closer.

Your walls start to tighten, promising that sweet ecstasy will soon be yours.

The second time it squeezes down, his merciless pace relaxes. He doesn’t stop entirely, he just slows down enough that you aren’t getting the stimulation necessary to come undone. You bite down on your lower lip. He hasn’t deprived you of an orgasm since this feverish passion began; he’s been more interested in seeing how many times he can fuck you to completion. He didn’t even subject you to this cruelty when you made a jab at his age that set him out to prove he doesn’t ‘have the refractory period of an old man.’

You don’t bother trying to move your hips for more friction. One night, during the afterglow of sex, you inquired after his sword. Among other things, he nonchalantly revealed its weight of three thousand pounds. You called his bluff. He was in an agreeable enough mood to summon it, allowing you to test the claim’s validity yourself.

Sure enough, you couldn’t even drag it an inch across the ground…

His breath is hot on your ear as he whispers, “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you love it,” he commands, his fingers massaging your walls. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m anything but shy.”

“Hm. Dishonesty doesn’t suit you.”

You groan in exasperation when his fingers come to a complete halt. Is he really going to make you admit something so embarrassing…? Your face burns as hot as those faraway stars. You examine his expression, searching for some sign that he isn’t being serious. It’s a poor tactic. His countenance is stern, except for the blush on his cheeks from how aroused he is.

“I…” you inhale shakily, your lower lip trembling, “I like… when…”

“Love,” he corrects.

You turn your head to the side and squeeze your eyes shut. “I love when you… cum inside me.”

His clothed cock twitches against your leg.

“I know.”

Blade returns to the heavenly speed that has your mind all but floating away. His palm rubs down hard on your clit, his fingers searching out for that spot you love so much. Inhibitions gone, his name is the only word your tongue can form. Everything else that isn’t Blade has been erased from your lexicon. He makes you feel so good, it’s maddening. He’s addicted to your body and you couldn’t be more grateful.

To be wanted, to be desired… what bliss this brings.

Your muscles tighten and release as waves of pleasure devour you.

Your insides spasm around him, demanding that he doesn’t let up until you’re satiated. He’s happy to oblige. Once your orgasm-induced daze lessons, you yank him down to your lips into an open-mouthed kiss that has you swapping saliva. He swallows a whimper from you while pulling his fingers out, leaving the area he’s become so intimately acquainted with. The arm that he was using to hold himself above you snakes behind your back. You’re made to sit on his lap as he shifts upright, your skirt flaring out.

As always, it’s you who breaks from the heated kiss first.

Blade raises his gloved hand for you to see. You gape at how the onyx-colored leather has lightened, thoroughly coated in you. He parts his middle and ring, allowing dewy threads of your essence to form. Those crimson eyes go from admiring his handiwork to reveling in your embarrassed expression. As if you weren’t flustered enough, he slips his fingers into his mouth. His length hardens and he groans quietly while sucking off your slick.

While savoring your taste, he starts the familiar process of pulling your drenched panties down. You set to work on undoing his belt. He then hits an area that’s difficult to pull them over. He gives it one more try before frustration surges from him, hinting at his solution.

“Stop ripping my undergarments,” you chastise, lifting your leg to make it easier for him. “I’ll have to go shopping at this rate.”

Blade exercises a modicum of decorum and flings the scant fabric aside instead of eviscerating it.

“Quit wearing them.”

“That dream of yours might come true if I have none left. If that happens, I’m stealing your credit card.”

“It’s yours.”

You roll your eyes, focusing on freeing his cock. His length is flushed red and painfully hard. You wrap your hands around the base. Pre-cum leaks from his head in steady streams that flow down, coating him enough that it’s easy to glide your hand up. He hisses out through gritted teeth. Once your hand reaches the top, you rub his smooth tip with the pad of your thumb. The way he leers at you is borderline animalistic. You keep at your task, pumping him up and down.

“Does this count as me subduing you?” You muse, your voice taking a sickeningly sweet cadence, “Should I get handcuffs ready?”

“Watch it, girl.”

You would’ve if he hadn’t teased you so much earlier. But he did, and you must have some compensation. You sink onto the ground. Blade shoots you an inquisitive look, to which you flutter your eyelashes and smile. The realization of your intentions hits him when your lips place an amorous kiss on his leaking tip. The veins running along the length of his cock pulsate from the sight. Such a chaste way of going about a lustful act must do something for him.

“You…” He growls out, clenching his hands into tight fists, “God.”

You suck him gently, swirling your tongue along his slit. Meanwhile, your hand pumps him faster. He thrusts his pelvis forward to force more of his cock into your mouth. He isn’t immediately gratified — no, you take him in at your leisure. His gloved hand entangles itself in your hair and helps guide your head up and down. The wet sound of you sucking him off grows louder from the copious amount of saliva slathered along his cock. You reach for his balls, gently cupping and massaging them. Blade pants above you and throws his head back.

The telltale twitching of his cock starts.

You pull yourself off him. He glares down at you, silently fuming.

You suppress a laugh and climb onto his lap. His hand goes to your shoulder, a sign he intends to push your body down so he can fuck you. Rather than moving aside and complying, you undo your bra’s clasp. His enchantment with your bare tits distracts him enough for your scheme to carry on undetected. You align your entrance with the head of his cock and start sinking down, taking the initiative yourself.

Blade’s large hands fly to either side of your hips from instinct. Inch after inch slides in and stretches you. He maintains unflinching eye contact, the intensity behind his gaze is almost more embarrassing than the act of sex itself. Maybe he’s as pent-up as you are? Whatever the case, the tension in the air begs to be diffused.

“Have I earned your forgiveness?” You ask.

“You’re getting there.”

Your lips part in a silent moan when you fully envelop him. Blade grunts, pulling you down so he can go as deep inside you as possible. His thickness caresses your walls and sets your nerves ablaze. You gyrate your hips in one last little act of revenge. He squeezes your flesh, sending the unspoken warning that you’re truly testing his patience. Thinking it best not to test your luck any further, you rise off him and sink back down.

The legs in your muscles are sore from overexertion but the burden barely falls to you. Blade lifts you off his cock then back down again — you could go completely limp and it wouldn’t make a difference. He must’ve wanted to know you were ready before ruthlessly maneuvering your body for his pleasure.

What a gentleman.

This position has him consistently rubbing against a spot inside you that’s mind-numbing. He fills and stretches you like your body was molded with him in mind. Your gratification isn’t his goal at the moment he’s lost in the pursuit of what you snatched away. He’s greedy because he can be; he’s greedy because you welcome it. You’ve had so much to give and no one to receive it. You aren’t sure how much he’ll take. You’ve decided it’s better to be empty than bursting at the seams with ardor no one can swallow, lest their throat get scorched.

Maybe his premonition is right. Maybe no one will be able to fuck you but him.

So you’ll enjoy it while you can.

The rosy hue on his cheeks, his countenance reflecting the pleasure he derives from your body, the inhuman grip that mars your skin so beautifully; you take everything in. You want it all. You’ll gladly take from him too. You might not like possessive men, but passionate men are a different story. It’s boring if they aren’t a little frenzied.

“Not… going to last long,” he pants out, his voice strained.

Your nipples brush against the fabric of his shirt as you lean in to embrace him, your lips right by his ear.

“Cum in me then,” you whisper, nibbling his earlobe. “Cause I think we both know you love it even more than I do.”

Blade groans out a series of expletives. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

His cock throbs as he empties himself inside you. He thrusts upward in sharp movements, his pelvis hitting yours hard enough to sting. He’s drunk on the high you’ve brought him. Spurts of his cum slide out from your coated walls, an egregious act he remedies by fucking it back into you. By the time he finally stills, you’re both panting, sweat glistening along your bodies. You rest your head on his shoulder to regain yourself. His bandaged hand runs up and down your back, almost soothingly.

In a matter of seconds, his flaccid cock steadily hardens, still snug inside you.

“Who… who’s never satisfied again?” You breathlessly murmur.

His hand finds your clit and lightly brushes over it. You whimper, your walls tightening enough to give you both a jolt of pleasure. The pitch you hit is high enough to stupefy you from mortification. You slap your hand over your mouth, hoping it’ll dissuade any further involuntary infractions. He gingerly grabs your hand and pulls it away.

“Still you,” he says, grazing his lips along the pulse point of your inner wrist.

You don’t get the chance to bite back.

A robotic voice slices through the lustful atmosphere like a scythe.

“Miss Phaeales, incoming call, Miss Phaeales, incoming call,” it intones.

You stifle a groan. “Alright alright, I get that, who is it from?”

“Contact name: Lear.”

Your eyes widen. Though your limbs feel like jelly, you lift yourself off Blade, who doesn’t give much assistance. You mouth the word ‘sorry’ to him, snatch your bra off the floor, and start wobbling over to your desk. After some quick rummaging, you find the device you need.

“Put him through to my in-ears,” you order the virtual assistant.

“[First]? Hello?”

Relief surges through you upon hearing the sound of his voice.

“Lear, it’s been so long since we talked, I started to think you were a figment of my imagination,” you say whilst securing your bra back into place.

“I know, I’m— I’m sorry,” he sounds terribly flustered. You can picture his expression without trying. “It’s just, you’re busy, and then that happened and I—”

“Slow down, I’m only teasing. It’s alright. I get it.”

“Eh… you’re as bad as Nona,” he grumbles. “You just hide it better.”

“Don’t worry, it’s out of my system.”

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll leave it at that,” he’s quiet for a moment, before adding, “You sound like you’re in high spirits, [First]. You don’t know what a relief that is.”

You twirl a pen on your fingers. “I’ve dabbled with the alternative and found it lacking. It does help that some pesky issues have finally been resolved… which reminds me. Your paycheck came through without any issues, correct?”

There’s indistinct murmuring from two voices. Lear’s tone sounds chastising, while the other comes off as petulant.

“Hi Nona,” you greet, to which there’s a faint yet audible ‘Fuck!’ along with rapid footsteps retreating. “How fortunate is it that our paths have crossed like this? I noticed something very interesting. You can’t respond to my texts relating to your studies, but you can like a social media post from a few hours ago?”

Now, rapid footsteps approach.

“I’m taking a break from texting for my mental health,” Nona’s voice reasons.

“... Don’t people normally take a break from social media for that reason?”

“Check the DSM-106. It’s actually a thing.”

“Be that as it may, you’re making good progress. Your scores are consistent enough that you can take a few clients again when we reopen. You need to keep practicing so it stays that way.”

There’s a slight commotion. When it settles, Lear’s the one speaking again. “Sorry, she wanted me to say there’s still an issue with the paycheck coming through.”

In the background, you hear her cry out, “Teacher’s pet!”

“Allow me to once again request that you place aside your bias. Nona, whose birth name is unknown, was born and raised in Arc’s most hostile faction. At the self-reported age of 74, she submitted a request for Thelx citizenship. Your mother, in her benevolence, granted the request due to seeing Nona’s potential as a future Arbiter. Do you deny any of this?”

You quietly take a deep breath.

“... How does Nona seem to you, Lear?”

What should be such a natural question feels like speaking with glue coating your tongue.

“The same as usual. And, no matter what she says, she is studying the notes you sent. She just hates the training program. You were the same way, weren’t you?”

“I was, yes,” A heavy smile finds its way onto your face. “Has anyone been giving her trouble?”

The silence on the other line lasts longer than you’d prefer.

“It hasn’t… been directly at her, per se. There’s just a general atmosphere of unease. Thelx has the highest percentage of citizens integrated from Arc, so things aren’t so bad here. Occasionally, there’ll be a confused kid pointing and asking why her eyes are different, but that’s nothing new.”

The tension in your shoulders relaxes. “Alright, that’s reassuring. Please keep an eye out for her in my stead, okay?”

You refuse to believe Chrysus. Everything with him is a move, some preplanned tactic to achieve a goal that advances his interests. You’ve lived life with Nona; he’s read a few paragraphs about her from a .txt file. There isn’t time to be at war with yourself. If he felt comfortable enough to make an accusation like that, there’s no chance it’ll end there. You’ll need countermeasures set in place.

Countermeasures, countermeasures… there’s Caicias. He loathes ‘secret alliances’ and ‘bloated bureaucracy,’ preferring to keep everything as simple as possible. Depending on your approach, you might be able to sway the former principal. He’s always treated you as an uncle would their niece. While it feels infantilizing now, this soft spot could be an advantage if played correctly.

An in-person meeting would be your best chance.

“Of course,” Lear says, breaking you from your thoughts. Then he’s quiet again. “[First]?”

“Mhm?”

“...”

You hear him sigh.

“It’s nothing. I should let you get back to your work.”

“Hold on, you can’t ‘it’s nothing,’ me!”

A shrill alarm chirps and pierces your unsuspecting ears.

“Oh, shit, Nona set the fire alarm off while cooking again,” Lear sounds more exasperated than worried. “Let’s finish this another time, [First]. I… I promise that I will.”

“Wha— again? How often does this happen?” You demand. “Hello? Hello? Ugh.”

Irate, you tug your in-ears out and toss them on your desk. What could Lear possibly have wanted to discuss? The tone he used made your heart drop. It sounded so firm, so resolute. He’s always been on the more soft-spoken side unless provoked. He did promise that he’d pick it up ‘another time,’ an unintended callous sentencing. Your mind is going to play fill-in-the-blank with the most dreadful words possible until this burden is lifted.

You’re about to return to your office chair when you remember your present condition.

Tousled hair, a hastily put-on bra, a wrinkled skirt, and one of the most sought-after fugitives in the universe’s cum dripping out of you.

Ah. And said fugitive is still behind you.

You spin on your heels. “So, um—”

Blade isn’t anything like when you last saw him. He’s redressed, and composed, his expression a mix between indifference and boredom. He’s returned to his favorite position too. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with one knee slightly bent. Why he favors this stance so much, you’ll never know. You’ve offered him a seat more times than you can count. He comes across as less intimidating when he isn’t at his full height.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

“I’ll… be getting back to work, I guess?”

He doesn’t so much as nod and he says you’re the pouty one?!

You gather your clothes off the floor for what feels like the umpteenth time, your cheeks burning. It isn’t that you feel ashamed, rather, you think he could at least help instead of standing there like his portrait is getting painted. He’s not trying to hide that he’s watching you. His eyes have always had a physical presence, they weigh on you heavily.

You briefly consider making a snarky comment, but your maturity wins out. You’re above such petty drivel. You finish collecting your garments. Next, you pull up the bra strap that decided to go awol, straighten your skirt, and fuss over your hair. Are you doing this so he knows you’re not embarrassed and in a rush to scamper off like a wounded animal? Maybe. Who could blame you?

You make for your bedroom door, head held high.

Blade speaks your name in that low, dark voice of his, stopping you dead in your tracks. Your body erupts in uncontrollable shivers.

You stiffly turn around like a rusted cog.

“Missed a spot,” is all he says.

You blink. “Huh?”

Blade nods to the lower half of your body.

Sure enough, there’s a dribble of his cum caked against your inner left thigh.

…

You hurl your belongings at him, which he catches without so much as batting an eyelash.

Your very short-lived satisfaction dissipates when you recall how much you adore that blouse. The same blouse you just chucked at the immortal sword-wielding Stellaron Hunter who can kill people faster than the afterlife can claim them. He’s still holding it. You get the feeling he will continue to hold it.

“Could I… have… that… back?”

This appeal doesn’t move him in the slightest.

You shift your weight between your legs. “Please?”

“You can,” Blade starts, momentarily filling you with hope, “Come reach for it.”

There is no hope in this universe, you decide. Nihilism is the only plausible option.

Blade dodges all your valiant attempts. When you’re about to give up, he lowers the garment, dangling it in a silent taunt. It then ascends to the heavens the second you dive for it.

He leaves your office that night with a blouse he hadn’t owned hours earlier.

And your cute panties.

Lear

Hello

Lear

Are you awake?

You’ll scold me if I say I am

Lear

Historically, that is true

Lear

You focus on caring for others so much you forget to care for yourself

You make me sound like a better person than I really am I’m just doing my job

Lear

There you go with self-deprecation again…

It isn’t self-deprecation if it’s true >:)c

Lear

That isn’t how that works

Lear

You’ve always been hard on yourself

Lear

I know what you’re going to say so I’ll stop you preemptively

Lear

Anyone could’ve been born in your role and decided not to take it seriously. You didn’t choose the situation but you chose your response to it

Lear

… I swear I didn’t intend for this to become a lecture

I believe you What was your original intention then?

Lear

Our phone call

Lear

Nona decided to try a grilled cheese ‘hack’ she saw on the internet

Lear

She’s lost stove privileges for a week

Is it truly a punishment if she gets to eat your cooking?

Lear

Well

Lear

It’s either that or she starves

Fair point Bring me some leftovers or I’m docking your pay >:)c

Lear

I wish Nona never taught you that face. It brings something primitive out of you

>:)c

Lear

(ง •̀_•́)ง

Oh I forgot about those They’re way better

Lear

Yeah

Lear

ε (*´･ω･) з

Lear

… I got distracted again…

( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

Lear

Okay okay enough with the emoticons

Lear

I wanted to ask if we could please talk one-on-one

Pick a date and time and I’ll do my best to fit you into my schedule. I make no promises. The current estimated wait list is five Trailblazer Years.

Lear

Do you accept bribes

Naturally. I am a government official.

Lear

I’ll bring you a slice of my galatopita

You’re in

Lear

Actually, I wanted you to pick the time

Lear

I know that person has to be around and I won’t ask about it

Lear

But there is something about him that unsettles me

Lear

Does he ever leave?

He’s always on the LOTUS-EATER’s premises He doesn’t have to be in the room though I can ask him to leave

Lear

You feel comfortable doing that?

Yeah, it’ll be fine

Lear

Even after what happened last time?

You could hit me in the head with a brick and I’d still trust your judgment If you think it’ll be okay I’ll think the same

Lear

(^◇^；)

Lear

What an extreme example

Lear

It’s very you though

I know a backhanded compliment when I see one

Lear

(;° ロ°)

Lear

Hey don’t say that

Lear

[First]? ?????

Lear

… You’re messing with me again, I take it?

>:)c I’ll send you the details

Lear

Thank you

Lear

Want to play a round of Connect Four?

Need you even ask

The break room has changed significantly since you were little. Gone are the sterile, eggshell white walls and beige furniture. The redone interior boasts bold greens and yellows, colors that aren’t commonly seen on Eris. This bright expanse was one of the few suggestions your mother took you up on. You even convinced her to get a terrarium imported that goes through a randomly selected flora’s lifespan in twenty-four hours. A few besmirched it as ‘watching grass grow but slightly sped up,’ until certain flowers got popular. The daisy with petals that burned was a LOTUS-EATER staff favorite. So is the dahlia that spins like a pinwheel.

“Was there something you wanted to ask?”

Lear places his cup of ice water down. “Does it taste alright?”

“It’s delicious,” you hum. “That’s not what I was referring to, though.”

You finish your dessert while Lear mulls over your words. The light, creamy taste of the egg custard, the dash of cinnamon strewn across the browned top; he’d do well if he ever started a dessert business.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask about it, but…” Lear’s sapphire eyes flitter toward the door, the paper-thin barrier dividing you from Blade. “Has everything been alright during this… er…”

“House arrest?”

“That’s a way of putting it,” he sighs. “I know it’s for your safety, but being stuck in this building for weeks on end can’t be good for you.”

“It’s always been this way to an extent. Now it’s just official.”

He grimaces.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

This area utilizes the same technology available in your office or the private rooms. Sound waves cannot travel beyond a set point, or in this case, beyond the breakroom. This safety net allows you to comfortably speak your mind.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t stopped long enough to ask myself that. From my perspective, I have two choices — accept the current situation and carry on, or, get upset and carry on, only with less efficiency.”

Lear struggles to maintain a neutral countenance. It’s why you always beat him at card games.

“... Okay, that sounds a bit bleak. What I’m trying to say is that I can’t dwell on what’s out of my control. I’ll focus on what I can do and work from there.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t brooded at least a little.”

“Ha, I’ve done my fair share of that. I’ve just reduced it from boiling to a nice, tolerable simmer.”

Lear’s grip on his glass tightens. “You’ve matured a lot.”

“Eh? You think so?” You wonder. “If anything, I should’ve been this way to begin with. I had you as the premier example to follow.”

Lear’s smile doesn’t reach his tired eyes.

He inhales sharply. After a moment’s consideration, he comes over, pulls out a chair, and sits facing you. This is the closest you’ve been for a long time. He never wanted you to be afflicted with those visceral headaches, so he maintained his distance. For him to cross the bulwark he painstakingly built cannot be easy.

Slowly, he raises his palm. He stops at the halfway mark between you. You knit your eyebrows. Does he want you to…?

“It might not be a brick, but it’s similar,” Lear says, his voice soft.

His hand is calloused from years of cleaning dishes and tinkering with various contraptions. His fingers tremble, belying the nerves he’s trying to push out of sight. This trepidation isn’t for his sake, it’s for yours. The dire consequences that could be reaped. It’s a gamble where you’re the one forced to go all in.

Your heart pounds and pounds.

You’ll trust him.

You’ve always trusted him.

Lear’s skin is cold yet clammy. His hand overshadows yours, though not by much. They fit together as well as they used to. Unlike then, your touch is more hesitant than his. His fingers sink down and clasp your hand, an action you mirror. Nothing’s happening. Nothing hurts.

You expect a relieved exclamation or expression from Lear, only to receive heavy silence instead.

He squeezes your hand once then pulls away.

“Do you remember the ‘important promise’ you wanted to make when we were kids?”

You nod.

“I did want to make it, actually. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that.”

“It’s been so long, it’s possible I don’t remember, but… I don’t think you ever said that, no.”

“The promise I mentioned was one I made with my mom,” Lear lowers his head. “She made me promise that I’d forgive my father. I never planned on it, not while he was living and breathing at least. I knew that and still… I agreed for her sake. It might seem silly, but that ate at me. She never asked me for anything, and the one time she did, it was something I refused to fulfill.”

You lean forward, hesitate to put your hand on his shoulder, yet ultimately overcome the instinct. “You were just a child, Lear.”

“I know. The reason I’m going into this is that… even when I wasn’t a child, I’d sit there and judge my father. I thought he’d acted cowardly. Instead of acknowledging mom’s declining condition, he’d buy more equipment and supposed miracle cures. He worked nonstop. Mom didn’t want that. She just wanted to be with her family while she could.”

You can hear the lump forming in his throat. You pass him your water, which he gulps down. He gives himself a second and then continues.

“He wasn’t delusional. He knew, and still, he tried so hard to convince himself that he didn’t. There must’ve been some moment of clarity when it hit him,” Lear’s fair eyelashes flutter shut. “What you said to Nona… that was my moment of clarity. My punishment.”

Thoughts swarm through your mind like the Propagation’s reign of terror from eras past.

“‘Punishment?’ Why would you deserve a punishment?” You probe.

Lear doesn’t know how to respond. His lips open and close, words escaping him. What comes out next is interwoven with anguish’s thread.

“Mrs. Phaeales approached me about our relationship. I was so worried, I don’t remember her exact words… it was something along the lines of, ‘If you truly care about her, you need to end this before she gets hurt.’ She wouldn’t go into the specifics. It didn’t come across as a threat, just… a plea, maybe. Eventually, I agreed. It hurt, but I didn’t see any other option. How could I ever willingly do something that’d make you suffer? You, the person who matters to me the most?”

This torrential downpour soaks into your very being.

“It should’ve ended there. I thought it ended there. Then I saw you again, and god. You’re so… so confident, beautiful, and bright; I couldn’t do it. I was at a loss, and… then I had this thought. ‘I want to keep her even if it destroys her.’ I couldn’t shake it. That isn’t love, I-I don’t know what that is.”

“Everyone has thoughts they aren’t proud of.”

“But you didn’t know, because I was too ashamed to tell you,” Lear insists, each word growing quieter. “So instead, you thought you did something to me, right?”

He wouldn’t look you in the eye. His arms remained limp by his side as you unbuttoned his shirt, tense and strained. You pulled back. Something felt terribly wrong. A sharp pang shot through your skull. You ignored it and beseeched him to tell you what was wrong. He wouldn’t. The sharp pang ricocheted. Being close to him hurt. It was as if you were on the same side of a magnet. He repelled you and you couldn’t fight it. You tried to preserve, tried to claw through whatever barrier he’d put up.

… A barrier?

Had he not wanted this? Was the gravity of your desire too intense for an individual who isn’t trained to resist?

“I…” your mouth is dry. “Yes.”

“You didn’t. I knew you didn’t, and like my father, I tried convincing myself otherwise,” he reopens his eyes, revealing a glassy sheen. He wipes it away with his long sleeve. “I ran out of excuses.”

You don’t know how to begin parsing through this information. It undermines the rough understanding you’ve operated on for decades. The foundations haven’t just cracked, they’ve collapsed, and the materials are damaged beyond reuse. Anything you build will require a new blueprint.

“If it isn’t manipulation, what exactly is it?” You murmur, placing a hand on your chin. “You rightfully guessed nothing would happen if we came into contact. What made you think that?”

The direction you’ve chosen to steer this conversation toward surprises him. This must not be the response he braced himself for. Regardless, he’s quick to offer anything he can.

“Something just felt different, I guess? I’m sorry if that isn’t helpful, I can’t think of a better way to describe it.”

Mother must’ve known more than she let on, you think. ‘Before she gets hurt,’ she said. Shouldn’t it have been ‘before Lear gets hurt?’ She cared about him plenty too. So why…?

You pace around the breakroom, your heels clicking throughout the otherwise silent room.

Alister listened when he thought you were taking him to ‘Roze’, a significant other he created in past Synalinks. He tried to kill you after you took him outside and it became evident that wasn’t your intention. No link could be established past that point. Then there’s Blade. You thought you could manipulate him to rescue potential survivors. You were rushed, yes, but you made absolutely no progress.

“My mind has a will of its own,” Blade tells you. “It’s loud. Something about you quiets it down.”

What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.

It hits you.

What it is that makes Exalted Arbiters so paramount, why your abilities far surpass others.

You’re a living, breathing conductor, amplifying raw, often questionable instincts. A lightning rod meant to attract the attention of what reason and morality try so valiantly to suppress.

You forgo your pacing and sit back down. “Lear.”

“Y-Yes?”

“All of us are stupid.”

“Eh?”

“Well-meaning and stupid,” you reiterate. “I know what you want from me. You’re not going to get it. You condemned yourself, I condemned myself… what good did that do? Did it change anything? Make it better?”

You shake your head. “We like to torture ourselves; we’re adept at it. Enough. It’s finished.”

“... You don’t need to make me feel better—”

Lear receives a flick on the forehead.

“Idiot, half of that spiel was for me. Maybe three-quarters.”

You grab his hand and give it a hearty squeeze.

He squeezes back.

You both sit there, in this room that’s changed throughout the decades. Where you played make-believe (or, to be more exact, coerced Lear into playing the princess role so you could be the knight), gorged on junk food until you both got sick, plotted how to blow up the IPC with a water gun; you never thought you’d be able to do those things. The dumb, silly things you’d watch in movies or read about in books.

Lear runs the pad of his thumb up and down your hand. “[First].”

“Mhm?”

“Everything you just said — I can tell you believe it.” His breath hitches. “So why… why do you look so sad?”

You force a smile.

“I think I had my moment of clarity,” you tell him. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Whoever coined the term ‘misery loves company’ deserves the 85th spot in the Genius Society.

Blade sits beside you on a sinfully comfortable couch in The Club. His legs are crossed and his arm finds its respite behind you; not touching yet close enough. He’s your perpetual shadow. You steal a glance at his side profile. His jaw’s set and his eyebrows crease inward enough for his otherwise unblemished skin to wrinkle.

“Would you like to talk about your innermost feelings, Mr. 8.13 billion?”

Nothing, not even a halfhearted grunt, which comprises 50% of his vocabulary.

“No? Okay. Let’s focus on mine then,” you motion to the empty bar. “My innermost feelings are telling me to drink until my brain becomes a gray matter slushie. Any recommendations?”

It’s as if you’re trying to communicate with a rock. Which, according to the latest journals published in Geo Elements Organized, might be possible thanks to an artificial intelligence translator who learned how to speak rock. Apparently, pebbles are prone to bigotry. Marble sings operatic arias but each note is flat. These cutting-edge discoveries justify your 10,000 credit monthly subscription no matter what your financial advisor says.

You exaggerate your sigh. “Fine, I’ll pick my own poison.”

“Baijiu,” he eventually says.

“Hm? What’s that?”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot.

“My, my, somebody’s touchy.”

You hop the counter and peruse your establishment’s expansive selection. Hundreds of brands slapped over uniquely shaped bottles line the wall, each displaying information about their inside contents. You squint. What if he just said a random word to get you out of his hair? Your liquor knowledge consists of the basics, you’d be none the wiser if that’s the case.

“Where might I find this— oh, fuck.”

Blade is right beside you in the blink of an eye. Your hand flies to your chest, and while you’re trying to process how someone can move so fast, he finds what must be his intended target. It’s a tall, green bottle with a script you recognize as belonging to the Xianzhou Alliance. How did he ever expect you to find that on your own?

He rummages around and finds little wine-shaped shot glasses. In the meantime, you scan over the various juices and additives available. It’s been rough, but not drinking-alcohol-without-a-fruity-infusion rough. Blade notices your scheming and shakes his head.

“Men are so pretentious about liquor,” you lament.

“You asked.”

“My mistake.”

He ignores you and returns to the couch. You do the same, up until the point where you’re about to sit down. His gaze grows heavier, more concentrated. It took millions of years of evolution to develop complex language and he still chooses to opt out. What a waste. An unofficial staring contest commences. What does he take you for? A mind reader? You technically are, but still, using your abilities for this is beneath you. Especially while you’re in the midst of a crisis that you’d give anything to stop thinking about.

Blade must have a mind-altering epiphany that he has additional motor functions at his disposal. He pats his thigh.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

You examine your black pencil skirt that stops above your knees. Hopping the counter in this was more of a way to pretend you’re in your early twenties again, not an invitation to test the fabric’s limits. You’ve lost multiple pairs of panties, a nice bra, and a blouse to this bodyguard who took the occupation’s prefix very seriously. This classy skirt isn’t going to be an addition to the clothes necropolis.

“I like this skirt,” you simply state.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

Your vision undergoes an odd change. One moment, you were standing tall and assertive, looking down your nose at him. In the instant that follows, you’re facing the bar, its black marble countertop and gravity adaptive stools coming into focus. What you’re sitting on isn’t a foam cushion that’s as soft as a cloud. It’s rigid and displeases your tailbone. You struggle to balance yourself, an issue that’s solved by Blade’s left arm curving snugly around your waist.

“Did you just—” You cut yourself off, unable to dredge up the energy necessary to get annoyed. He could throw you through the roof for all you care. Sitting you on his lap is forgivable enough. “Whatever, you’re pouring my drink then.”

He’s already in the process of doing so. He pops the lid and fills the specially shaped shot glass with clear liquid. An aromatic fragrance of fruits and spices wafts through the air. It’s a world captured in a bottle; another place you’ll never get to see. You have to settle for admiring pictures and reading firsthand accounts.

Does Blade have an association with the Xianzhou Alliance? It isn’t your place to ask, but you’re curious nonetheless. He’s been a silent spectator of your life for the past few months yet you know nothing about him. It should stay that way — getting involved with him physically is already questionable enough. Especially now that you fully grasp the phenomena that’s been haunting you.

The thought makes you wince.

You lean your head back and down the shot.

It burns as it travels down your throat. You cough, the unexpected strength hitting you with the force of a collapsing star. Maybe you should’ve worked your way up to taking shots. It’s too late to rectify the mistake, your hubris is irreversible. The bastard chuckles at your suffering. It’s the briefest chuckle you’ve ever heard, but it still counts.

“What is the— what is the alcohol content of that?” You rasp out.

“Eighty.”

You crane your neck to glare at him. “If you wanted to kill me, the sword would’ve been faster.”

He rolls his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes at you. He picks you up, sticks a little ribbon on your head, and delivers you to death’s doorstep only to disregard your valid concerns? The 8.13 billion bounty isn’t enough. They need to double it.

“I’d like to see you drink this. Considering your prehistoric age, it might short-circuit your cardiovascular system.”

Blade pilfers your empty shot glass. He refills it, swallows without any fanfare, and then resumes his staring regimen.

You don’t know if you should be impressed or offended that his tolerance is better than yours.

Ultimately, your competitive nature wins out. You manage two more shots before waving the white flag. The flavor itself isn’t that bad once you get past the initial shock, it’s slightly fruity. The alcohol taste packs a punch though. A version with a lower ABV would suit you better.

You sigh, lean into his chest, and try in vain to smooth out your bunched-up skirt.

Your inebriated daze hits fast. There’s no pleasant buzz accompanying it, only exhaustion. The kind that makes the prospect of sleeping for a few years tempting. Those cryogenic pod ads know how to sell their product. It speaks volumes how simple their marketing remains since they’re so high in demand.

You inspect your soulless business. There aren’t any clients traveling to and fro, well-dressed ladies having their fur coats removed by valets, or businessmen celebrating a deal by clinking their glasses together. It’s eerily quiet. There’s nothing but the sound of your slow breathing and the thrum of the oxygen generator.

This planet’s heart remains frozen with you at the epicenter.

“What’s it like to travel across the universe?” You ask.

“It’s just work.”

Just work. You’ve received variations of this response when you’ve used this question on clients. They’ll take your silence as a signal to prattle, complaining about jet lag, getting through customs, finding a hotel that isn’t ridiculously overpriced during busy seasons; on and on they’d go. You’d sit across from them, smiling and nodding along, verbally empathizing with their plight. If they went on too long, you’d temporarily excuse yourself before your agitation spewed forth.

“That’s it?” You murmur.

He’s silent.

You kick your heels off, lay your legs across his lap and the couch, then sling your right arm around his shoulders to hold yourself in place. He observes you with no discernible emotion as you make yourself comfortable.

“Tell me about it,” you implore. “The universe. Please.”

Blade considers your request. You take it as a good sign he hasn’t shut you down immediately. For once, you don’t needle him. You just sit there with high hopes and a pleading expression. A peculiar emotion surges around him. It whispers to you, requesting that you lean in and hear it better. You deny the impulse and swat it away.

This mental exertion almost causes you to miss his frown and pinched-together eyebrows.

It’s fleeting, but there’s no misinterpreting what you saw.

Have you ever seen Blade’s face reveal so much?

It’s a vault he doesn’t leave open long. The doors seal shut before you can catalog the contents inside.

“Nothing I’ve seen is worth telling.”

You part your lips yet no sound comes out. You retract your arms from him and lay on your back, resting your forearm against your head. The LOTUS-EATER’s dark ceiling becomes your latest intrigue. It’s a cool shade of gray, mimicking the joyless sky that hovers outside like a specter deadset on haunting the living. You hate it. Everything’s gray, bland, depressing, an insult to the vibrancy that accompanies sentient beings.

You close your eyes and all goes silent.

After a while, his deep voice rumbles, “Do you want to see it?”

“Hm?”

“The universe,” he clarifies.

“Oh. Of course. But…” you pause, noticing how draining an endeavor it is to string together a coherent thought, “If I could, I wouldn’t. Too much… there’s too much I hafta do… here.”

There’s Nona. You want to help her reach her full potential, she’s brimming with it, a never-ending source of energy and zeal. Then there’s Lear. Why he idolizes you to such a degree, you’ll never understand. He should turn that starry-eyed gaze inward. It’s ironic — he considers you confident, yet you’ve always shied away from ever revealing the fathomless depths of your care.

You were born to be an object and he made you a person.

How can you ever repay a debt like that? Why is it so awkward and awful to express anything you feel without theatrics accompanying them? You have to tell him. You know he loves you, and while the love you hold for him is different, does he know that? How could he, if you’ve been so hesitant to say those three harrowing words?

Man, you think. My head’s killing me.

“Tired?”

After you grumble in the affirmative, he lifts you up. You think you might be floating. Your head lulls to the side and comes into contact with something solid, which proves you aren’t. Gravity hasn’t quit its longstanding tenure. Your blurred journey begins when you’re laid down in a spot more cozy than the couch cushions. It feels familiar and safe. Tension melts from your body, slinking off to loan you a brief solace. The interest is set high, but you’re too blissfully content to care.

That night, you dream of an ocean dutifully guarded by the sun.

The waves rise and fall along the shoreline, the breeze carries the scent of saltwater, and aquatic birds caw from above.

Bright white sand is plentiful beneath your bare feet. It tickles your toes and tricks you into thinking you’ll sink with every tentative step.

As you walk along this esplanade, an object hidden amongst the sand jabs into your sole.

Blood pools from the wound, trickles down a steep slope, and infects the ocean.

The scarlet droplet corrupts and warps it, devouring any color it comes into contact with. It's insatiable, a bloody blight that proliferates until the sea is swallowed whole.

The moon eclipses a dying sun. Driven by vanity, it paints its likeness across red, shimmering waves.

Unknown

I have good news

Unknown

I’ll be recalling Bladie soon

Unknown

I located the party responsible for endangering your life

Unknown

Isn’t that great?

If you’re being honest, then yes

Unknown

Am I not renowned for my honesty?

Unknown

No harm will befall you, so rest easy

Unknown

I hope we can continue our mutually beneficial partnership ♡

If there’s anything your mother’s passing has taught you, it’s that time isn’t guaranteed.

You thought you’d have a lifetime to see eye to eye with her. Over centuries, the layers you cultivated would peel back. You’d then ask her the questions that have lingered on the tip of your tongue.

Did you want to have me, or was it out of obligation?

Is this the way you want to live?

Am I a daughter or a burden?

You don’t know what scared you more. The idea of asking her, or what the answers might be.

None of your blood relations are living, but you still have a family. You refuse to treat something as fickle as time lightly again. Nona’s past, Lear’s present, your future; you can only dance around it for so long. The tempo will inevitably speed up beyond what you can follow. Lear’s confession reaffirmed how dangerous this complacency is. By believing you’re sparing one another pain, you’re only sparing yourself.

Your tea’s gone cold. The remnants swirl down the basin’s drain.

The true nature of your abilities, the shackles it puts you in, you’ll tell them everything.

You shoot them a text, asking them to meet you tonight at the LOTUS-EATER. You then set your phone to Do Not Disturb and place it aside.

Blade won’t be on Eris much longer. Your chances to help him are limited and you still haven’t fulfilled your promise.

You’d like to try and remedy that.

“I may have been a bit prickly when we first met, but I want to express my heartfelt gratitude for all you’ve done. I’m sure you just consider this a job, which is just as well, still, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I don’t even want to imagine what would become of this planet in my absence. So please give me one last opportunity to deter your mara.”

Blade gives you a long, hard look.

“You’re talking like that again?”

“I’m trying to be professional.”

He walks over and leers down at you. You return his blank stare unabashedly. Eventually, he readjusts the collar of your ivory blouse.

“What was that for?” You ask.

“I saw something that isn’t very professional.”

Glancing down, you pull the fabric back, revealing a prominent hickey. Your face ignites and you frantically cover it.

You clear your throat. “Is it a contractual obligation for you Stellaron Hunters to get on my nerves?”

The glint in his eye makes you nervous.

“Actually, do me a favor and don’t answer that. Just tell me if you’re interested or not, I’m a busy woman.”

He thinks it over and nods.

Throughout the preparation and rites, you consider what you’ve learned. Individuals exposed to you become more willing to act or dwell on their subconscious desires. The exact metrics aren’t clear, but you can safely assume this effect amplifies the longer they’re around you. These desires have a wide range. It can be as innocent as causing an older brother who ran away from his grief to finally cry over his deceased sister, or fuel for justifying selfish actions.

Blade’s case feels different.

Unprecedented as the other examples are, you can understand them somewhat. If a person acts on their most innate wishes, their behavior will change accordingly. However, what you’re causing here extends beyond psychological — it’s physiological too. Is that even possible? What could he possibly want enough to alter the fabric of his very being?

If you can find out, maybe the revelation will help him.

And so you close your eyes.

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.”

…

Blade’s psyche has changed.

The grayscale composition is gone. Vitality has been crowned the new ruler, overthrowing the morose atmosphere in a successful rebellion. This change brings no alleviation to the undercurrents of grief that hang heavy in the air. Instead, it feels more erratic, like a heart beating wildly after waking from a coma.

The Shackling Prison stands beyond a straight path as if it's been waiting for you.

The first time you entered his mind, it rejected you. Now, it’s pulling you in, its gravity far-reaching.

You hesitate to proceed.

Is it his mara that’s responsible for this? You won’t be able to tell unless you keep going.

The invisible force that expelled you nudges you from behind.

You recall when Blade first appeared before you. Your physical eyes showed you a man while every other sense warned he was a beast. A carnivore that would devour anything, predator or prey alike. You believed it then and you believe it now. His condition has condemned him. Where he walks, destruction follows. It’d make sense for you to abandon him to fate’s whims.

This excruciating hunger digests him too. It’s destined to eat him alive while postponing merciful death.

Fate can be cruel, but you have an opportunity to be kind.

You make your way to the Shackling Prison’s gates.

The seal that’s served as a hindrance halts you. You examine the once bold obstruction. It has faded, its strength depleted, held together by nothing. At its peak, you think it would have pushed you out instantly. Now, as your incorporeal hand presses against it, there’s little it can do. The most it can muster is the resilience to delay you a few more seconds.

After that, it shatters and fades like weeping stardust.

A prismatic shard forms from its ashes, coalescing into a blurred, moving image. Distorted sounds crackle from it, which you soon recognize as garbled speech. The noise becomes clearer. You hear a low thrum in the background. Its timbre matches the oxygen generator standard in Eris’ buildings.

This must be one of Blade’s memories.

“I know you’re impatient, but play nice a while longer,” a saccharine voice hums. “She’ll be here any minute now.”

That voice…

The image sharpens and unveils a grand screen plastered against a wall. It sections off into numerous squares, each dedicated to displaying financial data. It’s bright, obnoxiously so, attesting to the owner’s tacky taste.

Chrysus’ office?

A door creaks. Hastened footsteps approach, ringing throughout the brightly lit room. The pair of eyes you’re viewing this memory from — Blade’s — shift to locate the source. The color they arrive at is familiar. It’s the same shade you see upon viewing your reflection, although the shape differs.

Mom? You wonder, astonishment hitting like pelting hail. What was she doing, meeting with a Stellaron Hunter in Chrysus’ office of all places…?

“Your message surprised me, Exalted Arbiter. Getting you to agree to a face-to-face meeting is normally like pulling a tooth. What’s the occasion?” The honeyed voice, which can only belong to Kafka, greets.

“Don’t play coy with me,” your mother replies. While her words are sharp, they aren’t warped with emotion. This is the demeanor she assumed when conducting business. Her sagacity is a trait you’ve never been able to fully emulate. “That thing’s leaving baubles on my daughter’s balcony. How many times have I told you to tighten your dog’s leash?”

“Oh? I thought I had.”

Your mother smiles thinly. “Should I add incompetent leadership to your list of defects? Deals are meant to be followed. Otherwise, why make them at all?”

“We draw lines to test them. So long as they aren’t crossed, there’s no harm.”

“Spare me your casuistry. I don’t want that thing anywhere near her.”

Your head feels like it’s being stretched in multiple directions at once. This sequence unfolding before you has a dizzying effect. Why is your mother so outwardly hostile to Kafka? The Stellaron Hunter isn’t your favorite person either, but this transcends simple dislike. It’s personal, raw. She’s maneuvered through diatribes that’d make anyone else go red in the face, her poise unruffled. Kafka’s little provocations pale in comparison.

Not to your mother, though. She’s a thinning thread close to snapping.

“As per our original agreement, there’s no harm as long as she doesn’t notice him,” Kafka dismisses. She leisurely sits on Chrysus’ desk, not bothering to move his papers aside. She then crosses her legs and smiles. Her eyes emit an unnatural glow. “On the topic of testing lines… let’s not pretend you’re innocent either.”

Your mother doesn’t so much as flinch. “If you’re going to make accusations, at least have the confidence to be forthright.”

“You’re fascinating to deal with, Exalted Arbiter,” Kafka croons. “This is why I look forward to our chats. You don’t cower or plead for mercy like our friend outside did. It’s a welcome change.”

“I’d rather you don’t compare me to Ophídion.”

Kafka drums her fingers against the table’s surface. For such a simple sound, it’s deeply grating. “Forgive me in advance, then, because I intend to one more time.”

Your mother remains silent, her lips taut.

“Still not afraid, hm? Let’s see if we can change that,” Kafka’s smile widens, which crinkles the skin beneath her eyes. “Chrysus’ shipments of ichor are exact, down to the milliliter. Always delivered on time as well. Comparatively, your end of the bargain is far simpler. You just have to grant Bladie ready access to Miss Phaeales’ vicinity. But, I heard something regrettable through the grapevine.”

Your mother’s eye twitches.

“You’ve been shopping around for a way to sneak [First] off Eris, correct? Tsk, tsk.”

All falls silent save for the generator’s dedicated hum.

Your mother stands unflinching, folding her hands in front of her. The two openly scrutinize each other. Calculating, strategizing. Her posture betrays nothing. There’s no guilt or apprehension, making it impossible for you to determine the credibility of Kafka’s words.

“It’s fear you devils can’t experience, correct?” Your mother queries. “Here’s a suggestion — try having a daughter yourself. You praise me for not caving to intimidation; that’s because I’ve experienced far worse. From their conception to our death, fear is the only thing we mothers know. Fear that they won’t become like us, or, even worse, that they will. What a funny juncture we occupy.”

Mom’s voice doesn’t sound right. It’s so… forlorn.

You don’t want to keep watching.

You can’t pull yourself away — the memory’s weight is heavy enough to pull you back in.

“Is that maternal dedication enough to condemn an entire planet?” Kafka ponders. “I’m not a judge who is eager to sentence. I’ve been lenient with you and would love to keep it that way. Leave Miss Phaeales in my care, no harm will befall her.”

For the first time since entering the room, your mother acknowledges Blade’s existence. Her eyes turn to slits as she scowls at him. Disgust, reprehension, and wrath; it converges in a maelstrom that could sink fleets of ships. You hone in on the emotions Blade experienced at that instant. There’s nothing. It’s hollow, save for blots of mild impatience.

“It wouldn’t be your care, it’d be his.”

Your soul convulses.

“Is that so terrible?” Kafka hums. “Separated, they’re essentially cursed, the poor things. They complement each other well, the more you think about it. One who incites madness and another who has the means to resist it. You of all people should understand that, hm? Or is Mr. Phaeales available to voice his dissent?”

Dad?

Darkness passes over her countenance.

You don’t understand and you’re afraid to. Kafka freely tosses around the most taboo topics as if twirling a poisoned dagger on her fingers.

One who incites madness. Is that what you are? A catastrophe patiently waiting for its chance? That can’t always be the case, but, more often than not, what a person covets most should never be fully realized. There’s a reason the sensible and moral components of one’s psyche stuff this risk down as deep as it’ll go. If everyone did what they wanted, whenever they wanted, civilization itself would cease to exist.

As for Blade’s role in this… Kafka must know whatever he wants would have a value that outweighs the potential drawbacks.

“I won’t let her be reduced to a retractable leash for your attack dog,” she seethes. “Let your Cancer of All Worlds do what it will. My decision is final.”

Electricity crackles in the air.

“It’s this script, then,” Kafka murmurs, more to herself than anything. “So many diverging paths, so many possibilities. To think that out of all futures you’d get to pick out specially for [First]...”

Kafka motions toward Blade, who readies his weapon.

“You chose one of the worst ones.”

some misc author notes for this one:

regarding the reader's condition, i didn't want to include a sigmund freud jumpscare in the story itself, so it gets to be down here instead. for those unfamiliar with his theories, what reader is referring to here:

'What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.'

is a more abstract version of freud's concept of the id, ego, and superego respectively. originally, i used this exact terminology, but something about it just felt very immersion breaking to me 😭 all i could do was think about mr freud floating about in the honkai universe. consequently, the unreliable narration of reader trying to understand her condition + not using the widely known terminology made me worry it'd be a bit confusing...

so, in freudian terms, being continually exposed to reader's presence causes an individual's id to dominate their thoughts/actions instead of their ego and superego.

#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #not sfw #nexus #my stuff

304 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 7 months

Text

“Did Israel Avert a Hamas Massacre?” That was the question posed by the headline of a Vanity Fair exposé published in October 2014. The investigative report laid out a sophisticated plot by the Islamist terror group to kill and kidnap Israelis on the Gaza border. The plan: to use underground tunnels to infiltrate nearby civilian enclaves on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, when the communities would be at their most vulnerable. As one intelligence source put it, the operation had two goals: “First, get in and massacre people in a village. Pull off something they could show on television. Second, the ability to kidnap soldiers and civilians using the tunnels would give them a great bargaining chip.” The Israel Defense Forces subsequently confirmed this reporting to other media outlets, but not the specific date.

The tunnels were real. But at the time the massacre-that-wasn’t received little additional media coverage. It seemed too cinematic and convenient. Maybe it was a Hamas pipe dream that was never operational. Or maybe it was a worst-case scenario concocted by the Israeli security services and leaked to the media to justify their own ever-expanding countermeasures. Years passed without a mass border incursion, the tunnels were gradually detected and blocked, and I came to the conclusion that the skeptics were right about the plot being too lurid even for Hamas.

I was wrong. Last week, Hamas executed something quite like the attack on the Gaza border that it had planned all those years ago. Instead of tunneling underground on Rosh Hashanah, it invaded aboveground on another Jewish holiday, Simchat Torah. Some 1,500 terrorists stormed nearby civilian communities by land, air, and sea. They murdered babies in their cribs, parents in front of their children, and children in front of their parents. They burned entire families alive. They decapitated and mutilated their victims. They wore body cameras and documented their destruction as though it were a video game. They executed a grandmother in her home and uploaded the snuff film to her Facebook page. They deliberately targeted elementary schools. They kidnapped toddlers and a Holocaust survivor. They paraded a battered, naked woman through the streets of Gaza like a trophy. All told, they murdered more than 1,300 Israelis, almost all civilians, and abducted some 150 others, including babies and the elderly. The death toll continues to rise as rescue workers recover more remains and reassemble mangled corpses for identification.

Somehow, few saw this eruption of inhumanity coming. Several months ago, Sven Kühn von Burgsdorff, then the European Union ambassador to the Palestinians, performed what he called Gaza’s first paragliding flight to advocate for a future where “anything is possible in Gaza.” Hamas terrorists would later use paragliders to massacre more than 250 civilians at an Israeli music festival, which is presumably not what the envoy had in mind. And he wasn’t the only one naive about the Hamas regime’s intentions.

The consensus was that Hamas was a mostly rational actor that could be reasoned with. To hawks, although the group was an anti-Semitic Iran proxy, it could be deterred through political and economic incentives, because it felt responsible for the welfare of the Gazan people. To doves, Hamas was a quasi-legitimate national resistance movement whose occasional bouts of violence were simply intended to draw attention to that struggle.

Successive Netanyahu governments and security officials, far less sympathetic to the Gazan plight, nonetheless spent recent years lifting economic restrictions on the enclave, granting thousands of work permits for Gazans, and transferring hundreds of millions of Qatari dollars to Hamas in exchange—they thought—for relative quiet.

But it turned out that Hamas wasn’t being pacified; it was preparing. The group was less committed to national liberation than to Jewish elimination. Its violence was rooted not in strategy, but in sadism. And in retrospect, well before the Rosh Hashanah plot, the signs of Hamas’s atrocious ambitions were all there—many observers just did not want to believe them. What Hamas did was not out of character, but rather the explicit fulfillment of its long-stated objectives. The shocking thing was not just the atrocity itself, but that so many people were shocked by it, because they’d failed to reckon with the reality that had been staring them in the face.

First, there is Hamas’s notorious charter, a Frankensteinian amalgam of the worst anti-Semitic conspiracy theories of the modern era—the very same that have motivated numerous white-supremacist attacks in the United States. “Our struggle against the Jews is very great and very serious,” the document opens. “It needs all sincere efforts … until the enemy is vanquished.” The charter goes on to claim that the Jews control “the world media, news agencies, the press, publishing houses, broadcasting stations, and others.” According to Hamas, the Jews were “behind the French Revolution, the Communist revolution and most of the revolutions we heard and hear about,” as well as World War I and World War II. The charter accuses Israel of seeking to take over the entire world, and cites as proof the most influential modern anti-Semitic text, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a Russian fabrication that purports to expose a global Jewish cabal.

“Israel will exist and will continue to exist until Islam will obliterate it,” Hamas declares in its credo. “The Day of Judgement will not come about until Muslims fight the Jews.” In case anyone missed the point, the document adds that “so-called peaceful solutions and international conferences are in contradiction to the principles of the Islamic Resistance Movement.” In 2017, Hamas published a new charter, but pointedly refused to disavow the original one, in a transparent ruse that some respectable observers nonetheless took at face value.

In any case, Hamas communicated its genocidal intentions not just in words, but in deeds. Before it took control of Gaza, the group deliberately targeted Jewish civilians for mass murder, executing scores of suicide bombings against shopping malls, night clubs, restaurants, buses, Passover seders, and many other nonmilitary targets. Today, this killing spree is widely blamed for destroying the credibility of the Israeli peace movement and helping derail the Oslo Accords, precisely as Hamas intended. And it did not stop there. Since the group took power in Gaza, it has launched thousands of rockets indiscriminately at nearby civilian towns—attacks that continue at this very moment and that have boosted the Israeli right in election after election.

Hamas’s anti-Jewish aspirations were evident not only from its treatment of Israelis, but from its treatment of fellow Palestinians. Despite being the putative sovereign in Gaza and responsible for the well-being of its people, Hamas repeatedly cannibalized Gaza’s infrastructure and appropriated international aid to fuel its messianic war machine. The group boasted publicly about digging up Gaza’s pipes and turning them into rockets. It stored weapons in United Nations schools and dug attack tunnels underneath them. (Contrary to what you might have read on social media, Gaza does have underground shelters—they are just used for housing Hamas fighters, smuggling operations, and weapons caches, not protecting civilians.)

When dissenting Gazans attempted to protest this state of affairs and demanded a better future, they were brutally repressed. Hamas has not held elections since 2006. In 2020, when the Gazan peace activist Rami Aman held a two-hour Zoom call with Israeli leftists, Hamas threw him in prison for six months, tortured him, and forced him to divorce his wife. Why? Because his vision of a shared society for Arabs and Jews, however remote, was a threat to the group’s entire worldview. Jews were not to share the land; they were to be cleansed from it.

Simply put, what Hamas did two weekends ago was not a departure from its past, but the natural culmination of its commitments. The question is not why Hamas did what it did, but why so many people were surprised. Israel’s prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, quick to discern anti-Semitism in any effort to merely label Israeli products from West Bank settlements, somehow overlooked the severity of the genocidal threat growing next door. Journalists like me who cover anti-Semitism somehow failed to take Hamas’s overt anti-Jewish ethos as seriously as we should have. Many international leftists, ostensibly committed to equality and dignity for Palestinians and Israelis alike, somehow missed that Hamas did not share that vision, and in fact was actively working to obliterate it.

Today, in the ashes of the worst anti-Jewish violence since the Holocaust, some analysts have admitted their error of sanitizing Hamas. “It’s a huge mistake that I did, believing that a terror organization can change its DNA,” the former Netanyahu national-security adviser Yaakov Amidror told The New York Times. Others on the left have clung to their tortured conception of Hamas as a rational resistance group, despite it having been falsified by events. Perhaps some fear that acknowledging the true nature of Hamas would undermine the struggle for Palestinian self-determination. But in actuality, it is the refusal to disentangle Hamas’s anti-Jewish sadism from the legitimate cause of Palestinian nationalism that threatens the project and saps its support.

In 1922, The New York Times published its first article about Adolf Hitler. The reporter, Cyril Brown, was aware of his subject’s anti-Jewish animus, but he wasn’t buying it. “Several reliable, well-informed sources confirmed the idea that Hitler's anti-Semitism was not so genuine or violent as it sounded,” Brown wrote, “and that he was merely using anti-Semitic propaganda as a bait to catch masses of followers.” Two years later, the Times published another news item on the future architect of the Holocaust: “Hitler Tamed by Prison.” The Austrian activist, the piece said, “looked a much sadder and wiser man,” and “his behavior during his imprisonment convinced the authorities that [he] was no longer to be feared.”

Many got Hamas wrong. But they shouldn’t have. Again and again, people say they intend to murder Jews. And yet, century after century, the world produces new, tortuous justifications for why anti-Jewish bigots don’t really mean what they say—even though they do.

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stuckysbike · 6 months

Text

All Or Nothing (2)

Part 1

A/n: All mistakes are my own. Written on my phone.

Pre-Stucky x Reader, pre-Bucky x reader, Stucky, Steve x reader

AU: Bucky wants his boyfriend back, but his boyfriend is your husband now. And the father of your child.

In this part you spend some time with Bucky.

Warnings: angst, eventual smut, 18 plus only please, fluff, implied cheating (but not really) mob!Bucky, mob!Steve, presumed unrequited love, polyamory, MMF, bisexual Stucky.

Bucky was a gentleman.

It needled you to no end. He was polite, courteous, considerate. He always asked your opinion, involved you in conversations, carefully introduced you to his most important associates and his closest family members.

When it came to Belle he looked to you first for guidance and confirmation he was doing the right thing. That you approved. He respected your relationship with her. He respected you.

In short he was perfect, faultless.

You hated it. You wanted to hate him, but you couldn’t. There was a coldness to him that you saw with strangers, an aloof attitude. He didn’t carry that home. He was warm at home, charming and playful. His eyes sparkled when he looked at Belle, and the love that he showed to Steve was breathtaking.

It was in his face, in his kindness and attention to detail. He didn’t put himself on a pedestal around Steve, he didn’t touch or kiss him or demand his attention. He was confident and patient and caring and he always sought consent from Steve, from you and even from Belle when he was around her.

You wanted to reject his advances to get to know you, but you couldn’t when he was so sincere, when he told you he desperately wanted to bond with you, at least be friends whilst you all worked out where you stood in this new life.

He took you for dinner, charmed you into sharing your life story, shared a fair amount of his too. You both left Steve out for the most part, a mention of him here and there perhaps.

Then he took you dancing. Bucky loved dancing, and so did you. Steve never really could, but he tried. With Bucky, with his hands on your hips as he guided you through a face paced latin dance, you felt at home. It was where he drew the most sincere laughs from you, where you shared your first moments getting lost deep in his eyes.

He twirled you, and turned you and if you felt your tummy swoop you put it down to Bucky dipping you and not the feeling of his hand on the small of your back or his warm breath on your face.

The first time you kissed he had pulled you into his body from a spin and it felt so natural, but later as you sat at your vanity removing your makeup guilt churned in your gut. Guilt and jealousy and confusion.

It wasn’t really a kiss, a brush of the lips more like as you came together during the dance. Bucky had smiled wide, and he kept his arm tight around you the rest of the night.

You felt safe with him, you realised, and his possessiveness made you feel wanted not uncomfortable. You could still recall the scent of his cologne and the heat of his body.

You showered and after putting on fresh pyjamas you padded downstairs to get a drink.

Steve and Bucky were on the sofa talking in low voices. There was a proper amount of space between them and you heard Bucky explain that he doesn’t kiss and tell. His words made you smile and when Steve heard you two faces gazed lovingly over towards you. They moved to let you sit between them but you just shook your head, got your water and headed back to bed leaving them to talk.

Yes Bucky Barnes was a gentleman and you hated him because really, deep down, you didn’t hate him at all.

No, instead of hating him like you wanted you were falling for him.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x f!reader

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sea-owl · 2 months

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I have an idea. I'm borrowing ideas from these posts started by @thekatebridgerton from here and here

It was the Bridgertons favorite part of the year. As the eight royal siblings of Hell and the hosts to the deadly sins, it was their duty to meet with their counter parts once a year for about a week, maybe two if things are slow, to make sure the balance between Heaven and Hell remained. The work itself they couldn't care less about; their coworkers however held all the appeal for them.

How they love riling the heavenly virtues up. Now if only they could get their names.

"The meeting started five minutes ago," Diligence reminded the Hell Royalty as they all sat down. Her dark eyes looked ready to twitch. Patience and Kindness each gave her a gentle squeeze on the arm.

"There's nothing wrong with being fashionably late," Anthony, the sin of Vanity said as he sat across from Diligence.

He eyed Diligence's slightly unkempt appearance, probably rushed here from another project of her's. "You could think about doing the same. I don't mind giving you time to freshen up-"

"We have work to do," Diligence cut him off.

Benedict, the sin of Sloth, slumped down into his seat. Kindness pushed a cup of coffee towards him. He moaned into the drink. "Kindness you're too good to me. Keep treating me like this and I just might have your children."

"Sloth that's impossible," Kindness reminded him.

Colin, the sin of Wrath, grinned as he sat across from Patience. That grin quickly fell into a pout when she continued to work on whatever was on that boring piece of paper.

Colin reached for the paper. Patience moved it out of the way. Colin reached for it again, and again Patience moved it. The game continued until Patience finished writing whatever sentence she was working on and looked up at Colin. "Yes Wrath?"

Colin grabbed her dominate hand, Patience moved the pen to the other hand and began writing with that one.

Daphne, the sin of Greed, wrote out her wants for the upcoming year. Fast and efficient, it will give her more time with her virtue anyway which is what she really wants. She hands the plan over to Humility to look over.

"A little too much Greed," Humility said. "Remember as the elders said we have to strike a balance. How about I take some of these instead?"

Daphne pouted. "I rather have them and you."

Eloise, the sin of Pride, sat across from Temperance. She doesn't understand why she has to be here. Her plan worked wonderful last year.

Temperance pulled out some notes on last year's plan. "Perhaps we can make some of these changes, hold back a little this year. Pride was a little high last year among the humans."

Eloise's jaw dropped.

Francesca, the sin of Lust, smiled at Chasity, leaning in closer. "Hello Chasity."

"Lust," Chasity greeted politely. His eyes never straying from her own. "Are you ready to get to work?"

Francesca sighed. She'll get him to look lower one day.

Gregory the sin of Envy stared longingly at the biscuit Chairity had in her hands. It was his favorite one too!

Chairity didn't even look up when she split the biscuit in half and gave one half to Envy.

"Chairity marry me!"

"No Envy," Chairity replied.

Hyacinth the sin of Gluttony, looked over Modesty's clothes. No, they won't do. Her virtue wore too little gold and needs richer colors, they would have to fix that. "Hey Modesty, how about-"

"Gluttony I am happy with my clothing," Modesty said. He almost smiled.

Hyacinth huffed. One day she's getting him out of that clothing.

The first day of the meeting went on, and when it was time to leave the Bridgertons opened their mouths only to have eight rays of holy light cover them.

"No true names," all the virtues said.

#bridgerton #sins and virtues #kathony #benophie #polin #saphne #philoise

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sgiandubh · 6 months

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Belfast: not your average working-class drama

So, yes: as promised, I watched Belfast last night, until the wee hours of the next morning. And I have to immediately add I do not feel the need for a re-watch. As usually, I shall not insist more than necessary on the storyline and focus instead on the raw impressions I am taking home with me.

It was a strange experience, given all the huffing and puffing and hype and backstage context, inevitably involving C. And I defy any OL fan to watch and process it otherwise: the circus was what it was, at its time, Vanity Fair major PR blunder included. Whether you are a hardcore Balfe Nation stan or a shipper, that bias is there, looming over your screen as you try and get into the magic of it. An ambitious and, at least for me, unfulfilled goal.

The storyline is personal, in a cinematic niche that screams for political statements, peppered with psychological heaviness and guerilla brutality. The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw spoke in his chronicle about an 'euphoric eulogy' (https://www.theguardian.com/film/2021/oct/12/belfast-review-kenneth-branagh-jamie-dornan-judi-dench), where the NYT's Jeannette Catsoulis saw ' grit and glamour stroll hand-in-hand' (https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/11/movies/belfast-review.html), with a marked, delighted nod to C's performance as Ma. So yes, we inevitably deal with 'rose-tinted glasses' and 'softened edges', in this nostalgic, elegantly shot coming of age plot. The aesthetic is there, with a black& white sleek filming choice that makes everything so dense at times, you simply have to hit pause and let it sink in. It is, I suspect, Branagh's nod to Truffaut and his Antoine Doinel five movie cycle, starting with Les Quatre Cents Coups (The 400 Blows, but this is an inept translation of an idiom that means 'to break havoc'), another coming-of-age working class story set in Paris during the Fifties and also shot in black and white. A clever choice that allows the audience to focus on the dialogues, without any other distraction. And ultimately, a statement that also heavily drags you by your coat's button: "hey, there, I am an independent, intellectual movie featuring beautiful people amid hardship: wanna be friends?"

Being totally impervious to the Fifty Shades of Grey charm allowed me to focus on C's performance and I have to immediately say I found it elegant, clever and endearing. And also immediately add that I still have no clue about how the hell she managed to drag all her Claire Fraser mannerisms, all the way from Inverness to Belfast and 1743 to 1969 (another important year for OL, as we all know, and that coincidence made me grin). I loved (loved-loved-loved) the broken plates' scene, but in all fairness, was it that different from the moment she slaps Laoghaire in Castle Leoch's kitchen? But I truly resonated with the tiny moments when we see her really struggling to make sense out of the Inland Revenue string of letters and find a solution to a very clear family conundrum, with the result that we all know, I suppose, by now. So yes, Mrs. Balfe: portraying strong, honest, salt of the Earth women absolutely suits you and I'd love to see more of it in the future, if only perhaps with a different, more realistic angle.

So the real question I bet you're all waiting for me to answer is this: was it an Oscar-worthy performance? Sadly, my answer is no (no matter how deep I would like it to be otherwise - and I swear I did and I do). And it's #silly and very unfair to her, I know, since it has to deal, in my humble opinion with the script's own limitations and the complete failure to find a balance between the child's gaze and the mother's presence. As the script and storyline go, Belfast is Jude Hill's movie and it is to him I would have given the Oscar. Not Judi Dench, whom I love dearly and whose voice is the most beautiful, rich, intelligent movie voice ever to have graced this Earth. She didn't need just another trinket of Hollywood affection for what is a correct, but over all forgettable performance, unlike Ciaran Hinds'. Who was simply extraordinary and that's all I can say: I am in love, and when I fall in love, I shut up - not babble on blogs.

Would I recommend it? I don't know. I mean, it's Branagh, and to be honest, I don't hold the man in great esteem. I think his reputation as the neo-Laurence Olivier is way OTT and I am also deeply amused by his pretense to be an intellectual luminary among the glitterati, when he obviously is not. But, as always, this is just me and my very clear-cut opinions. You don't have to follow them or even believe me and as always, it's just better to go see for yourself. With this caveat: don't expect too much out of it and you should probably be fine and satisfied.

I sure was very pleased to watch this nugget, my favorite scene in all the movie, to be honest. It's got perfect sarcasm and all the poetry one can find looking at Cartier-Bresson's delicate photographs of schoolchildren waiting for the lesson to end and life to truly start anew:

youtube

#Youtube

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buckets-and-trees · 1 year

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Title: Fire Burning from a Cedar Tree

Fandom: MCU

Characters/Pairings: King!Steve x Royal!female!Reader, brief appearance from Natasha

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Georgian-but-quasi-American royal AU. You came into the betrothal with no illusions to the situation – yours was a marriage to ensure the continuation of many generations of alliance and peace between your respective kingdoms. Very early, however, you learn what your royal union truly means to you both.

Content Warnings: politically arranged marriage, reluctant pining, SMUT (rough fucking, p in v, oral – female receiving, fluffy fucking, nipple play)

Additional Notes: The eighth and final offering in my 2022 Holiday Extravaganza. Just a smutty one-shot here with a smattering of situation painting/plot and relationship development. Did I think we were going to end up with this much Steve for the HE? Nope! But here we are, yet again ahaha. I had closed my laptop and gotten up to go to bed, had this idea while brushing my teeth, and sat back down and typed for an hour, then have been feverishly returning to it as I had the time. So I hope you enjoy, dear reader.

Music Ficspiration: Big God by Florence + the Machine, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face from My Fair Lady, Better Love by Hozier, Movement by Hozier, So Real by Jeff Buckley, Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley

“Your Majesty,” one of your ladies in waiting enters your bedchambers and sweeps into a curtsy.

“Yes?” you prompt, turning in your chair to look at her directly instead of through mirror of the vanity.

“His Majesty the King has returned.”

You nod, “Thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

She curtsies again, bowing her head, and then leaves, closing the door softly behind her. You sigh, turning back properly in your chair so your lady in waiting, the Duchess Natalia, can resume taking down your hair.

“Your Majesty?” she prompts, noting your sigh.

“It’s good to hear the king is back.”

“He will undoubtedly request an audience with you tomorrow,” she says. She is far too observant and already knows you too well.

She is also mercifully diplomatic, discreet, and a confidant who listens and doesn’t needle you or pry, so she continues letting out the braids, letting you muse on your own and only speak further if you want to.

You don’t want to.

The product of a long-arranged betrothal to bring peace between two countries, you had accepted your fate, resigned to be a good and dutiful queen. You were not to inherit a throne in your own country, had known that from birth with two older brothers, and you had grown up ready to embrace duty and opportunity. On arriving in the kingdom of Brooklyn as the future queen, your interactions with King Steven had been limited, but pleasant. They had been sufficient for you to be secure in your hope that it would be a good union, no need to worry about him being either cruel or moronic.

You had expected to be wedded and bedded. What you had not expected was to actually fall for him after the wedding ceremony and royal festivities when the two of you had taken the custom ten-day royal honeymoon to the palace in the north of his country by the lakes. The first night, of course, you’d consummated the union. The first few days you had been tentative in each other’s company. But with few staff, few interruptions, no royal obligations, only time really to yourselves – dining together, walking in the gardens, riding in the forest, in your bedchambers… you had grown close, and you had dangerously started to lose your heart to him.

Then you had been sent back to court while he had to depart directly to attend to matters in California in Stark��s kingdom. Two weeks had stretched to three, and the longer he was absent, the more you missed him, spurring you to grow more irritated at your naivety for developing more tender feelings for him than just that of the dutiful wife and queen you were supposed to and had intended to be.

No, here you sat, hoping your husband would summon you on the morrow, as you could not simply turn up in his royal presence, even though you were queen. Indeed, you could go anywhere else in this kingdom, had the company of many – some only because they had to or were courting your favor, but enough warm and developing relationships throughout the court – but not the one person you now yearned for.

You had been prepared all your life to marry a king and not to grow sentimentally attached to him as your husband. You felt like such a fool, pining when you had been perfectly fine and content in your life a mere six weeks ago.

There are voices outside your bedchamber and you and Natasha exchange perplexed looks. Just as she turns toward the door, it bursts open, the king entering without hesitation. He takes in the scene then quickly strides forward.

Natasha quickly drops into the customary curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she says.

You should have risen from your spot and greeted him as well, but your heart has jumped into your throat, and you are momentarily frozen.

The king is across the room and standing next to you by the time Natasha rises back to her full stature. He reaches out for the brush in her hand, and you catch the nearly imperceptible lift of the corners of her lips in a smile as she gives it to him.

“Duchess, you may go, I will take over.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

She makes to curtsy again before exiting, but he waves her off. “Go,” he commands, impatiently but somehow without any irritation, and she heeds his wishes and departs immediately.

Wordlessly, he steps right up behind you. You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised he came to you. You belong to him, and he’s been denied by proximity for three weeks. He pulls all your hair into his left hand, then, holding it, works the brush through it with his right hand, starting at the bottom, moving up a little at a time. You marvel at how gently and methodically he works through your locks, almost reverently. Neither of you speak as he brushes your hair. You study him in the mirror. He’s concentrated fully on his task. Coming to a finish, he finally meets your gaze in the mirror, and the look in his eyes is intense. He sets the brush on the dressing table and sweeps your hair to one side, exposing your neck and he leans down to press a long, heated kiss to your delicate skin. You shiver as he follows this with shorter kisses trailing down your neck to the juncture where it meets shoulder, and it’s a sensitive point that draws a sigh from your lips.

He stands up straight and urges you to turn in your chair and face him. His fingers possessively trace along your jaw, tilting your chin up. “Did you miss your king?”

You couldn’t say you missed your husband and not your king, not yet, so instead of mincing words or spinning together something else true enough to say, you bring your hand up over his, and turn your head to press a kiss into the palm of his hand.

You try to move to kneel before him, but he says, “Oh no,” instead insisting on luring you up and pulling you into a kiss, fully flush against his body, and he leads you in no uncertain terms to the bed, shoving you down to sit at the foot of the mattress. He draws back and both of you are panting heavily. He stands between your legs, and he doesn’t take his eyes off your as he pulls his tunic up over his head and drops it to the floor. His breeches quickly follow, and his cock springs free, hard, and ready to take you. Already breathing heavily, you’re able to hide your reaction somewhat – which is a confusing mixture of both excitement and trepidation.

He urges you to scoot back, crawling up to join you,

Midway up the bed, he presses on your shoulder, “Lay back for me. “

He rucks up your nightgown around your hips, and crawls over you, using one hand to guide himself into your already slickening folds before caging you in on either side of your head and thrusting deep inside your cunt, filling you completely with the first thrust.

He adopts a frenzied pace to fuck you. It’s hard and fast. He’s no longer looking at you, his head dropped and buried into the crook of your neck. You can’t catch your breath. This isn’t what you wanted.

He holds your thigh up around his narrow waist, spearing into you again and again, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising force. You let out a quiet sob and he abruptly stills, raising his head to look at you, but you can’t look at him.

You’re not fast enough to brush away the tears though, and you know he sees them slowly rolling down your cheeks, tears you had fought to keep at bay.

He utters your name as if in pain and draws away completely, sitting back on his heels.

You turn away, rolling to your side, feeling so much more of you has been exposed than merely your naked body before him.

After a moment that stretches on between the two of you, his fingers tenderly caress your calf. He murmurs your name tentatively this time, a question.

You sense him shift on the bed, and suddenly you feel him behind you. You are wrapped in on yourself, but his hand brushes softly from your elbow to your shoulder. He lingers there for a moment, then you feel him shift behind you again, and he props himself up, so he can look down at you over your shoulder, and his hand moves purposefully now to your cheek to wipe away your tears. He plants a kiss on your shoulder. Then he brings his hand back to your shoulder and softly urges you to roll toward him so you’re on your back again and he can look directly at you again.

“That was too rough. You are a queen and deserve better treatment from a king.”

You turn your head away. “No, it’s not…” You bite your lip. Even the way he apologized was too detached and it made your heart ache.

“Not what?”

More hot tears spill silently over your cheeks. How can you explain? You hardly understood the tempest in your heart yourself.

But then he cups the side of your face, brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and when he draws your gaze back to him, there is something in his eyes so searching and raw that your heart longs for more of that version of him. “It wasn’t that you were too rough, it was that I don’t want to be merely used and discarded.” Your admission is out in a rush before you could second guess your words or their consequences.

He frowns. “Far from it.”

He moves closer and plants a kiss on your forehead, then rests his forehead against yours. Eyes closed, for a moment you both simply breath each other in being that close, one of his hands still cupping your cheek. At length, he speaks again. “I was desperate for you.”

“Desperate for me?”

He breaks away and laughs softly, but there’s a pang of bitterness to it. “Yes, desperate.”

He sits up, facing away from you.

You sit up next to him, smoothing your nightdress down, unsure how to proceed, you don’t want to lose him in the present. “Steven?” you try to coax him for more.

He sighs. “I’m afraid you will find me to be a fool.”

You wait for him to continue, needing to hear what he means.

“I was serenely independent and content before we wed, and inexplicably in a matter of days you somehow seem to have seeped into my bones, because from the first of your absence my mind turned so often of you. I found myself wondering what your opinion would be, wanting you to try some of the delicacies alongside me, wishing to see your smiles and your frowns throughout the course of the day. When I returned to my chambers each night, they were empty instead of peaceful and solitary. I’d grown accustomed to your voice, accustomed to your face, accustomed to your place at my side.”

He pauses again for a moment, and his expression pained. “But it was more than accustomed – I truly yearned for you and was angry to feel so much unlike myself when I’ve ruled for more than a decade without you, lived a life I thought was very much complete before you, devoted to the crown and happy in my reign, and now…”

The sentiment lingers in the space between you. Surely, he must hear your thundering of your heart in your chest. Finally, you say, “If you’re a fool, I’m a fool.”

His head snaps to look at you.

You take a deep breath and expose your soul to him, too. “I was born and raised for our royal duties, to marry and become a useful and reliable queen. There was no question of your deep commitment to rule this kingdom dutifully as its king. In the days before we married, it was evident we had the same expectations of our union, no sentimental notions. It made sense, and we were well-matched. At our wedding, we became king and queen. Away from our royal expectations, alone with each other, I think we both fell into becoming husband and wife. I’ve yearned for you these past weeks as well, and I couldn’t abide how impossible I thought my situation was, so sure and confident I would make for a good queen but discovering I wanted more. It was only when you went away that I felt the lack of something – an affection as I’d never had before, both for you and from you.”

He turns fully toward you and kisses you again, and instead of the demand and hunger, as he kisses now it’s driven only by the unrestrained yearning he confessed and that you admitted in return.

He pulls you into his lap, and you straddle him. He breaks the kiss to rid you of your nightdress entirely now instead of only pushing it out of the way as before, and then his lips immediately seek yours again. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his broad, warm hands are splayed across your back, pressing you flush to him, and you are just as eager to feel every inch of his skin seared against yours

He pauses his kiss, both of you utterly breathless now. You put a hand on his chest over his heart. He looks down and smiles at the gesture before looking up and beaming at you, but his small falters a fraction at the concentrated look on your face.

“What is it?”

You speak the notion that’s newly bloomed in your chest. “We are the only two people in the world with whom we can be totally ourselves, husband and wife, not the king and the queen, just a man and a woman.”

He nods fervently. “A new vow then between us: to both guard and embrace this as a true and unfettered love.”

You kiss him, but he only returns it briefly before pausing it again. “Do you swear it?” he asks.

You bob your head eagerly, seeking his lips, but he grips your chin, holding you back. “Words.”

“I swear it with everything I am.”

“As do I,” he affirms, then captures your lips again with his, moving you both again, this time lowering you worshipfully to the mattress. His mouth begins moving slowly down your neck, and you shiver, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair, the other clutching his muscled bicep. When he reaches the base of your neck, his tongue laves at the sweet spot he discovered there in your first precious days together, making you whimper. He then mouths at the spot and plants one more kiss there before moving lower. His lips skim lightly down your chest, kissing over where your heart is thrumming. He kisses the swell of your left breast, and then moves to mirror that action on the right. He brings his right hand up to palm one of your breasts as his tongue flicks across your nipple. He works to bring both to stiff peaks, licking and sucking the right while his hand plays with the left. Your back arches in pleasure at his ministrations.

He moves his mouth back to the other breast, and before you can think to miss his hand there, it’s confidently parting your thighs, seeking your now extremely wet folds.

“Steve.”

“That’s it, my love, let me make you feel good,” he says, and you whimper again. His fingers stroke your labia slowly. Your eyes close as he stokes your pleasure. He slips a finger into your core, pumping in and out. When he adds another finger, you can’t hold back the little noises that escape you. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles, and those little noises morph into a moan. Steve moves up now to hover over you, watching your face as he works you up to your first climax that night. You would feel too exposed if he had studied you this way during your first days together, but your confessions tonight to each other leave you now feeling safe being so intimately on display. When you cry out, hips bucking, he continues to stroke, working you through the orgasm.

He removes his fingers, and you need the moment, but lament the emptiness. His eyes are still on your face, and when your breathing is close to normal, you open your eyes and look back at him. Then you glance lower to see he’s pumping his hard, thick member with the hand that was still glistening with your slick of arousal. His eyes are aflame with his need, and he moves in to kiss you again. You welcome it, parting your lips and sliding your tongue between his. He opens for you, and as your tongues tease and delve, you roll and hungrily push him back on the mattress.

Steve grabs your hips with both of his hands and moves your body to straddle him. In place just where he wants you, chest to chest, you drop down to your elbows, planted on either side of his head. As you continue to kiss, he presses his hand down to the base of your spine and brushes his cock temptingly against your entrance. You push your hips back against him, and his chest hums with approval.

“Please,” you plead.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, using his other hand to guide his length into your quim. He doesn’t rush this push into you, but it’s not slow. Once fully sheathed, he moves his arms to circle around your chest, holding you close to him as he sets a steady pace thrusting up into you. He swallows your moans of ecstasy. When it begins to overwhelm you, you have to break off the consuming kiss to gulp lungful’s of air. Seeing you desperate like this above him drives his voracity.

Still buried inside you, he rolls to bring you beneath him once more. You cling to his shoulders, and he continues to advance toward release for both of you. He shifts the angle of his hips, and he’s rewarded with a pure keen from you. He continues to hit the spongy spot up against your pubic bone. You sob, so close, and this time the tears are pure pleasure. He grasps at one of your hands, and your fingers twine together. A few more thrusts and your walls flutter around him and then he your orgasm hits. Your spasming channel is too much, and with a groan he spills inside you right after.

He collapses against you, and you welcome the weight of his body. You’re both quiet in your moment of satiation. Your free hand draws lazy patterns over his shoulder blade as your breathing returns to normal. You wonder if he’s going to drop off into sleep, but then he repositions slightly, and asks, “Are you comfortable?”

“Mhmm,” you respond. You’re comfortable physically and intimately in this moment with him.

He brings your joined hands to his lips, and he kisses the back of your hand, then tucks it close to his chest and begins conversing with you – about the mundane, the important, things from the past few weeks apart, and from your lives apart before. There’s more kissing, followed by more pleasure, pulling each other apart in turn, and no sleeping until long after midnight.

You groan when he wakes you at what seems to be daybreak. You close your eyes again swiftly, and open your mouth to protest, but he cups your jaw and his thumb brushes over your parted lips. “I know it’s early,” he murmurs, “but I want to have you once more while we’re alone and unbothered.”

And when he says it like that, with such tenderness and longing, you wouldn’t dream of denying it for either of you. You hope to grow accustomed to many more stolen mornings over your lifetime together now.

COMPANION/PREQUEL PIECE: The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are

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#aspen wrote something #aspen's holiday extravaganza #ahe 2022 #royal au #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers royal au #steve rogers x female reader #steve x yn #steve x female reader #steve x you #royal reader #cedar trees au

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