WhispersOfTheEmpyrean

A cup of story time with me ☕️ ✨

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FOURTH WING MASTERLISTS

Garrick Tavis

He’s not my boyfriend

Marked and dangerous: Part 1

Marked and dangerous: Part 2

Marked and dangerous: Part 3

Liam Mairi

Playing with fire

Dain Aetos

Riorsons Protect their own: series part 1

Warning: Part 2

Fucking Riorson: part 3

I Dare you: part 4

One condition: Part 5

Say my Name: Part 6

Eyes on Me: Part 7

Xaden Riorson

His royal Pain in the ass: series: Part 1

Tempest: part 2

Just can't stay away: part 3

A stranger in another lifetime: part 4

Touch her and lose your hands: part 5

7 Days: part 6

Scars: part 7

Distraction series: Part 1

control: part 2

The Wrong cousin: Part 1

The Right cousin: part 2

Well the Fuck aware

12 Hours: part 1

A Bond Unbroken: part 2

Mating season

Duchess

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A Most Improper Alliance - Part 5

James Moriarty x Imagine

Part 1 One Holmes Too Many

Part 2 Brother Dearest

Part 3 Holmes Family Reunion

Part 4 Distractions and Deadly Intentions

Warnings: 🔞 Drugging/poisoning (flashbacks)•Threats of violence/hostage-type situation•Mentions of murder & conspiracy•Intense emotional tension•Romantic tension between characters with complicated loyalties•Explicit sexual content beyond implied intimacy or romantic tension •

Authors Note: It’s a short one, but a much needed chapter for the next one 👏🏻 The morning after? Full of tension, stolen glances, and James Moriarty being insufferably charming while pretending he didn’t spend the night tangled in Y/N Holmes’ sheets. Mother dearest Meeting with Silas’ right hand man to secure access to the chemical weapons reveal—while under watchful eyes. Enter Princess Shou’an. The woman who drugged Sherlock, framed him for murder, and vanished into shadow like a villainous ghost—now back in the crosshairs. We have 🔥 Pure electricity 🔥.

Word count: 2.5k

Y/N POV

Morning was breaking through the curtains, painting the room in soft beams of gold.Memories from the night before came flooding back with the sun—James' hands and his voice, the heat of his mouth on hers. His name on her lips like a prayer, her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, pulling closer—God, what was she doing?

She glanced beside her,expecting..what? An empty space, the sheets cool where James had been. He wasn't there. She sat up, running a hand over her face. What did she expect?. Her body felt sore, a subtle ache that wasn't entirely unpleasant. But her heart weighed heavier with every second that James didn't appear. It couldn’t be any other way she knew, with her brothers. But the thought lingered.

Had he woken up and immediately regretted it? Realised this was a mistake—she was a mistake?. She pushed away the blankets and swung her legs out of bed, pulling on a robe. She wouldn't sit here like an idiot and wait for him to show up. After all, she was the one who played it as casual. She dressed quickly—a crisp linen shirt tucked into high-waisted brown trousers, a loosely tied leather corset cinching her waist. Practical, bold, and effortlessly sharp. She pulled her hair back into a low braid, leaving a few loose strands framing her face.

Then she descended the stairs with purpose.The kitchen was already alive apparently. Sherlock at the table with his nose buried in coded notes, Mycroft sipping tea like he hadn’t slept at all. Mother Cordelia flipping through the investor forged documents with narrowed eyes… and James.

James stood by the window in yesterday’s rumpled suit—somehow still looking dangerous even without sleep—coffee in hand as he stared out at Vienna’s awakening streets.He turned when she entered.Their eyes locked for one breath too long before he looked away first. Not fast—but just fast enough to make her wonder if it meant something.

Y/N raised an eyebrow as she stepped into the room. “Gathering without me? How rude.”

Mycroft glanced up from his tea.“We didn’t want to wake you.”

She poured herself coffee like nothing was different. “I wasn't asleep that late."

Sherlock didn't look up from his notes as he replied. "No, I suppose you weren't."

She frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

He finally glanced up, gaze skimming over her attire before returning to his notes, voice dry as ever. “Didn't realise you owned trousers.”

She snatched the piece of toast from his hand, taking a bite. "What? never seen a woman in trousers before?— I Didn't realise you were suddenly a fashion critic."

"I'm merely observing the sudden deviation from traditional norms," Sherlock said, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Ah yes,” Y/N said, “because you’re so fond of tradition right?”

Sherlock opened his mouth—then closed it. Before he could retort, James spoke up from the window, voice smooth and far too amused for this early in the morning:

"Personally,I think she looks bloody devastating in trousers."

All eyes snapped to him. Y/N nearly choked on her coffee. He met her gaze then—just for a heartbeat and there it was again. that look. Smoldering beneath casual charm like embers under ash. She cleared her throat and looked away first this time. She drew in a breath. “Right.”

The word came out slow, deliberate,like she was steadying herself after the electric flicker between them that still hadn’t quite died. She turned to her mother, stepping closer and placing a hand gently on Cordelia’s shoulder. The forged documents lay spread across the table: bank letters, seals of fictitious trade empires, investment portfolios built from lies.

“are they good enough?”Y/N said quietly.

Cordelia nodded without looking up. “They are more than good, they should pass,if we play this carefully.” Her voice dropped lower, just for her daughter. "I’ve arranged a meeting today with a man named Esad Kasgarli a trusted associate of your father's, deals with all his potential investors”.

But before she could speak further,Mycroft checked his pocket watch and stood."You leave in twenty minutes,Mother.Caution is paramount—you cannot let him suspect anything."

Cordelia rose with quiet authority,a queen arming for war.“I know how to handle men like him Mycroft.”

The plan was confirmed,Cordelia would meet Esad Kasgarli at a neutral café near the opera house, documents in hand, playing the role of a discreet investor with deep pockets and darker ambitions. Meanwhile, Sherlock, Mycroft, and James would trail her from a distance—hidden in alleys and carriages—monitoring for any sign of danger. Y/N wouldn’t be far behind. She’d stay close to James and Sherlock as they positioned themselves around the square, ready to intervene if needed.

“Remember,” Cordelia said as she buttoned her gloves. “Signal me only if you see him make contact with anyone unexpected.”

“And if he does suspect?” Mycroft asked.

“Then I improvise.” She gave them one final look.

Later that day.

The sun hung high over Vienna’s cobbled square. The café where Cordelia was meeting Esad sat nestled between the Opera house and a nearby fountain, its outdoor tables half-full with idle chatter and clinking porcelain.

They were all in disguise of course.

Sherlock wore a dusty scholar’s coat and wire-rimmed spectacles, his dark curls tucked beneath a newsboy cap. He fidgeted constantly—tugging at the scarf wound too tightly around his neck.

“Will you quit moaning?” Y/N snapped under her breath as she leaned against a lamppost, arms crossed. She wore a dark traveling coat with her braid pinned up messily beneath a wide-brimmed hat, one hand resting casually near the small pistol hidden at her back.

“It's suffocating,” Sherlock muttered, fingers picking at the knot.

“You try wearing a corset then,” she shot back dryly. “And then complain about your scarf.”

James,leaning beside them in the shadow of an arcade column,snorted into his coffee (black,no sugar,no nonsense). “I’d pay good money to see that.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course you would.”

He raised his coffee in salute,a sly smile at the corner of his lips.

“Just saying—it would be very entertaining.”

She was about to retort when Sherlock interrupted, finally wrestling his scarf off and stuffing it in his pocket with a huff. "This is ridiculous."

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally free, are we, drama queen?”

Sherlock scowled. "Don't start."

“you're acting like a child,"Y/N said, shooting a sideways glance at Sherlock then James, who merely shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a child. I just refuse to be strangled by a piece of fabric."

"It's not strangling you,it just requires a little thing called loosening it."

"Loosening it defeats the purpose," Sherlock snapped. "It's supposed to be tight isn’t it. That’s how it stays in place.”

Y/N smirked. “So does that mean you like everything tight and suffocating? Or just your neckwear? because I’d be glad to lend a hand—“

James choked on his coffee.

Sherlock glared at her, mortified. “Must you—”

Before he could finish, James pointed subtly across the square with his chin. “Incoming.”

Cordelia had just stepped into view—elegant, composed—her handbag hooked over one arm as she approached the café where Esad sat waiting at a corner table beneath a green awning. They all tensed.

A movement caught James eye—not at the table, but near the far alley entrance beside the opera house. A woman stood half hidden in shadow,wearing a high-collared jade coat and dark gloves.Her posture was still too sharp for loitering,her gaze fixed on Cordelia like a predator tracking prey.

James followed the figure and then recognition flared in his eyes.“Well… would you look at that.”

He turned to Sherlock.“Isn’t that the Princess Shou’an Sherlock or the fake one let’s say”

Sherlock followed their gaze and groaned.“Oh bloody hell.Not her.”

Y/N shot him a look."The one who drugged you and framed you, why we are all here in this mess of yours?”

“The very same,” he muttered darkly.

But before they could debate further,Y/N was already moving. Two minutes. Siblings instincts peaked. Sherlock and James could have been talking about anything, planning anything. Bur she was gone.

She slipped through the crowd like smoke—quiet, unseen. Her boots made no sound on the cobbles as she cut around the edge of the square, angling toward the alley where The fake Princess Shou’an stood watching.

Sherlock barely noticed at first. He was still muttering about betrayal and poisoned tea when he glanced sideways.

"Where is she?"

James had already seen it—the shift in her stance, the way her hand moved subtly behind her back. He didn’t answer right away. Just took another slow sip of coffee and smirked.

"Who?"

"Sherlock snapped."My sister.Where is Y/N?"

James finally tilted his head toward the alley.

And there she was.

Y/N stood behind Princess Shou’an, close enough that only they could see each other’s breath. One hand held a small pistol pressed lightly to the princess’s lower back.The other rested casually at her side like they were discussing hats rather than armed abduction

Her voice was calm,polite, almost cheerful as she murmured into Shou’an’s ear:

“I think you and I need to have a little chat… don’t you?”

Shou’an stiffened.“Who the fuck are you?”

Y/N smiled—a perfect blend of warmth and menace—and guided her deeper into shadow with gentle but unyielding pressure.

“I’m Y/N Holmes,” she said sweetly.“Pleasure.”

Shou’an's eyes widened,then narrowed as realisation dawned. She tried to pull away, but Y/N's hand tightened around her arm.

"Ah ah," she murmured. "Not so fast."

Shou'an gritted her teeth. "You're making a mistake."

Y/N gave a light, humorless laugh. "I think you of all people are in no position to judge my decisions."

A moment later, Sherlock turned fully to James, aghast. "Why didn’t you stop her?"

James simply smirked into his coffee cup. “Because I know better than to get between Y/N Holmes and currently what’s going on over there,besides we have to keep an eye on your mother”

Shou'an stiffened. "You don't understand—"

Y/N pushed her against the wall, face close enough to hear every shuddering breath. "Oh, I think I understand perfectly."

"I didn't have a choice—" Shou’an began.

Y/N scoffed. "We always have choices."

Shou'an went still as the gun pressed firmer into her back. "You think you know me," she hissed. "You know nothing about the things I've endured—"

Y/N twisted her arm a fraction higher, smooth as silk, voice never rising above a polite murmur. "You had a choice," she said, deadly calm. "You could've trusted my brother. Instead, you drugged him, framed him, and sold him to the highest bidder like he was nothing."

Shou'an winced but held her glare.

Y/N leaned in,ladylike smile still in place—her free hand adjusting Shou'an’s collar as if fixing an errant thread. "And now here we are."

She began walking backward through the alleyway,guiding Shou’an with effortless control,pistol hidden between their bodies like a secret only they shared.

"Look at us," she whispered sweetly to onlookers who saw nothing but two women chatting. "Practically sisters already."

They emerged near the arcade where Sherlock stood rigid and James raised an eyebrow,sipping coffee like he’d been waiting for this. Y/N didn’t break stride.As they passed Sherlock,his eyes flickered to his sister’s hand on the princess’s arm,the concealed gun,the ice in her gaze.

“Y/N,” he started—warning clear in his voice.

She gave one last glance over her shoulder at Shou’an,smile widening.

“You’re very lucky,” she said softly, so softly “that I’m not going to repay the favour.”

Then turned fully to James and Sherlock. “Gentlemen,I found someone who'd love to help us get closer to my father's little demonstration."

Sherlock stared."You can't be serious."

James took a slow sip from his cup,his eyes locked on Y/N—dark,fierce,incredulous admiring.

"Absolutely serious," she said,ladylike tone unwavering.“Say hello…to our new ally, but I believe you are already acquainted.”

Sherlock glowered. "I don't think 'ally' is the word I would use to describe her."

Shou'an lifted her chin, glare fixed on Y/N. "Is that what this is? A trap?"

Y/N smiled. "Think of it more like...insurance. But you have time to prove yourself”

“Prove myself? You’ve got a gun to my back and call it negotiation?” Shou’an snapped, voice low but venomous.

Y/N adjusted her grip, still smiling like they were discussing tea instead of coercion. “I call it motivation. And the gun? Temporary.” She finally lowered it, sliding it into the hidden holster at her back with practiced ease,but kept her fingers curled firmly around Shou’an’s wrist. “Drop the attitude and help us stop my father from selling chemical death to half the continent… and I won’t have to use it again.”

Sherlock stepped forward, jaw tight. “You can’t trust her.”

“I don’t,” Y/N said simply. “But clearly She survives by playing both sides—just like we are now.” Her gaze flicked to James beside him.“I think we need all the help we can get,Don’t we?”

James smirked, slow and knowing.

Shou’an exhaled sharply through her nose.“You’re all insane.”

“Possibly,” Y/N agreed, “But we’re also armed, organized—and frankly, much more dangerous together than apart.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but James cut in, voice edged with something that bordered on admiration rather than annoyance.

"When you've run out of options, sometimes it helps to keep your enemies close."

Y/N flashed him a smile. "My thoughts exactly."

Shou'an glanced between them, scoffing. "This is ludicrous. You actually expect me to help you?"

"No." Y/N tilted her head, eyes cold as winter. "But you will."

“After all,” Y/N said, stepping in close again, voice dropping to a whisper only Shou’an could hear, “that’s your purpose now, isn’t it? To get murder our father.”

A flicker in the princess’s eyes—surprise, maybe fear. But beneath it? Recognition.

Y/N smiled sweetly. “You didn’t come here just to watch. You came for him. So let’s stop pretending we’re playing different games.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like a proper lady—while never breaking eye contact. “We both want him stopped… or exposed… or destroyed.” Her voice turned icy on the last word.

Shou’an exhaled sharply through her nose. “…And what if I don’t care who wins?”

“Liar,” Y/N murmured with quiet certainty.“You wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Silence. Then—James clapped his hands together once —bright and theatrical—as if they were discussing dinner plans instead of treason and blackmail.

“Well! Now that we’re all mostly aligned…” He shot Y/N a look—hot with amusement and something darker, “shall we figure out where dear old Dad is holding his grand little weapons display? your mothers coming this way”. All heads turned to the café doorway.

Cordelia walked toward them without haste, still in full investor-mode. Sherlock tensed like a bowstring.James took another slow sip of coffee. Y/N,however,smiled as if she'd expected nothing less. "There she is," James said quietly, voice rough like gravel. Y/N gave him a sharp look. "She's my mother,thank you."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing was intended."

"Creep”

James quirked a smile, still leaning against their corner of the arcade. "My apologies."

She rolled her eyes,trying not to smile.

"No you're not."

Cordelia reached them, briefcase in hand, face composed—but her eyes flickered to the woman between Y/N and Sherlock.

“And who,” she asked coolly, “is this?”

Y/N didn’t blink. “Someone who’s going to help us.”

Sherlock opened his mouth,no doubt to protest but James stepped forward with effortless charm “Now… shall we all decide on how best to dismantle a madman’s empire before tea?”

————————

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Girl I can’t even tell you how obsessed I am with your moriarty fic 🤤🤤🤤 amazing writing! I need more!

That means so much 🥹 works been hectic recently so the next chapters was paused for a few days but shouldn’t be too long before the next one 👏🏻

[sunshinevettel]

Dónal Finn as James Moriarty

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Respectfully sir 🫡

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Distractions and Deadly Intensions - part 4

James Moriarty x Imagine

Part 1- One Holmes Too Many

Part 2 Brother Dearest

Part 3 Holmes Family Reunion

Warnings: 🔞🔞 Mature themes• violence•provocative themes•dark elements• mature language•mention of weapons/murder•

Authors Note: This is a long one! But WELL. THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY. First of all—let’s take a moment to scream over James and Y/N. But before we celebrate (or combust), let’s recap what led us here. Silas Holmes. The man is literally playing god with poison, and now the clock is ticking to stop him. The Holmes family and our favourite charming Irish man are on a mission to find out what Silas is up to.

But yes, back to James and Our miss Holmes. What does this mean for them?They’ve admitted the attraction, sure, but trust? Loyalty? Vulnerability? That’s a battlefield neither of them is fully ready for.

Word count: 5k

Y/N POV

Vienna.

It's a city of music and secrets, its streets a labyrinth of old stone and new ambitions. Y/N,her brothers, her mother and James had arrived a few days ago, settling into an elegant safehouse on a narrow street near the old city. Y/N had spent most of that time gathering what information she could from the city—and avoiding James, his touch lingered since the asylum break out. And despite his relentless attempts to catch her alone. Strictly professional you kept. telling yourself. Now, in the salon the safe house provides, Sherlock, Mycroft, and James were poring over maps.

"Any promising leads?"

Mycroft's brow furrows over the map. "Nothing concrete yet. Most of Father's investors have evaded us so far. A few are still in Vienna, but they've locked themselves away in their hotels."

Sherlock's eyes dart from one highlighted name to another. "We need more than a few names. We need to know what they were investing in, why, and what Father is involved in exactly.”

James lounges back in his chair, twirling a pen. "Can the great Sherlock Holmes not simply deduce the answer?"

Sherlock shoots him an icy glance. "Investments could represent anything and given Father's apparent double life, how can I guess what he is doing with any certainty?"

As if on cue, the door opens.

Y/N walks in, sunlight streaming golden through the salon. Her dress is a fluttering whisper of silk, a summer's day captured in fabric. She pulls off a wide-brimmed hat, her hair spilling like ink in the light. Her gait is regal as she walks, an empress entering her court. The men look up, taking in her appearance. Mycroft's eyebrows lift. Sherlock's jaw tightens. And James— His pen fumbles. Clattering to the ground. "You—ah—"

He clears his throat. "You have a lead?"

Y/N nods, ignoring how his gaze darts over the curve of her dress, the way the sunlight catches in her hair. Strictly professional.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "I assume that's why you've dressed so"—he gestures—"nicely?"

Y/N folds her gloves neatly onto the side table, lips curving into something sharp.

"Oh, this?" She gestures dismissively at her gown. "This is practically a nun’s habit compared to what we’ll need tonight."

Sherlock’s gaze snaps to hers. "Explain."

She exhales, flicking a piece of paper onto the map,a glossy invitation embossed with a phoenix crest. Der Goldene Vogel. The Golden Bird.*

"A private club shall I say," she says smoothly. "Where Father’s investors are gathering tonight under the guise of… entertainment.”

James leans forward, suddenly very interested. "What kind of entertainment?"

Y/N meets his gaze, deadpan. "The kind where silk stockings and strategically placed feathers are considered business attire."

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. "Absolutely not."

Sherlock frowns. "You expect us to—"

"I expect some of us," Y/N interrupts, "to blend in. The rest can lurk in the shadows like the brooding spectres you are." She plucks the invitation back.

James grins. "Speak for yourself. I happen to look positively dashing in a corset”

Sherlock shoots him a glare. "You are not…."

Y/N cocks an eyebrow. "I wasn't asking your permission."

Mycroft exhales sharply. "Y/N. Surely you're not considering—"

Her smile is sharp. "Considering doing what needs to be done? Of course I am."

Sherlock's jaw clenches. "I agree that a more direct tactic might be the best way to gather information, but this, going into a place like that unchaperoned? No. It's dangerous, and not in the slightest bit proper."

Y/N tosses a glance at James, a wry smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Unchaperoned? Please. You all shall be there too. What could possibly go wrong? I shall merely be... providing a distraction."

Sherlock's face is a storm cloud. "Providing a distraction. A woman dressed as one of those—those—"

James laughs. "Go on. Finish that sentence."

Sherlock turns his glare on him. "James. Don't. Encourage."

Mycroft rubs his temples. "I think I might be sick at the mere thought”

James smacks Mycroft's shoulder with his hat, grinning. "How dare you—your sister is positively gorgeous."

Sherlock makes a strangled noise.

Y/N rolls her eyes, still refusing to acknowledge the heat prickling up her neck. "Oh please," she says dryly, "as if all you men haven’t used your charms—or titles—to your advantage in places like this before. Don’t act scandalized now.You’re men of the world, aren’t you?"

Cordelia, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, finally speaks. "She has a point, boys."

Sherlock looks like he's swallowed a lemon. Mycroft has gone an interesting shade of pale.

James leans back in his chair, smirk widening. "So. What’s the dress code for this illustrious establishment?"

Y/N exhales sharply, flipping the invitation between her fingers. "for me? Feathers. Jewels. And very little else. you all can decide your outfits amongst you."

The room goes silent. Then— Sherlock stands abruptly. "No.”

James stands too—but with considerably more enthusiasm. "Yes.”

Y/N ignores them both, already turning toward the door. "I’ll be ready by eight. Try not to look so miserable—it ruins the ambiance." And with that, she strides out,leaving behind a room thick with tension, outrage, and the unspoken, searing weight of James' gaze burning against her back.

James POV

He should be strategizing right now. Should be focused on the mission,the investors, the leads, the web of deceit they were untangling. Instead, he was pacing.

His room was small but elegant, lamplight pooling over parchment-strewn desks and half-empty glasses of wine. His cravat hung loose around his neck, fingers restless as they dragged through his hair. It was confirmed. She’d been avoiding him.Since the asylum, since the carriage—since now—Y/N had perfected the art of deflection. A tilt of her chin when he spoke. A swift exit when he entered. Conversations rerouted to Sherlock, to Mycroft, to anyone else.

And now this? feathers and jewels and very little else. He would be dammed.James exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. The thought of her in that club, of men’s eyes lingering where they shouldn’t— The glass shattered in his grip. Shards bit into his palm, wine bleeding red over his fingers. He barely registered the sting.

A knock at his door.

“James?” Sherlock’s voice, clipped. “We leave in twenty.”

He didn’t answer. The footsteps retreated. James stared at the broken glass, the bloodied mess of his hand. Pathetic.

A creak in the hallway. He stilled. Then soft steps. The whisper of silk. Her. James moved before he could stop himself, wrenching the door open— Y/N froze mid-step, halfway past his room. Dressed in a robe, hair half-pinned, clearly en route to whatever scandalous ensemble awaited her.

Their eyes locked. For a heartbeat, neither breathed.

Then Y/N lifted her chin. “You’re bleeding.”

James glanced down. Crimson dripped onto the floor. “Occupational hazard.”

Her lips pressed into a line. Without a word, she reached into her robe pocket, producing a handkerchief. The handkerchief was crisp linen, embroidered with a delicate "H" in one corner—Holmes, of course. As James took it, his fingers brushed hers for the briefest second, a spark of warmth against his wine-stained skin.

"Thank you," he murmured, pressing the fabric to his palm. Y/N didn't linger. She merely inclined her head and turned away, her robe whispering against the floorboards as she disappeared down the hall.

James exhaled, watching her go. The handkerchief smelled faintly of bergamot and something utterly, maddeningly her*.

---

Later. The Golden Bird.

The club was all smoke and sin, velvet drapes parting to reveal a gilded stage where women draped in silk and pearls moved like liquid dreams. Candlelight flickered over crystal glasses, over the hands of investors who clutched cigars instead of contracts tonight. The evening’s entertainment scattered around the floor, the tables,private booths. Silas Holmes still nowhere to be seen.

James leaned against a pillar, scanning the room. Mycroft lingered near the exit, looking vaguely ill. Sherlock prowled the shadows, tension coiled in every step.

And then— A hush rippled through the crowd as she stepped into the light.

Y/N was a vision in midnight blue and gold, feathers trembling at her wrists, her throat. The gown clung to her like a second skin, slit high enough to reveal the glint of a dagger strapped to her thigh. Her mask covering her dark,piercing eyes. James’s grip tightened around his glass.

She moved with effortless grace, weaving between tables, laughter like poisoned honey on her lips as she charmed the men they’d come to investigate. Obviously scanning the room for her father, gathering information. He couldn’t take it anymore. James pushed off the pillar and strode toward her just as she leaned over a wealthy merchant’s table, her fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass.

James stepped behind the table, close enough that his words whispered against Y/N's ear. "Not even a hello? How rude."

She stiffened, fingers stilling on the merchant's glass. Her gaze flicked to him, a flash of irritation quickly hidden. "You should be watching the room, not standing here attempting to annoy me."

James smirked, leaning closer still. His breath was warm against her bare shoulder as he murmured, "Oh, I'm watching the room very carefully. Particularly how those men over there keep staring at you like you're dessert."

Y/N didn't flinch. Instead, she laughed—a bright, practiced sound—as she traced the rim of the merchant's glass. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, James."

"Not jealousy, darling. Strategic concern." His hand brushed the small of her back, subtle enough that the merchant didn't notice, but she stiffened instantly. "You've been avoiding me."

She turned her head slightly, lips nearly brushing his ear as she hissed, "This isn't the time."

The merchant cleared his throat. "A friend of yours?”

Y/N straightened, her smile flawless. "Oh, just a nuisance I occasionally tolerate here."

James chuckled, raising his own glass in salute. "She adores me, really."

Before Y/N could retort, a server approached with a note on a silver tray. The merchant took it, brows knitting as he read—then abruptly stood. "Excuse me. Urgent business."

As he hurried away, Y/N's mask of amusement dropped.

James spoke. "Well did you at least get anything?"

“I did thank you.. before you interrupted—Upstairs. Private meeting. My Father’s there”

Sherlock materialized beside them, his expression grim. "Then we move. Now."

James caught Y/N's wrist as she turned to go. "And the avoiding me discussion?"

She wrenched free, eyes blazing behind her mask. "Survive tonight, then we’ll talk."

With that, she melted into the crowd—a streak of blue and gold and sharp edges—leaving James grinning after her.

He let her go, watching as she disappeared into the crowd. Something coiled like a vice around his ribs—part anger, part excitement. She was maddening, infuriating. A dagger with a diamond handle. And he was going to get answers.

"James." Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Focus please. you are blushing like a bashful little school boy”

He scoffed, falling into step beside Sherlock. "I don't blush."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Your cheeks say otherwise."

James shot him a dark look. "Your concern is heartwarming as always." They weaved through the crowd, heading toward the curtains at the back. Two bulky guards stood at attention, blocking the entrance.

Mycroft grimaced as Y/N moved towards the guards, her hips swaying in that sinful outfit. The guards perked up instantly, their eyes glued to her like moths to a flame.

James bristled. "She's not actually going to—"

Sherlock pinched his arm. "She knows what she's doing apparently."

The guards exchanged smug grins, their gaze roaming over Y/N's curves. "Well, well, what have we here?"

She fluttered her eyelashes, leaning in with a coy smile. "Just little old me Gentlemen, Care to enjoy the entertainment for the evening?"

The guards chuckled. "We would love to, miss. But we're working."

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a sinful smirk as she revealed a tantalizing stretch of thigh. Arching her body against the balcony. "Just 5 minutes of your time won't hurt."

The guards shared a look, their cheeks pinking. One cleared his throat. "Well, we wouldn't want to be rude."

She smiled, the very picture of innocence as she closed the distance between them, her perfume intoxicating. "Of course you wouldn't."

The taller guard nodded, his gaze lingering on her curves. "5 minutes, then."

James clenched his jaw, watching as she placed a playful hand on each guard's chest, as her gaze fluttered up through her lashes. Pulling them closer to her, away from the curtain. She looked every inch the seductress, a siren in dark blue. He couldn't look away. "She doesn't have to look so bloody enthusiastic about it," James muttered under his breath.

Sherlock shot him a sharp glance. "Are you jealous?”

"I'm annoyed.”

"You're blushing again."

Before James could retort, Mycroft stepped forward with quiet horror. "I need fresh air. Or wine. Or both."

The curtain stirred behind them—Y/N had pulled the guards far enough away.

"Go!" Sherlock hissed, ducking past the fabric, followed by Mycroft and then James—who paused for just a second to catch one last glimpse of her: head thrown back in laughter at some joke she didn’t mean, fingers trailing over an arm that wasn’t his.

His stomach twisted. Then he slipped through the curtain into darkness—where secrets waited… and where Y/N would find out later exactly how much he hated being ignored.

The voices in the dimly lit room were hushed, urgent. They huddled near the wall, listening intently as their a voice that rose above all the others. Which by Sherlock and Mycroft’s face. James assumed it was their father.

"This must stay between us you understand? the value of such a weapon you see”

A murmur of agreement. "Imagine what you could do with such a weapon."

"Gentlemen, I offer you not power. But control." Silas’s voice was calm, almost gentle. "A single vial can silence an entire city block within minutes. Odorless, colorless—untraceable until it's too late."

Mycroft’s face paled. Sherlock went very still. James turned to watch Y/N through the slit in the curtain—her fingers curled around a dagger at her thigh, knuckles white.

Silas continued: "In two days’ time," he said smoothly, "I’ll be demonstrating its efficacy on a test subject—an unregistered foreigner from Morocco already in our custody.”

A cold wave washed over James as Mycroft mouthed ‘a human being?’

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as if trying to shut out the world. Then a rustle behind them.

Another guard emerged from a side curtain, eyes widening at the sight of intruders. “What are you doing here?!”

James didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion he stepped forward and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the man's neck with his elbow—the guard crumpled like paper.

"Time to go!" James hissed. They turned toward the main curtain and found Y/N already there. She'd left her mark also, as both guards lay unconscious on their sides near her feet—one with a bump blooming on his temple; the other out cold thanks to what could only have been that glorious charm. Her breath came fast beneath that plunging bodice; sweat glistened along her collarbone,but those dark eyes burned with fury… and triumph. Y/N stepped forward, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve like she hadn’t just knocked two men unconscious with nothing but grace and a well-placed heel.

“I did say I’d dress as a distraction,” she murmured, voice low and dangerously smooth. “Never said I’d let them actually touch me.”

James stared at her,really stared,the way the candlelight caught the colours in her hair, the fire in her eyes that outshone every jewel on her body. For once, he had no quip. No smirk. Just… awe.

She turned to Sherlock and Mycroft, all business now. “Mother will be waiting outside with the carriage.”

Mycroft exhaled in relief while Sherlock gave a curt nod. They moved quickly through the shadows of The Golden Bird, slipping past dancers and drunk investors alike until they spilled out into Vienna’s cool night air—where Cordelia sat perfectly poised inside an unmarked carriage.

The doors opened.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked softly. Y/N climbed in first and this time when James followed close behind it wasn't strategy or instinct or even charm pulling him forward.

The moment her mother’s eyes landed on Y/N’s feathery ensemble, she was bundling their coats over Y/N’s shoulders. James wanted to do the same. To pull her into cool shadow and wrap her in something dark and heavy, something that would hide all that honeyed skin that other men had no business looking at. He found himself gripping the carriage door as the carriage rolled into motion, his gaze caught on the way Y/N leaned against the seat, still flushed and faintly disheveled.

“Well?” Y/N asked quietly. “What did you hear?”

Sherlock leaned forward, voice low and tense. “Father is developing a chemical weapon—odorless, colorless. Lethal in minutes.” Mycroft closed his eyes briefly at that.

Cordelia’s face darkened. “And he intends to sell it.”

“To whoever pays,” James added bitterly.“Demonstration is in two days' time on a Moroccan prisoner already held captive.”

The carriage rattled over cobblestones as shock settled heavily through them all. Y/N sat very still,but her fingers curled into fists on her lap."Human testing," she whispered.“what sort of weapon have they made exactly to be able to do—do all that”

Sherlock nodded grimly."I guess we will find out in two days time, we gather intel on the whereabouts of this meeting and We stop it”

James spoke up. "The meeting location could be anywhere. But that kind of business—the kind that involves human test subjects—it's not something they'd arrange in broad daylight, your father doesn’t seem the stupid type."

Mycroft nodded grimly. "Agreed. It'll be secure and well guarded. We'll need to be discreet if we're to intercept them."

James glanced out the window, eyes narrowing as he watched Vienna's darkened streets roll by. "There's also the question of scale. Silas has clearly been working on this for years. He'll have the resources to produce more than just one batch."

Sherlock laced his fingers together. "Not to mention the risk. Chemical weapons of that kind of scale and potency—they'd have to be stored somewhere secure. A warehouse? A lab?"

Y/N folded her arms. "That's why we should pose as investors. Important investors. The kind who demand evidence before they part with their money. We'll ask to inspect the weapon after the trial in two days, Maybe access Their facility”

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "Not a bad plan. They'll want to impress us, show off their so called innovations. It gives us a window."

"A narrow one," Mycroft said tightly, "But a window nonetheless. It’s the doing all of this without our father being involved, he will see us a mile off”

Y/N tapped her chin, thinking. "We just need someone who can pass themselves off as the kind of investor they're looking for. Wealthy and influential. And most importantly, someone my father wouldn't recognize."

Everyone turned toward James.

James blinked. "Me?"

Cordelia tilted her head, assessing him shrewdly. "You could pass as an investor."

Mycroft folded his arms. "You have the look of it, and the arrogance." Sherlock nodded wryly. "And you've certainly lied convincingly enough before."

James grinned, slow and sharp. "It’s called performing, not lying” He leaned back in his seat, stretching one arm along the carriage bench. "An investor? Please. I’ll have them convinced I own half of Vienna by sunrise."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. "Just don’t get carried away and actually buy their weapon."

"Where’s the fun in that?" He winked at her,then let his gaze linger a beat too long on the curve of her lips beneath the dim light. Sherlock cleared his throat loudly.James dropped the smirk—almost—but not quite.

"We'll need documentation," Mycroft said firmly, steering things back on track. "Letters of introduction, forged bank records,someone who could plausibly drop a fortune on a deadly chemical without blinking."

Cordelia straightened slightly in her seat. "Leave that to me." Her voice was quiet but steel-edged. "I know people who can help with discretion and your sister here, to my dismay has always been good at forgery”

Y/N rolled her eyes at her mother. "I prefer to call it a talent for creativity. But yes, I can forge the necessary documents."

Then Mycroft spoke.

"This is Mad…So naturally, it's our best option."

James grinned. "I knew you'd come around."

Y/N leaned forward, voice low and certain in the dark carriage glow:

"Two days, then." Her gaze swept over them all,her brothers, her mother… and finally James. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension—anger? longing? Something darker? She didn’t acknowledge it clearly.

“We stop our father,” she said simply. “Before he sells murder to the highest bidder.”

The carriage rolled on through the night.Somewhere beyond those cobbled streets and shadowed alleys—a test awaited death itself on a stranger’s breath.

And they would be there when it began.

That Night back at the safe house

James stood by his window, shirt unbuttoned, cravat long gone. The house was quiet. Vienna sprawled beneath him,gilded roofs and crooked chimneys bathed in moonlight. The city looked innocent tonight.

He wasn’t.

His fingers flexed at his side, remembering the weight of that handkerchief. Hers. Still tucked in his breast pocket, stained with wine and a little blood—and her perfume, clinging to the fabric like a ghost.He still couldn’t shake the fact She had been avoiding him.And then tonight—on that floor of sin and smoke—with every sway of her hips, every laugh too bright to be real—he felt it like a blade between the ribs.

She’s not untouchable, he told himself.Not really.But she was playing a game,one where he couldn’t tell if he was opponent or pawn. That’s what you get for befriending a Holmes, he’d learnt that already.He exhaled sharply, leaning his forehead against the cool glass.

Two days until they faced god knows what.Two days until chaos unfolded behind locked doors. And all James could think about? The way Y/N had looked when she turned away from him earlier,mask half off in shadow and how for one reckless second… he wanted to kiss it off.

He shut his eyes.He never had the best control of his thoughts—but these? They were new.

Dangerous.

And even standing alone in his room, with no one to see, the thought of Y/N in that dress made something twist low in his chest.His head was spinning. He pushed off the window with a muttered curse. "Ah, fuck this. Bloody English women and their bloody silence."

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control, of the familiar ease that usually never left him. That Irish charm. His hand was already on the door before he could stop himself. Down the hall, her room door slightly ajar, moonlight spilling across the floor like an invitation.

He just looked for a moment.

She was on the balcony, bathed in silver. One leg drawn up, robe slipping just off her shoulder as she stared out at Vienna’s sleeping streets. Her hair fell loose over her back—a rare sight. So soft. So unraveled.James leaned against the doorframe, voice light with that familiar charm now cracking at the edges. “Still avoiding me?"

Y/N didn’t startle. Didn't even turn. "I said we'd talk if you survived tonight." A pause. "And You're standing here, so..”

He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him,the click like a sentence closing in a book they both knew wouldn’t end well.

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair—a rare moment of nerves. Then he smiled, leaning against the door

"What do you think I'm here for?" He drawled out, but smirked nonetheless.

Her head tilted, hair like silk in the moonlight. "To talk, obviously." Her voice was cool as a breeze. "Isn't that what you came here for?"

"Partially."

He moved across the room, gaze never leaving her face. She'd drawn up her knees on the window seat, chin resting on them as if she had no bones at all,just endless curves and fire. His eyes traced the line of her throat, the slope of her shoulder where the robe slipped slightly.

He forced his gaze away, leaning against the wall. "So…why have you been avoiding me."

She tilted her head, lips curving into a smirk. "Avoiding you? James, we've been in the same house. Planning. Arguing." A pause. "Working."

He stepped closer, hands tucked into his pockets,fingers brushing the handkerchief still tucked in his coat. "That's not what I mean and you know it." His voice dropped, quieter now but no less intense. She lifted her chin, eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You’re Sherlock’s friend. Nothing more."

James laughed,low, rough,a sound that curled at the edges like smoke. He lowered himself beside her,bracing a hand on the wall beside her head, leaning in just enough that she had to feel it,the heat, the unspoken dare.

"Is that what I am?" His voice dropped to a whisper.

She tilted her head, the smirk never leaving her face. "You are dangerous,I know that." She ran a gaze over him, slow and assessing, like she was seeing through every layer, every mask he'd ever worn. "You are indeed a mystery." Her voice was soft, like smoke drifting on the breeze. "A puzzle I have no desire to solve."

His eyes darkened at that, fingers curling against the wall. "And yet here we are. are you really sure about that?” Her breath hitched,just once before she masked it with a scoff. “I don’t indulge in reckless distractions.”

James leaned closer, his voice a velvet scrape against the quiet. “No? Then why let me stand here? Why not send me away the second I walked in?” He dipped his head slightly, their faces now only inches apart. “You could’ve closed the door on me, Y/N. You left it open.”

She didn’t move back. Didn’t blink.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “I wanted to see how far you’d come.”

A beat.Then he smiled,not charming, not teasing,but raw and real and edged with something deeper than either of them was ready to name.

“Well then,” James murmured, thumb brushing her jawline before he even realized he’d moved it.“hope I’m living up to your expectations…Miss Holmes.”

His gaze dropped to her lips, slow and deliberate—the kind of look that felt like a touch.A heartbeat passed. Then another.The air between them thickened, charged with everything they weren’t saying. He could see it in her eyes—the flicker of hesitation, the pull she refused to name. And God help him…he wanted to close the distance just to hear her breathe his name like it meant something.His fingers skimmed her collarbone,just a whisper of sensation against her skin. She shivered at the touch, almost imperceptibly,but he felt it. James’s thumb traced the line of her jaw, his voice dropping to a velvet hush. “I know you can feel it too,” he murmured. “That little spark,like lightning under your skin when I get too close.”

He leaned in, breath grazing her ear. “And earlier…in that outfit. God, Y/N,you could have had half the room on their knees without even trying.” A pause, rough with something darker. “And those men…looking at you like you were made for them to devour?” His hand tightened slightly at her waist. “Took every ounce of restraint not to throw them out a window myself.”

She turned her head slightly, lips almost brushing his jaw as she whispered back, daring and dangerous:

“And what stopped you?”

His breath caught. Her challenge hung in the air, sharp as a knife. He could see the defiance in her eyes,the dare to say what they both knew they shouldn’t.

James leaned in, his voice a breath away from her mouth."I thought you didn't care for distractions," he murmured, fingers teasing the edge of her robe. "Not even one as handsome as me."

Her gaze was steady on his, unflinching. "Distractions imply...desire."

His lips curled in a half smile. "And you don't find me desirable, miss Holmes?"

"Oh I never said that." Her voice was soft. Teasing. Deliberate. A spark in the dark.

James stilled, the air between them suddenly thin, like they were standing at the edge of a fall with no way back.

She tilted her head, just enough to close the space by a fraction. "I said I don’t indulge”

His pulse roared in his ears.

"And what if I want to be indulged?" he whispered, thumb brushing her bottom lip,slow, testing.

"Then you’d be playing a very dangerous game," she breathed.

"I already am." His hand slid into her hair, gentle but firm. "And so are you, you’ve been winning this game from the very start."

She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned into his touch, just slightly, enough to make his heart stutter.

"You don't even know the rules yet." Her voice was like smoke in the night, dark and heady, and god, he wanted to get lost in it.

His fingers tightened in her hair. "Then educate me."

The last thread of restraint seemed to snap. In an instant, their lips met in a hungry kiss that was all heat and fire. There was nothing soft or slow about it—just the desperate crash of lips against lips, fingers tangled in hair, bodies straining closer, hands gripping tighter.

She gasped against his mouth as he pushed her back against the window, fingers skating across bare thighs. She hooked a bare leg around his waist, pulling him against her in a dizzying wave of sensations. He groaned into the kiss as she dragged him in, her leg sliding around his waist, bringing him impossibly close. Her fingers gripped his collar, tugging at the fabric as if she could drag him right out of it. His hands slid beneath the edge of her robe, fingertips tracing a burning trail up her thigh. Then his lips left hers, finding her jaw,her throat, her jaw, tasting her skin like he was a man starving.

Her head fell back, a soft gasp escaping with the movement. His mouth moved lower, lips skimming her collarbone, tongue tracing the hollow of her throat.

"James.." her voice was breathless, a whispered plea.

He hummed against her skin, fingers still running over her thigh, higher, higher. He found her mouth again, capturing her in another kiss. This one was slower, hotter, deeper. She arched into him, one hand burying itself in his hair, the other clutching his shirt. He caught her bottom lip with his teeth, drawing a shaky moan from her. The sound went straight through him, like an electric current. His hands found the edge of her robe, pushing it open to reveal more of her.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he murmured, voice raw, ragged with need. She arched into him, breath catching as his hands slid over her bare waist. The moonlight painted silver across her skin, every curve a temptation he couldn’t resist.

“James—” His name on her lips was a sin all its own. He kissed her again, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against hers as one hand tangled in her hair and the other gripped her thigh hard enough to leave a mark. She whimpered into his mouth—actually whimpered and he nearly lost it right then.

The robe slipped fully from one shoulder; he dragged his lips down to the hollow of it, then lower still until she gasped above him:

"Don't you dare stop."

Who was he to disobey?

His mouth closed over the swell of her breast through the thin nightgown fabric first—a tease—but when she moaned louder this time, back bowing off the window seat—he didn’t hesitate. Fingers hooked under cotton and silk both; bared flesh beneath cool air for only a second before his mouth was there—hot and wet—and Jesus,she tasted like wine and danger.

She cried out softly—not loud enough for anyone else to hear—but loud enough that it seared straight into him. One hand clamped over his shoulder; nails biting in like she needed something real to hold onto while everything else fell apart. He worshipped every inch with teeth,lips,sucking bruises. How long had they been dancing around each other?

Too damn long. For once,Jamie Moriarty had no words left at all.

—————————-

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[a-scribes-sanctum]

Holmes Family Reunion-part 3

James Moriarty x imagine

Part 1 One Holmes Too Many

Part 2 Brother Dearest

Warnings: 🔞 Parental Trauma & Abandonment•Mental Asylum Depiction•Violence & Gunplay•Mild Language•

Authors note: Ahhhh, the Holmes family dysfunction,delicious, isn’t it? What a ride this chapter was. Secrets bubbling up like poison, family bonds stretched thin enough to snap, and James Moriarty flirting in the middle of a high speed asylum escape like the unhinged delight he is. We meet Mother Holmes.

But James Moriarty and the youngest homes? The banter? Flawless. The tension? Electric. They’re both too clever for their own good and too reckless to care. Will they kiss? Will they kill each other? Will they do both at the same time? Stay tuned for the next chapter.

Word count: 4.5k

JAMES POV

The evidence room smells like the distinct aroma of bureaucratic despair. Evidence and evidence gathered all in one room, from over the last god knows how many years. James turns to find Y/N elbow deep in a crate labeled ‘OXFORD INCIDENT: CONFISCATED’ because nothing says justice like poorly organized cardboard. When he leans over her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear.

“So," he murmurs, voice dripping with faux innocence, “we’re looking for… what exactly to help Sherlock?"

She doesn’t even look up. “Proof Sherlock didn’t murder two professors and steal imperial artifacts. or something to prove his innocence if Mycroft can’t sway them”

“Tsk..Boring answer." He plucks a file from the shelf beside her, flipping it open with one hand

“—Ah." His tone shifts.

Y/N glances at the file in his hands, eyebrows raised. "What is it?"

James flips the file around, revealing a photo of the four Oxford professors, their faces stern, stern as the institution itself. Two of them crossed out in jagged red ink.

"Those are the two victims, all of them I recognise. they are professors at Oxford," he says, tapping a finger against the image.

James holds the photo between two fingers like it’s contaminated. “Two dead, two left standing...Convenient math, isn’t it?"

Y/N snatches the file, scanning the photo.

“who are they though? and why murder them?” Her voice drops to a whisper.

James leans in. “my dear, I may have attended Oxford, but I tend to loose interest when it comes to paying attention to any of those less intelligent than myself..”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, gives a scolding, gorgeous look as she digs deeper into the crate, pulling out a damaged wax cylinder recording,labeled “The Hendre Asylum, Patient C.H.

His smirk fades. “C.H....does that mean something?”

Her jaw tightens. “My mother."

James whistles low. “Now that is a twist.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think it’s all connected?”

Y/N’s fingers trace the broken wax grooves. “I think someone didn’t want her talking. but this tape is ruined”

James studies her,the tension in her shoulders, the way her thumb taps against the file like a coded message.

“So," he murmurs, stepping closer, “do we start with the professors... or the madhouse?… sorry”

"No offense taken," Y/N replies.

He grins. "Good."

She straightens. "We need to get this back to Sherlock. See if Mycroft's managed to sway the courts."

James nods, opening his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue at the sight of her hiding the photo and old wax cylinder down her dress. He just stares at her, mouth agape. She quirks an eyebrow. "What? Never seen a woman use her dress or breasts as a storage place?"

His jaw snaps shut, cheeks flushed crimson but his lips curving with a smirk. "...Not in this sense, no. but I’ll be glad to show you the ways I have”

Y/N rolls her eyes. "Pervert."

James grins shamelessly. "I prefer the term connoisseur."

A beat. The air between them crackles like a live wire. Then,footsteps echo down the hall outside. Y/N doesn’t flinch. James doesn’t either. But when she grabs his wrist and yanks him behind a towering shelf of confiscated firearms, her fingers burn against his skin.

“Guard," she mouths. Her finger pressed to her lips. Those gorgeously shaped lips.

James glances down at where her other hand still grips him, then back up at her face,so close he could map every freckle. “You’re enjoying this, if you wanted to touch me, you could have just said” he accuses silently. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t let go. The guard passes. The moment stretches. Somewhere in the back of his mind, James files away the exact shade of pink her cheeks turn when she’s trying not to laugh.Finally, she releases him with a shove. James stumbles back half a step, grinning like he's won the lottery. "Violence and deception? Christ, woman, you're perfect."

Y/N ignores him, already moving toward the door with the stolen evidence concealed beneath her dress,but not before he catches the slight upward twitch of her lips.

James follows, leaning in as they slip into the hallway. "Admit it. You like having me around."

She scoffs. "I have only just become acquainted with you, for Sherlocks sake I will tolerate you. There's a difference."

"Liar," he singsongs, dodging her elbow with a laugh. The recording weighs heavy between them. The asylum. Her mother. The professors. Sherlock’s fate. But for now.James is too busy memorizing the way her skirts swish when she walks too fast.

RETURN TO THE SAFEHOUSE.

The door slams shut behind them, rattling the loose hanging lamp in the hall. Sherlock is sprawled in a chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes sharp as a blade.

“Well? how did it go with brother dear?”

James drops into a chair opposite him, kicking his feet up onto the table with deliberate irreverence. “Mycroft went better than we thought and Your sister is indeed a bad influence," he announces, grinning. “Frankly, I think it's her we should be worried about."

Sherlock's gaze flickers to Y/N, brow furrowed. “Why?"

She smirks. Then, without ceremony, she reaches into her bodice and pulls out the stolen evidence. The crinkled photograph first, followed by the damaged wax cylinder. Sherlock sits bolt upright.

“You stole evidence?" There’s something almost… impressed in his voice.

James leans back, arms behind his head. “Oh, she didn’t just steal it. She smuggled it like a goddamn—"

Y/N elbows him. Hard.

Sherlock ignores them both, snatching the photo and studying it with razor focus. **"The professors… two dead, two alive. And this?" He taps the cylinder.

“From Hendre Institution," Y/N says quietly. A polite word for Asylum. “Labeled 'Patient C.H.'"

Sherlock goes very, very still. James watches, fascinated, as the Holmes siblings share a silent conversation,something old, something wounded. Then Sherlock exhales sharply. “Mother."

Sherlock's fingers tighten around the cylinder before abruptly setting it down. "So.. what did Mycroft say? What's the plan?"

James watches Y/N.

"He's hoping to arrange something—temporary for you—under his supervision, of course—to 'assist with the investigation.'" She arches a brow. "Meaning he'll watch you like a hawk while we actually do the work. but just until you fully prove your innocence”

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "How generous."

James drapes himself over the arm of Y/N's chair. "And what's our delightful role in this farce?"

She doesn't shove him off. Progress. “We find out why these professors are being killed. Who they were working for. And why someone has a record of our mother?”

Sherlock stands, pacing before the fireplace like a caged tiger. "Someone knows something. And if it's connected to what happened at Oxford. But why is it connected to mother I don’t know”

Then speak of the devil and he shall arrive. The door opens with a click. Mycroft strides in, umbrella tapping against his thigh.

"Brother."

Sherlock stops. Then slowly turns. "...Mycroft."

The tension in the room spikes as Mycroft's sharp gaze lands on his siblings.

Y/N shifts ever so slightly on the edge of the table—just enough to better conceal the stolen evidence behind her. Her smile reaching her eyes.

James began whispering I. her ear, delighted as such. “Smooth."

She shoots him a glare.

Mycroft obviously noticing. "Do I even want to know how many laws you broke today?"

Y/N smiling sweetly. "Probably not brother”

Mycroft sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then, surprisingly, his lip quirks. It looks eerily like a smile. "I should have expected nothing less."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft gestures to his sister. "Y/N seems to have gotten into the habit of breaking and entering over the years."

James lets out a low whistle. "And smuggling. She's a woman of many talents."

Y/N flips him off without looking. Sherlock’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking between Mycroft and Y/N. For a beat too long, he says nothing. Then—

“You visited her.” It isn’t a question.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “she is our sister Sherlock.”

Y/N watches Sherlock carefully.

“Oh how touching,” Sherlock presses a little too coldly, his voice low.

Mycroft doesn't flinch. “I wasn’t going to not see our sister sherlock—Someone also had to ensure she was safe.”

“And someone,” Y/N adds quietly, "had to make sure you were kept out of trouble , it didn’t do much mind you— but you didn’t visit… you barely wrote— that was my way of keeping in touch”

Sherlock looks at her now—really looks and something in him stutters.Because suddenly it all clicks. How that clever mind didn’t get it. The forged letters sent to him over the years when he always got himself in trouble, he assumed it was just Mycroft’s influence sparing him.

The anonymous tips that cleared him during the Brighton theft scandal…

He probably knew deep down all these years,but never did a thing.

James watches silently for once—the rare moment when even he knows not to speak.

Y/N smiles faintly. "I may have pulled a few strings here and there, to Mycroft’s annoyance” She taps the table behind her—right where the stolen wax cylinder is still behind her skirts."And broken into places I shouldn’t have...for you. While I’ve been keeping you mostly out of trouble or…Mycroft here has been keeping me out of trouble, haven’t you brother?” she smirks.

Mycroft exhales through his nose—long-suffering, but fond. "More times than I care to recall."

Sherlock stares at them both. The silence stretches like a noose. James—because he physically cannot help himself—grins. "Aw. Family reunions are so heartwarming. Should we hug? Cry? Burn something down?"

Y/N kicks his ankle under the table.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Sentiment aside—we have work to do." He nods to the cylinder. "That recording you have there sister,assuming it wasn't fully destroyed, could prove dangerous for whoever wanted it silenced."

Sherlock's fingers twitch. "Mother knew something clearly."

Y/N meets his gaze. But suspiciously doesn’t say a thing James notices. James leans forward, eyes alight. "So what's the play, Holmeses? Break into an asylum? Interrogate the remaining professors?"

Mycroft levels him with a glare. "Or we proceed legally—"

Y/N stands, brushing imaginary dust off her skirts. She glances at Sherlock. "I believe We need to pay Mother a visit."

James claps his hands. "Brilliant! Shall I bring flowers?"

THE RIDE TO HENDRE

The ride to the Hendre is quiet. Tense. The air heavy with unspoken memories.

Mycroft stares out the window, jaw set like he’s trying to solve an equation. Sherlock stares at his hands. And Y/N— For once is quiet. Unnervingly, eerily, quiet. James watches her out the corner of his eye. The way her fingers tap against the carriage seat. The way her gaze slips out the window every so often. But never lingers. She’s—nervous?

That just won’t do. So James does what James does best. Being ever the agent of chaos—grins and slings his arm along the seat behind her, fingers brushing the nape of her neck. “Cheer up, love. Worst case scenario, we all get committed and become roommates.”

Sherlock’s glare could flay skin. Mycroft’s sigh is more ‘I will bury’ than ‘I am amused’.

Y/N doesn’t react.

So James—because he’s a bastard—drops his hand to her knee, squeezing lightly. Silence. Sherlock’s head snaps toward them. Mycroft’s eyebrow climbs his forehead like it’s fleeing the scene. Y/N finally turns, slow as a blade being drawn, and stares at James’s hand like she’s deciding which finger to break first.

James beams. “Problem?”

Sherlock growls. “Remove. Your. Hand.”

James makes a show of considering it—then winks at Y/N. “He needs to Ask nicely, doesn’t he?.”

Her response is to grab his wrist, twist hard enough to make him hiss, and smash his hand against the carriage wall. All with a smile. Fucking beautiful.

James laughs, delighted. “Violence! My favorite love language.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re literally on our way to an asylum.”

Sherlock mutters, “He’ll fit right in.”

Y/N releases James’s hand,but not before he catches the ghost of another smirk tugging at her lips. Progress.

The carriage jolts to a stop outside the imposing iron gates of Hendre Institution. Rain sheets down the barred windows as thunder rumbles in the distance—because of course it does. James stretches his freshly bruised hand with a smirk. "Charming place. Do they serve tea before the interrogations or—"

Mycroft cuts him off with a glare as he exits the carriage first, black umbrella snapping open with military precision.

“it’s not an interrogation, it’s a simple family visit” Sherlock follows just after him,shoulders tense beneath his coat. Y/N hesitates,just for a second before stepping into the downpour. James watches the way her fingers twitch at her sides.

He leans in as they walk. "Second thoughts?"

She doesn't look at him. "Just counting how many exits I see."

The heavy oak door creaks open to reveal a man in a too-tight waistcoat, sweat beading at his temples despite the chill.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes," he stammers, glancing at Mycroft's badge. "We weren't expecting you— your mother isn't scheduled for visitation today—"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "How interesting. we called just this morning."

Mycroft doesn't so much as lift an eyebrow. "I find myself unimpressed with your institution's record keeping."

The man fidgets, sweating bullets. "That's—understandable,but—we do have strict rules on visitation. For patient privacy and safety. it's all in the information pack I gave you—"

Mycroft just smiles. But it was y/n that spoke. Working her charm. “If you would be so kind as to let us see our mother today, we'd really appreciate it.” her hand placing softly on the man’s arm. Her eyelashes fluttering. “We have come such a long, I’ve been travelling you see, and this is the only time I can see my poor mother—I am sure my brother here would hate for the Home Office to have to call a meeting over this misunderstanding."

James watches, utterly charmed, as Y/N works her magic—the perfect blend of softness and steel beneath velvet words. The administrator's resolve visibly cracks under the combined force of her pleading gaze and Mycroft's silent, looming threat of bureaucratic annihilation. The man stutters and blinks, clearly not immune to Y/N's charm. "Of—Of course." He swallows hard, fumbling with the keys. "Right this way my lady..."

James, watching the exchange, grins like a predator. "Sweet as sugar with a smile like poison. I'm almost jealous."

She glances back, mouth curving. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."

He follows her into the asylum, still grinning. "Darling, everything suits me."

The hall's dim, smelling faintly of lemon polish and something bitter beneath. It's eerily silent. And cold—the kind that seeps into your bones. The administrator leads them through a maze of dimly lit corridors—each hall lined with locked doors and barred windows. Every now and then you hear whispering,a quiet cry. He instinctively moves closer to Y/N—not protectively, no, but drawn like a moth to her particular brand of dangerous warmth.

At last, they stop before a heavy oak door marked C.H. The administrator hesitates, fingers trembling around the key. "She... she hasn't been well today. Seeing familiar faces may distress her further."

Sherlock's voice is steel. "Open the door."

When it creaks open, the first thing they see is her Cordelia Holmes. She was sitting by the window, fingers tracing the rain-streaked glass. She doesn’t turn.

Then— “some privacy please” y/n demands off the administrator. The administrator hesitates. Looking nervously at Y/N. "But—but the rules—"

Sherlock's glare could cut glass. "Do as she says."

There's a moment, a beat of uncertainty—then the man nods hastily, backing away. The door creaks shut behind them,leaving them alone with Cordelia. She still hasn't turned. The silence stretches. Then— A slow turn. Cordelia Holmes faces them, her smile soft—gentle—as if no time has passed at all. "Oh, my boys," she murmurs, eyes crinkling at the edges.

Then she spots James. A blink. A tilt of her head. "And who is this?" her smile shining.

Before anyone can answer, her gaze shifts—past him—to where Y/N stands, half-hidden behind Sherlock's shoulder. For a heartbeat, the room stops. Cordelia's breath catches. "...you..”

Not angry. Not confused. Relieved. Y/N steps forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Hello, Mother."

Cordelia reaches out, fingers trembling. "I knew it," she breathes. "I knew you’d come. please my darling come here”

The room holds its breath as Y/N crosses the space between them,every step measured, like she's walking through a dream. Cordelia's hands tremble as they meet her daughter's, clutching tight like she might vanish again.

"I told them," Cordelia whispers fiercely, glancing toward the door. "I told them it wasn't you. That you would never—"

Sherlock stiffens. Mycroft's gaze sharpens.

James watches, intrigued, as Y/N squeezes her mother's hands gently. "I know mother," she murmurs. "But we need you to tell us everything."

Cordelia's eyes dart to the door again—paranoid. "Not here. They listen. They record everything."

Sherlock moves closer. "Who does?"

Sherlock sits next to Cordelia, gaze fixed on her. "Who listens mother?" he presses.

Her eyes dart around, lips pursed. "The eyes. The eyes watch," Cordelia whispers again. "The man with the bird's claw."

Mycroft's brow furrows. "Who is this man with a bird claw?" . Cordelia turns, grip loosening on her daughter's hand. "I don't know, but he's everywhere. In the walls, listening. Watching. Always watching." Y/N starts to slowly prowl the room, as if on edge.

Y/N moves silently along the perimeter of the room, fingers trailing over the peeling wallpaper, the edge of the bed frame, the windowsill—searching.

James watches her with quiet fascination. "What are you looking for, darling?"

She doesn't glance back.

Sherlock’s voice cuts through, low and urgent. "Mother, focus—who is 'the man with the bird’s claw'?"

Cordelia's fingers twist in her lap. "He came after the fire. After they took you away," she murmurs, gaze locking onto Y/N. "He made sure I stayed... quiet."

James glances out the rain-streaked window and raises an eyebrow. "Is it me, or does that rather large gentleman look exceptionally cross with us?"

Sherlock follows his gaze—just as the administrator gestures sharply toward their window. speaking animatedly to a hulking orderly. "We're out of time," Sherlock mutters. Mycroft turns,just in time to see Y/N press her ear against the wall.

Sherlock frowns. "What are you—?"

BANG.

She bashes the plaster with the heel of her pistol once, twice—until the wall cracks open, revealing a small, hidden compartment. Inside: a wax cylinder recorder, still spinning faintly and a secret corridor.

Y/N dusts off her skirts. "What? You said we didn’t have much time."

Sherlock stares. Mycroft exhales through his nose.

James grins. "Marry me."

Cordelia, oddly serene, claps her hands. "Oh, how clever!"

The recorder whirs—capturing every word.

Y/N doesn't hesitate. She strides to the fireplace, seizes the iron poker, and brings it down on the recorder in one swift, brutal arc. The device shatters with a satisfying crunch of gears and wax. She twirls the poker once before tossing it aside, turning back to them with all the grace of a queen surveying her court. "Now then," she says, smoothing her skirts, "Mother—how do you fancy getting out of this charming establishment?"

Cordelia beams, already standing. "Oh, I do like adventures."

James laughs outright—delighted. Mycroft sighs like he's calculating how many laws they're about to break. Sherlock—for once—looks almost impressed. Footsteps pound in the hall. Y/N nods to the hidden passage. "Brothers? James? Unless you'd prefer to dilly-dally until the guards arrive?"

James sweeps an exaggerated bow. "After you, mon capitaine.“

Sherlock grabs Cordelia's hand, urging her toward the passage. "Move."

Mycroft lingers just long enough to drop the shattered recorder into the fire, watching the wax melt before following. As the door bursts open behind them, Y/N is the last to slip into the shadows—but not before flashing the bewildered guards a wicked smile.

"Ta-ta, gentlemen."

Darkness swallows them whole. The game, as they say, is on.

They flee, footsteps echoing in the damp tunnel. A chorus of shouting and heavy footsteps pursue them,the guards, alarmed. They run like hell, darting around corners. James brings up the rear, occasionally glancing back at Y/N. "Run a bit faster, will you up there Mycroft?"

Mycroft's breath comes in sharp gusts. "I'm holding my mother. You run faster."

They run. Faster. Around bends and down slopes—the guards just behind. A gunshot ricochets through the tunnel. Mycroft stumbles under Cordelia's weight.

Y/N, on impulse, stops. Turns.

James yanks her sleeve. "What are you—?"

But she's already whipped a pistol from beneath her skirts, aimed, shooting without so much as hesitating—a perfect shot, right through the guard's knees. The man collapses with a howl. She just shrugs. "That was fucking rude."

James laughs, stunned and oddly thrilled. "My mistake then. As you were, love."

Mycroft heaves a sigh. "Can we please stop committing felonies on the way out?"

James laughs again, grabbing Y/N's hip and all but tossing her ahead of him, ducking just in time as bullets fly. "Murder another day, darling. Move it!"

He catches a glimpse of her flushed cheeks before she's off again, darting like a deer through the shadows. Mycroft follows, Cordelia gripped tight. "This was never how I planned my night to go."

The tunnel twists sharply, the air thick. A fork looms ahead,left or right?

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Right. The left reconnects to the main ward front doors I believe”

Y/N pivots on her heel, skirts whipping as she follows—only for another guard to lunge from a side passage. James acts on instinct. He steps between her and the man, twisting sharply to drive his elbow into the guard’s throat. The man gags, crumpling.

Y/N blinks. "Huh. Handy."

James winks. "You’re welcome love."

Another shot rings out. Plaster rains from the ceiling. Sherlock jerks his head toward a sliver of light ahead. The exit.

Mycroft adjusts his grip on Cordelia. "Almost there."

Y/N grabs James’s sleeve, dragging him forward. “Less flirting, more running hmm."

He lets her pull him, grinning. “Why not both?"

They burst into the storm-lashed night, the asylum doors slamming shut behind them. The carriage waits, horses stamping impatiently. Sherlock helps Cordelia in first. Mycroft turns, scanning the tree line. “They’ll follow."

Y/N tosses her pistol to James and climbs in after her mother. “Then let’s not be here when they do."

James catches the gun, thumb brushing the warm barrel where her fingers just were. “Aye aye, Captain."

The whip cracks. The carriage lurches forward. And just like that—they’re gone. The carriage rattles through the rain-slick streets, the asylum shrinking in the distance. Inside, the air is thick with tension—and something else. Relief. Cordelia sits between Sherlock and Mycroft, her hands clasped neatly in her lap, serene as if she’d just returned from a pleasant stroll rather than a prison break. Her gaze drifts to Y/N, who is busy reloading her pistol with practiced ease.

"You," Cordelia says softly, "have always been trouble my girl."

Y/N smirks. "Learned from the best, didn’t I?"

Sherlock exhales sharply, leaning forward. "Mother—this 'man with the bird’s claw.' Who is he? Why would he want you silenced?"

Cordelia’s fingers tighten slightly. "Because I know things."

James lounges against the carriage wall, watching the Holmes family dynamic like it’s the finest theatre in London. "Oh, brilliant. Cryptic and dramatic. I do love a mystery."

Mycroft cuts him a withering look before turning back to Cordelia. "What things?"

Before she can answer, Y/N interrupts, sliding the freshly loaded pistol into her bodice. "about father”

Sherlock frowns. "what?”

Cordelia sighs, her gaze fixed on Y/N's face—searching. "Your father... he wasn't the man you thought he was."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

Y/N meets Sherlock's gaze evenly. "I mean there was more to father than we knew."

Sherlock shakes his head, brow furrowed. "He was a scientist, a scholar. Not—not... some criminal."

Cordelia's voice is weary. "Oh Sherlock. Your father was many things. A brilliant man. But he was not a saint."

Sherlock goes very still. The carriage feels suddenly airless.

James lets out a low whistle. Mycroft's jaw clenches. "So the Hendre Institution was keeping you quiet?”

Cordelia nods once. "Yes, I believe your father has something to do with it..But your sister—" She glances at Y/N. "She knew. She found his ledgers as a child. That’s why Silas sent her away. I just didn’t realise it at first”

Sherlock looks at Y/N—really looks—for the first time in years.

"You knew?” His voice cracks. Y/N doesn’t flinch. "Not really. Not then. I was a child. Just enough to be dangerous."

James watches, fascinated, as Sherlock’s hands curl into fists,not in anger, but in something far worse. Sherlock exhales, slow and measured. "That fire—the one they blamed you for. It was set to destroy evidence, wasn’t it?"

Y/N’s smile is razor-thin. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. "So let me summarize—our father was involved in something obviously illegal,possibly treason, and now we’re being hunted by his associates who have gone to great lengths to silence our family?"

James claps delightedly. "Oh This just keeps getting better."

Sherlock ignores him, gaze locked on Y/N. "And you’ve been tracking them all this time”

She shrugs. "I’ve been searching for evidence. Someone had to. that’s why I often broke into Mycroft’s work place..sorry brother”

The carriage jolts sharply as they round a corner too fast. Outside, the rain has turned into a downpour, the streets nearly empty.

James grips the edge of the seat so he doesn't grab onto Y/N instead.

Mycroft gives Y/N a pointed look. "You know, you could have simply asked rather than resorting to breaking and entering."

She shoots him an innocently saccharine smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Sherlock's eyes darken. He's piecing together the puzzle,the missing pieces snapping into place. "This 'man with the bird’s claw.' Is he part of this?"

Sherlock's voice is a whip crack. "The only way to know that is to find this 'man with the bird's claw.' Find out what he has to do with this—and why it links to the murders and the death of princess shou’an"

Mycroft rubs his temples, the carriage rattling along the rain-slick streets."Do you even have a single lead?"

Y/N stretches her legs lazily, her smirk sharpening. "Funny you should ask—does anyone fancy a trip to Vienna?"

James grins like a fox spotting prey. "Oh, I adore Vienna. The opera, the pastries, the potential bloodshed—"

Sherlock's gaze snaps to her. "Vienna?"

She nods. "Aunt was called there abruptly. Coincidentally or not, investors tied to Father" Her fingers tap against the carriage window. "Could pay our dearest father a visit?”

Mycroft exhales through his nose. "Let me guess. You've already secured passage."

Y/N's smile is all teeth. "I suppose I do have some tickets already,Though I suppose we'll need two more now."

James leans in. "Five it is. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Sherlock looks between them all—his mother's weary resolve, Mycroft's resigned glare, Y/N's quiet fury, and James' amusement,before exhaling sharply.

"Fine. Vienna."

The carriage rolls on, the rain hammering harder now. Somewhere ahead,answers. Somewhere behind—enemies. And in the middle? Pure, glorious chaos.

——————

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[a-scribes-sanctum]

Brother Dearest - part 2

James Moriarty x Imagine

Part 1 One Holmes Too Many

Warnings: no major warnings, but mild spoilers! •Sibling dynamics• swearing potentially• tension between characters•

Authors note: Ohhhh, things are heating up!! •Sherlock’s reluctantly trusting James (against his better judgment)•James being absolutely insufferable (and loving every second) •Y/N having zero patience for either of them (rightfully so) •Mycroft Holmes about to be very surprised by an unannounced visit.

Word count: 3.6k

Y/N POV

Y/N had always found the early hours of the morning peaceful. It was a world without people, filled with the soothing stillness of night. It was a time where even the world seemed to exhale, if just for a moment. But even the tranquility that came with the still of early hours was disturbed with the sound of approaching hooves. The distant sound of horse hooves jolts you from bed at an ungodly hour, even for your insomniac tendencies. The sky a blanket of the early morning sunrise.

You quickly dress, pulling on a robe over your night shift. Downstairs, the clock reads six twenty in the Godsdamn morning. Who in their right mind is riding out at this hour?Sherlock, it turns out. As you pace downstairs to the entrance hall, he's there, brushing off his coat. You fold your arms. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

Sherlock glances up, calm as ever. "It's called fresh air,sister."

"You’re a wanted criminal!" you hiss, stepping closer so no one else might hear. “You could have been seen, you Imbocile!”

He shrugs, hanging up his coat with infuriating nonchalance. I was just riding the estate fields, there’s no one for miles”

Before you can throttle him properly—

“Well, good morning”

James strolls in behind Sherlock like he owns the place. He beams at you both.

“well now you're awake.. breakfast shall we? and Don’t worry,” he says with an exaggerated wink toward Y/N, “I kept well hidden.” He gestures grandly at the eggs and the loaf of bread under his arm. “But I thought our lovely hostess might enjoy breakfast for being so gracious”

And then—he looks at you. Not just a glance either. His eyes flick from your bare feet up past the hem of that thin robe and night shift,slow as sin before landing on yours,you catch him smirking. Your eyebrow lifts. "How very noble of you," you say dryly. You take the eggs and bread from his hands. "Breakfast seems a fair trade for you wanting me to commit a felony”

Sherlock snorts. "Please, forgery is hardly the worst that you’ve done”

James grins, leaning against a nearby table. "Now I'm intrigued. What's the worst you've done, Miss Holmes?"

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "I have no idea who you are, why would I reveal my secrets to you?"

James tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh come on now, I brought you breakfast."

You scoff. "And I suppose that makes us friends now?"

"Not yet” he says slowly, stepping closer. “But it does make me your favourite guest"

"Uninvited and unproven," you shoot back, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

Sherlock rolls his eyes from the doorway. "Please stop flirting in my presence."

James doesn’t look away from you. You glance at James, pointing to the kitchen. "Since you brought the food, I expect it’s cooked. Make yourself useful."

James places a hand over his heart. "Such cruelty from one so beautiful.”

You roll your eyes but don’t hide your smirk. Sherlock exhales sharply as James wanders around the kitchen with far too much confidence for someone cooking in an unfamiliar house.

You turn back to Sherlock, arms folded again. "Right then, before I do anything. start from the beginning." Your voice drops lower. "What exactly happened in Oxford? What scroll? And who exactly has been murdered”

Sherlock hesitates,he always does when he thinks he's protecting you—then begins.

"It wasn't just any scroll," he says quietly—"It was an ancient Chinese imperial cipher, Princess shou’an says it holds the Art of War”

You blink slowly, absorbing this. "...And they're saying you stole it?"

He nods grimly. "And murdered professors in the process”

"But why frame you?”

"That dear sister was what I was trying to find out," Sherlock murmurs.

I was getting close, the last I remember was..”

Suddenly,you hear a crash from the kitchen followed by laughter.

James shouts “Don’t worry! The eggs are fine!”

You roll your eyes and return your gaze to Sherlock. “yes? what do you remember last?"

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. "…well."

You raise an eyebrow at the sudden evasiveness. He avoids your gaze, looking anywhere but at you.You frown slightly, leaning against the counter. "well I can gather what that look means and your avoidance of my gaze”

Sherlock scowls. "Don't look so surprised,I am a grown man, not a monk."

Your eyes widen comically. "Just can’t imagine you.. Close with a woman”

Sherlock exhales sharply. "Well, She was very…" his jaw clenches "…persuasive."

You fold your arms, eyes narrowed. "Persuasive. I suppose that’s one word for it. well it’s obvious isn’t it? she surely slipped you something and framed you”

James appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "That's exactly what I said."

Sherlock glares at him. "Shut up, James"

James steps into the room, balancing a plate of slightly charred but edible eggs. He sets it down with theatrical flair.

“Oh come on, Holmes.” James grins at you both. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a woman drug you at a party? Terribly common in Oxford circles—though I suppose you wouldn’t know, being assigned as a porter and all.”

Sherlock’s eye twitches.

You smirk despite yourself. “a porter?.” Sherlocks only answer was “Mycroft’s idea”

James claps his hands together. "So! Princess Shou’an,clearly lethal, used your ahem growing affections to knock you out and pin two murders and a theft on you." He takes a seat across from Sherlock like he’s narrating a play he wrote himself. "Honestly, it's almost impressive."

Sherlock mutters into his tea “I wasn’t actually that taken with her.”

You glance over sharply.

He sighs. “…Fine. She was clever… And yes, I may have allowed myself to be momentarily distracted—”

“Momentarily?” James gasps in mock shock. Sherlock stands abruptly.

“Back to it shall we, I remember nothing after that,” he says stiffly.

“I woke up chained in that cell with blood on my coat and guards shouting about murder.” You watch him for beat. You take a deep breath, leaning against the counter. "Sherlock," you say quietly but firmly.

He avoids your gaze, crossing his arms. "I know what you're going to say and—"

"Let me speak," you interrupt, tone firm.

He falls silent. You exhale deeply, meeting his eyes. "Sherlock listen”

He sighs, a familiar exasperation. "I'm listening."

You push away from the counter, taking a step towards him, voice quieter. "Look,We all know you're innocent. And yes I can forge these papers, but there's no one better equipped to clear your name than Mycroft."

He scoffs. "Mycroft. Who wouldn't hesitate to throw me back behind bars."

"He's still our brother," you remind him softly. “let me talk to him, he works for the government for crying out loud, he will have some sway. We can see if we can talk them around”. Sherlock falls silent, jaw clenching. Sherlock doesn't answer right away. He turns toward the window, watching the morning light stretch across the dew heavy fields—the same fields he rode through this morning.

Finally, voice low: "You’re underestimating Mycroft."

You tilt your head. "And you're overestimating his cruelty. he loves us in his own way”

He lets out a sharp breath—half laugh, half sigh. "He'll use this against me for years.”

James leans back in his chair, stretching like a cat in sunlight."Ah yes,the great Mycroft Holmes,King of bureaucracy and emotional constipation.”

Sherlock glares at him. As do you. James grins undeterred “But Y/N has a point,your brother may be insufferable but he does believe in facts.” He winks at you. “And if anyone can charm that stone faced bureaucrat into helping... it’s her”

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. "You think Flattery will get you everywhere I see."

James flashes a lazy smirk. "Just stating a fact." You roll your eyes, shaking your head. "Well, in this case, you're not wrong. No one else can get through to Mycroft when he's being... well, Mycroft."

Sherlock exhales slowly, finally turning away from the window to look at you. His expression is still guarded, but there's a flicker of reluctant agreement in his eyes.

"Alright," he says finally. "You can speak to Mycroft. But," he adds firmly, "

You nod, a sense of determination settling over you. "But?"

Sherlock steps towards you. "James will come with you."

Your eyes flicker toward James,who'd watching the conversation like a hawk. You raise an eyebrow. James blinks, sitting up straighter. "I will?"

Sherlock’s gaze hardens. “Yes, you. You’re not in the papers,no one’s looking for you. And while I’d rather trust a rabid fox with my sister, the fact remains—you were there at the events prior. You know what happened. Mycroft will want every detail, and Y/N won’t know all of it.”

James leans back in his chair again—slow, deliberate and gives Sherlock a smirk that says he already knows exactly how much this is costing him.

“You’re trusting me,” James drawls, voice thick with amusement, “to accompany your sister… alone… on a delicate mission to charm your terrifying older brother?”

Sherlock glares at him like he wants to commit murder. “I’m trusting her to keep an eye on you.”

You cross your arms and fix James with a level stare. "Don't make me regret letting you live under my roof."

James grins like he's been handed the world itself.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You give him a wry smile, shaking your head. "Somehow, I doubt that."

He winks, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes again.

Sherlock exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "This is a terrible idea."

Later that day.

The carriage lurches forward, rattling along the country road. You glance out the window at the passing fields. From the opposite seat, James catches your eye. He smirks, a gleam in his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow. "Something amuses you." He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Oh, just thinking"

You lean back against the plush seat, crossing your legs. "Care to share?"

He tilts his head, studying you. "I'm trying to picture you charming Mycroft Holmes. fancy practising on me?”

You raise an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across your face. "Oh? And what makes you think I'd waste my charm on someone like you?" You give him a deadpan look. "He’s my brother. And you're… whatever you are."

James grins, utterly unfazed. "A pervert? A gentleman? Your future lover?"

You scoff, but there's a flicker of amusement in your eyes. "The only thing you're going to be is quiet if you want to stay in this carriage”

He leans back, folding his arms behind his head with that infuriating confidence of his."So no flirting then? Pity."

You roll your eyes at his flippant response. "No flirting."

He feigns a wounded look. "Not even a little?"

You shake your head, fighting a smile.

He sighs dramatically. "Oh the cruelty of it all. but I do adore a challenge”

You smirk. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

He grins back. "And yet here you are, stuck in a carriage with me."

You huff, trying to hide your amusement. "Temporary arrangement."

James chuckles, leaning closer again. "Temporary, hmm?"

You narrow your eyes, not backing down. "Don't get any ideas."

He lifts an innocent hand. "Me? Never."

You snort. "I doubt that very much."

He smirks. "You have such little faith in my character. get to know me and you’ll see”

You sigh, trying to keep a straight face. "The idea of getting to know you is just thrilling."

He leans closer, grinning. "Careful, that almost sounds like interest."

You shake your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "In your dreams."

He quirks an eyebrow as the carriage slows to a stop. "My dreams could get rather interesting, believe me."

"Well," you say, voice low and teasing, as you straighten in your seat,just close enough for him to feel your breath against his lips—"you'll have to save those dreams for later."

The carriage rolls to a halt.

"Because we've arrived."

James doesn't move right away, frozen just half a heartbeat too long in the space between your words and the real world. Then he exhales sharply through his nose,half laugh, half groan—and leans back like he's been burned.

"Y/N, you are cruel."

You smooth your coat with exaggerated calm as you rise. Then you glance back with a smirk over your shoulder as you exit the carriage. You step out onto the cobblestone street, the chill London air sharp against your cheeks. James follows close behind, adjusting his cuffs with exaggerated nonchalance—but you catch the way his eyes dart to you before he schools his features back into that smug, practiced ease.

"Ready to charm a bureaucrat?" he murmurs, falling into step beside you.

You glance up at the imposing government building ahead—all gray stone and iron gates—where Mycroft undoubtedly sits buried in paperwork. "I'm not charming anyone," you say dryly. "I'm negotiating with my brother."

James grins. "Same thing, really."

You roll your eyes but don't argue. The guards at the entrance eye you both warily—until you smile, sweet as poisoned honey.

"Mycroft Holmes is expecting me."

James leans in, whispering as the guards exchange glances. "You lie so easily."

You don't look at him. "And?"

He chuckles low in his throat. "I adore you."

You elbow him discreetly in the ribs. "Shut up."

The guards step aside.

James exhales, almost reverent. "God, I can imagine you're terrifying when you want to be."

You smirk. And together, you step inside.

Mycroft place of work is exactly as you’d imagine it—all dark wood, heavier silence, and the faint scent of Mycroft’s preferred Earl Grey. Mycroft strides into the office, head still bowed over a document, muttering under his breath about "incompetent clerks" and "wasted ink." When the door clicks shut behind him, he finally looks up and freezes mid step. For a fraction of a second, his usually impeccable composure cracks. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the papers.

"...Y/N."

His voice is carefully neutral, but you know him too well—that slight lift of his brow is genuine surprise. You smile, slow and deliberate. "Hello Mycroft."

James, lounging against the bookshelf behind you, clears his throat pointedly. Mycroft's gaze flicks to him,then back to you, colder now. "And you brought a stray."

James presses a dramatic hand to his chest. "Stray? I’m wounded."

You roll your eyes. "He’s involved. so that makes it necessary for him to be here”

Mycroft exhales through his nose and sets the papers down with deliberate calm. "Explain. Quickly."

You tilt your head. "Sherlock’s innocent."

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his jaw tenses,just slightly. "I’m aware."

You blink. James whistles low. "Well. That saves time."

Mycroft ignores him, still staring at you. "But proving it requires resources even I can’t leverage openly." His gaze flicks to James. "And him?"

You lift your chin, unwavering. "He’s —useful."

Mycroft's gaze lingers on James for a moment longer before returning to you. His voice is ice. "You trust him?"

James smirks. "I grow on people."

You surprisingly nod your head to agree. Mycroft doesn't dignify James with a response. Instead, he moves to his desk, steepling his fingers. "Very well. If you're here, you have a plan."

You step forward, leaning against the polished mahogany. "I need forged clearance, or an actual clearance if you can.. also official documents that will let us access the crime scenes, the evidence. To give Sherlock a chance to prove his innocence”

Mycroft exhales sharply. "Forgery? How pedestrian."

You smile thinly. "Effective."

Mycroft exhales through his nose, studying you like you're a particularly tedious equation he’s reluctantly solving.

"...Fine. I can see what I can do with the board, before any forgery takes place."

James, who had been idly flipping through a ledger on Mycroft’s shelf, nearly drops it. "That was easier than expected." James comments in shock.

Mycroft’s expression doesn’t shift. "Don’t mistake efficiency for approval." He produces a set of keys from his waistcoat and slides them across the desk. "The archives. Restricted evidence room. Burn the documents when you’re done and I’ll speak to the officials to see what I can do."

James whistles. "So you do have a heart."

Mycroft levels him with a stare that could freeze hell over. "I have a vested interest in minimizing the embarrassment Sherlock causes this family."

You pocket the keys with a smirk. "Spoken like a true brother."

Mycroft doesn’t smile, but something flickers in his eyes,something dangerously close to amusement. "Get out of my office."

James bows mockingly. "A pleasure as always."

Mycroft barely spares James a glance. “Not her."

He points sharply to the door,aimed at James,then settles his gaze back on you. “stay a moment”

James blinks. Then smirks. “Ah, family matters."He saunters toward the exit, tossing you an exaggerated wink over his shoulder. “Don't worry, love—I'll wait outside. Try not to miss me too much."

The door clicks shut behind him. Silence stretches between you and Mycroft—heavy, familiar, thick with unsaid things. He exhales, rubbing his temple. You fold your arms, studying him. "You seem stressed."

He scoffs, but it's half -hearted. "What gave it away? The lack of sleep or the excessive caffeine intake?"

You gesture at his desk, the myriad documents, papers and files strewn about like casualties of war. "The state of your desk."

He grimaces. "It's been a long week. And that was before Sherlock landed himself in prison."

You sigh, shaking your head fondly. "Yes, well. That’s our dear Sherlock for you."

Leaning against the desk beside him, you bump your shoulder lightly against his—an old habit from childhood, when you'd sneak into his study and badger him with questions he pretended to hate answering. He always answered, though.

Mycroft exhales through his nose, but doesn't shift away. "Maybe if I payed him attention or visited him more often, it would've saved me the headache of cleaning up his messes remotely."

You hum, noncommittal. "You visited me more than him and I guarantee you left with a headache then too”

He adjusts his cufflinks, avoiding your gaze. "You, at least, are tolerable company."

You snort. "High praise."

You tilt your head, studying his profile,the tightness in his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes. He notices and His lips twitch. A smile.

Outside, James’s muffled voice drifts through the door: “Christ, how long does it take to say don’t get killed and I’ll sort the rest?”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. "That man is going to get you both arrested. If I don’t get my way with the officials”

You grin, pushing off the desk. "Probably."

He catches your wrist as you turn to leave—just for a second, just enough to make you pause. His grip is firm, but not unkind.

"Be careful," he says quietly.

You squeeze his fingers once before pulling away. "Always am."

Mycroft’s gaze lingers as you stride toward the door.

James is leaning against the wall outside, arms crossed, grinning like he’s been eavesdropping. He pushes off as you approach.

“So?"

You dangle the keys in front of his face. "Next stop—evidence room."

James’s grin widens. “Delightful."

You roll your eyes—but you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you walk.

James slips his hands into his pockets as you walk, a slow, sideways grin spreading across his face. "Well... that was easier than I thought."

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "I did say he’d help. He’s my brother,what did you expect?"

He chuckles low in his throat. "Cold indifference? A lecture? At best grudging silence." He glances back toward the office with amused disbelief. "Not... cooperation."

You smirk faintly, voice softer now: "He shows it differently, but Mycroft cares in his own way, especially for Sherlock."

James hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking to you as your footsteps echo down the marble hall. “And what about you? How do you care?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you hold up the keys again,the metal catching the dull government light and let them dangle between two fingers like a promise.

“Let’s go help Sherlock shall we,” is all you say.

James laughs,bright and delighted as he follows close behind.Because whatever comes next? It’s going to be fun.

———————

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[a-scribes-sanctum]

One Holmes Too Many

James Moriarty x imagine

Warnings: no warnings mostly for this chapter but as always I advise 18+ 🔞 Swearing & General Shenanigans. Mild Violence. Alcohol Consumption. Tension.

Authors note: THE HOLMES SIBLING YOU'VE NEVER MET. My own little twist on the new young Sherlock series. because who isn’t obsessed?

What to expect? A Holmes sibling who is worse than Sherlock (yes, it’s possible). James Moriarty being utterly, shamelessly smitten (against his better judgment, if he has any). Banter. So much banter.

Sherlock Holmes has a sister. And she’s exactly the kind of person you’d expect to come from that bloodline,brilliant, ruthless, and entirely too fond of chaos. When Sherlock’s latest escapade lands him in jail, his only option is to flee to the one person Mycroft doesn’t control and apparently that no one knows about,his sister, Y/N Holmes. Problem? They haven’t seen each other in years. Bigger problem? James Moriarty finds her absolutely fascinating.

Word count: 3.4k

Escape from Oxford.

The cobbled streets of Oxford were slick with rain, the moonlight fractured by the twisting alleys. The prison guards rattling over over the iron bars. Inside, Sherlock Holmes sat with his wrists bound in his cell,his sharp eyes scanning the shadows,calculating, waiting.

Then chaos. A figure dropped from the rooftops, landing with a thud as he took down one guard. Then the other guard rampaged from across the prison floor, and James Moriarty grinned down through the bars at Sherlock. Dressed as a gods damm chamber maid.

"Miss me?…Now get dressed”

Before Sherlock could reply, James flung a maids outfit at Sherlock. How delightful. Then flung a smoke bomb at the guards coming their way. The night erupted into coughing, swearing, and flailing truncheons. James yanked open the lock with a twisted bit of wire “Honestly, they should really upgrade these” and hauled Sherlock out.

“You're insane,"Sherlock hissed as they sprinted into the maze of alleyways. Behind them, whistles shrieked.

"Obviously," James laughed, shoving Sherlock sideways as a guard lunged for them. He drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. “But insane keeps you alive! for now”

They ducked into a cellar, breath ragged. The sound of boots thundered past outside.

Sherlock glared. "You do realize every constable in England will now hunting us?"

James wiped blood from his split lip, grinning. “Then we’d better find somewhere they won’t look.”

Sherlock hesitated. "Not with Mycroft then."

"Obviously not Mycroft," James scoffed. “you got any bright ideas holmes?”

James notices sherlocks unease as he leans against the damp wall, catching his breath as he studies Sherlock’s tense expression. The flicker of hesitation in his friend’s eyes is unusual,Sherlock Holmes never hesitates.

"Alright, out with it," James says, flicking a loose button from his stolen maid’s uniform at Sherlock’s forehead. "You’ve got that look,the one you get right before you say something dangerously clever or stupidly noble. Which is it this time?"

Sherlock exhales sharply, then meets his gaze.

"There’s... somewhere.. and..someone..."

James arches an eyebrow. "Not a lover, surely. Unless you’ve been keeping far more interesting company than I thought."

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. "My…sister."

James blinks. Then laughs. "What? Since when do you have a—" He stops abruptly, registering the seriousness in Sherlock’s face. "...You’re serious."

"She lives with our aunt. Outskirts of London. If anyone can hide us without Mycroft’s interference, or anyone’s for that matter,it’s her."

James tilts his head, intrigued. "And why haven’t you mentioned this mysterious sibling before?"

Sherlock’s gaze darkens. "Because she’s worse than I am."

James grins, wild and delighted. "Now that sounds promising." The wheels of the stolen carriage creak as they bump along the darkened streets of London back roads and then the country roads. The moon casting eerie shadows through the trees. James sits at the seat opposite Sherlock, as he guides the horses,tossing a stolen apple in the air and catching it with a smug grin.

“So,” he muses, “tell me more about this sister of yours. ‘Worse than you,’ was it? That’s quite the claim.”

Sherlock scowls right back at him, his fingers drumming restlessly against the reigns. “She’s clever. Too clever. And utterly unrestrained.”

James takes a dramatic bite of the apple, juice dripping down his chin. “Delightful. I like her already.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock mutters. Almost protective, as if he knew he would.

Suddenly, the carriage lurches violently as a gunshot rings out,the horses scream. James lunges forward, grabbing Sherlock’s arm as the entire vehicle tips sideways, crashing into the ditch beside the road. Dust and splintered wood fill the air. Through the wreckage, James sees them: two mounted constables, pistols drawn.

James coughing, half buried under the collapsed carriage door. “Ah. Seems they’ve caught up."

Sherlock,yanking James free with a grunt. “Brilliant deduction."

The constables dismount, boots crunching on gravel as they approach. James wipes blood from his temple, grin sharpening.

James began whispering, fever bright “Give them one of your speeches, Holmes. Distract them."

Sherlock deadpanned “They have guns."

James was already reaching for a broken spoke from the wheel. “So do we. Just—less shooty, more stabby—"

Before he could finish, a WHISTLE cuts through the night,not police, but lilting, mocking. From the trees above, a figure drops onto the nearest constable’s shoulders, kneeing him squarely in the face. The man collapses like a puppet with cut strings.

James began blinking at the newcomer. “…Or stabby is optional, apparently we are kicking them now.”

The second constable then spins, pistol raised,only for the stranger to kick it from his grip, then plant a boot in his stomach, sending him wheezing into the mud. Silence.

“Honestly, Sherlock. Couldn’t even outrun these idiots?"

The figure steps into the moonlight, her wild dark hair, eyes glinting like a blade catching light. She twirls the stolen pistol before tucking it into her belt. Sherlock spun round to James, dusting off his clothes. “James Moriarty… meet my sister.. y/n”

She was smiling sweetly at James. “Oh good. You brought me a present."

James, who was still sprawled in the dirt, grins back like a man who’s just found fireworks in a library.

“I adore her."

Sherlock reached his hand out to James. Before pinching the bridge of his own nose. “You would." James takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling himself up with a wince. His gaze darts between the two siblings, taking in the likeness, the differences. Sherlock may be intense, but this woman—James couldn’t look away. Sherlock wipes mud from his sleeve, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "How the hell did you find us? Aunt's house is miles from here."

She steps over the unconscious constable, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger with a smirk. "News spreads fast, brother dear. I heard of your misfortune”—her eyes flicker to James—"and I was already on my way to London. Imagine my shock when I learned there’d been a prison break. Surely,I thought, not my brilliant brother? He’d never be so reckless."

Sherlock scoffs.

She continues, kicking aside a discarded truncheon. "And yet... here you are. Leaving your usual sloppy crumb trail—torn coat snagged on a fence, footprints in the stable muck, that ridiculous maid’s costume—”

James gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse you, that costume was a tactical masterpiece."

She sizes him up, lips curling. "Oh, was it? Because from where I was watching, you tripped over your own petticoats twice."

James grins, undeterred. "Admit it—you were impressed."

"By your ability to nearly strangle yourself with a bonnet string? Mildly."

Sherlock exhales sharply, cutting in. "Enough. We need to move."

His sister rolls her eyes. "Always so dramatic. Come on then." She gestures toward the trees to where there was a carriage hiding behind the trees. Sherlock opens his mouth. “how did you know…” but she silences him with a sharp flick of her finger against his forehead,like scolding a wayward child.

"How did I know you’d come crawling my way?" She smirks, pivoting toward the waiting carriage. "Oh, Sherlock. You couldn’t go to Mycroft with this mess could you?. So who else?" She spreads her arms, mock bowing. "Your ever charming, ever underappreciated sister."

James claps his hands together, delighted. "I’m adopting her."

Sherlock drags a hand down his face. "God help me”

She flings open the carriage door with a flourish. "Hurry up, unless you’d prefer another chat with the constables?". James vaults in first, sprawling across the seat like a satisfied cat.

The carriage door slams shut behind them as they settle into the plush seats. Sherlock glares at his sister from across the compartment while James lounges, examining the interior with amusement. Sherlock,leaning forward, voice low. “you surely couldn’t have known I’d come looking for your aid and you are very well prepared for someone just visiting”

Y/n began adjusting her gloves casually. “I was Anticipating trouble, I must always come prepared. You’ve always had a flair for trouble—just never this theatrical. I’m guessing this is down to your new company..?”

James straightens, meeting her gaze with a smirk. "Guilty as charged. I’ve always preferred making an entrance."

She arches an elegant eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "An entrance indeed. I can see why my brother finds your company so… entertaining. And who might you be, then?"

Sherlock interjects, a note of caution in his voice. "This is James Moriarty, a… friend."

Something in her expression sharpens. A surprise. James raises a hand in greeting. "Pleasure."

Her gaze flicks between them, skeptical. "A friend?" Her words are laced with disbelief. "I must say, I never would have expected my brother to be capable of making any kind of friend."

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, a look of pained embarrassment crossing his face. "Thank you, dear sister, for that heartfelt vote of confidence."

She laughs, genuine humour lighting in her eyes. "I call it as I see it, brother. Never were the most social sort." Her gaze finds James again, sizing him up. "But you seem to have found an equally intriguing companion."

James leans back, folding his arms behind his head. A lazy grin on his face, “I like to think I have a certain charm." Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes. Sherlock sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yes, well his 'charm' is the reason we're currently wanted fugitives with no foreseeable way out of this mess."

James scoffs. "Oh please, don't act like you weren't already knee deep in trouble before I showed up."

Y/N smirks, crossing her arms. "So—what’s the plan now, geniuses? Because unless you fancy spending the next decade in shackles, I suggest we move quickly”

James snaps his fingers, grinning. "First,we ditch this carriage before they track it. then make our way to.. your aunts yes?… Second—" He leans forward, mischief glittering in his eyes. "—tell me, darling,how good are you at forgery?"

Sherlock groans. "No. Absolutely not."

Y/N tilts her head, intrigued. "Depends. What exactly are we forging?"

James' grin widens. "Oh, just some diplomatic papers. Maybe a pardon or two. Nothing too illegal."

Sherlock glares at him. "Nothing too illegal,you realize that's an oxymoron, yes?"

James waves a dismissive hand. "Semantics."

Y/N leans in, matching James' energy perfectly. "I like him. He’s fun."

Sherlock looks heavenward, muttering, "Gods”

James winks at her. "See? She gets it."

Sherlock exhales sharply. "I hate both of you."

Y/N pats his knee, sweetly condescending. "Aw, don’t be like that brother dear”.

James flops dramatically against the carriage seat, clutching his chest. "You wound me, Holmes. After I broke you out in such style—"

"Style?" Sherlock hisses, gesturing at James' torn petticoat still tangled around one boot. "You nearly got us both hanged because you insisted on escaping dressed as a scullery maid."

James grins, utterly unrepentant. "And yet, here we are. Alive, uncaptured, and about to be very cozy at your dear aunt's” His eyes flick to Y/N with theatrical wistfulness. "Tell me, do you keep port in the cellar? I do adore a good vintage after a daring escape."

Y/n props her chin on her hand, studying James like he's a fascinatingly reckless specimen. "Oh, we have better than port. She's got a 1792 cognac hidden behind the false wall in the library."

James gasps, clutching the carriage door like a swooning maiden. "Marry me.”

Sherlock chokes on air. Y/N laughs,bright, unguarded and James feels something dangerous twist behind his ribs. Outside, the distant clatter of hoofbeats echoes. The game isn't over yet. But oh, what fun they'll have. The carriage lurches to halt, pulling into the dirt driveway of a secluded country estate. The house stands dark against the night, the only light spilling from a downstairs window.

Y/N opens the door, stepping out into the chill air. James follows, stretching like a satisfied cat after a long nap. Sherlock is the last to emerge, eyes narrowing at the building. "You haven't told aunt we're coming, I assume?"

Y/N scoffs, twirling the stolen constable’s keys around her finger. "Of course not. Do I look like an amateur? And with the recent events, I didn’t fully expect this either brother” She strides toward the house without hesitation. "Besides.. Aunt's off gallivanting in Vienna. Won’t be back for weeks."

James whistles low, nudging Sherlock as they follow. "You do realize your sister is terrifyingly competent, yes?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose. "Unfortunately."

Y/N flings open the front door with a flourish, revealing the darkened foyer. "Welcome to your temporary hideout, gentlemen." She smirks, gesturing grandly.

James clasps his hands together as he walked the halls.

Sherlock slumped in the armchair. “I need a drink."

Y/N grins, tossing him a knowing look, then to her new acquaintance James. "Cognac’s in the library. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone."

James gasps, clutching his chest. "You’re leaving?”

She winks. "Only to fetch supplies. Play nice, boys."

Sherlock watches her vanish into the night, then turns to James. "You’re grinning”

James sighs dreamily. "She threatened me with arson and promised me fine liquor. I think I’m in love."

Sherlock shoves past him toward the library. "You’re insufferable."

James skips after him, undeterred. "And yet—" He slings an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. "—here we are!"

Sherlock shrugs him off with a glare. "Against my better judgment."

James laughs, already halfway to the false wall in the library. "Oh, come now—where’s your sense of adventure?"

Sherlock deadpans. "It died. In a ditch. Outside Oxford."

James uncorks the cognac with his teeth. "To resurrection, then." Sherlock scowls but accepts the offered glass. The cognac is rich, sweet fire on the tongue. James hums appreciatively, swirling his tumbler.

Sherlock watches him from the armchair, still nursing his own drink with a pinched expression. "You're enjoying this far too much."

James plops onto the rug, sprawling amidst the stacks of dusty books. "Can you blame me?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, just watches the amber liquid in his glass with hooded eyes. The silence settles, the only sounds the crackling fireplace and the distant hoot of an owl.

James breaks it. "May I pose a question?"

Sherlock's gaze flicks up, wary. "As if I could stop you."

James grins, propping his head on an elbow. "I'm curious about dear little Y/N."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, piques your curiosity about my sister?".James feigns innocence, swirling his drink. "Oh, just wondering how such a charming creature could come from such a stoic line."

Sherlock groans, rubbing his temples. "Don't even entertain ideas."

James bats his lashes, all faux-offended. "Who? Me? I have nothing but the purest intentions."

Sherlock scoffs. "Of course. You're a paragon of virtue." James gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I am wounded, Holmes. Deeply wounded."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking a generous sip of his cognac. "You'll manage."

James leans back on his elbows, a sly grin spreading across his face. "She's quite the firecracker, your sister is."

Sherlock tenses, narrowing his eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

James shrugs casually, his expression too smug to be nonchalant. "Oh, nowhere. Just appreciating her… spirited nature."

Sherlock rises from the chair, setting his glass aside. "James," he warns, voice lowered. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

James holds up his hands, all faux-innocence again. "Can't a man admire a strong, intelligent woman without suspicion?"

Sherlock advances, looming over James. "Not when it's my sister."

James doesn't budge, looking up at Sherlock with an infuriating smirk. "Ooo Holmes you are protective. is this why you’ve never mentioned her?”

Sherlock stiffens, caught between irritation and resignation. "Of course, I'm protective. She's my sister!"

James sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the rug with a grin. "Fine, fine. I’ll behave."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You’ve never behaved a day in your life."

James winks. "True. But for you? I’ll pretend."

Sherlock exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something before following with "please James.." before turning away—just as the front door swings open again. Y/N strides in, arms laden with said provisions. There was bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and James squints—is that a second pistol tucked into her belt?

Y/n tosses the bag onto the table with a thud. "Supplies," she announces, then pauses, catching James’s stare.

He’s not hiding it well. Not quite blank, not quite neutral,something warmer flickers in his gaze as he looks her up and down: wild hair still dusted with night air, coat lined with hidden weapons, that sharp little smile playing on her lips like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

Y/n smirks. "See something you like?"

James grins lazily. "Possibly several somethings."

Sherlock gives James a glare.

Y/n steps closer to James, seating herself beside him on a chair,"You’re trouble aren’t you?”

“Trouble is subjective.” He says watching Sherlock from corner of eyes “And sometimes very rewarding”. Sherlock finally snaps. "James," Sherlock snaps, exasperated. "Stop trying to flirt with my sister."

Y/N chuckles, clearly amused by her brother's irritation. "What's the problem, Sherlock? nervous she might actually like me?”

Sherlock glares at her. "More like im worried for you, she’s a reckless lunatic." He turns to James. "And you. Have you no self preservation at all? You're flirting with my sister for one and someone who could cut you to shreds without batting an eyelash."

James raises an eyebrow, unaffected by Sherlock's concern. He grins like a Cheshire Cat. “and what a way to go”

Y/N laughs again, pouring herself a glass of wine. "Oh, please. Don't mind my brother. He's just jealous anyone might prefer me over his brooding brilliance."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, slouching back in his chair. "Jealous of your blatant disregard for consequences, more like."

Y/N smirks. "As if you're the picture of consequence management, brother dear."

Sherlock grumbles something about "pot calling the kettle black" as he refills his glass. James, thoroughly enjoying the banter, jumps in. "Ah, the Holmes siblings, the epitome of maturity and well adjusted behavior. we just need Mycroft now”

Sherlock winces as if the mere mention of Mycroft physically pains him. "God forbid. He'd have this place fortified with security measures for the royal family within the hour."

Y/N stifles a laugh. "And we all know how much you adore his overbearing paranoia."

Sherlock grimaces, taking a large gulp of his drink. "He's a pest."

Y/N hums, swirling her glass. "A pest who loves you dearly."

Sherlock mumbles something under his breath, something that sounded vaguely like "the sentiment is not returned"

Y/N smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Well, yes. You do have a way of showing your siblings your endearing affections, brother."

The words hang there—lightly spoken, but with an undercurrent of something sharper. Cold. Familiar. Then Y/N rolls her eyes at her brother's stubbornness. "we know how you loathe expressing affection."

Sherlock glares at her. "I express affection. In my own way."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "If you call ignoring our existence and making sarcastic remarks 'affection', then yes, you're positively overflowing with it." The words hang in the air. Sherlock's eyes flicker with something, not just guilt but something quieter. "I wrote to you when I could."

Y/N sets her glass aside, standing up. "Yes, when you could find time between the danger and the endless self destruction it seems."

Sherlock's jaw tightens. "That's hardly fair."

She doesn't look at him. "Fair? Hardly. But this is a conversation for another time, I…am going to bed” Y/N exits, leaving Sherlock to his brooding. James, ever observant, eyes Sherlock cautiously.

Sherlock notices the look. "Not a single word."

James raises his hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Silence hangs between them until James breaks it with a sly grin. "But… I have a question."

Sherlock gives him a sidelong glance. "Of course, you do."

James leans forward, voice low. "Why didn't you visit her, or mention her?"

Sherlock's grip tightens on his glass. "That's none of your business."

James smirks, but there's a rare softness beneath it. "Come now, Holmes.—I think we’ve moved beyond 'none of your business'."

Sherlock stares into the fire, jaw working silently for a moment.

"...She reminds me," he says finally, quiet."Of home before everything fell apart."

He doesn’t say more.But James understood anyway,the guilt in every unanswered letter,the fear in facing someone who knew him deeper. Just her brother. James exhales slowly, his usual mischief fading into something quieter. He swirls his cognac, watching the liquid catch the firelight.

"...I get it," he says finally, voice uncharacteristically soft. Not pressing too much.

Sherlock glances at him, brow furrowed.

James shrugs, half smiling, nudging Sherlock’s boot with his own. "Besides. She's clearly the superior Holmes. It's only natural to be intimidated."

Sherlock scowls, but there's no real bite to it. "Shut up, Moriarty." Sherlock meets his gaze, and something passes between them,an understanding, maybe even gratitude, buried beneath layers of stubbornness and pride. Then James grins, sharp and familiar, breaking the moment. "Well, if you won't drink to reconciliation, drink to surviving another day. That, at least, is worth celebrating."

Sherlock sighs, but clinks his glass against James'.Outside, the wind rattles the old house. But for now, they drink. The fire burns low. The night stretches on.

And tomorrow? Well. Tomorrow's trouble will have to wait.

—————-

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah @purplepeach333 @thewriternowheregirl

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Daeron Targaryen x Aerion Targaryen

Bound by Fire, Bound by Blood - part 6

Part 1- The Realm of Fire and Dreams Part 2 - The Lies We Drink

Part 3 - Judgment Day

Part 4 - A Throne of Flames, A Bed of Embers

Part 5 - A Tide of Choice

Authors note/summary: Ah, Aerion—volatile, possessive, and utterly undone by the one person he can’t control. There’s something delicious about a man who’d rather burn the world than admit he’s afraid—especially when that fear is of wanting someone more than power itself. And Daeron… oh, Daeron. The dreamer who sees the future but can’t escape his own heart. His tragedy isn’t prophecy—it’s loving you knowing it will destroy him. As for you, my dear dragon? You walk the knife’s edge between duty and desire, between fire and blood. And the choices you make now will ripple far beyond Dragonstone’s shadow.

Warnings: 🔞explicit sexual content❗️ targcest❗️incestuous themes(we don’t condone IRL)❗️mild violence❗️ alcohol ❗️possessive behaviours❗️emotional manipulation and tension❗️

Word count: 3.7k

Dragonstone.

It was the scent you noticed first. Not the salt stained air, the smoke whispering from the castle’s peaks, or the chill that seeped through your cloak like a wraith. No, it was the scent of stone. Of ancient things. Of home. As you walked the ancient halls, followed by Aerion and Daeron, your steps seemed too loud in the silence. The castle guard bowed as you passed, their gazes flickering across you like flames across tinder. Your footsteps echoed through Dragonstone's cavernous halls, each tap of your boots against the ancient stone sounding like the heartbeat of some slumbering beast. The castle had always been alive,you remembered that from childhood—its volcanic bones pulsing with forgotten magic and dragons once.

But now? Now the air hummed differently.

Daeron walked slightly behind you, his fingers tracing the rough hewn walls with something like reverence—or dread. "The shadows here are deeper than I remember," he murmured.

Aerion scoffed, brushing past him. "Spare us the drunken poetry." His hand settled possessively at the small of your back as he guided you forward. "This is your seat now, cousin. Ours." His thumb pressed into your spine just hard enough to make you stiffen, but a part of you welcomed it.

You shook him off with a sharp twist of your shoulder. "It’s not yours yet."

His smile was all teeth. "Isn’t it?"

The words slithered between you, thick as the smoke curling from the braziers. You remembered what your brother said, you had a choice. You turned again and began walking further. Ahead, the doors to the Chamber of the Painted Table loomed,blackened dragonglass etched within it,runes older than your House. Westeros.

You inhaled. And stepped inside.

The table sprawled before you, Westeros carved in meticulous detail, its coasts lapped by flickering torchlight. Your father’s last campaign markers still dotted the landscape,tiny obsison dragons clustered on the table. Your fingertips trailed along the carved ridges of the Painted Table, feeling the grooves of mountains, rivers, and coastlines worn smooth. The dragonglass was cool beneath your touch, yet alive with the latent heat of Dragonstone itself—like a sleeping dragon’s scales.

At the Narrow Sea, your fingers paused.

Aerion watched you, his gaze molten. "You could rule it all from here," he mused, stepping closer, his voice a low ember. "Just as Aegon the Conqueror did." His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. "All it would take is fire and blood."

Daeron scoffed from the shadows near the hearth, where he’d poured himself a goblet of wine,his first since stepping foot on the island. "Spare us your delusions of grandeur an power brother”

Aerion didn’t even glance at him. "Ah, but delusions are your expertise, aren’t they, brother?" His fingers finally brushed yours atop the table, a whisper of contact. "I dream of potential—and truth”

You smirked, curling your fingers slightly,letting Aerion’s touch linger before pulling away with deliberate slowness.

"It is not all mine to rule” you murmured, tilting your head. "Unless you plan to overthrow your own cousin, Aerion? Crown yourself while my brother and I still breathe?”

Aerion's grin turned feral. "Who said anything about crowns?" His thumb brushed the edge of your palm,possessive, claiming. "Power comes in many forms."

A sharp clink shattered the tension. Daeron had set his goblet down too hard, wine sloshing over the rim. His eyes sharp, sober, burning locked onto where Aerion’s fingers still hovered near yours.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

You exhaled, stepping back from the table and from Aerion. "Enough games." Your voice carried through the chamber, echoing off the ancient stone. "Dragonstone is mine yes.The throne will be my brothers. And if either of you forget that," you let your gaze flick between them, "I’ll remind you."

The words settled like ash. Somewhere deep in the castle, the wind howled through hollow towers,a sound almost like a dragon’s sigh. For a moment, the chamber was silent, the air thick with tension. Aerion's jaw flexed as he stared you down, his fingers curling into fists. You could see the thoughts warring behind his eyes—a need to push, to claim, to take. To make you bend, just as he had done with so many others. But he couldn’t with you. Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose,almost a laugh—before pushing off the table with deliberate languor. The torchlight caught his eyes as he tilted his head, studying you with a predator’s patience.

"Oh, I don’t need to be reminded of what you are," he murmured, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the table as he circled you slowly. "Fire made flesh. A dragon in truth. just as I am” His voice dropped, velvet and venom. "And every dragon needs its rider."

Daeron’s cup hit the table with a thud.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, his cloak snapping behind him like a whip. Aerion didn’t even glance after him. His focus was entirely on you—the way your breath caught, the way your pulse jumped beneath your skin. He smirked.

"Run after him if you like," he said softly, leaning back against the Painted Table, arms crossed. The castle groaned around you, its ancient stones settling like a beast shifting in its sleep. Somewhere, a door slammed shut. For a single, moment, you almost did as he said. Daeron was the one person you’d always been closest with and now even closer. So why didn’t you run after him yet?

The sound of Daeron's footsteps had already faded, leaving only silence and the whisper of wind beyond the chamber walls. It wrapped around you, cold and cruel. It was you and Aerion now. Alone. You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms to steady yourself.

Aerion tilted his head, watching you. "Looks like it's just us, cousin," he purred, a mocking edge to his voice. "So it seems," you replied coolly, forcing your gaze to stay on him. You would not show weakness, not even to a man like Aerion Targaryen. Your father brought you up stronger, even over a man like him.

He pushed off from the table, prowling closer like a cat circling its prey. "You do not fear me. Like the others” It was not a question.

"No," you said, holding your ground as he neared. "I don’t.”

His eyes glittered with amusement as he stopped a handbreadth away, close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him. "No?" He raised an eyebrow. "You know what I am, cousin, and yet you don’t fear me”

You held your ground as he approached, your chin lifting slightly. "Should I fear you, Aerion?"

He stopped inches from you—close enough that you could see the flecks of grey in his violet eyes. Close enough that the heat from his bare arms brushed your skin. "Many do," he murmured, a ghost of a smile ghosting his lips. Aerion exhaled,sharp, almost pained before his fingers curled around your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his chest. You felt the wild hammer of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

"But you?" His voice was raw, stripped of mockery for once. "You should not. It is I who fears you." His thumb traced the delicate bones of your wrist. "And what you do to me."

The admission hovered between you,dangerous, uncharted. For the first time, Aerion looked at you not as prey, not as a prize, but as wildfire. And he was indeed burning. The moment stretched between you, thick and molten,like the dragonglass veins pulsing beneath Dragonstone itself. Aerion's grip tightened fractionally, his heartbeat thundering against your palm. You could feel the tremor in his fingers, the barely leashed hunger beneath the confession.

You smiled,slow, sharp, a blade unsheathed.

"Good," you murmured. And then you twisted your wrist free, stepping back, leaving him standing there,burning, breathless, undone. The torchlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the Painted Table. The wind howled through the hollow towers. Aerion stood there for a moment, frozen, his expression almost comical in its shock. Almost. There was something in his eyes that made heat coil in your abdomen, a feral anger that promised retribution.

Then he laughed.

It was a low, dangerous sound that echoed off the stone walls, sending a shiver racing down your spine. He stepped forward, his fingers curling into a fist. His chest was still heaving, face flushed with the rush of power and fury and something dark, something he couldn't—wouldn't—name.

He was close now, inches from your face. Aerion's breath was ragged, his lips parted as if he wanted to devour the words before they escaped. His fingers twitched at his sides—half tempted to seize you again, half frozen by the thrill of your defiance.

"Will you give in?" His voice was rough, stripped bare of its usual arrogance. "Or will you make me beg?"

The question hung between you like a blade on a wire. You tilted your head, letting your gaze drag slowly over him,the pulse jumping in his throat, the flush creeping up his neck, the way his teeth dug into his lower lip. Every inch of him trembled with want.

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his ear as you whispered.

"Beg." A ragged groan tore from his throat before he could stop it. His hands shot out, grasping your hips—but you were already stepping back, leaving him clutching at empty air.

Aerion's eyes burned. "You’ll come to me tonight," he rasped, more plea than command. “I will show you why this betrothal is a good thing”

You smiled sweetly. "Will I?" are you that sure of yourself cousin?” And then you turned, walking away,leaving him standing there, breathless and furious and utterly enslaved by the promise of what you might do. Dragonstone had always been a place of fire and conquest. Tonight, it would be no different. You did not look back as you walked from the chamber, though the memory of Aerion's eyes burned in your mind. The wind outside was sharper than before, whistling through the towers like a dirge. Your footsteps carried you through the halls, not to your chambers but to Daeron's.

You pushed open the heavy door to Daeron’s chambers without knocking—he’d never cared for formality. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle flickering on the desk where he sat, a half-empty cup of wine forgotten beside him. He didn’t look up.

“Have you Come to taunt me ?” His voice was flat, but there was an edge beneath it—a wounded thing, raw and throbbing.

You crossed the room in three strides and gripped his chin, forcing his gaze up. His violet eyes were bloodshot, his face pale beneath the shadow of stubble.

“Don’t be stupid,” you muttered.

His breath hitched. Then, abruptly, he surged forward, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that tasted of wine and desperation. You let him. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no Aerion, no betrothal, no dreams—just heat and the faint, familiar scent of him, parchment and ink and something smoky. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"I would be good to you" he murmured, the words falling into the quiet like a stone into still water. He sounded half drunk and desperate, but his grip on you was steely. "I would give you the future you want, that you deserve—"

You caught his mouth again, silencing the words. You knew what he was offering—a life of peace, of normalcy. One without a dragons prophecy, that haunted the Targaryen bloodline for centuries. He would give you everything, ask for nothing in return. He would break that for you. Except your heart. Your eyes stung and you closed them, pressing your lips to his forehead. "You'd be good to anyone," you whispered. "It doesn't have to be me."

Daeron's shoulders bowed as if your words had pierced him. His fingers tangled in your dress, drawing you closer until you were practically in his lap.

"But it is you I want." His voice was raw, his breath ragged. "It's been you since we were children."

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"Daeron," you said softly, "what do you see when you dream? Truly."

His breath shuddered out. "You know I can't—"

"And if I marry Aerion?" You pressed, your voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "What do you foresee?"

His grip tightened on your waist, his eyes darkening like storm clouds. For a long moment, he was silent,caught between the truth and the fear of speaking it.

Then, barely a whisper:

"Death. Fire. Life. but I don’t know who’s." His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a tender contrast to the dread in his voice. "And blood. And a song. your marriage—to him— will bring so much more than we know”

You swallowed hard.

Daeron's forehead dropped against yours again, his next words a plea.

"Don’t let it carry on— the prophecy— you can’t. If it’s your death, I can’t..”

But the wind howled outside, and somewhere in the castle, Aerion waited—and the future was already unfolding, whether you willed it or not. The weight of Daeron’s words settled over you like ash after a funeral pyre. The prophecy loomed,inescapable, inevitable,binding your bloodline to something greater than any one of you. Like it had been for centuries. But here, now, with Daeron’s breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling as they held you, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about destiny. You kissed him again,slow, deep, pouring every unspoken fear and longing into it. Like it was the last time. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if he could fuse you together by sheer will.

When you finally broke apart, he didn’t let go. His voice was rough with grief.

“whatever your choice, I will be here always”. You traced the line of his cheekbone with your thumb, your silence answer enough. Because the truth was, you knew what you had to do. Daeron exhaled shakily, his fingers loosening their grip on you as if already letting go. "You're going to marry him," he said,not a question, but a resigned acknowledgement.

You didn't deny it. The candle between them guttered, casting jagged shadows across Daeron's face. His laugh was bitter, broken.

"Funny," he murmured, "how I've spent my whole life dreaming of futures, but never once saw my own heartbreak coming."

You pressed one last kiss to his temple,gentle, lingering The wind outside shrieked through the towers, a chorus of ghosts. Aerion would be waiting. And you? You would walk into the fire willingly.

For House Targaryen.

For the song yet to come. But as you reached the door, Daeron's voice stopped you—hoarse with drink and something dangerously close to hope.

"At least tell me this much... will you think of me when he touches you?"

You didn't turn around. Your silence was all that was left. Your steps echoed eerily in the vacant corridor, the candlelight from Daeron's room dying behind you with every step, until you were walking in blackness. The stones beneath your feet were cold, damp, a chill that seemed to seep straight into your bones.

It was a long walk to your bedchamber.

The castle seemed to shudder around you as you walked, ancient as a beast stirring from a long sleep. It was eerily silent, save for the distant roar of the wind. Except there was someone waiting in your rooms. Aerion. As you entered your chamber, you found Aerion standing by the window, his face cast in shadow. He'd abandoned his cloak, shirtless in the cool air. His eyes were on you, burning like embers in the dim light.

You shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a smirk. "I thought you said it was I who would come to you, cousin?"

He pushed away from the window, closing the distance between you in two swift strides. His hands braced on the door on either side of your face, trapping you. You held his gaze steadily, refusing to flinch. There was a thrill in defying him,in seeing his gaze darken as he leaned closer,the heat of his body seeping through your gown. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw, almost reverent despite the tension coiling between you.

"I did" he murmured, fingers skimming your collarbone, pausing to trace the hollow of your throat. "But I'm impatient"

You tilted your head, baring your neck to him like a challenge. Your voice was little more than a whisper. "Impatient, or desperate?"

He pressed closer, his body warm against yours despite the chill in the air. His gaze searched your face, searching for any hint of hesitation, of fear. You met his gaze, unflinching, your chin angled up defiantly. He exhaled a harsh breath, his fingers brushing your throat, his thumb following the curve of your jaw.

"You smell like him," he murmured, his voice taut.

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"

The question hung between you, sharp as a blade. Aerion's eyes darkened as he leaned even closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"What if I am?" His fingers traced upwards, tangling in your hair. "I do not like to share."

You held his gaze, refusing to look away. You could almost feel the tension pulsing between you, like a current in the air. You smirked, leaning back against the door. Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose—then, without warning, dropped to his knees before you. The impact shuddered through the floorboards. His hands slid up your thighs, your dress gathering, he was gripping hard enough to bruise as he tilted his head back to meet your gaze.

"But if you want me to beg” he gritted out, each word scraped raw from his throat. "Fine cousin. I'll beg.” His thumbs dug into the softness above your knees. "Count yourself lucky—I’ve never begged for a woman before. But for you?” His tongue dragged over his teeth. "For you, I’ll kneel.”

The hunger in his eyes was terrifying. And gods help you—you burned for it. Your fingers twisted in his hair, gripping tight as you dragged his forehead against your thighs. His breath was ragged against your skin, his shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

"You want me so badly it hurts,don't you?" you murmured, voice dripping with sweet cruelty.

His answering groan vibrated through you, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. "Yes”

You smirked, tightening your grip. "Good."

And then just as his mouth parted in hungry anticipation—you shoved him back with your foot against his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the stone floor. Aerion stared up at you, chest heaving, lips parted in shock. His eyes burned with something far more dangerous. Arousal. You straightened your skirts, stepping over him as if he were nothing more than a discarded cloak. You stepped past him, crossing to your bed and pulling at the laces of your dress. It was slower, deliberately so. Aerion stared after you, the hunger in his eyes growing more desperate with each passing second. Then, slowly, he began to crawl after you, like a wolf stalking prey. His eyes never left your hands, the slow reveal of ivory skin as you undid each lace. Aerion prowled toward you on hands and knees, his breaths uneven, his gaze locked on the parting fabric beneath your fingers. The torchlight caught the sweat dampened strands of silver hair sticking to his forehead, the flicker of firelight playing over the sharp planes of his face—hunger carved into every line.

"You're enjoying this," he rasped, the words rough with want.

You arched a brow, letting the gown slip off one shoulder. "Immensely."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. When he reached your feet, he didn’t rise—he stayed there, kneeling like a supplicant before a goddess, hands clenched at his sides as if holding himself back by sheer force of will. His voice was wrecked.

"What do you want from me?"

You smiled, slow and wicked, and curled a finger beneath his chin.

"Everything."

Aerion’s hands were on you before you could blink—rough, desperate—his fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he hauled you forward against his mouth with a snarl. You gasped as his teeth scraped the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his tongue laving over the sting before he bit down again, harder. His grip was bruising, his breath searing against your skin as he dragged his lips higher, trailing open mouthed kisses that left fire in their wake. The intensity of his hunger sent a shudder through you,the way his hands gripped you like he'd drown without you, the way his teeth marked your skin as if branding you his. His mouth was relentless, worshipful and cruel all at once, and when his tongue finally—finally—dragged through your slick heat, you arched your back, needing to hold something solid. Aerion groaned against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble. His hands tightened, fingers digging in as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold even slightly. He pushed you on your bed, then he glanced up, his lips glistening, his gaze black with need.

"Say it," he demanded, voice ragged. "Say you're mine."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss.

"show me cousin, show me I am yours and I will be your wife"

A snarl ripped from his throat and then he was on you, flipping you onto your stomach with one brutal motion, his body pressing yours into the furs as his mouth found the back of your neck. Aerion's breath was hot against your skin as he pinned you beneath him, his teeth grazing the delicate curve of your shoulder. His hands roamed possessively over your body, mapping every dip and curve as if committing you to memory.

"Is this what you wanted?" he murmured against your ear, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. "To have me at your mercy? To watch me come undone?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He hurled your body weight so you were now facing him. His mouth crashed against yours in a searing kiss, all teeth and claiming hunger, while his hands dragged your hips up against his. You could feel the hard press of him through the thin fabric still separating you. Every ragged breath, every pulse of need that mirrored your own.

"Say it," he demanded again against your lips, voice dark with promise. "Say you'll be mine."

You arched into him, nails scoring down his back. "Only if you prove you're worthy of me."

A growl rumbled in his chest. Then in one brutal motion,he tore the remaining fabric away. The firelight danced over sweat slicked skin as he pinned your wrists above your head, his eyes black with want.

"Let me show you exactly how worthy I am, love”

And he did.

————

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah @purplepeach333 @thewriternowheregirl

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Daeron Targaryen x Aerion Targaryen

The Tide of Choice - Part 5

Part 1 - The Realm of Fire and Dreams

Part 2 - The Lies We Drink

Part 3 - Judgement day

Part 4 - A Throne of Flames, A Bed of Embers

Authors Note: This is a small chapter again preparing for the next chapters coming😘 In this chapter, we explored the tension between the characters as they prepare for their journey to Dragonstone. The relationships between the characters were explored. You contemplate nulling the betrothal to Aerion but you hesitate. The aftermath of grief and duty settles heavily upon Valarr and his sister as the realm reshapes itself in the wake of their father’s death. Valarr, burdened with the mantle of Hand, relinquishes Dragonstone to his sister—knowing it is her birthright, her strength, her legacy. Aerion stalks the Red Keep in restless fury, debating whether to drag his betrothed back by force… But the fire between them is far from extinguished. As she prepares to sail, farewells are exchanged,Valarr, solemn yet teasing, warning her of the chaos she courts; and Daeron, determined to follow, his devotion now laid bare. And then Aerion appears.

Warnings: 🔞 Targaryen Drama( because of course)❗️Incestuous themes❗️love triangle tension❗️possessive/obsessive behaviour ❗️sexual content❗️strong language❗️grief and loss ❗️

Word count: 2.7k

Aerion POV

In the dim light of the early morning hours, Aerion Targaryen prowled the red keep like a restless lion. The halls were largely empty, save for a few servants. Not like the red keep at all, but mourning was still processing. He moved unhindered,his steps silent even as his thoughts raced. The night's encounter with you coming to his room haunted him, the memory of your gaze searing brand against his skin. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the image from his mind, but the more he tried, the more vivid it became. Sleep wouldn’t come last night.Instead, his thoughts circled like vultures,your smirk in his chambers, the way you’d traced Dunk’s handy work on his thigh with your eyes with such cold amusement. Pity I didn’t give you that wound myself.The words curled in his gut like smoke, burning long after you’d walked away.

And now you were leaving. Dragonstone. You were his betrothed, he had every right to ask you to stay,he also had every right to go with you. His fingers twitched at his side as he walked. The direction of his feet taking him very close to your rooms. He could stop you. Drag you back by your hair if he wished, remind you whose betrothed you were. But something stayed his hand. Pride? Spite? Or the gnawing, unwelcome suspicion that if he touched you now, it wouldn’t be in anger. A servant scurried past, bowing low. Aerion ignored them, turning instead toward the window where the first streaks of light painted the bay.

Dawn crept over King’s Landing like a thief, stealing the last shadows of night. Aerion stood at the window, fingers gripping the stone sill until his knuckles whitened. Something about you made him not want to be a monster.The realization was more violent than any sword’s bite.

His lip curled. Weakness. That’s what this was. Some wretched, creeping weakness that slithered into his veins whenever your eyes met his,not with fear, but with fire. Had it always been like this? or because he saw the way his brother looked as what he thought was his, or could be his. Aerion exhaled through his teeth. The thought of you leaving, sailing away to Dragonstone with all that cold, unyielding pride of yours, was suddenly unbearable. If you thought this was a way to escape the betrothal, then you’d have thought wrong. Gods, how he wanted. He looked to the distance In the water. As if he could see dragonstone there. He would follow you there, and damn the consequences.

Your POV

The first true light of dawn painted the Red Keep in gold as you stood in your chambers. Daeron wasn’t there as you woke,you’d assumed he must of been doing something of importance for him to leave after last night. You tried not to be disheartened by that. Dragonstone awaited, your birthright, your home.

But the ghost of his touch still lingered on your skin. The scent of him, something distinctly Targaryen, simply him clung to the sheets. A knock at the door. You expected a servant, but the voice that followed was Valarr’s.

"sister” he said, stepping inside with Daeron at his shoulder. Your brother looked weary. "Daeron has asked to accompany you to Dragonstone."

Daeron’s gaze met yours, steady. "If you’ll have me."

Before you could answer, another voice cut through the room.

"Oh, how touching."

Aerion leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk razor sharp. "But I’m afraid I’ll be the one escorting my betrothed."

The air in the room thickened. Valarr’s jaw tensed. Daeron’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt.

And you? You smiled, slow and deliberate. "Then it seems we’ll all be sailing together."

The silence in your chambers was thick enough to choke on. Daeron's fingers flexed at his sides, his gaze locked on Aerion with barely restrained fury. Valarr, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat.

"This isn't—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, cousin” Aerion cut in, still smirking. His eyes never left yours. "I merely stated a fact. Where my betrothed goes, I follow. u less the betrothal had been nulled without my knowledge?”

Daeron let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And what makes you think she wants your company brother?"

Aerion's smirk didn't waver. "The same thing that makes her want yours, I imagine."

Your lips curled. The game was obvious,Aerion knew. He had to, but he’d always been suspicious of you and his brother.

Valarr pinched the bridge of his nose. "Enough. I would like to say goodbye to my sister”

Your brother exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as Daeron and Aerion descended the stairs ahead,their stiff postures speaking volumes even in silence. Valarr caught your wrist gently before you could follow.

"Do I want to know," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear, "why Daeron suddenly insists on accompanying you?"

You grinned, patting his cheek. "Nope. Not at all, brother."

Valarr didn't smile back. His grip tightened just slightly. "Be careful sister, please."

The warning settled between you, heavy as dragonbone. You rolled your eyes, but his fingers didn't loosen.

"We are Targaryens yes, and we will always be Targaryens," he continued quietly, gaze flickering toward the his two cousins waiting below. "We both know that. But this—" His jaw worked. "This is dangerous territory when tethered to another dear sister."

The wind off Blackwater Bay carried the salt and promise of storms through the windows of your room. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple before pulling away.

"When have I ever been careful?"

Valarr exhaled, shaking his head, but a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. "That's what worries me," he admitted. "You've had a knack for trouble since you could walk, and I doubt that's changed."

He sighed again, the smile fading, his gaze sharpening. "But I have a feeling your choices here will set a course of chaos that will be more than even you can handle.

A beat of silence. Then the ghost of a smirk touched his lips as he released you. “Or don’t. Burn them all and let the gods sort it out."

The words hung between you,half warning, half challenge. Your brother's arms wrapped around you, the grip firm and warm.

"Dragonstone will be yours soon," he murmured in your ear, his breath soft against your skin. As he pulled away, he caught your gaze, "But I will send for you often."

The promise was as earnest as the worry lining his brow. You offered a small smirk. "I’d expect nothing less brother”

The descent from your rooms to the docks was a winding one, the morning breeze carrying the scent of salt and burning pitch from the ships below. Valarr kept pace beside you, his boots clicking against the stone steps, the hem of his cloak whispering against the ground.

"You know," he mused, voice dry, "if you wanted to start a war between our cousins, you could have just told me. I could've arranged something more entertaining than watching them glower at each other across a ship's deck."

You snorted. "Please. If I wanted a war, I'd have started one already”. Valarr’s dry chuckle faded as a flurry of footsteps pounded down the stone steps behind you. You barely had time to turn before a small, wiry form collided with you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

"Egg?!” Your little cousin,, eyes bright with mischief grinned up at you. "You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?"

You ruffled what little stubble remained on his scalp. "And let you escape unscathed? Never."

Egg’s expression sobered slightly. "Ser Duncan and I are to ride out soon,he says there’s much to see beyond King’s Landing." His nose wrinkled. "Though I’d rather we go to Dragonstone with you."

Valarr sighed. "A knight’s squire must follow his master, Egg”. Egg huffed but nodded. You smiled, pulling him close, feeling the warmth of his head on your stomach.

"You’ll love it I am sure." You said softly. "The world is larger than the Red Keep and the streets of King’s Landing."

You felt him nod against your stomach.

"But never doubt your place in our family." You added softly.Egg pulled back, eyes wide. Egg's eyes shone, and he offered a tentative smile. "I won't," he murmured, the promise soft, but strong.

You brushed a stray lock of his hair back from his brow. "Good."

Valarr rested a hand on his shoulder. "Go on then, go find Ser Duncan," he commanded gently, "Before he leaves without you."

Egg hesitated, looking at you once more. Then, with a final nod, he scampered off, the sound of his footsteps receding as he disappeared down a corridor. As the sound of Egg's footsteps faded, Valarr turned back to you, a knowing glint in his eye.

"He reminds you of yourself at that age," he said. "Impulsive, full of life, determined to leave his mark on the world. Just like you”

You smirked, adjusting the travel cloak at your shoulders as you continued descending the stone steps toward the bustling docks below. "Yes, well. Let's hope he's smarter about it than I was."

Valarr snorted. "A low bar to clear."

The salty harbor wind whipped at your hair as you emerged onto the sunlit quay, where the royal flagship awaited. Its black sails bore the three-headed dragon of your House, snapping sharply in the breeze. At the gangplank stood Daeron, arms crossed as he glared at Aerion, who leaned insolently against a barrel nearby.

Valarr exhaled heavily through his nose. "Try not to drown them both before you reach Dragonstone."

You grinned, squeezing his hand once before releasing it. "No promises." With that, you strode forward—toward the ship, toward your future, toward the storm that awaited.

The gangplank groaned underfoot as you boarded, the scent of salt and tar thick in the air. Daeron offered his hand to steady you—a gentleman's gesture that Aerion immediately scoffed at, pushing off the barrel to saunter behind you.

"Careful, cousin," Aerion purred in your ear, his fingers brushing the small of your back. "Wouldn't want you to... slip."

Daeron's jaw clenched. The crew hurried about their duties, wisely avoiding the charged silence between the three of you. The captain—a grizzled man with more scars than teeth—bowed deeply as you approached.

"My lady," he said, "we set sail on your command."

You glanced over your shoulder at King's Landing, its red towers shimmering in the morning light.

"Then let's be gone."

The ship lurched as the moorings were cast off, the great sails billowing as they caught the wind. Dragonstone awaited—its dark towers, its smoking vents, its ancient secrets. And whatever awaited you there—whether fire, blood, or something far more dangerous—you would face it as you always had: head-on, unflinching, a dragon in truth. The waves crashed against the hull as the city shrank behind you. The game was far from over. It had only just begun.

The Voyage

The ship cut through the sea like a dagger through silk, the sails taut with wind, the deck rolling beneath your feet. Three days. That’s how long it would take to reach Dragonstone. Three days of salt stiffened air, creaking timbers, and a tension so thick it could strangle a man. Gods how much quicker it would be if you still had dragons. You stood at the prow, fingers curled around the railing, watching the waves beneath the bow. Not like you could see much soon with it darkening . Behind you, the ship hummed with activity, the crew’s shouts, the groan of rope and wood but none of it drowned out the unspoken war brewing between the two Targaryen princes at your back. Aerion had taken to lounging near you at all times today already. Sometimes smirking, sometimes silent, always watching. His presence was a slow burning ember, one you couldn’t ignore. Tonight, as the sun dipped below the horizon, and dusk settled, he sidled up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned against the rail.

"Enjoying the view, cousin?" His voice was smooth, mocking.

You didn’t look at him. "The sea is prettier than your face, if that’s what you’re asking."

A low chuckle. "Liar." His fingers trailed over the railing, deliberate, taunting. "You wouldn’t be so tense if you weren’t thinking about last night."

Your grip tightened on the wood. "And what exactly do you think happened last night?"

His smile sharpened. "Nothing yet."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Your arrogance knows no bounds."

He stepped closer, until his breath was warm on your skin. "And your denial is entertaining."

He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture almost tender. You flinched, more than expected, and you hated yourself for it.

"You should be careful," you warned him, "Keep touching me like that, and you could end up on the wrong side of the rail."

Aerion merely laughed, low and dark, his fingers lingering near your jawline. "Would you really throw me overboard, my betrothed?" His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, the touch dangerously soft. "Or —cousin— would you pull me closer?"

Your pulse spiked, caught between the urge to shove him away and something far more reckless. Before you could decide, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"brother”

Daeron stood a few paces behind Aerion, his violet eyes burning with rare sobriety. There was no slur in his voice, no haze in his gaze—just cold, lethal clarity.

Aerion smirked but slowly withdrew his hand. "Ah, the drunken dreamer." He tilted his head. "Tell me, Daeron—do you dream of her too?"

Daeron didn't flinch. "I don't need to dream”

Daeron's words hung in the air like smoke—taunting, dangerous. Aerion's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat before returning sharper than ever.

"Is that so?" His fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his dagger. "How interesting."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to acknowledge the heat creeping up your neck. Gods, Daeron couldn’t be this reckless. Daeron stepped closer, his jaw clenched tight as he kept his gaze locked on his brother. "Very interesting."

Aerion grinned, all teeth. "Enlighten me then. What of my future wife do you not have to dream about?”

Daeron exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "You'll have to be more specific, brother," he said, voice dangerously low. "I don't have to dream about many things concerning your future wife."

A muscle jumped in Aerion's jaw. The shifting lantern light painted his face in flickering shadows, turning his smirk into something predatory.

"Careful brother," he murmured.

Daeron's fingers twitched toward his own dagger. It was you who moved first,stepping between them with a scoff. "Gods—Enough." You began to walk away before anything else got said. "if I wanted to be around children I would have stayed in the Red Keeps nursery”

For once, Aerion had nothing clever to say as you walked away and neither did Daeron. As you retreated below deck, you could feel both their gazes on you—one hungry and heated like a flame, the other cold and sharp as ice. Both dangerous. Both relentless. You hated how you couldn't help but feel drawn to both.

The rest of the voyage passed in a haze of salt and tension. The ship creaked through moonlit waters, the air thick with unsaid words. Aerion did not touch you again—not overtly—but his presence lingered like a brand. A brush of his fingers when passing you wine, the heat of his gaze when he thought you weren’t looking. He didn’t ask again about Daeron’s words. He didn’t need to.

Daeron, meanwhile, kept his distance—except when Aerion was near. Then, he was there, standing just close enough, drinking just little enough to make it clear he was watching.

You didn’t sleep much.

By the third night, Dragonstone’s silhouette loomed on the horizon—its jagged towers clawing at the sky, smoke whispering from its peaks. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen. Your seat. Your home. You stood at the bow, gripping the rail as the ship cut through the waves.

Aerion appeared beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Home," he murmured, staring ahead. His voice held no mockery for once,just something darker, hungrier. The ship groaned as it docked, the black basalt quay slick with salt spray. Dragonstone loomed above you—its towers jagged as dragon’s teeth, the wind keening through the ancient stone like a lament. Aerion stepped onto the dock first, his boots striking the stone with deliberate force. He turned, offering you his hand with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Welcome home, my lady,” he murmured, the title laced with mockery and something else. Possession.

You ignored his hand, stepping past him. Daeron was already striding ahead, his cloak snapping in the wind.

The castle guards bowed low as you approached the gates, but their eyes flickered between the three of you—between the prince who drank too much, the prince who burned too bright, and the lady who walked between them like kindling awaiting flame.

Dragonstone’s halls were cold, its hearths long unlit. It didn’t matter.

You would set them ablaze soon enough.

————

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[a-scribes-sanctum]

Daeron Targaryen x Aerion Targaryen

A Throne of Flames, A Bed of Embers- Part 4

Part 1 - The Realm of Fire and Dreams

Part 2 - The Lies We Drink

Part 3 - Judgment Day

Authors Note: The Trial of the Seven, a fateful encounter in the tourney grounds, unfolds before you with a whirlwind of steel and blood, and you find yourself at the heart of the storm. you observe from the stands as the trial takes a harrowing turn, your family's fate hanging in the balance. The Seven Knights of the Kinggaurd, valiant in armor, collide in a clash of honor and valour. Yes this does follow the Tragic ending of our beloved Baelor😭In the wake of their father’s death, grief hangs heavy over Valarr and You. You are both burdened by duty and bound by blood. Valarr, soon to be Hand of the King, relinquishes Dragonstone to his sister, knowing their father would want that and she alone would command their legacy. Yet the future is uncertain. The betrothal still looms. But she is given a choice. Aerion is obsessive, possessive as he watches you with a predator’s patience, daring defiance. And Daeron, ever the drunken dreamer, has finally sobered long enough to act. His lips, his hands, his whispered confessions now threaten to unravel. But the love of a Targaryen is never simple.Not when the throne casts shadows over them all. If you were the null the betrothal, you knew Aerion would not surrender his claim so easily. But that’s what’s conflicting,do you want to null it?. You indeed do have a choice to make,and will you burn for it to?

Warnings: 🔞 spoilers AKOTSK. Grief & Loss- The aftermath of a father's death weighs heavily on the characters❗️Political Tension & Power Struggles. Sexual Content❗️Explicit intimacy and passionate encounters❗️Possessive/Obsessive Behavior❗️References to Alcoholism❗️Incestuous Themes– As is common within House Targaryen.

Word count: 4.4k

The thunder of hooves was deafening, the air thick with dust and tension.Dunk steadied himself, glancing over his shoulder at the line of champions behind him. Ser Robyn Rhysling. Ser Humfrey Beesbury. Ser Lyonel Baratheon. Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Raymun Fossoway. Your father, Prince Baelor, had taken up the center. He caught your eye, a silent reassurance before meeting Aerion’s smirk.

The trumpets screamed. Across the muddy field, The sunlight was glinting off the cruel curve of Aerion’s armor. Seven against seven. Dunk’s fingers flexed around his shield and his sword, as the lords and smallfolk roared from the sidelines. Daeron met your eyes, from across the field, a silent look. To fools and dead men.

Then the world exploded into motion.

Lances shattered. Horses screamed. Steel met steel in a cacophony of vengeance and pride. Aerion fought like a man possessed,driving Dunk back with sheer brute force until the sword was knocked from his grasp, with brute force of his foot he dented his helm. The dust hadn't even settled when Egg's scream cut through the chaos “WAIT! GET UP SER DUNCAN,GET UP”

Dunk's battered form stirred in the mud, his fingers digging into the earth as he forced himself up one last time. Blood dripped from his broken nose, his helm dented beyond recognition, but his eyes burned with grim determination. Aerion, although he’d been salty a blow from dunks sword to the thigh, he was still smug a moment before, he barely had time to register the danger before Dunk was upon him. The hedge knight's gauntleted fist connected with Aerion's jaw once, twice, slamming him down into the floor, again and again.

"Yield," Dunk snarled.

Aerion spat blood, pride warring with survival instinct,until the fifth blow sent him sprawling into the dirt. His sword skittered away.

"I yield," he gasped, the words bitter as poison. Dunkin dragged him towards the stands. Demanding he spoke louder.

“I YIELD”

The crowd erupted,some cheering, others horrified.

But the true horror came later.

As Dunk staggered back, victorious, as Egg rushed to his side, as you exhaled in relief. But No one saw the way Baelor's blood seeped down through his helmet.

Not yet. Not until the silence came. The victory was hollow, the air thick with shock. Egg helped Dunk back to the barracks under the stands, his arm slung around the knight's bloody armour at his hips: But your mind was with Daeron. But also Aerion. You rushed down there and You'd heard the heavy thuds as his body hit the bench.

You rushed over to where Daeron lay, mud spattered, but alive. He grinned up at you.

"Never thought I'd be glad to be such a fool"

Daeron's grin faltered as a commotion rose near gates to the barracks. Your father Baelor, still wearing Valarr's armor stood swaying slightly as Dunk approached him.

"My prince," Dunk rasped, dropping painfully to one knee. "I am your man."

Baelor's hand came up to clasp Dunk's shoulder. "The realm needs good men," he murmured, but his voice sounded distant.

Then, slowly, his fingers went to his helm. "Help me... remove this. I think..." His words slurred. "Maekar hits hard... but he’s strong… and my fingers… they feel like wood..”

The moment the visor lifted, blood poured forth like a river breaking its banks. that’s when you saw the back of his head, that gaping hole where his skull should be.

Your breath froze in your chest.

Baelor's eyes looked at you, that faint smile as his eyes rolled back as he collapsed into Dunk's arms.

"Father!"

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. You were running before you realized your feet were moving, the world narrowing to that terrible sight,your father's blood pooling in the dirt, his body limp as a doll's. And the world felt like it ended. Your knees hit the dirt beside Dunk, hands already reaching,shaking as you pulled your father’s limp weight into your lap. The blood was everywhere, hot and slick between your fingers, soaking into the fabric of your gown.

"VALARR!" Your scream ripped through the stunned silence, raw and broken. Somewhere beyond the ringing in your ears, you heard footsteps pounding toward you, shouts rising in a wave of horror. Your father’s face was pale as milk, his eyes,your eyes half lidded and unseeing. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

"No. No, no, no—" Your voice cracked, fingers pressing desperately against his neck, his wrist, searching for a pulse that was fading. "Father, please—"

Dunk knelt beside you, his own face streaked with blood and dirt, wide-eyed with shock. "My lady.. I… "

But you barely heard him. Valarr crashed to his knees across from you, his hands replacing yours, pressing against Baelor’s head as if he could will life back into him. "Father!" His voice was a blade twisted in your gut. Around you, the world dissolved into chaos,Maekar’s anguished roar, Aerion’s stunned silence, Egg’s sobbing breaths. But all you could see was the way your father’s chest slowed, his eyes becoming a fading light as they watched you.

The trial was won. But so much was lost. The world narrowed to the weight of your father’s head in your lap, the sticky warmth of his blood seeping into your hands. Daeron’s hands gripped your shoulders, then turned your face for him to cup you cheeks. His voice a distant echo as he tried to pull your gaze away from Baelor’s vacant stare. But you couldn’t hear him.

“Look at me," Daeron urged, his fingers trembling against your cheeks. “please look at me”

But you were stone. Valarr’s choked sob cut through the haze as he pressed his forehead to your father’s chest, his fae and hair streaked crimson. Across the field, Aerion watched, with grief, but with something darker as well, something bitter curling in his expression as Daeron’s hands lingered on your face.

Then, mechanically, you moved. Your fingers tightened around your father’s ruined head as you lifted him gently, shifting him into Dunk’s arms. “We need to move him,We must prepare him," you said, your voice hollow. Valarr, help me move him” you looked towards dunk as you spoke. Not expecting much from your brother. Dunk swallowed hard, nodding as he cradled your father’s body. Egg stood frozen beside him, his small face streaked with tears. And somewhere beyond the roar of blood in your ears, you understood,this was only the beginning.

Your eyes followed Dunk and Valarr, and the knights carrying your father towards the manor, with Egg trailing behind. Then you turned to your feet. Daeron was there, his hands trying to reach your shoulders as if he feared you would fall. He said your name. But you pushed past him, walking forward on legs that felt like someone else’s. Daeron caught your wrist as you moved past him, his grip gentle but insistent.

“Let me keep you company," he murmured, his voice rough with grief and wine and fear,fear of what would happen if you were left alone with this agony.

You wrenched your arm free without looking at him. “What good will your company do me?" The words were brittle as ice. “Or anyone’s?" Your gaze flickered past him,past Aerion standing frozen nearby, his face unreadable,before turning away. “It won’t bring him back”

And then you walked. You walked past the stunned crowd, past the whispers, past Maekar’s hollow stare. You walked until the world blurred at the edges, until the weight in your chest threatened to drag you into the dirt beside your father’s bloodstains. Taking your brothers hand in yours.

Behind you, Aerion let out a slow, unsteady breath. Aerion’s fingers twitched at his sides as he watched you go, your grief carving a silent path through the chaos. His jaw clenched,why did it bother him? Why did the sight of Daeron’s hands on you, your dismissal of him, burn like Dragon fire on an open wound?. Daeron stared after you,Aerion stepped closer, voice low and venomous.

“Pathetic,"he sneered, though his eyes lingered where you’d vanished into the crowd. “You always were weak for her brother”

Daeron turned to meet Aerion’s gaze,his jaw clenched. The air crackled with tension.

“What would you know of weakness?" His voice was dangerously soft.

Aerion barked a laugh, sharp as a whip. “I know enough”

Daeron’s eyes darkened, his fingers curled into a fist. “You don’t know anything". Aerion scoffed, stepping closer into Daeron’s space,his own fingers twitching around an absent hilt. Aerion limped forward, pressing into Daeron's space, his breath hot with blood and venom.

“I may not know anything, brother”, he hissed, lips brushing Daeron's ear as he spat a streak of crimson onto the dirt between them. “But one thing I do know—"His voice dropped to a whisper, low and vicious. “She will still be mine. My betrothed. Not yours."

Daeron didn't flinch, didn't pull away. He just smiled,cold, bitter, the smile of a man who'd long since stopped caring about consequences.

“Funny," he murmured back, “because she looks at you like you're something she'd scrape off her boot."

Aerion's face twisted. And for a moment, it looked like Daeron might finally earn that beating he'd spent his whole life dodging.

The rest was a blur.

You stood numb as the maesters set to work on your father, cleaning and binding his wounds, preparing him for the pyre, while Valarr paced and paced. Aerion had vanished somewhere, and you were glad for it. Daeron lingered in the doorway, his face grey like everyone around him, but his eyes always lingered on you,watching you through those dark, bruised eyes. The maesters worked on your father in silence, their faces drawn and tired. Valarr was a shadow in the corner,pacing like a caged wolf. And you stood like a ghost in the middle, your eyes never leaving your father’s still face, his brow furrowed as if in sleep. Daeron leaned against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving you. His face was pale,his hands trembling slightly. But it was the look in his eyes that held your attention,a strange mix of grief and determination.

The moon had reached its peak when the maesters finally stepped away from your father, their work complete. He lay still on the table, cleaned and bound, dressed in his black Targaryen finery, his hair brushed back. Your throat tightened. He looked pale, as if he could almost be sleeping, if not for the stillness of his chest. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Valarr finally stilled, his shoulders slumped as he leaned against the wall. Daeron hadn’t moved from the doorway, his gaze heavy on you—waiting, as if expecting you to shatter.

You didn’t. Instead, you reached out and brushed your father’s cold cheek with your fingertips. “Prepare the pyre,” you murmured, voice steady, hollow.

Valarr swallowed hard, pushing off the wall. “I’ll see it done.”

Daeron stepped forward then, hesitant. “I’ll go with him.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. Just turned and walked to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. Somewhere, the first torches were being lit.And the realm would mourn a prince.

Later that evening

The night was dark and cold as you left the manor, the moon hidden behind heavy clouds. The torches in the yard cast long, twisted shadows across the cobblestones. You walked, your footsteps echoing in the silence. The weight of your grief pressed in around you, heavy as lead. Then, a soft crunch on the stones behind you. Aerion appeared beside you, limping still, and you bristled,not in the mood for his bitterness. You didn't slow your steps, but Aerion matched your pace despite his limp, the torchlight flickering across his bruised face.

"I didn't ask for company," you said flatly.

His jaw worked, eyes fixed ahead. "I know." A pause. Then, quieter—"But you shouldn't walk alone."

Something in his tone made you glance at him. The usual sneer was gone, replaced by something raw, uncertain. For once, Aerion looked like he had nothing clever to say. You kept walking. And so did he. The walk to the pyre stretched on like a nightmare. Aerion limped beside you, the silence thick and awkward between you. When the faint glow of torches lit up ahead, you quickened your steps, desperate to be off this path to the pyre. But Aerion stayed beside you, his jaw clenched as he kept pace. And when you finally arrived, where your father waited on his pyre, the sight of him stole your breath away. Baelor lay on the pyre like a king of old, wrapped in Targaryen black and red, his silks rich and heavy. The pale moonlight reflected off the scales of his enameled armor,his helm resting beneath his chin. The torches lined the pyre in a half circle, the flames casting a soft, flickering glow over his face. The King that Never was. Valarr stood silent, as you approached,watching the scene, his face tight. Aerion limped to a stop behind you, his eyes on his still form.

Daeron had joined the gathered knights, his gaze fixed on the pyre. But when he caught sight of you with Aerion, something crossed his face. Pain? Disappointment? Anger? You weren't sure. And then his lips twisted into a bitter smile. You glanced away, unable to look at the hurt in his eyes. Aerion was watching the pyre, his face unreadable. Valarr stepped closer, offering you the torch. Valarr's hand trembled slightly as he extended the torch toward you. His eyes were red rimmed and hollow.

"Father would want you to do it," he murmured.

Your fingers closed around the rough wood. The flame flickered, casting shadows across your father’s still face. One breath. Then you stepped forward and touched fire to the pyre. The fire roared to life with a crackling fury, swallowing the pyre in crimson and gold. Heat lashed at your face as you stepped back, Valarr's hand tightening around yours. Around you, the assembled knights knelt,Dunk first, head bowed, Egg sniffling beside him. Lords and smallfolk followed, their murmurs lost beneath the fire’s roar. But the Targaryens did not kneel. Maekar stood rigid, his face carved from stone. You could see the guilt clawing at him. Daeron stared at you across the flames, his gaze sharp enough to cut. Aerion didn’t move, didn’t blink,just watched as the firelight painted shadows across your face. And you? You stood tall, the heat drying the tears before they could even fall. The smoke curled into the sky like a dragon taking flight. And the realm held its breath.

The Aftermath

The scent of burning silk and flesh lingered for days.

King’s Landing was draped in black, the streets silent save for the distant tolling of bells. Baelor’s pyre had burned to ashes in Ashford, but his shadow stretched long over the Red Keep. Valarr walked with a new weight now,the weight of a crown that was not yet his, but would be. Heir to the Iron Throne. The Red Keep felt like a tomb. You couldn’t wait to return to Dragonstone. But again that wouldn’t feel the same. The Servants moved in hushed whispers,lords and ladies kept their heads downturned. Even the Kingsguards were uncharacteristically silent, their white cloaks flapping in the wind like dying wings as they stalked the halls like lost souls.

Valarr stood on the edge of the steps beside the throne, fingers brushing the swords on the arm.

"It seems smaller," he muttered, staring down at the empty seat. You sat opposite in one of the windows, watching him with quiet understanding.

“I don’t want it." Valarr was pacing now, back and forth, his boots thumping on the stone.

You turned your head again from where you sat, you’d been watching the sunset paint the city in shades of fire and blood.

“What?" You watched him, eyebrows arching.Valarr ran a hand through his hair, frustration lining his face.

“The crown." His voice was terse, edged with something close to fear. “it was meant to be fathers after grandfathers, I don’t want it”

You stood at that,crossing the room to where he stood.

"You’d deny your throne?" Your voice was calm,your words measured, yet you didn’t touch him.

Valarr met your gaze, his eyes haunted.

"Deny? No." He exhaled raggedly, fingers curling around the hilt of a throne. "I would just…prefer not to have it thrust upon me." You couldn't help the small, wry smile that tugged at your lips despite the grief still clinging to your bones.

"Grandfather isn't dead yet, Valarr," you murmured, stepping closer to brush your fingers against his sleeve, the slightest touch, but enough to anchor him. "You have time. And as his Hand now, you’ll learn what it means to rule before the crown ever touches your head”

Valarr's shoulders slumped slightly, but his grip on the throne's hilt didn't loosen.

“We watched Father bear it,the weight, the compromises." His voice cracked. "We saw what it did to him."

You tilted your head, catching his gaze firmly. "And he wore it with honour—You’re his blood, Valarr. You’ll do the same." Your fingers tapped lightly against the swords beneath your palm. Valarr flinched at that, but something hardened in his expression.

"And what if I'm not enough?"

You smirked, just a ghost of it. "Then lie better.”

A beat. Then Valarr snorted,a half a laugh, half a sob and finally released the hilt.

Valarr's shoulders slumped as he exhaled. It seemed to take all the remaining fight from him, leaving only weary acceptance in its place. He sank onto the bottom step, running a hand down his face.

"You know, sometimes you are truly awful." He glanced up, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

You huffed, lowering yourself beside him. "Frequently."

Valarr leaned back against the step, his shoulder brushing yours. The Iron Throne loomed above you both, its jagged shadows stretching across the floor like claws.

"And yet," he mused, "here you are. Still terrifyingly competent." He nudged you lightly with his elbow. "Annoying, really. father always saw greatness in you and mother”

You smirked, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Someone has to keep you from collapsing under the weight of your own dramatics."

Valarr let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly, his gaze drifting to the far window where the last embers of sunset stained the sky.

"Dragonstone will be yours you know” he said softly. The words settled between you like a stone dropped into still water.

You blinked, turning your head sharply toward him. Dragonstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen’s heirs. Where father was hand, your home. The island fortress of fire and salt, of dragon bones and old magic.

"Why?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, too raw, too bare. You’d expected to be back home, but with your brother.

Valarr didn’t look at you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on his knee. "Because you deserve it," he said simply. "Because Father would have wanted it—and like you said, if I am to be the hand of the king, I need to learn and I’ll learn better here at the keep”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs. Dragonstone. Your home. Now fully Yours. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant echoes of the Keep,the clank of armor, the murmur of servants, the cry of gulls drifting in from the bay.

Finally, you exhaled, leaning back against the step beside him. "And what of Aerion? the betrothal?" you asked quietly.

Valarr's jaw tightened. "Aerion.. it is whatever you wish sister"

The words hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Whatever you wished. After years of being a political piece moved across the board, the choice was suddenly yours. You studied Valarr's profile,the tense line of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes. He meant it.

"I wish..." You hesitated, weighing truth against duty. The torchlight flickered across the throne's blades above you. "I wish to return to Dragonstone first. To be home before I decide anything."

Valarr nodded slowly, understanding. "Then you'll sail at dawn." He turned to face you fully, his voice dropping. "But know this,if you choose never to return to Aerion's side, I will stand with you. The crown's weight may be mine to bear in the future, but I won't let it crush you too."

The words settled between you like an oath. The silence stretched again, but this time it was softer, like the quiet before dawn. You studied your brother,you thought with a pang and saw the shadow of the boy who once raced you through these halls, laughing as you outran him. That boy would soon be gone, replaced by a man who would carry the weight of a realm on his shoulders. A faint, sad smile touched your lips. And for a moment, just a moment, the grief didn't feel like a fist around your throat.

Then, from the corridor beyond, boots scuffed against stone. Both of you tensed. A silhouette appeared in the doorway,broad shouldered, hesitant. Dunk. His face was still bruised from the trial, his gaze flickering between you and Valarr before dipping into a bow. "My prince. My lady." He cleared his throat. "The king... he's asked for you."

Valarr's expression shuttered. "Of course." He stood, offering you a hand up. His grip was firm, his voice low. "Dragonstone at dawn. Remember—whatever you choose after, it's yours to decide."

You squeezed his fingers once before letting go. As Dunk led Valarr away, you lingered in the throne room, the weight of the future pressing down. Aerion's betrothal. Daeron's warnings. The crown looming over Valarr. And you? You turned toward the window, where the last embers of sunlight gilded Blackwater Bay. Dragonstone waits.

You found yourself wandering the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep aimlessly after Valarr left, the torchlight casting flickering shapes along the walls. The stones beneath your fingertips felt cold, as everything felt cold since the pyre. Your footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls with each measured step, an eerily lonely sound in the empty halls. Save for the guards and servants that wandered them. The silence felt heavy, almost thick, as if the castle itself was still in mourning for the loss of your Father. As you walked, your mind raced with thoughts, memories flickering through your mind like the torchlight in the stillness. Valarr's weary eyes, his promise to stand with you no matter what your decision...You turned a corner, only to stop short in your tracks.

The corridor stretched before you, lined with flickering torches that cast long, shifting shadows. You barely noticed where your feet had carried you—until the scent of lavender and heated water drifted from a half open door ahead.

Aerion’s chambers.

You should turn away. Keep walking. But something—some twisted curiosity rooted you in place. Through the gap in the door, you caught the glint of candlelight on water, the murmur of a servant. And then Aerion’s voice, sharp with impatience.

"Leave it. Go."

The servant scurried out, nearly colliding with you before bowing hastily and vanishing down the hall. The door creaked wider in her wake.

And there he was. Aerion lounged in the copper bath, steam rising around him like a shroud. His head tilted back against the rim, eyes closed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. Then, slowly, his lashes lifted. His gaze locked onto yours. For a breath, neither of you moved. Then Aerion smirked, lazy and knowing.

"Come to gloat at the hedge knights dirty work, sweet cousin?" His fingers trailed through the water, idly stirring the surface. "luckily for you, yes I am still alive and well”You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, feigning casual disdain.

"Gloat? No." You kept your voice as cool as ice, refusing to look away. "Just passing by."

Aerion chuckled, but there was little humor in the sound.

"Just passing by," he echoed, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. He shifted, the water sloshing against the copper. "What a fortuitous coincidence."

You pushed off the doorway and stepped inside, circling the bath with slow, deliberate steps. The gash on his thigh,Dunk’s doing was an angry and red. Healing but it was dangerously close to more sensitive territory.

You tilted your head. “Pity."

Aerion arched a brow, tracking your movement. “Pity what?"

Your smile was sharp as a blade. “That I didn't give you that wound myself."

He laughed then, genuine amusement lighting his face as he leaned forward, water sluicing down his chest. “Gods, I do love when you threaten me." His voice dropped, intimate. “are we back to wishing pain upon each other then cousin?”

You stopped your circuit, standing just out of reach, arms still folded defiantly.

"Old habits are hard to break, cousin." Your tone was all cool nonchalance, as if his near naked form didn't affect you in the slightest.

Aerion leaned back against the tub, eyes glinting. "Is that so?" He chuckled, running wet fingers through his hair. "Then perhaps I should give you something to really pity."

You arched a brow, feigning boredom. "And what might that be?"

Aerion's smirk deepened as he slowly lifted his injured leg from the water, displaying the vicious gash. "You'll have to come closer to see, sweet cousin."

You rolled your eyes but didn't move. "Keep dreaming, Aerion."

He sighed dramatically, sinking lower into the bath until the water lapped at his collarbones. "I always do," he murmured. "Of you. Often."

The words hung between you like a challenge. The candlelight flickered across his damp skin, and despite yourself, your pulse quickened.

Then, abruptly, you turned toward the door. "Goodnight, cousin."

Aerion's laughter followed you into the hall. "Until tomorrow, princess."

The door clicked shut behind you with finality. But the heat of his gaze seemed to linger long after you'd gone.

The cool darkness of the red keep felt like a refuge after the heat of aerions chambers. You dismissed the guards with a flick of your wrist, ignoring their hesitant glances as they bowed and retreated down the hall. The door to your chambers shut with a soft thud, leaving you in the dim glow of candlelight. Fingers worked at the laces of your gown, the material pooling at your feet as you stepped free of it. Leaving you in your undergarments. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows across the tapestries,dragons in flight, Targaryen kings long dead watching you with embroidered eyes.

Then— A scrape of stone.

Your hand flew to the dagger at your thigh, the blade glinting as you spun toward the hidden passage. The wall shifted, a shadow slipping through— You struck before they could speak, the dagger pressing against a throat as you shoved them against the wall. Daeron blinked down at you, remarkably calm, even as your blade kissed his skin.

"Now, now," he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. "Is that any way to greet your cousin?”

You didn't lower the dagger. "You’re in my rooms," you hissed. "In the dead of night. Forgive me if I assume the worst."

Daeron's lips quirked. "The worst? And what might that be?"

Your eyes narrowed. "Spying. Scheming. Drunken stumbling."

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against the steel at his throat. "Only one of those is true tonight."

You stepped back at last, lowering the blade but not sheathing it. "shouldn’t you be more drunker by now?”

Daeron straightened, rubbing his neck where the dagger had pressed. His gaze, for once, was painfully clear. Daeron’s smile was brittle. "I’m trying something new. Sobriety."

You turned away, tossing the dagger onto the bedside table. You scoffed, crossing to pour yourself a goblet of wine,then paused, glancing back at him. "And how is that going for you?"

Daeron leaned against the bedpost, arms folded. "Horribly." His gaze trailed over you,your now loose hair, the thin shift clinging to your frame,before snapping back up. "But not as horribly as it is watching you with Aerion."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "That’s none of your concern."

"Isn’t it?" He pushed off the post, suddenly closer. "You deserve better”

You laughed bitterly. "And what would you know of what I deserve,Daeron?"

His jaw clenched. "More than you think." Silence stretched between you, taut as a bowstring. Your cup paused mid air as you turned to face him fully, leaning back against the edge of the table"Why are you here, Daeron?"

Moonlight streamed through the window, painting patterns across his face. He looked tired, weary. Not at all like the charming prince he usually was.

He exhaled slowly. "To say what I should have said before."

You arched a brow. "And what's that?"

Daeron took a step closer, closing the distance. "You know what"

You held your ground, even as your pulse quickened, the air suddenly heavy. "Do I?"

Another step, and he was standing in front of you now,close enough to touch.His gaze was unwavering.

"Yes." He reached out then, his fingers brushing a lock of hair back from your face. "You do."

Your breath hitched at the touch, your heart racing. But you kept your chin high, refusing to look away. "Enlighten me then."

Daeron's hand lingered, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw before dropping away. The sudden absence felt like a chill after the heat,the place where his touch had been burning. He was so close now, mere breaths away. His had reached out again, his touch now lingered—light as breath, yet burning like wildfire against your skin. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, his voice low, rough with a sobriety that felt more dangerous than any drunken slur.

"You know” he repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t watch you marry him”

You should pull away. Step back. Put the weight of the room between you again.

But you didn't.

Instead, you met his gaze,the deep violet of his eyes, the flecks of gold catching the candlelight. The air between you hummed, taut with something unspoken. Then Daeron exhaled, slow, deliberate. His hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. His touch was gentle but firm,pulling you closer. Your pulse raced, your chest brushing against his. One arm slid around your waist, solid and sure, as if holding you there, holding you to him. The world narrowed to the heat of his hand against your skin, the heat of his breath on your cheeks.

Daeron searched your face, his gaze burning.

"I want to kiss you," he murmured. "I want to kiss you so much it's ruining me.”

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze defiantly. "You want to kiss me, Daeron?"

His grip tightened, pulling you even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. "Yes." His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, his voice ragged, pleading. "Gods, yes. But please... don't let me."

Your lips curled into a sharp, defiant smirk as you gripped the front of his tunic, twisting the fabric in your fist.

"But why?” You tilted your head, your breath mingling with his. "We are Targaryens. You are a dragon, as am I and dragons take what they want." Your other hand slid up his chest, nails grazing over the hollow of his throat. "So tell me, cousin... what's stopping you?”

Daeron's breath stuttered. His grip on you tightened then, with a groan, he surrendered. His mouth crashed against yours, fierce and claiming. Fire met fire. And the world burned. Daeron's hands were everywhere, roaming your body, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body almost unbearable. He kissed you fervently, deeply, as if he was starving and you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. "I won't be able to stop there," he murmured, his lips trailing across your jaw, down the column of your throat. "I want more. So. much. more."

You gasped as he pushed you back onto the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, nipping at the tender flesh. The heat in your belly coiled tighter, your skin burning wherever his touch landed. You arched under him, fingers twisting in his shirt. "Daeron," you gasped, "Daeron, please."

His name was a prayer and a curse on your lips, as he kissed a path down your neck. His hand slid up your inner thigh, calloused fingers tracing lazy, maddening patterns.

"Please," he echoed, mouth hot against your collarbone. "tell me to stop."

Your hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the planes of his abdomen, until they reached the growing bulge in his breeches. Your voice was a husky whisper. "No."

Daeron's gaze, locked with yours, darkened. There was hunger there, desire so fierce it almost buckled his knees. He groaned, his grip on your wrists tightening. "You'll be the death of me, cousin," he muttered, his breath hot against your skin. "I don't have that kind of restraint."

"Then don't restrain," you breathed. Daeron's control snapped. "Seven hells”

His mouth captured yours in an urgent, bruising kiss, all finesse lost, as his hands left your wrists, roaming over your body with a desperate urgency. He kissed his way down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, pressing you into the bedding. His hips rolled against yours, the friction both blissful and torturous.

You gasped, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks across his skin.

"Daeron—please."

"Please what," he murmured against your skin. "Please don't stop," you gasped, arching against him as his fingers found the delicate laces of your shift. The fabric gave way beneath his touch, pooling around your waist as he drank in the sight of you—bare and wanting beneath him.

Daeron's breath came ragged, his lips tracing the curve of your breast before capturing a peaked nipple in his mouth. Your moan was loud in the quiet of the chambers, fingers threading through his silver gold hair to hold him there.

He chuckled darkly against your skin. "So impatient, cousin."

You tugged sharply at his hair, forcing his gaze up to yours. "And you talk too much."

A challenge. A dare. Daeron answered by tearing his own tunic over his head, tossing it aside before his hands found the ties of his breeches. You watched, breathless, as he freed himself,proud and flushed and painfully hard.

"Better?" he rasped, settling between your thighs.

You reached between you, guiding him to your entrance with a trembling hand. "Almost."

Then he was inside you, a sharp thrust that stole your breath and filled you completely. Daeron stilled, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling with the sheer rightness of it.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice rough.

You did. And as he began to move, slow and deep, your gazes never broke,not when pleasure crested, not when your nails scored his back, not when the world shattered around you both in a blaze of fire and stars.

Later, tangled in sweat damp sheets, Daeron traced idle patterns on your bare hip. "You realize," he mused, "this changes everything."

You turned your head to meet his gaze. "It changes nothing."

He laughed,a soft, disbelieving sound. "Liar."

The words lingered between you.Dawn was creeping through the windows.You stared at the space beside you where he lay, fingers brushing his warm body.

Everything had changed indeed.

——————

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[a-scribes-sanctum]

Daeron Targaryen x Aerion Targaryen

Judgment Day - part 3

Part 1 - The Realm of Fire and Dreams

Part 2 - The Lies we Drink

Authors note/summary: This chapter is slower but needed for the next chapter. It follows the trial of the seven, where Dunk's life hangs in the balance between Dunk's champions and Aerion's. You ensure that alliances are forged and secrets are revealed. In a chapter filled with tense exchanges and unexpected alliances The tension rises as Dunk's champions gather, including your father Baelor, who steps in at the last moment to ensure justice. The trial commences brutally, the sound of lances breaking and the thunder of hooves filling the air. Amidst the chaos, Dunk and Aerion face off, their skills tested. But in a shocking turn of events, events take a tragic turn as the fight ends with an unexpected tragedy. What does this mean for the future of house Targaryen? Your future.

Warnings: 🔞SPOILERS THAT FOLLOW THE SHOW❗️Graphic Violence❗️Detailed descriptions of tourney combat, including injuries, blood, and intense physical confrontation. ❗️Emotional Distress❗️Alcohol Use❗️Power Imbalance❗️ Coercion, manipulation and abuse of authority by royal figures. ❗️Major Character Injury/Death: A pivotal, traumatic event occurs involving a central character.

Word count: 2.1k

The dungeon air clung thick with damp and despair as you descended the steps beside Egg, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows against the stone. Dunk’s cell loomed ahead,the great oaf of a knight now hunched on straw, his wrists raw from manacles.

He looked up as you approached, his eyes hardening.

"Come to gloat your highnesses?” Dunk spat, voice hoarse. But you can tell when he sees Egg,alive, unharmed,his shoulders sag with relief. Then his gaze lands on you.

Egg began wincing.

“We are here to help you ser” Seeing how visibly upset egg was you cut in.

“you are here because you attacked a prince in front of half the realm. Think next time.”

But Dunk’s no courtier. His loyalty to Egg clearly wars with his disgust for Targaryen games. The truth hangs between you, He’d do it again and you wouldn’t blame him.

Dunk's fists clenched as he glared at you both from behind the rusted bars. "You lied," he growled, voice rough from shouting. "Both of you. Playing at being common folk while wearing silks under your rags."

Egg wrung his hands, his small frame trembling. "I didn't think I was doing anything wrong! I just wanted to be a squire ser”

"You did," Dunk interrupted, his voice cracking with betrayal. "You made me part of your mummer's farce. Now I'll hang for striking royalty."

Egg's eyes welled with tears, his voice small. "I'm... I'm sorry, ser."

Dunk's features softened at the boy's guilt, but the hurt still lingered. "Save the tears boy," he muttered, looking away. The torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls as you leaned casually against the cold bars, inspecting your sleeve with feigned disinterest.

"Tomorrow will decide your fate, ser," you said, voice cool but not unkind. "But tonight, my father requests a private audience."

Dunk's head snapped up, his brow furrowing. "Your father?“ His calloused hands flexed unconsciously. "What game is this now?"

You met his gaze evenly. "No game. Just questions that need answering before dawn breaks."

Egg shifted nervously beside you, glancing between you and Dunk as if silently willing the hedge knight to understand.

Dunk exhaled sharply through his nose before finally nodding once. "Well I’ve already harmed one prince, I don’t want to keep another waiting. Lead on then."

As you turned to go, your hand briefly rested on Egg's shoulder,a silent reassurance. The echoes of your footsteps mingled with the distant drip of water as you guided them towards your father’s chambers, where decisions that could alter all their fates awaited.

As you lead them through the labyrinthine halls of Ashford Manor, Dunk's tense silence hung in the air like a storm about to break. The flickering light from the torches cast long, eerie shadows on the stone walls, magnifying every creak and groan. Finally, you arrived at your father's chambers, a guard standing watch at the heavy oaken door. With a nod from you, the man swiftly ushered you and the others inside.

The room was a cozy chamber, lit by a small hearth and a few scattered candles. A large oak desk was situated by the fireplace, covered with parchments and tomes. In a high-backed chair sat your father Baelor, his hands steepped under his chin, a pensive expression on his stoic face. As the door closed behind you with a soft thud, Dunk shifted on his feet. Baelor regarded the group with a somber gaze. But allowed yourself and Egg in.

"Let us talk," he said simply.

Your fathers room smelled of ink and burning cedar, the firelight painting gold across the furrows of his brow as he studied Dunk with the quiet intensity of a man weighing lives in his palms.

"You stand accused of assaulting royal blood and the prince Daeron claims you are a robber knight," he began, voice measured. Dunk opened his mouth to protest, to defend but Your father raised a hand. "Yet my daughter and nephew tells me you acted in defense of the innocent."

Egg squirmed where he stood beside you.

Your father leaned forward, his shadow sprawling across the desk like a specter. "So tell me, Ser Duncan, how good of a knight are you?"

The question hung, sharp as a blade.

Dunk's throat worked. "Good enough to know right from wrong, Your Grace."

A beat. Then Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple. "Egg should have come to me." His gaze flicked to his son, equal parts fond and exhausted. "But boys will be fools, and princes doubly so. that wasn’t fair to you”

You watched Dunk's shoulders loosen,just a fraction before your father added.

"What do they teach us egg? that we must Love our brothers, not wish them dead. Even when they make it impossible." His smile was thin. "Especially then."

Egg mumbled an apology, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry, ser," he mumbled, voice small.

"Cmon you, Go to bed," you said, voice soft but firm. "We have more pressing matters to discuss. I will find you on the morning”

The boy looked up at you, clearly reluctant to leave you alone with Dunk and your father but you gave him a small nod, nudging him towards the door. "Go,"

Egg hesitated a moment longer before finally slipping out into the darkened corridor, leaving the three of you in the firelit chamber. Once the door clicked shut, Dunk shifted his weight, the chains at his wrists clinking softly. "The girl Aerion hurt," he began gruffly. "What becomes of her?"

Your father exhaled through his nose. "Sent away. Dorne, perhaps."

Dunk nodded once. "Good."

You crossed your arms, studying the hedge knight. "Aerion wants your head, you know," you said bluntly.

Your father shot you a look,part warning, part curiosity,but you held Dunk’s gaze.

Dunk didn’t flinch. "I imagine he does."

Your father leaned forward again, steepling his fingers. "So I ask again, Ser Duncan," he said, voice low. "How good of a knight are you?"

The fire crackled. Somewhere in the castle, a bell tolled the late hour.

Dunk met the his eyes. "Good enough," he repeated, slower now, "to answer for what I’ve done. But not fool enough to regret it."

Your father’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite disapproval.

"Tomorrow," he said at last, "we will see."

The next morning

The council chamber was steeped in a grim tension, the early morning sunlight casting long shadows across the room as the high lords of the realm assembled. Your father Baelor sat at the head of the table, his face a stoic mask. Aerion, seated across from you, wore a smirk that spoke volumes. As the last of them filed into the chamber, Lord Ashford and Prince Maekor. Your brother Valarr took the seat next to you, his gaze flicking anxiously around the room. Then the doors opened, and Dunk was led in by guard, his wrists still in irons, face pale but composed. He looked around the room, taking in the gathering of high lords. As he was led past the seats, his eyes connected with yours. He offered you a slight nod. Then he was steered towards an open chair, the chains loud against the silent room. Aerion drummed his fingers against the tabletop, his face a picture of boredom. The chamber grew deathly silent, until Prince Maekar spoke up. His cold gaze swept over the assembled over you all before settling on Dunk, still standing in chains before them.

"So," Maekar began, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is the hedge knight who struck my son."

Dunk lifted his chin. "I defended an innocent woman from cruelty,as any noble knight would”

Aerion scoffed, lounging back in his chair. "Defended? He assaulted a prince of the blood."

Valarr's fingers tightened around the arm of his chair. You shot him a warning glance,now was not the time for rash words.

"I demand justice," Aerion continued smoothly.

Dunk squared his shoulders. "I demand a trial by combat”

"A trial by combat” Yiur father agreed looking to his brother. Before Aerion spoke sharply. "No. This insult demands more than single combat." He turned to Your father. "I call for a trial of seven."

The room erupted into murmurs. Both your father and uncle sighed deeply, rubbing their temples.

"what the fuck it a trial of the seven? You won’t face the Hedge knight alone?" Maekar snarled. "Where is the honour in that?”

You arched a brow, fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of your chair before speaking,not for Aerion’s sake, or your families but to ensure Dunk understood the doom being stacked against him.

“A Trial of Seven,"you said, voice slicing through the murmurs, “is exactly what it sounds like. Seven accusers against seven defenders. A melee where the gods decide guilt or innocence by who’s left breathing."Your gaze flicked to Dunk, watching his jaw tighten. “Traditionally, the accused must find knights willing to stand with him. If he cannot..." You let the implication hang, no champions meant certain death and they’d kill him for being guilty.

Aerion’s smirk deepened.

Maekar rubbed his temples again. “This is absurd boy”

“I am no boy," Aerion snapped.

Dunk stood straighter, shoulders squared. “I’ll face seven,"he growled, “if I must. if I can find the men”

A silence.

Then “Will you?" Valarr leaned forward, eyes alight with something between admiration and dread. “Where will you find six knights mad enough to join you?"

The room held its breath. A cold smirk twisted Aerion's lips as he lounged back in his chair.

Dunk's knuckles whitened around the chains binding his wrists.

Your father finally spoke, his voice heavy with resignation. "The trial will commence at dawn. Ser Duncan, you have until then to..." He hesitated, the unspoken hopelessness of Dunk's situation hanging between them all. "...gather your champions."

Maekar leaned forward abruptly, his gauntleted fist hitting the table with a thud that silenced the murmurs. "Enough of this farce." His cold eyes locked onto Aerion. "You shame our house with this cowardice. A true prince would face the man alone."

Aerion's smirk didn't waver. "And let the commoners think they can strike royalty without consequence? I think not."

As the lords began arguing anew, you found your gaze drawn back to Dunk. The big man stood motionless amidst the chaos, his jaw set like stone. In that moment, you realized with sinking certainty,there would be no champions forthcoming for a hedge knight accused of attacking a prince. Well maybe there would be some and you’d make it your duty to find them. Or the trial would be nothing more than a slow, ceremonial execution. And dawn was coming far too quickly.

Your Chambers - That Evening

A sharp rap at your door interrupted your pacing. Valarr slipped inside without waiting for answer, his silver hair tousled from running fingers through it in agitation. "I know that look, You can't seriously mean to champion that hedge knight," he began, closing the door behind him.

You arched a brow. "And why not? Dunk acted to protect—"

"The same hedge knight who also lied? Who dragged our cousin into danger?" Valarr's eyes burned with protectiveness.

Before you could answer, the door creaked open again,Daeron stumbled in, freezing when he saw Valarr.

"...Bad timing?" Daeron drawled, though his grip tightened on his cup.

Valarr exhaled sharply through his nose. "You."

Daeron raised his free hand in mock surrender. "Me." His gaze slid to you, suddenly sobered. "I came to say,I went to see Dunk,When the trial comes... I'll take my first fall gracefully." He mimed tumbling from a saddle with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

Valarr stiffened. "You'd shame our house further?"

Daeron's smile vanished. "I'd rather shame our house than watch an innocent man slaughtered for Aerion's pride." He turned to you, voice dropping.

The unspoken truth thickened the air. Valarr's eyes widened at the words, a hundred questions on his tongue. Before he could voice any, you held up a hand, silencing him.

"Ser Duncan did not lie," you said, voice sharp. "And we knew about Egg."

Valarr's expression twisted, disbelief warring with understanding. "You... what? And you didn't feel the need to share this information with me sooner?" he demanded.

Daeron snorted into his cup. "Clearly not."

Valarr's gaze flicked between you, incredulous frustration etched across his face. "Are you both mad?" He exploded. "You helped him... and you kept this a secret? Why?"

Valarr's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Explain. Now.“

You exhaled sharply. "Daeron lied actually because he’s a coward who feared his Father’s belt more than the truth." The words came out harsher than you meant,Daeron flinched, but didn’t deny it. You softened your tone. "But I kept quiet because Egg begged me to. He wanted to prove himself,away from tutors, away from Aerion. Would you have let him go if he’d asked?"

Valarr opened his mouth,then shut it. His shoulders slumped. "Gods be good," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re both fools. But—" He shot Daeron a glare. "You are spineless. I’d have taken the beating for him."

Daeron’s grin was all teeth. "And that’s why you’re better than me cousin."

Valarr huffed, but the anger had bled out of him. He turned to you. "So what now? Dunk’s trial is a death sentence unless—"

"Unless we find men, and I plan to do that” you finished grimly. Valarr exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "And who exactly do you propose will stand beside him against seven knights of the realm?" His tone was edged with skepticism, but beneath it, a reluctant curiosity lingered.

Daeron raised his cup slightly. "Well, you don’t have to worry about me,admittedly, I'll be falling off my horse before the first lance touches me”

Valarr shot him a withering look.

Your fingers drummed against the arm of your chair as you considered. "Ser Robyn Rhysling And Ser Lyonel Baratheon has no love for Aerion, or Targaryen’s at all for that matter”

Valarr arched a brow. "if Rhysling agrees, and Baratheon doesn’t mind openly defying royal princes."

You shrugged. "Better than nothing." Valarr and Daeron exchanged a look, disbelief warring with reluctant agreement. "Better than nothing indeed," Valarr murmured.

Daeron swirled his wine thoughtfully. "A Fossoway might be willing too."

You sat up straighter. "A Fossoway?"

Daeron nodded. "I’m sure they’d like nothing better than to stick it to Aerion." He glanced towards you. “sorry, your future husband and all”. Sarcastic Prick.

Daeron's smirk faltered as Valarr gave him a look that indeed put him on edge.

"Enough," Valarr hissed, violet eyes burning. "My sister doesn't need your drunken jests."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Valarr. We've bigger problems than Daeron's mouth and like I could forget”

You pushed yourself to your feet, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like armor. "Right. I’ve knights to convince and a hedge knight to save." You shot Daeron and Valarr a warning look. "Try not to murder each other while I’m gone."

Daeron saluted you with his cup, though his grin was tight. "No promises, cousin."

Valarr rolled his eyes but gave a stiff nod.

As you turned to leave, you paused at the door, glancing back at Daeron. "Aerion will come for you soon, you know that. Being a ‘Wronged prince’ and all that."

Daeron’s smirk vanished. "yeah I know”

You didn’t linger. Dawn was coming, and Dunk’s life along with the fragile balance of your family’s hung in the balance. Now to find the rest of his champions.

Dawn - The Trial of the Seven

Dawn breaks over Ashford Meadow, the sky streaked blood red. Dunk stood in the yard, helm tucked under his arm, watching the rising sun with the grim resignation of a man already half dead. Five champions. He had five,Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the newly knighted Raymun Fossoway, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, Robyn Rhysling and Humfrey Hardyng, one short.

You watched from the raised pavilion beside Lord Ashford, fingers gripping the railing. Across the field, Aerion sat atop his black stallion, armor gleaming cruel and bright. He caught your eye and smirked, nudging his horse toward you.

“See my dear”he purred, leaning down from his saddle. “the gods do favour us, he is guilty”

You didn’t flinch. Not Saying anything at all. Aerion’s smile twisted, but before he could retort a rise out of you.

A trumpet blast.

The crowd parted as your father, Baelor Breakspear, rode forward in full armor, your brother’s armour. The murmurs turned to gasps.

“I will stand for Ser Duncan,"Baelor declared, his voice ringing across the field.

Aerion paled. “Uncle—"

Baelor didn’t even glance at him. Dunk’s breath left him in a rush. Six.

Then Hooves pounding. As Maekar galloped towards his brother.

“what are you doing brother? You really fight against us today, he wronged my boy” Prince Maekar snarled, reining up beside Baelor.

Aerion looked like he’d been struck. Your father’s voice carried across the field like the toll of a warhammer.

“Yes."

A stillness fell over the tourney grounds. Even the wind seemed to pause.

“Because today,"your father continued, helm tucked under his arm as his gaze swept over the assembled lords, “I do as any true knight must,defend the innocent from those who would use power as a cudgel. just as ser Duncan did”

Maekar's jaw tightened, his gloved hands gripping his reins until the leather creaked. “Even against your own blood?"

Your father’s eyes—your eyes met yours from across the yard, then his brother's without flinching. “Especially then."

Aerion looked as if he might vomit. Dunk stood straighter, his gauntleted hand tightening around his shield. The crowd murmured, shuffling like unsettled birds. And you? You exhaled, slow and steady, watching the pieces align.

Then—Lances lower.

The world narrows to dust and destiny.

And the gods decide.

————————

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah @purplepeach333

[a-scribes-sanctum]

DAERON TARGARYEN x AERION TARGARYEN

The Lies we Drink - Part 2

Part 1 - The Realm of Fire and Dreams

Authors note/summary: This chapter follows events inspired by A Knight of the Seven Kingdom series (spoilers ahead!), weaving royal duty, hidden desires, and the kind of chaos only Targaryens can brew. Amidst feasts and fraying tempers, alliances shift like sand and no one emerges unscathed. A Father’s Burden, Your conversation with your father revealed the painful truth,you are both bound by duty, even when it chafes like chains. His quiet pride in you warred with the reality neither of you can escape. Your betrothed is a storm barely contained,charming one moment, cruel the next. The simmering push and pull between you walks a knife’s edge. The drunken prince with half truths and cowardice, but his lingering glances betrayed what he’d never say aloud. A foolish jest about dead dragons ignited Aerion’s wrath, leaving a puppeteer trembling and broken. With Ser Dunk, the innocent hedge knight, paying the price.

Warnings:🔞 The chapter contains violence and mentions of blood (including a puppet show gone badly❗️There are some spoilers for the television series AKOTSK❗️There is reference to the practice of drinking alcohol❗️insest❗️distress❗️emotional manipulation❗️

Word count: 3.4k

Dawn had bleached the sky to pale gold by the time you slipped back into your chambers. The scent of lavender and woodsmoke clung to your robes, a feeble disguise for the stench of cheap wine and poorer choices.

Daeron was gone. Only the crumpled bedsheets and a single empty cup on your nightstand betrayed his presence. No note. No apology.Typical of him and more fool you for saving his soul one too many times. You sank onto the edge of the mattress, fingers tracing the impression his body had left behind. Still warm.

A knock shattered the silence.

"My lady?" A servant's timorous voice through the door. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in the training yard."

You closed your eyes. Of course he does. Your fingers curled into fists against the mattress. But Of course. Aerion didn’t request*. He demanded, knowing full well you couldn’t refuse,not without consequences.

The Training Yard

The clang of steel greeted you before you reached the yard. Aerion moved like liquid poison across the sand, his sword flashing in vicious arcs as he drove his opponent,some poor knight of House Ashford,back toward the wall.

He didn’t look up as you approached. He didn’t need to.

"You’re late," he said, driving his blade home with a final, brutal thrust. The knight staggered, yielding with a gasp. Aerion flicked blood from his sword and finally turned to you, his violet eyes glinting like a blade’s edge. "I’d begun to think you’d forgotten your duties."

You arched a brow. "And what duties would those be, cousin? Watching you terrorize men half your skill?"

His lips curled. "No." He tossed a practice sword at your feet. "Reminding me why I tolerate you."

The yard stilled. Squires, knights, even the stable boys,all holding their breath. You bent, slow and deliberate, and lifted the sword.

"Careful, Aerion," you murmured, rolling your shoulders as you settled into stance. "You might regret that challenge."

His grin was all teeth. "I live for regret."

Steel rang like a bell as you clashed. You fought like wildfire, blades slashing in a storm of silver. Aerion met each strike, his smile never faltering,almost like the bastard was enjoying himself.

He feinted left, forcing you back a step. "You know," he panted, "most women wouldn't dare raise a sword."

A jab. A counter. You spun, narrowly missing his blade.

"I am not most women."

Aerion's chuckle held a note of approval. "No. You're a dragon in a dress."

The air between you thrummed with the clash of steel, your blades locking in a shuddering brace. Aerion’s grin turned wolfish as he leaned in close enough for the scent of sweat and iron to fill your lungs.

"Come now, wife," he murmured, the title dripping like honey laced with venom. "Practice with me properly. I do need a challenge."

You shoved him back with a sharp twist of your wrists, breaking the hold. "I am not your wife yet," you reminded him coolly, adjusting your grip on the practice sword.

Aerion rolled his shoulders, unbothered. "Semantics." His gaze raked over, the fitted leathers, the loose braid thrown over your shoulder, the way your breath came quicker from the fight. "Though I must say, you do wear your battle gear better than your silks. Pity our Fathers insist on tradition, or else i’d of bedded you already."

You ignored the barb, circling him. "Careful, cousin. Keep talking, and I’ll start believing you like me."

The training blades sang as you clashed again, the rhythm between you as familiar as it was fractious. Aerion lunged, forcing you into a rapid retreat,but you saw the feint before he finished it. Twisting beneath his guard, you drove your shoulder into his ribs and sent him stumbling back with a sharp grunt.

Sand sprayed as he caught himself, his grin widening despite the flicker of irritation in his eyes.

"Predictable," you taunted, flicking sweat from your brow.

Aerion exhaled through his nose and rolled his wrist, the blade whirling in a lazy arc. "Say that again when I’ve got you on your back."

You bared your teeth. “Try it.”

The next clash was faster, harder,your blade locking against his with a force that vibrated up your arms. Close enough now that you could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint flush beneath the cruel cut of his cheekbones.

"Tell me," he mused, voice low enough that only you could hear, "Would Daeron watch you fight like this?" His thumb brushed your knuckles where they gripped the hilt, a mockery of tenderness. "Or does he prefer you on your knees?"

Something white hot flared behind your ribs. You hooked your foot behind his ankle and shoved. You’d always thought he’d been oblivious, but he was his brother after all. Aerion hit the dirt hard, the breath punched from his lungs as your practice sword came to rest against his throat. The yard fell deathly silent.

"Yield," you ordered.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually lunge,his pride was a bleeding thing, raw and snarling. But then his mouth curled, slow and satisfied, as if he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

"Oh, little dragon," he rasped, tilting his chin up so the wood pressed into the hollow of his throat. "I never yield."

The training yard erupted into murmurs as you stepped back, lowering your blade. Aerion remained sprawled in the dirt, looking for all the world like a satisfied cat who'd gotten the cream.

You tossed the practice sword aside with a clatter. "We're done here."

But Aerion was already rising, brushing sand from his leathers with deliberate slowness. "Done?" He arched a brow, lips curling. "You wound me…my betrothed.. And here I thought we were just getting started."

Your fingers twitched at your side. Every instinct screamed to walk away,to leave him kneeling in the dirt where he belonged. But years of courtly masks couldn’t be shed so easily. With a stiff exhale, you extended your hand. Aerion’s smirk deepened as he clasped your wrist, his grip too tight, calluses rough against your skin. “How terribly gracious of you,” he purred, letting you haul him upright,only to yank you closer, his free hand snaking around your waist to ‘steady’ himself. His breath warmed your ear. “Almost makes me believe you care.”

You shoved him back the instant his balance returned, wiping your palm against your thigh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The lie tasted like ash.

Because the truth was worse,you did care,not for him, never for him. You told yourself that, so it would make you feel slightly better for being born into this family. But it was for the twisted game you played, the razor’s edge between loathing and something darker. A truth you’d never voice, not even under torture.

A guard cleared his throat from the yard’s edge. “My lady.” He bowed stiffly. “Your father requests your presence, At once.”

Aerion’s grin turned feline. “Run along, little dragon”

You turned, only for Aerion to catch your wrist again. This time, his grip was careful, as if he were handling glass.

"Until Tonight," he murmured, voice pitched just for you.

The air between you hummed like a plucked harpstring. If he leaned in now, you could catch his scent, the sweat and steel mixed with something distinctly, dangerously Aerion. Instead, you pulled back, slipping from his grasp with a slow smile. Turning your back to him to go find your father. Your boots crunched on the gravel path leading to your father's borrowed room here at Ashford, each step measured despite the restless energy thrumming beneath your skin. The encounter with Aerion still clung to you,the heat of his grip, the mockery in his eyes, the unspoken challenge that thrummed between you like a third heartbeat. Also where the fuck was Daeron?

You found your father sat at his desk, the arched window behind him which overlooked the tourney grounds below. His broad shoulders silhouetted against the morning light.

"Daughter," he greeted without turning, voice heavy with the weight of kingship.

You bowed your head. "You summoned me?"

Parchment sprawled across his desk like a conquered map. He looked up as you entered, his brow furrowing. “Training again?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I am a dragon. Or had you forgotten?”

Your father's lips twitched. Then he sighed, pushing his chair back and rising. "Come here."

Every step across the plush Myrish rug felt weighted with expectation. Your father's gaze was heavy on your face when you reached the desk, his gaze unreadable. "Sit," he said, nodding to the chair opposite.

You obeyed, folding your hands in your lap as you faced him. "Is something amiss, Father?"

His smile was faint, tinged with a touch of sadness. "Always leaping to the worst conclusion," he chided, leaning back in his chair. "Can I not simply wish to speak with my daughter?"

You folded your hands in your lap, resisting the urge to hide your scraped knuckles. "Of course, Father."

His gaze flicked to your hands, then back to your face. Reaching out for your hands gently. For a moment, he simply studied you,really studied you. The way he used to when you were small and would beg for stories of Old Valyria. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

"I'd like to say your mother would kill me if she saw you like this," he mused, nodding at your battle worn hands, "but gods help me, she was the one who put your first training sword in your cradle." A wistful shadow crossed his face.

He released your hands with a sigh, the ghost of his laughter lingering. "She was always so proud of you," he said quietly. "The way you held your own. The fire in you."

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat.

Your father leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "But tell me truly,do you still resent this match with Aerion?"

The question caught you off guard.

"I..." You hesitated, fingers tracing the scuffed leather of your bracer. "Does it matter anymore if I do?"

His eyes darkened. "To me? Always."

You let out a slow breath, fingers curling into your palms.

"I’d like to say I do, I used to resent it and him.. but It's not Aerion I resent anymore," you admitted at last, voice low. "It's the cage. The knowing that no matter how sharp my claws, I'll still be measured by who shares my bed”

Your father's jaw tightened, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a letter. "You think I don't know?" He exhaled sharply. "I would live nothing more than to burn every tradition to ash.. but you are a Targaryen, you are never and never will be caged”

You blinked,stunned.

"But you won't burn Tradition father," you realized softly. “we wouldn’t be here if so”

His silence was answer enough. The moment stretched, heavy with things neither of you could change. Finally, he straightened, rolling his shoulders like a man preparing for battle.

"Tonight," he said brusquely, "you'll sit at Aerion's side. Smile. Play the dutiful bride to be." His gaze pinned you.

You sat back in your seat,your fingers gripping the armrests. "You want me to play pretend."

Your father's eyes gleamed, almost like pride. "I want you to play the game every bit as well as Aerion does."

You let his words sink in, weighing the unspoken implications. All in the name of family duty.

Your breath lodged in your chest, the weight of your duty settling heavily. "Father..."

He held up a hand, his face softening. "I ask this of you, not for me, but for the realm. For the life you must lead."

You swallowed, the truth of his words cutting deep. This was not just about your future marriage, but your role as a Targaryen. A role that would require sacrifice and stoicism, even when your heart screamed in protest.

"I'll do my duty." You forced the words out. "But do I at least get to maim him a little?"

Your father's mouth twitched, the tension in the room easing a fraction. A small smile there. “Not Tonight, but if it so happens after the tourney,I'll pretend not to notice."

A pause. Then his expression sobered. "Daeron finally staggered into camp this morning."

Your pulse jumped. "Drunk, I assume?"

"Near enough." His fingers drummed against the desk. "He claims some hedge knight took Egg not far from here”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course Daeron would spin half truths to save his own skin and yours it seems.

Your father sighed, rubbing his temples. "Whatever truly happened, I need you to keep that drunken fool alive long enough to compete tomorrow. And gods willing, sober."

A muscle jumped in your jaw. "You ask the impossible."

He arched a brow. "And yet you'll do it anyway."

The unspoken,because you always do hung between you like smoke.

You rose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your leathers. "I'll find Daeron at the feast," you conceded, already mentally calculating which wineskins you'd need to confiscate.

Your father caught your wrist as you turned to leave. "And daughter?" His grip was firm, his eyes dark with warning. "Tonight,no bloodshed at the high table."

You flashed him a smile all teeth. "No promises."

Later that Night

The hall was awash with music and laughter, the air thick with the heady scent of roasted meats and spilled wine. Your footsteps echoed off the floor as Aerion guided you through the crowded tent to a long table elevated on a makeshift dais.

Around you, knights and courtiers raised their cups in salute, some with genuine affection, others with thinly veiled envy. You forced a polite smile, pretending not to notice the weight of their gazes. Aerion, on the other hand, reveled in the attention, his hand on your hip like a vice as he steered you toward the chair beside his. You sat in the chair beside Aerion, the wood hard against your thighs. He leaned close, too close, his breath warm against your ear. "Smile," he murmured, a smile of his own curving his lips. "They're all watching."

You smiled back, all teeth. "Are they?"

He laughed, fingers trailing along your arm. "Of course. You look beautiful."

You bit back a scathing reply, remembering your father's warning. Instead, you nodded politely. "Thank you."

Aerion's gaze darkened. "That was almost civil."

You shrugged, watching the revelry around the hall. "We're to marry cousin. Shouldn't we at least pretend to get along?"

His chuckle was dark. "Always so pragmatic."

You raised a brow. "Would you prefer I flutter my lashes and swoon at your every word?"

Aerion’s smirk deepened as he traced the rim of his goblet with a fingertip. "Oh, I think we both know you’re incapable of swooning." He leaned in, voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "But I’d pay good gold to see you try."

You flicked a grape at him with deadly precision. It bounced off his forehead.

Aerion didn’t even blink. "Charming."

You shrugged, tossing a second grape from the platter. "I aim to please."

Aerion snagged it from the air with a swiftness that made you raise an eyebrow. "And what pleases you?”

The moment shattered as Daeron materialized from the crowd like a specter, his sandy hair tousled, his doublet half unlaced. He swayed slightly, a cup dangling precariously from his fingers. "Ah, my favorite cousins," he slurred, bowing with exaggerated flourish. "Looking positively marital"

Aerion's grip tightened on your thigh beneath the table. "Daeron. How… sobering to see you. couldn’t you stay missing?”

You stiffened, glancing between them, sensing the tension like an oncoming storm. Daeron was clearly in his cups and well on his way to stumbling into a disaster. Aerion's fingers were like a vice on your leg.

Daeron, oblivious to the mounting tension, dropped into the chair beside you, his shoulder pressing warmly against yours. "Oh, I could never abandon my family," he said with drunken charm. "Especially not when the company is so delightful."

Daeron collapsed into the chair beside you with all the grace of a toppled barrel. He ignored Aerion’s glare, leaning so close you could taste the Arbor gold on his breath. You leaned in with a graceful smile and whispered. “You lied about Sir Duncan," you hissed under the cover of a minstrel’s lute.

He blinked, slow as a drowsing cat. “Did I?" A beat. Then, with a drunkard’s solemnity. “I had to say something.The hedge knight seemed an easy route to take” His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his cup. “Well. If the the poor man is fool enough to come here, then it’s hardly my fault if…”

You dug your nails into his arm. “You named him a robber knight. They’ll hang him for that, or worse.. it was your fucking idea”

Daeron’s laugh was a dry, broken thing. “Egg is clever, I’m sure he will protect his Hedge knight" His gaze slid past you,toward the tent flaps where, sure enough, a small, bald headed figure darted between the revelers. Pulling his hood up to hide what had now already been seen. Your eyes looked in that same direction. Shit.

Aerion’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “What are you two whispering about?"

Daeron raised his cup in a sloppy toast. “Your impending doom, brother."

A muscle ticked in Aerion's jaw at Daeron. His fingers tightened on your thigh.

You flashed Aerion a brilliant smile, trying to ease the tension. "Ah Yes, the impending doom of being married to me”

Daeron’s smirked faltered, the jab aimed at his cowardice. But again, your own cowardice too. Aerion's grip relaxed, his brow furrowing. "I can think of worse fates"

You rolled your eyes, biting back an irritable response. "How kind of you to say."

But before the anything could continue, the minstrels silenced, their melodies giving way to applause as a troupe of actors emerged, dressed in brightly colored cloaks. Aerion leaned back in his chair, his expression flickering with curiosity as the show began. You scanned the crowd once more, heart sinking as you realized you lost sight of Egg. Damn it. You'd have to find him after the show, make sure he keeps hidden.

The actors prance across the makeshift stage, their movements exaggerated and comedic. The crowd laughed and cheered, caught up in the spectacle. But your focus kept drifting. Aerion didn't notice. He was engrossed in the performance, his hand still resting possessively on your thigh. You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the weight of his hand. The show was supposed to be harmless, just some ribald humor to entertain the guests. So why did a chill of unease crawl up your spine?

Your gaze flicked to Daeron, watching him take another long drink. He caught your look and raised his cup in a mock toast. Egg seemed to be hiding, good. You then held Daeron’s gaze for a fraction longer than you should, a mix of irritation and concern flaring in your chest. Damn him. Why did he keep making things so complicated?. Aerion's hand dug into your leg, drawing your attention back to him. It was then you realised the laughter in the tent turned brittle as the show twisted into something darker and all attention was in your direction.

The lead puppeteer, a woman, flourished a grotesque dragon made of patchwork velvet,its wings stitched with clumsy seams, its eyes two mismatched buttons. "Behold!" she cried, voice booming over the hushed crowd. "The last dragon!"

The mock beast swooped and flailed while the other puppets,knights with lances, giggling maidens chased it with wooden swords. A farce. A jest.

Until she drove a lance through the dragon’s belly. The velvet beast shuddered, then collapsed in a heap of stuffing. The crowd gasped,half delighted, half uneasy.

Aerion’s fingers tightened on your thigh like a claw. "Insolent," he hissed.

The puppeteer, oblivious at first,cackled as she held up the slain dragon. "And so dies the last of the mighty Targaryen beasts!" Silence. Then,crack, Aerion’s goblet shattered in his grip, wine bleeding between his fingers.

Daeron lurched to his feet, swaying. "Oh, fuck”

You barely had time to react before Aerion lunged across the table, seizing the the woman by the wrist and dragging her along.

"Which finger," Aerion purred, twisting the man’s hand backward until bones creaked, "do you need least?"

Chaos erupted. Somewhere in the fray, you saw Egg’s pale face vanish into the crowd. And then,him. A shadow loomed at the tent’s entrance, tall as a mountain, his plain armor dull beside the Targaryen silks. Dunk. Gods Egg. And he was staring straight at Aerion and the sobbing puppeteer. Oh, Seven Hells.

The air thickened with violence. Aerion’s grin was a blade’s edge as he hauled the puppeteer forward, her wrist bent at a sickening angle. "Shall we make a wager?" he mused, voice dripping with false charm. "How many fingers can you lose before you stop insulting dragons? your betters”

The woman whimpered, her face ashen. The crowd held its breath,too afraid to intervene, too enthralled to look away.

Then, movement.

Dunk barreled through the throng like a storm given flesh, his fist connecting with Aerion’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the tent walls. Aerion staggered, spitting blood and a tooth onto the rushes.

"Try me instead, princeling," Dunk growled.

Aerion wiped his mouth, staring at the blood on his fingers like it was a personal insult. Then he laughed. "Seize him."

Guards surged forward, pinning Dunk to the ground. Aerion crouched beside him, plucking a dagger from a knight’s belt. "Let’s see how brave you are with no teeth."

Your pulse hammered,this had spiraled too far, too fast. You stepped forward, your shadow falling over them both. Dunk’s eyes flicked to you, widening slightly in recognition but he stayed silent. You placed your hand on Aerion’s arm.

Then, a child’s voice, high and furious.

"Let him go!”

Egg shoved through the crowd, his shorn head gleaming in the torchlight, his small frame trembling with rage.

Dunk jerked against the guards’ hold. "Run boy! before they hurt you”

Egg ignored him, planting himself between Dunk and Aerion like a knight defending his lord. " they won’t harm me ser" he declared, voice shaking but clear, "they will answer to my father if they do."

The tent froze.

Aerion’s gaze raked over Egg,the missing silver hair, the defiant tilt of his chin. His lip curled. "You," he breathed. "You little wretch. What happened to your hair?"

Egg lifted his chin. "I cut it off brother. I didn’t want to look like you.”

A beat of stunned silence, then the crowds dispersed. Aerion’s face darkened. He lunged,but you caught his wrist, nails biting into his skin. Aerion whirled on you, his violet eyes burning with fury. "Let go"

"You've made your point," you cut in coolly, tightening your grip. "Unless you'd like the entire realm to witness you throttling a child? your brother”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Around you, nobles whispered behind hands, knights exchanged uneasy glances,this scene would spread through the Seven Kingdoms by dawn.

Egg seized the moment, turning to the guards still pinning Dunk. "Release him. Now."

When they hesitated, he drew himself up, small but unmistakably royal. The guards then released Dunk instantly.

Dunk scrambled up, rubbing his wrists, staring at Egg with dawning horror. "...Prince?"

Egg winced.

Aerion ripped his wrist from your grasp with a snarl. "You shame us boy”

You stepped between them, your voice low. "Enough Aerion, this is better being resolved in private” Aerion’s nostrils flared.

Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose, his fury simmering beneath the surface,but he knew when to yield. To you at least: He flicked a dismissive hand at Dunk. "Take him to the dungeons," he ordered the guards. “We'll deal with him properly tomorrow."

Dunk's eyes locked onto yours, betrayal flickering in their depths. You forced yourself to look away.

As the guards hauled Dunk off, Egg made to follow, but you caught his shoulder. "No." Your voice was firm. "Daeron will take you to your Father and mine”

Egg hesitated, his small face torn between defiance and fear. Daeron, still swaying slightly from drink, staggered forward and slung an arm around Egg’s shoulders. "Come on, little brother," he muttered, voice thick with wine and regret. "Before you get us all killed."

Egg shot one last desperate glance at Dunk’s retreating form before allowing Daeron to steer him away.

Silence settled over the ruined feast like ash after a fire. The nobles murmured among themselves, already spinning the night’s events into gossip.

Aerion leaned close, his breath hot against your ear. "you, with me”. he began. His fingers traced your wrist, possessive. "now”

You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth and nodded. Duty first. Always duty. But as you walked at his side, your thoughts lingered on Daeron’s retreating back,on the hollow look in his eyes, the cowardice you both wore like a second skin. And Dunk. Gods, Dunk.

Tomorrow, there would have to be trial for Duncan at least. He was innocent in all this. You’d have to seat your uncle and father. Your betrothed also. Or tomorrow, blood would spill.

But tonight, tonight, you belonged to Aerion.

————-

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Daeron Targaryen x Aerion Targaryen

The Realm of Fire and Dreams

Authors Note/summary: You are the only daughter of Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, raised in the shadow of kings and warriors, sharp tongued and sharper witted. Betrothed against your will to Aerion Brightflame. She matched him in temper, in defiance, in everything but his cruelty. And yet, her heart had always been Daeron’s. The Drunken Prince, the Dreamer, the man who loved wine more than swords and truth more than thrones. But when Egg disappears, with Daeron no doubt and with a hedge knight you knew where to find them. Daeron’s prophecies grow darker, the fragile peace between duty and desire begins to unravel. Daeron the Drunken is in his cups again, but tonight, the wine loosens more than just his tongue.

Warnings: 🔞•Targaryen insest•Alcohol consumption •Canon-typical Targaryen family dysfunction •Betrothal drama (thanks, Aerion) •Emotional tension & unresolved longing• Daeron being Daeron

Word count: 4k

209 AC

The Realm of Fire and Dreams.

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, your father had once told you. The words always weighed heavily upon your shoulders. You stood in the dim glow of a dying hearth, fingers tracing the edge of a silver goblet filled with sour Dornish red. You were the only daughter of Prince Baelor Breakspear. A man whose legacy loomed larger than life, an honourable and respectable man. Your mother had not long since passed, the Great Sickness they called it. Perished in her bed, before leaving for Ashford. Thus leaving you a solitary ember amidst the tempest of dragons that was House Targaryen.

You had your brother of course,to shield you, not that you needed it. Your father made sure of that, to treat you as if you were a son, to protect you in this world and the next. Sometimes though you felt utterly alone, no one to whisper secrets with, you had your cousins of course, who some danced on the edge of madness and greatness.

Aerion, your betrothed,gods be good. This was a man whose cruelty outstripped even his vanity. His laughter was too sharp, his gaze too hungry. You'd sooner bed a viper than suffer his touch,yet the court murmured that the blood of the dragon must remain pure. Maybe you deserved this, maybe you were more alike than you cared to admit. House Targaryen had swayed from this tradition over the years, but not anymore. Never mind that the practice had dwindled, that your grandsire had wed a Martell, that your own father had loved a woman from the stormlands,tradition was a chain, and you felt its weight daily.

And then there was Daeron.Daeron the Drunken, they called him,though you knew better. You'd seen the haunted look in his eyes when the wine wore thin, when the dreams slithered out from the corners of his mind. He was not a knight as such, not a warrior, but a dreamer cursed with foresight. You envied that, sometimes. To see the future, even if it was bleak,was that not better than stumbling blind through the dark?

And then there was Aemon and Egg. Your little Aegon, small and clever and far too bold for his own good. And Aemon, sweet Aemon who’s had been sent away, you often envied that too.

News had come that morning, carried on the lips of a frantic stableboy. Prince Maekar’s sons are missing. Egg and Daeron had vanished from Ashford Meadow. You had a feeling you knew where they would be. Or more so, where Daeron would be hiding them both. The Dragon’s Flagon,a dingy inn where the ale was cheap and the patrons were deaf to the clatter of noble tongues. Daeron had dragged you there once.

The Great Hall of Ashford Manor

The fire in the hearth spat embers onto the flagstones as Prince Maekar’s fist slammed onto the oak table, making the cups tremble. “Gone. Both of them. Vanished like thieves in the night." His voice was rough, a storm barely contained.

Your uncle’s face was shadowed, but you knew his anger well enough,cold as winter steel, sharp as Valyrian edge. Aerion lounged beside him, swirling his wine with idle fingers, smirking. “Let the drunkard wallow. As for Egg,well, the boy always was half wild."

Your brother Valarr, Baelor’s eldest, your elder by three years cut Aerion a glare. “Speak of my cousins like that again, and I’ll remind you whose blood runs thicker."

Your father, ever the peacemaker, lifted a hand. “Enough. The hour is late, and squabbling won’t bring them home."

Maekar exhaled through his nose. “I’ll ride out myself—"

“No uncle” you said, harsher than you meant to. All eyes turned to you. You swallowed, then steadied yourself. “Uncle, you’d draw too much attention. The people know your face”

Aerion sneered. “And what, pray tell, would you suggest, cousin?"

You met his gaze. “I simply suggest to send your best men from the kings guard.. out on a patrol, do you really want any old felon to know there are two Targaryen’s loose on the road? it will cause scandal”

The tension in the hall was thick enough to carve with a dagger. Aerion's sneer deepened, but it was Maekar who spoke next, his voice grinding like stone.

"Very well, niece." His gaze pinned you,knowing, assessing. "A prudent suggestion. Let the Kings guard scour the roads. Quietly."

Aerion rolled his eyes. "As if Daeron could stumble farther than the nearest wineskin."

Your father’s lips twitched,just once, just enough. He said nothing, but his hand brushed yours beneath the table, a fleeting press of fingers. Approval. The council disbanded, nobles and knights scattering like leaves in a gale. You waited until the hall emptied, until the torches guttered low and the shadows stretched long. Only then did you move.

Your chambers were silent, the air heavy with lavender and parchment. You flung open your trunk, fingers digging past silks and brocades until you found it,the roughspun tunic, the battered leather jerkin, the boots worn soft from use. A squire’s garb. A disguise.

The hood swallowed your Raven hair, crispy white strands weaving and the dark wool masking the dragonfire in your veins. You strapped a dagger to your thigh, small and sharp, and slipped out through the servant’s passage. You’d rode your horse into the night. The night smelled of damp earth and distant rain. The Dragon’s Flagon loomed just past the edge of Ashford’s outskirts, its sagging sign creaking in the wind. You pushed open the door. Smoke and sour ale and the murmur of drunks. And there, in the corner…..Daeron.

Slumped over a tankard, his sandy hair matted, his doublet stained. Across from him, Egg. Wide eyed, and vibrating with barely contained panic. And a shaved head apparently. Your cousin lifted his gaze, bleary but unmistakably aware. "Well," he drawled, raising his cup in salute. "Look who finally decided to join the revelry."

Egg’s face lit like a candle. "You knew she’d come!"

Daeron smirked. "Dreamed it."

You exhaled, half relief, half exasperation. "You utter fools."

Egg scrambled up, grinning. "Does Father know—?"

"No," you said firmly. "And he won’t”

You slumped into the rickety chair beside Egg, the wood groaning under your weight. Reaching out, you grabbed his chin, tilting his head this way and that as your fingers ruffled the stubble where silver locks should have been.

"By the seven hells, Egg," you hissed, voice low but razor edged. "Did you let a drunken goat shear you? Or was this Daeron's idea of disguising you?"

Egg batted your hand away, cheeks flushing. "It was my idea!" he protested, rubbing at his shorn scalp. "Daeron just helped—"

"—held the razor steady between hiccups I see," Daeron supplied, raising his cup as if to toast his own incompetence. His grin was loose, but his eyes,those were sharp. Too sharp. The way they always were right before the dreams took him under.

You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a whisper only they could hear. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Maekar has half the Kingsguard scouring the roads, Aerion’s crowing about ‘weak blood,’ and my Father—" Your throat tightened. "

He definitely knows I am up to something”

Egg wilted, his bravado crumbling. "I just... I wanted to try to prove I could be more than just—"

"—a spare prince?" Daeron finished dryly, swirling his wine. "Welcome to the club, little brother and besides, you wanted to escape them as much as I”

You exhaled through your nose. Gods, they were impossible. Both of them. Egg, too young and stubborn to see the danger, and Daeron, too resigned to care. Stupid Fool. A serving wench ambled past, sloshing ale onto the table. Daeron caught her wrist before she could retreat. "Another round, sweetling. For three."

You groaned. "I’m not drinking with you."

"Of course you are," he said, sliding the fresh tankard toward you. "You rode all this way, might as well enjoy the fruits of your stupidity."

Egg snickered, already reaching for his own cup. You snatched the tankard from Egg’s hands before it could reach his lips, slamming it back onto the table with enough force to make Daeron’s eyebrows lift. "Oh no you don’t," you said, voice dripping with the same tone your mother used to wield when you’d been caught sneaking cakes from the kitchens.

Egg pouted,actually pouted, the little brat. "But Daeron lets me—"

"Daeron," you interrupted, shooting your eldest cousin a glare that could melt stone, "is currently however many cups deep into his own funeral arrangements and shouldn’t be making decisions for a tree stump, let alone you."

Daeron raised his hands in surrender, but his smirk said he knew you weren’t wrong. You softened then, reaching out to tilt Egg’s chin up. His eyes blinked up at you, wide and stubborn and so painfully young.

"You don’t have to prove anything, my sweet," you murmured, thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. "Not to them. Not to anyone."

Egg’s lower lip wobbled, just once, before he jutted it out again. "Aerion said he’d cut off my—"

"Aerion," you cut in, voice sharp as a blade, "would sell his own shadow for a pat on the head from Maekar. His words are worth less than the air it takes to speak them, you know I wouldn’t let him touch you."

Egg swallowed hard, then nodded.

Daeron exhaled, long and slow, and pushed his own cup toward you. "Drink, cousin," he muttered. "Before the night gets any heavier."

You hesitated,then took it, letting the bitter sting of cheap ale wash away the sour taste of dread on your tongue. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded beast. Somewhere, Maekar’s men were searching. Somewhere, Aerion was scheming. But here, in this dim lit corner of the world, there was just the three of you. A drunken dreamer, a shorn little dragon, and you. Egg fidgeted in his seat, restless as a caged bird. "It's stuffy in here," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his shorn scalp. "I just want some air—"

"Absolutely not," you said, gripping his wrist before he could slide off the bench. "you may have shaven your head but do you really think you are unrecognisable?”

Egg groaned, slumping back. "Five minutes. I won't go far."

You hesitated, but Daeron waved a lazy hand. "Let the boy breathe, cousin." His grin was lopsided, his words slurring at the edges.

"Fine, 5 minutes," you relented, pointing a finger at Egg. "But if you're not back before I finish this ale, I'm dragging you home by your ear like a misbehaving pup."

Egg grinned, already scrambling up. "Yes, Mother” he teased, darting toward the door before you could swat him. The door creaked shut behind Egg, leaving you alone with Daeron in the flickering candlelight. You swirled the cheap ale in your cup, watching the way the liquid caught the fire's glow like molten gold.

Daeron slumped forward, his breath sour with wine as he fixed you with a gaze far too knowing for a drunkard. "You always did have a soft spot for him," he mused, voice thick. "Like you were the elder sister he never had."

You scoffed, though there was no real bite to it. "Someone had to keep him from Aerion's claws."

“and what about you, who keeps you away from them?” Daeron exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breathe for too long. Then his expression sobered,as much as it could, anyway. "I dreamt of you last night," he murmured, fingers tracing the rim of his cup.

Your spine stiffened. Daeron's dreams were never just dreams.

"You were standing in a field, it was blackened with ash” he continued, eyes distant. "And the sky... it was weeping fire."

A chill crept down your neck. "And?"

His fingers stilled. "And then you weren't alone."

The door burst open before he could finish.

Egg stumbled back in, dragging a hulking figure behind him, a mountain of a man in mismatched armor, his face shadowed beneath a battered helm.

"Look what.. I mean who I found! a knight!” Egg crowed, practically vibrating.

Daeron blinked blearily. "Gods… did you pick up a stray? big one at that” before he quietened. As if seeing a ghost, maybe he’d also seen him in a dream too.

The giant lifted his hood, revealing a face more suited to a butcher than a knight. His brow furrowed as he took in Daeron's disheveled state, then your hooded figure.

"Ser Duncan the…Tall," he grunted. "And you are?"

Egg opened his mouth—

“No one important," you cut in smoothly, kicking Egg's ankle under the table.

Daeron smirked into his cup. "Lies," he singsonged. "We're all very important. Just... temporarily misplaced."

Dunk's frown deepened. Somewhere outside, a horn sounded, low and mournful. Maekar's men were getting closer. You sighed, rubbing your temples as Egg bounced on his toes beside Dunk. "What my temporarily misplaced cousin means," you said dryly, "is that we're simple travelers enjoying a drink. Nothing more."

Dunk's eyes narrowed,rightfully suspicious,but before he could press further, Daeron suddenly lurched forward, nearly toppling from his seat.

"You," he slurred, pointing an unsteady finger at Dunk. "I've dreamed of you."

Dunk took a step back. "I—what?"

Daeron nodded solemnly. "A dragon will fall upon you. Dead." He paused, blinking slowly.

Dunk paled. "...Are you threatening me?"

You groaned, grabbing Daeron by the collar before he could topple face first into the table. "No, Ser Duncan yes? he's very drunk as you can see”

Your grip tightened on Daeron’s collar, but your gaze snapped to Egg with enough heat to make the boy flinch.

"You what?"

Egg shuffled his feet, suddenly fascinated by the floor. "Well... I might have told Ser Duncan I'd be his squire—"

"Egg!" You hissed, barely restraining the urge to shake him. "Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” you whispered so only he could hear you “The Kingsguard are tearing the countryside apart for you, and you’re out here swearing oaths to strangers?”

Egg jutted his chin but whispered back. "I’d rather be a squire than go back to Aerion’s lessons." The word dripped with venom.

Your chest ached. You knew what he meant,Aerion’s "lessons" were little more than excuses to torment his younger brother. But gods, this was reckless even for Egg.

Daeron, the useless lump, chose that moment to slump against your shoulder, humming. "Let the boy be, cousin. Dreamed he’d do this too..." His breath was warm and wine-sour against your ear. "Dragons hate cages."

You exhaled sharply. This was a disaster. “do you have to be so god damm cryptic?” before turning to face the tall man.

"You’re a knight, aren’t you?" you challenged. "Then keep him safe. Or I will find you."

Dunk swallowed. "..Aye.”

Dunk shifted uncomfortably under your glare, but before he could respond, Egg barged forward, bouncing on his toes.

"You will?!" He practically squealed, eyes wide like a puppy. Dunk seemed taken aback by the boy's excitement, but he nodded gravely. "Aye, that I will, lad. But, er..." he cast a glance toward you and Daeron,his cheeks turning pink. "I don't even know your names."

Dunk's gaze lingered on your hood. You didn't miss the curiosity flaring in those deep brown eyes. Daeron hiccupped,sliding down your shoulder to loll against your chest. Your eyes narrowed as he mumbled something unintelligible. Gods, why did it always have to be alcohol to make him so bloody uncouth.

Egg, however, missed the undercurrent entirely. "My name is—"

You sent Egg a warning glare. Egg caught your look and clamped his mouth shut, before puffing out his chest like a proud squire. “Just Egg,"he declared.

Daeron chuckled drunkenly against your shoulder, muttering something.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Dunk looked between all of you, his brow furrowed deeper than a plowed field. “Right," he muttered, clearly deciding this was more trouble than he’d bargained for. “Just Egg. And you two?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your hood. “No one worth remembering, just friends of egg’s here," you said smoothly, voice low enough that the tavern’s din swallowed most of it.

Daeron snorted, lifting his head just enough to grin. “She’s lying. Everyone remembers her."

Dunk’s eyes flicked to you, lingering,just for a heartbeat before he nodded slowly. “Alright then," he said, clearly deciding questioning further wasn’t worth the headache. “ We head to the Tourney at dawn. If you’re to be my squire, Egg, best get some rest."

Egg beamed, looking between you and Daeron like a pup waiting for approval. You exhaled sharply. This was madness. Pure, unbridled madness. But Egg’s stubborn jaw was set, and Daeron was barely conscious. You had no choice but to play along,for now.

“Fine," you relented, shooting Egg a look that promised repercussions later, Whispering again as you took egg into a hug. “But if Aerion catches you—"

Egg shuddered, the bravado slumping from his shoulders. "I know," he murmured. "I won’t be stupid."

"See that you aren’t," you said sternly, giving his shoulder a final squeeze.

Dunk watched the silent exchange, curiosity flaring again in those dark eyes. He knew there was more to this story, to all of this than he was being told. But he kept his silence. For now. Egg shifted from foot to foot, looking suddenly uncertain. "You won't tell Father where I am, will you?" His voice was small, a whisper, the brave facade cracking just enough to reveal the scared boy beneath.

You sighed, ruffling his now none existent hair. "Not yet. But you must swear to me,if anything goes wrong, if Aerion or anyone so much as looks your way, you run. Straight to me. Do you understand?"

Egg nodded solemnly.

Daeron groaned dramatically from where he'd slumped onto the table, cheek pressed against the wood. "Beautiful sentiment," he slurred. "But if we don't leave soon, I'm going to either pass out or vomit, and neither will improve our disguises."

You shot him a withering look.

Dunk cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Well. Best be off then." He hesitated, then added gruffly, "I'll keep the lad safe. You have my word."

There was something in the way he said it,like an oath etched in steel,that made you believe him.

You nodded, then hauled Daeron up by the scruff of his doublet. "Come on" you muttered. "Time to sneak back before they realise we're all missing."

Daeron grinned blearily, letting you prop him against your side as you steered him toward the door. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?"

Egg watched you go, torn between excitement and guilt, before turning to Dunk with renewed determination. "Right then, Ser! What first?"

Dunk sighed, rubbing his temples. "First, we find somewhere to sleep that isn't this damned tavern."

Outside, the night swallowed you whole as you dragged Daeron into the shadows, the weight of secrets and stolen moments pressing heavy on your shoulders. Somewhere, Maekar was still searching. And somewhere, the game had just begun. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke as you half dragged, half carried Daeron through the winding alleys behind the Dragon’s Flagon. His weight against your side was warm, his breath uneven against your neck as he mumbled something about fire and falling stars.

“Seven hells, Daeron,” you grunted, shifting your grip on his waist as his boot caught on a loose stone. “Must you be this heavy?”

He chuckled, low and rasping. “Blame the wine, cousin. Or my tragic destiny as a disappointment to the realm.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you tightened your hold, steeling yourself as you neared the stables where you’d left your mare.

Moonlight spilled through the cracks in the wooden beams, casting silvery stripes over the restless horses shifting in their stalls. Your mount, a sleek black mare with a white star between her eyes, whickered softly as you approached.

“Up,” you ordered, giving Daeron a none too gentle shake. He groaned but managed to haul himself into the saddle with only minimal flailing. You swung up behind him before he could topple sideways, one arm locking around his waist as you gathered the reins.

Daeron sighed, slumping back against you. “ Look at you being the responsible one.”

“Someone has to be,” you muttered, clicking your tongue to urge the mare forward.

The road back to Ashford’s manor was quiet, the only sound the steady clop of hooves and Daeron’s uneven breathing. After a moment, he tilted his head back against your shoulder, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual drunken bravado.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re damned?”

You stiffened. “What?”

“The dreams,” he murmured, fingers flexing against the saddle horn. “They’re getting worse. Fire. Blood. A broken throne.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “And you,you’re always there in the end.”

A chill skittered down your spine. You wanted to demand he explain, to shake the prophecy from his lips, but the words lodged in your throat like a blade.

Instead, you tightened your grip on the reins and urged the mare faster.

“Save your riddles for the morning, Daeron,” you said sharply. The weight of Daeron’s confession hung between you like smoke, curling into the quiet spaces where neither of you dared to look. By the time you reached Ashford Manor, his body had gone slack against yours, his breathing slow and heavy with sleep. You cursed under your breath,there was no way you could drag him through the halls to his chambers without being seen.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hauled him into yours, through a back passage as you’d more than likely still have the guards outside your rooms. The door shut with a soft click behind you, the room bathed in the dim glow of a single candle left burning for your return. Daeron slumped onto the edge of your bed, blinking up at you with half lidded eyes, his doublet rumpled and his hair a mess of sandy blonde and tangled strands.

“This is improper,” he murmured, though he made no move to rise.

You rolled your eyes, tossing a pillow at his face. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He caught it with surprising reflexes for a drunkard, his fingers brushing yours in the process,too warm, too deliberate. You stiffened, but before you could pull away, he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening despite the wine dulling his edges. Daeron's fingers lingered against yours for a heartbeat too long before he finally released the pillow, his lips curling into a lazy, lopsided smirk.

"Do you ever wish," he mused, words thick but strangely intent, "that you were betrothed to someone other than Aerion?"

The question hit you like a splash of cold water. You froze, pulse stuttering before you forced yourself to scoff, snatching your hand away. "Daeron, you're drunk."

"Not drunk enough," he muttered, flopping back onto the bed with a groan, his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. "Else I wouldn't remember that my dear cousin is shackled to a man who thinks cruelty is virtue."

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. "Sleep. Before you say something you’ll regret." Daeron let out a low chuckle, but it held little humor. His arm slid away from his face, revealing eyes that were far too lucid for someone who'd been slurring his words moments ago.

"Regret?" He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his gaze oddly sharp. "I regret many things. never anything when it comes to you”

The candlelight flickered between you, casting shadows across his face across the curve of his mouth, the stubborn set of his jaw. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you were standing.

"Then you're even drunker than I thought," you said, forcing lightness into your tone as you turned away. A hand caught your wrist. Daeron's grip was loose, barely there,easy to break. But you didn't pull away. Daeron's touch was warm through the thin lace of your sleeve. You should have snatched your wrist away, scolded him for his audacity. But something in the way he looked at you - open, a little broken - made the reprimands die on your tongue.

So instead, you leaned down, and gently pressed a kiss to his temple, the same way you might soothe a child.

“sleep Daeron”

Daeron inhaled, sharp, as if you'd hit him. His eyes fluttered shut, his fingers loosening their grip.

"You are too good to me," he murmured. You scoffed, pulling away with deliberate lightness,though your pulse betrayed you, hammering traitorously beneath your skin.

"Clearly," you quipped, tossing a spare throw at his face. "Or else I'd have left you facedown in a puddle outside the Flagon."

Daeron caught the throw with a muffled laugh, but he didn’t resist as you turned on your heel and strode toward the painted dressing screen in the corner. The wood was carved with delicate vines,a gift from your mother and just tall enough to shield you from view. Mostly.

You made quick work of your laces, shrugging out of your tunic and breeches with practiced efficiency. The night air kissed your bare shoulders, raising gooseflesh as you reached for the linen shift draped over the screen.

A rustle of fabric from the bed.

Then silence. Too aware of the quiet, you hesitated mid motion, fingers curled around the shift.

"You're staring," you accused, voice low.

A beat. Then Daeron's chuckle, rough with wine and something darker. "Guilty," Daeron's voice drifted back, thick with a hint of a slur though his words were somehow still clear as crystal. "A man has a right to admire what the Gods themselves sculpted."

You bristled, cheeks flaming, but you forced yourself to scoff, pulling the shift over your head.

"You're drunk," you reminded him, the fabric soft as satin against your skin. "You think a pile of cow dung is a masterpiece when you've had this much wine." A huff from the bed, but it felt like a laugh. "Perhaps." A rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, as Daeron rolled onto his side. "But even in my most inebriated state, I know beauty when I see it."

You paused, back ramrod straight. Something fluttered in your gut. It felt like anger, or maybe something else. Probably irritation. At least, that's what you told yourself.

"Flattery won't save you" you said finally, pulling your hair loose. The words came slow, thick with the weight of wine and weariness as Daeron’s lashes fluttered shut.

“Even in this state..." His voice was a murmur, already half lost to sleep. “…you're still the only woman I deem worthy staring at."

The words curled into the silence like smoke,too honest, too raw for the hour. You froze, fingers tangled in your own hair, heartbeat suddenly too loud in your own ears. Then, a soft snore. Daeron was asleep. You exhaled,sharp, shaky and forced yourself to move, to snuff out the candle, to slide beneath your own blankets on the divan across the room. But long after the fire had died to embers, his words lingered, burning hotter than any dream of dragons. Your eyes traced the familiar lines of his face, now softened by sleep. His lips slightly parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, hair a messy halo in the half-light. For a moment, just one single heartbeat, you allowed yourself to imagine what ifs . Then you sighed, pushing the thoughts down. They were too dangerous, too foolish. You were betrothed to Aerion, for your sins. You stood, taking a last lingering look at Daeron's sleeping form. The fire was dying in the grate, a few errant sparks sparking in the coals. You watched, entranced, before finally tearing your gaze away. The door creaked quietly as you pulled it open, slipping out into the hall. The guards on duty straightened instantly, their backs straightening as they took in your nightdress.

"My lady," the older one said, his gaze a little too wide. "Is something wrong?"

You straightened your shoulders, keeping your voice smooth despite the wild pulse in your throat. "No, just taking a walk," you lied, adjusting the embroidered robe tighter around your shift. "The air in my chambers is stifling tonight."

The younger guard shifted, eyes darting toward your door before he caught himself. "Shall we escort you, my lady?"

"Unnecessary." You waved a hand dismissively, already stepping past them down the torchlit corridor. "You may leave your post tonight gentleman, I’ll return shortly”

You could feel their gazes burning into your back as you walked away,every step measured, every breath controlled.

Damned drunk fool, you thought, knuckles whitening around the candlestick you'd snatched from its sconce. Daeron always knew exactly which words would haunt you.

And worse still, he was right.

————

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Benedict Bridgerton

To Love a Bridgerton

Part 1 - A Scandalous Return

Part 2 - A Bridgerton in Distress

Part 3 - Temptation and Consequence

Part 4 - Unraveling in Blue

Part 5 - Tangled Threads

Part 6 - Tea and Tribulations

———-

Authors note/summary: Is this the end?? 🫣 I’m not so sure yet🤨 In this chapter we have Benedict who has spent years convincing himself (and half of London) that love is a cage. Meanwhile, you,his childhood best friend… may have been busy living a life he could only paint and one that would ruin you. Reckless, passionate, and utterly free. But when a French ex-lover crashes into London, Benedict realizes two things.. 1) he’s hopelessly in love with you, and 2) he’ll burn the city down before he lets anyone else have you.

Warnings: 🔞🔞 mature content. Mentions of alcohol consumption or intoxication, References to gambling or potentially addictive behaviors.Depictions of intense romantic or intimate moments.Potential references to physical abuse or violence.Depictions of anxiety or stress.Mentions of death or loss.

Word count: 4k words

Y/N’s POV

Eloise dragged her into the gardens the moment the tea party ended, grip tight around her wrist. The moment they were safely out of earshot, she whirled on Y/N.

"Alright," Eloise hissed, "I want complete honesty now. you're going to tell me everything and don't leave anything, well maybe my brother part”

Y/N bit her lip.

She told her. Everything. The reckless nights in Paris, the wild abandon she'd indulged in after convincing herself she'd never have Benedict.

About Leo de Montfort. She’d played the carefree debutante, indulging in pleasures that would make London’s matrons faint. How Leo de Montfort had been charming, dangerous, and utterly infatuated.

"That was the French man you told me about?" Eloise demanded, crossing her arms. “you didn’t say your.. you know”

"Yes well, I couldn’t exactly write it in a gods damm letter Eloise..” you snapped slightly but then returned to a whisper. “And now," Y/N admitted, "I received a letter the day i got back from the cottage ."

Eloise exhaled sharply. "Bloody brilliant. So what’s your plan?"

Y/N hesitated. “Avoid scandal perhaps”

Eloise snorted. “Good luck with that.”

---

Benedict’s POV

The White’s club was thick with cigar smoke and masculine laughter when Benedict strode in, still half drunk on the memory of Y/N unraveling beneath his fingers.

“Ah, Bridgerton!” His friend, Fife, clapped him on the back. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”

Benedict smirked, accepting a drink. “Miss me that much?”

“Desperately,” Fife drawled. “We were just discussing our good friend George’s mistresses”

The word soured Benedict’s mood instantly.

“Why bother with just a wife when you can have both?” another lord chimed in.

Benedict’s grip tightened around his glass. Fife grinned. “Come now, Benedict. Surely you’ve considered it?” Mistresses.He’d heard this conversation a hundred times,the predictable boasts of men who saw marriage as a business transaction and love as an inconvenience.

Fife leaned in, grinning. “Come now, Bridgerton. Even you must have entertained the idea? A wife for heirs, a mistress for... everything else. why is it you won’t settle hmm?”

Benedict forced a careless smirk, swirling his drink. “it simply does not interest me, why would it when I am enjoying the pleasures of the world already”

The table erupted in laughter, but Benedict’s chest tightened. He had spent years believing that commitment was a cage, love a risk too dangerous to take. Even though his mother and father’s story was one of love. How had his thoughts become this. But the thought remained,the thought of her, of Y/N being anything less than his made his pulse spike with something primal. Benedict’s glass hit the table harder than intended.

Y/N’s POV

Eloise’s eyes gleamed with mischief as she tossed a pebble into the garden fountain. “So. You’ve bedded my brother and a French libertine. And now the Frenchman is coming to London to—what, exactly?”. Y/N groaned, pressing her hands to her face. “Eloise.”

“Y/N,” Eloise mimicked, rolling her eyes. “You’re acting like this is some tragic novel. It’s simple. You tell Benedict. You tell him everything.”

“And then what?” Y/N snapped. “Watch him realize I’m not some blushing debutante? That I’m—”

“Human?” Eloise cut in dryly. “Trust me, my brother isn’t fool enough to care about that. he knows you, we all do”

Y/N huffed a laugh, dropping onto a nearby bench. Eloise joined her, nudging her shoulder. “You underestimate him. Benedict knows you’re not perfect.”

Eloise’s smirk turned razor-sharp. “besides, I am not stupid, don’t think I don’t know what you used to get up to, pretending you’ve spent all these years sneaking off with my brother to discuss poetry and art” She leaned in. “You’ve gambled, drank and for gods sake even been to….” She looked round before whispering, “—pleasure houses with him,a Frenchman isn’t going to scare him off.”

Y/N groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. “This is different.This is—”

“A past you can’t erase?” Eloise arched a brow. “Newsflash, Benedict has one too. Or did you forget about his indiscretions with half of London?”

Y/N glared at her. “That’s not the point and he’s a male.”

“Then what is?” Eloise challenged.

The truth lodged in her throat. She wasn’t afraid of Benedict judging her. She was afraid he’d look at her differently.That the way his eyes darkened when he touched her,like she was the only thing in the world that mattered would fade into something cautious. Calculated. That he’d realize she hadn’t just been his Y/N. She could handle London society, their whispers and stares. But if she saw even a hint of disappointment in Benedict’s eyes, she’d shatter.

Eloise studied her, expression softening. “Ah. I see I’m going to have to be the rational one for once. Listen, Y/N, the one thing I know for certain about my brother is this,he would never, ever fault you for having a past. Not even in your wildest imaginings. Not if you’ve been with ten men or a hundred. God he probably already knows. But Do you know why?”

Y/N snorted, tossing a pebble at Eloise's feet. “Rude. I haven't been with ten men. I have some standards you know”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Fine, My point stands." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Because Benedict has spent his entire life fighting against the cages society tries to put him in. He despises hypocrisy. Do you honestly think he'd hold you to a standard he'd never apply to himself?"

The truth of it settled over her like sunlight after a storm. But then Eloise grinned wickedly. “Besides, have you seen the way he looks at you? Like you're the last painting in the world worth studying." She wrinkled her nose. “Disgusting, really."

Y/N kicked her boot lightly. “You're unbearable."

“And yet, here you are, confessing your torrid affairs to me." Eloise stood, brushing off her skirts. “Now, are we going to strategise, or are you going to wallow in tragic silence until this Frenchman arrives and complicates everything?"

Y/N exhaled, rising to her feet. “Strategise."

Benedict POV

Meanwhile, at Whites.Benedict stared into his drink, Fife's words echoing.The whiskey burned his throat as he drained his glass, Fife’s words still circling like vultures.

“A wife for heirs, a mistress for pleasure."

The thought curdled in his stomach. He didn’t want a mistress. He wanted. No. He slammed the glass down hard enough to make Fife raise a brow.

"Problem, Bridgerton?"

Benedict forced a smirk. "Only that your company grows duller by the minute."

He stood abruptly, ignoring their protests, and strode out into the night.

He needed to see her. Now.

---

Y/N’s POV

You’d returned home later that afternoon. You were pacing the garden behind your house when Benedict appeared like a stormfront, his cravat loosened, his eyes dark with something reckless.

"Benedict?" He caught your wrist, pulling you into the shadow of the hedges. "I need to ask you something."

The intensity in his voice made your pulse stutter.

"Alright…?"

He exhaled sharply, his thumb tracing your pulse point. "If I—" A pause. "If I asked you to be my mistress, would you—"

The world stopped. You ripped your hand away. "What?”

His expression twisted. "No—that’s not—"

"Not what?” Your voice cracked. "Not insulting? Not exactly what every man offers when they want the pleasures without the shackles?"

He dragged a hand through his hair. "Christ, Y/N, I didn’t mean—"

You could see Benedict's hands clenched at his sides as he watched the hurt flash across your face,that wounded, furious spark in your eyes.

"No… I do..I want you," he ground out, voice rough. "Not as some,secret. Not as some indulgence” His jaw tightened. "But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to—"

"Commit?" you bit out. The word hung between you like a blade.

"Yes." The raw honesty in his voice made your breath catch. How after everything could he get past that? Before either of you could speak again, a servant hurried into the garden.

"Miss Y/N," he stammered. "There's.. a visitor. A Monsieur de Montfort."

Benedict's gaze didn’t leave yours, he surely see the panic in your eyes soon enough. Your stomach dropped. Too soon. Too soon. Benedict's hand caught yours, gripping tight. “please y/n, whoever it is can wait, please let me make this right”

You were torn. You wanted to stay with Benedict. You needed to deal with Leo. The servant hovered awkwardly.

"Shall I tell this visitor you're not receiving?"

Benedict's grip tightened. Stay put.

The words burned in your throat, but you couldn’t let Benedict see leo. Not without you speaking to him first,not like this, not with the air still crackling between you.

You squeezed Benedict’s hand once before pulling away. “Wait here."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue,just gave you a slow, dangerous nod. The kind that promised this conversation wasn’t over. You smoothed your skirts, lifting your chin as you strode toward the house.

---

Leo de Montfort was lounging in your parlor like he belonged there, one boot propped on the settee as he sipped your father’s best brandy.

“Ah,mon petit oiseau” he drawled, rising smoothly. His smile was all charm, but his eyes,sharp as a blade raked over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “You’ve been ignoring my letters."

You didn’t flinch. “Because I have nothing to say to you Leo”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “Yet here I am. chasing you across the sea” He stood, pacing towards you. His fingers brushed your wrist,too familiar. "Did you really think I’d let you go so easily?

Your pulse roared in your ears. “There’s nothing to let go of Leo, Whatever—understanding we had is over, you said it yourself”

Leo’s smirk faded. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded document.

“Yes well, minds change and I presumed you’d of disposed of my letter so here’s another one”

Your stomach dropped. If it’s what you thought it would be.

“stop this Leo”

“but why my love?” His thumb traced the parchment. “ we were so good together were we not?”

The room tilted. Then…

“I suggest you leave." A voice like thunder. You turned to find Benedict filling the doorway, his expression lethal.

Leo arched a brow. “ahh this must be him no?” Leo's smirk sharpened as he took Benedict in, slow and deliberate,the loose cravat, the storm in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders blocked the doorway like a barricade.

“Ah," he purred, swirling his brandy. “The infamous Mr. Bridgerton." His gaze flicked to you, mocking. “You didn’t mention he was so… delightful” he looked him up and down. Benedict didn’t move, but his voice dropped to a blade’s edge. “she asked you to leave didn’t she not?”

Leo laughed, but his grip tightened on the glass. “Charming. does she belong to you now mon ami? Because in Paris, she was—"

You didn’t let him finish. “Enough Leo” The word cracked like a whip. You snatched the letter from Leo’s hand, tearing it open, only for the contents to turn your blood to ice. A betrothal contract. You crushed the crumpled parchment in your fist.

Leo’s smirked. "you can't be serious"

"Oh very" you snapped, tossing it into the fire. It curled in the flames, the ink smouldering as it burned. Leo still smirked but his eyes narrowed. “You’d reject my proposal?”

Benedict still hadn't moved from the doorway, but his gaze held yours, steady, unwavering. You couldn't tear your eyes away. Not from Leo. “I rejected you long before this" you ground out. Leo's smirk twisted into something darker, his fingers flexing. "Ah, ma chérie” he murmured, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Still so reckless with your heart. Tell me,does he know?"

Benedict took a single step forward. "Know what?"

Your pulse spiked. Leo's grin turned vicious. He knew exactly what buttons to press. "That in Paris, she was—"

"Enough.” The word ripped from your throat, sharp enough to make even Benedict flinch. As he passed Benedict, he paused. "Enjoy her while you can, Bridgerton," he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. "She has a habit of slipping away."

Benedict didn't flinch. "Get out."

The door slammed behind Leo, leaving silence in its wake. You exhaled, your fingers clenched in your skirts. Then Benedict was there, his hands framing your face, his forehead pressed to yours. "You're shaking," he murmured.

You closed your eyes. "I'm furious."

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "At me?"

"At myself” you admitted. "For ever letting him think— I’m sorry, I was going to tell you— I”

"Stop." Benedict's voice was rough. "None of that matters." He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "Only this."

And then he kissed you,deep, possessive, as if he could erase every doubt with the press of his lips. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. A maid giggled in the hallway. The world kept turning. But in that moment, nothing existed except the two of you, and the unspoken truth hanging between you. This wasn't just passion. This was everything.

You broke the kiss only when oxygen was all but a memory, gasping against his lips. Benedict rested his forehead against yours, thumb skimming the rapid pulse in your neck. "He's gone."

You leaned into his touch, every nerve ending humming. "I don't care," you murmured, half laughing, "I never want you to stop kissing me."

She inhaled, her grip on his jacket tightening, her voice a shattered whisper. "Benedict, I—"

In that moment, there was only his eyes on hers, the steady rhythm of his heart mingling with hers. You didn't need to finish your sentence. Benedict's hand tilted your chin up, his smile soft, just for you. "I know," he murmured. "God, Y/N, I know and I simply don’t care”

Your throat tightened. He knew you, more deeply than anyone else ever had. You traced the lines of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, the way he seemed to make the air itself hum with energy just being in his orbit. "You deserve better."

The selflessness in your words only made his gaze darken. "If you think I could ever want more than this," he murmured, "then you are quite mistaken."

He pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse at your wrist. Benedict exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to yours as his hands framed your face with impossible tenderness.

"Listen to me," he murmured, voice rough with emotion. "Do you truly believe I don't know you? That I haven't always known exactly who you are?"

His thumb traced your lower lip, his gaze burning.

"You think it matters to me that I wasn't the first?" A scoff, but he smiled. "Look at you. Of course I wouldn’t be. Do you also think I care if what society thinks is proper? gods Y/N You're fearless. You are what most women only dream of being and I love you for it. Every reckless, brilliant, unapologetic part of you."

Your breath hitched. His hands slid down to grip yours, pressing them over his pounding heart. "Marriage terrified me because I thought it meant chains. Rules. Losing myself." His laugh was ragged. "But you, Christ, Y/N, you're not a cage. You're the open sky."

The words hung between you, shimmering and raw.

"You're my freedom," he breathed. "Everything I was taught about love, it scared me because I didn’t think I could have what my parents had,but what they taught me..it was always leading me to you."

And then he kissed you, deep and slow and devastating, sealing the truth between you without words. The world could have crumbled in that moment and you wouldn't have noticed. There was nothing, no one but him. His hands slid from your face to your hips, pulling you hard against him like he couldn't get close enough. Benedict breathed your name against your lips, an invocation, a promise. "You could break my heart a hundred times," he murmured, eyes dark. "I'd still choose you, over. And. Over again."

The fire in Benedict’s eyes promised something slow and devastating, his hands already loosening the pins from your hair as he backed you toward the nearest chaise. His lips traced your throat,hot, lingering and before he murmured, “I want you ruined for anyone else by the time I’m done with you. upstairs now”

You arched against him, gasping as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear. “Oh I Already am,” you admitted breathlessly.

His answering growl sent a thrill down your spine.

Later. Benedict fastened his trousers with one hand, the other still tangled possessively in your curls as he kissed you, slow and sweet. “Come to dinner tonight,” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed, still trembling. “Is that an order?”

His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. “A plea.”

---

Bridgerton House - Benedict POV

Violet Bridgerton looked up from her embroidery as Benedict strode into the drawing room, his cravat suspiciously askew. “Darling, are you—”

“The ring,” he blurted.

Her needle stilled. “…Pardon?”

Benedict ran a hand through his already ruined hair. “Father’s ring. The one you said was for—for when…” His voice roughened. “I need it mother”

His mother’s lips curved as she rose, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Took you long enough.”

Benedict blinked, surprised in spite of himself. "You knew?"

His mother chuckled softly as she bustled towards the desk. "I knew."

He followed her, watching as she unlocked the drawer and withdrew a small velvet box. It looked exactly like the one he remembered, worn with age.

His cheeks heated. “I didn't realise I was that obvious."

A soft laugh. “Only to a mother’s eye."

Benedict exhaled, his hand tight around the box. Benedict ran his thumb over the worn velvet, swallowing hard. "Was Father this nervous?"

Her smile softened, her eyes misting with memory. "Oh, far worse." She reached out, smoothing his cravat. "He paced a hole in the Aubrey Hall drawing room carpet before he asked me."

A chuckle escaped him despite the tension coiled in his chest. "And you said yes immediately, of course."

"After making him suffer through three excruciating minutes of silence," she admitted with a wink. Her fingers tightened briefly around his. Benedict exhaled shakily, pressing a kiss to his mother's cheek. "Thank you mother”

“when you love someone the way you love her..." She touched his chest lightly. "It finds its way home."

His throat tightened, the weight of the situation crashing over him. "What if I'm terrible at it? At being a husband."

She reached up to touch his face, her fingers skimming his jaw. "My dear, you already love with your whole soul. You always have."

Benedict searched her gaze, a boy of five again and needing reassurance. "What if I fail her?"

Her smile was sad, wise. "We all fail the ones we love. But Benedict, He would be so proud of you," she whispered, pressing it into Benedict's palm. The weight of the ring in his hand tethered him, the truth settling deep in his chest. He pressed his lips to his mother's forehead, words catching in his throat. "I hope so."

But looking into her eyes, he knew. His father's legacy, his love, it wasn't something to be scared of. It was something to carry.

Bridgerton House – Dinner

The clink of crystal and the hum of conversation filled the dining room as Benedict stood by the window, his fingers worrying the velvet box hidden in his pocket.

The door opened, and his breath caught.

There you were, radiant in emerald silk, your father at your side. His mother swept forward instantly, taking your hands. “Darling, you look absolutely radiant! Come, sit by me.”

Colin, ever observant, smirked over his wine. “Mother, why do you look as if you’re about to cry?”

Violet swatted at him without looking. “Hush and sit down Colin Bridgerton”

Anthony leaned toward Benedict, voice low. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Benedict swallowed hard, his gaze locked on you. “I might be.”

Anthony followed his stare, then sighed, clapping him on the shoulder. Very unaware, or was he. Breathing was impossible when you finally met his eyes across the table, your lips curving in that secret smile,the one meant only for him. Soon, he promised silently.The ring burned in his pocket. Dinner was an exquisite torture. Every time Benedict glanced your way, your fingers would brush the stem of your wineglass,subtle, teasing and he’d nearly forget how to breathe. His family’s laughter, the clatter of silverware, it all faded into a distant hum. There was only you.

And the ring burning a hole in his pocket. Finally, his mother rose with a clap of her hands. “Desert in the garden, I think.”

Colin groaned. “It’s freezing out—” She kicked him under the table.

---

The garden was bathed in golden lantern light, the chill in the air forgotten as Benedict led you away from the others, toward the quiet shelter of the rose arbor.

Your fingers tightened around his. “Benedict?” He turned to face you, his pulse hammering.

“Tell me you didn’t bring me out here to freeze,” you teased, but your breath caught when he dropped to one knee.

Just as Benedict opened his mouth—

“OH MY GOD!"

Eloise's shriek shattered the moment. She stood frozen at the edge of the garden path, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other pointing accusingly. Francesca behind,arm in arm with Daphne. Colin choked on his cake. Anthony nearly dropped his brandy. Hyacinth and Gregory gasped loud enough to wake the dead.

And mother? Mother burst into tears.

Benedict glared at his siblings, jaw clenched. “Not. One. Word. from any of you”

You bit your lip, fighting laughter.He exhaled, shaking his head. Then, with the Bridgertons as his unwilling audience, he held up the ring and spoke the words that would bind you to him forever. "I have loved you since we were children, Y/N. And I will continue to love you for the rest of my life and in the next. There is no one I want to see every sunrise with, no one I would rather grow old with than you. You are my freedom, my joy,my light. I want to spend every day making you laugh, making you happy. You have my heart. My soul. My everything. Will you do me the honor of allowing me to spend the rest of my life making you smile…of allowing me to be the one who wakes up next to you each morning…as your husband?"

Your POV

Benedict's hands trembled slightly as he held up the ring,an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds that had once belonged to his father. The lantern light caught the stones, making them sparkle like stars against the velvet night. The entire Bridgerton clan had gone utterly silent. Even Eloise,mouth still gaping,didn't dare breathe.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. Tears pricked your eyes as you took in the man before you. He was your best friend, your partner in every misadventure, the one person who had never once made you feel like you had to be anything but yourself.

Then, without hesitation, you threw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking him over as you whispered, “Yes. A thousand times, yes."

The garden erupted.

Colin whooped, tossing a cake into the air. Hyacinth squealed, clapping her hands. Francesca smiled softly, while Anthony merely rolled his eyes,though the proud smirk before hugging Daphne And Violet? She was sobbing into her handkerchief, looking at your father.

Eloise stalked forward, arms crossed, but her eyes shone. “Took you long enough," she muttered,before yanking you both into a crushing hug. Benedict laughed against your lips as he kissed you, the taste of champagne and promise sweet between you. And as the celebration swirled around you, one truth settled in your soul.

This was only the beginning.

———————-

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2 @wkhannah

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Benedict Bridgerton

Between Tea and Tribulations

Part 1 - A scandalous Return

Part 2 - A Bridgerton in distress

Part 3 - Temptation and Consequence

Part 4 - Unravelling in Blue

Part 5 - Tangled Threads

————-

Authors note/Summary: Dearest Reader, Has Lady Y/N Forgotten That Powder Rooms Have Locks... And Ears?. After returning from their totally innocent countryside getaway (where absolutely nothing scandalous happened between Benedict and Y/N—wink. The tensions run high. Y/N’s father drops the behave like a proper lady speech! yawn. In this chapter we see the growing connection and tension between Y/N and Benedict, who struggle with keeping their feelings and actions discrete.

With the looming letter y/n received or the potential arrival of an unexpected guest adds a whole new level of complexity to their situation. Me, sipping tea like Violet Bridgerton☕️ If you thought this was unhinged before, buckle up🫣

Warnings: 🔞🔞 Sexual situations and mature themes, Mild violence and mention of minor character death. Smut (fingering, implied sex, teasing in semi-public spaces) ⚠️ Angst:Emotional tension, family drama, past trauma mentions. Daddy Issues kind of.

Benedict’s hands deserve their own warning label 🔥

Word count: 4.5k

Benedict POV

The carriage ride back to London was agony.

Y/N sat primly across from Benedict, her gloves folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed pointedly out the window at the passing countryside. Every bump in the road jostled them closer, their knees brushing, their fingers almost tangling before they both pulled away like they’d been burned. Benedict clenched his jaw.

Two night ago, he’d had her gasping his name into the pillows of that country house. Now? he was fighting not to have her in this carriage right now. The unbearable weight of longing for her. The silence stretched, taut as a violin string.

Then..

"You’re staring," she murmured, still not looking at him.

"You’re beautiful," he countered, because it was true, and because he was done pretending otherwise. The carriage hit another rut. Her hand flew out to steady herself, landing on his thigh. They both froze. Her fingers curled, just slightly, into the fabric of his trousers. Her touch burned through the fine material like a brand. Benedict’s breath caught as her pinky finger traced an absent circle against the sensitive inner seam,that damned casual intimacy more devastating than any deliberate seduction. The carriage lantern swung wildly as they rounded a curve, throwing golden light across the flush creeping up her throat.

"Y/N." His voice came out rougher than intended, the name fracturing on some unspoken plea.

Her fingers tensed but didn’t withdraw. "We can’t right now Benedict"

"Tell that to your hand," he growled, covering it with his own before she could pull away. The heat of her palm seared into his thigh. "you feel that?“

The carriage jolted violently. She tumbled forward with a gasp, her free hand braced against his chest, her lips a breath from his. The scent of her,lemon verbena and that damn French perfume she wears just to torment him,flooded his senses.Outside, London’s first lamps flickered to life. Inside, Benedict was drowning.

That was it. The second his lips met hers, Benedict knew he was lost. Her mouth was warm and desperate against his, fingers twisting in his cravat as she dragged him closer. The carriage swayed dangerously, but he couldn’t bring himself to care,not when she made that soft, broken sound against his lips, not when her body arched into his with shameless hunger. One hand gripped the carriage strap for balance while the other slid beneath her skirts, fingertips tracing the silk of her inner thigh.

“Tell me to stop then,” he murmured against her jaw, breath ragged.

Her nails dug into his shoulder. “Don’t you dare."

The carriage wheels hit a deep rut. The driver shouting that they’d arrived. They broke apart just as the vehicle lurched to a stop,right outside Bridgerton and Harrington Houses. Through the carriage window, although covered with a cheer curtain, Benedict could see Anthony descending the front steps with his mother. Y/N’s lips were swollen, her hair half tumbled from its pins. Bur she effortlessly schooled it. And Benedict? He’d never been harder in his life. As they stepped out of the carriage,Y/N was all poise,a practiced smile in place. He knew if he looked down,he’d find the trembling of her hands,the flush of her cheeks,proof that beneath that perfect veneer she was in flames,just as he was.

Then his mother descended the front steps, concern etched on her face.

"My goodness," she exclaimed, gathering Y/N into a tight embrace. "Benedict, you had us frantic with worry! We received a letter from Mrs. Crabtree saying you were unwell. Are you quite alright?"

"Never better," he lied with an easy smile, even as he caught Y/N's gaze from the corner of his eye. His mother looked unconvinced, sweeping him into a fierce hug.

"Let me look at you," she fretted, stepping back to assess him. "Are you really alright? You look flushed."

"I’m fine, mother."

He was anything but. One look at Y/N had his thoughts spiralling back to the country house, her skin flushed with need, her nails biting into his thighs. Her ridding him like she had. He fought to keep his gaze fixed on his mother,to keep his mind from racing to all the places he wanted to put his hands. The problem was, Benedict had never been particularly skilled at not staring. And now,standing in his family’s foyer with his mother fussing over him while Y/N adjusted her gloves with studied nonchalance,he found his gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

His doing. Violet Bridgerton followed his line of sight. Her eyebrow arched.

"Benedict." Her voice was light, but her grip on his arm tightened meaningfully. "Perhaps you should rest."

Y/N cleared her throat delicately. "I should return home. My father will be expecting me."

Anthony chose that moment to descend the stairs, his expression darkening as he took in the scene. "What the devil happened to you two?"

Benedict forced a laugh. "Nothing dramatic. A minor injury, as Mrs. Crabtree likely mentioned."

"A minor injury?” Anthony repeated flatly, "that kept you both sequestered in the countryside for days?" Y/N's fingers twitched around her reticule. Benedict could see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders pulled taut beneath her dress.

Violet sighed. "Well, you're home now. Benedict, rest. Y/N, darling, tell your father we’ll call on him soon."

Their eyes met across the foyer,a silent promise, a shared secret. And then she was gone. Anthony waited exactly three seconds after the door closed before rounding on him.

"Out with it."

Benedict shrugged, already turning toward the stairs. "Nothing to tell."

Anthony grabbed his arm. "Don’t play the fool with me. do you want to tell me why Cavender looks like his face has been broken in two?”

"Oh?" Benedict arched a brow. Anthony gave him a scolded looked, Benedict made sure his mother had left the foyer before bringing Anthony to the side.

"He insulted and hurt a lady," Benedict finally said. "In my presence."

Anthony's grip loosened but his gaze didn't soften. "And you took that as licence to damn near murder the man?"

"He had it coming."

Anthony snorted. "I have no doubt. But I have also seen you in a fight. You usually stop short of breaking bones."

Benedict shrugged. "He was a bit more than insulting. And he was stupid enough to think there’d be no consequences for his words. I felt like educating him."

Anthony studied him closely. "And this lady. Who was she to you?" Benedict’s jaw tightened. “Someone who matters."

Anthony crossed his arms. "You’re being deliberately vague."

"Because it’s not my story to tell and besides she dealt him a hand too” Benedict’s voice dropped low, lethal. "But if you must know,yes, it was Y/N. Cavender cornered her, after we went to.. never mind where.. If I hadn’t been there..”His fingers curled into fists at the memory. Yes she gave as good as she fought but if he’d have not gone out there.

Anthony’s expression darkened instantly. "You could have lead with that”

"Would it have changed your interrogation?"

Anthony exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No. But it does explain why you lost your damn mind." He clapped Benedict’s shoulder, grip firm. "Next time? Let me know faster, so I can help you bury the body."

Benedict smirked. "Noted."

The conversation ended there, which Benedict was thankful for. He was too raw to keep talking about it. About her. The house felt too large, the silence too heavy without her laughter filling the halls. He forced himself to head for the staircase, to climb toward his room and try to find rest. But his feet slowed until he came to a stop. His gaze drifted to the window. The lights of London flickered to life. She would be home by now.

Y/N's POV

The moment Y/N stepped through her front door, she knew she was in for trouble. Her father stood in the foyer, arms crossed, face unreadable. The butler took her cloak with practiced efficiency before discreetly vanishing. Leaving her alone with a man who had clearly been pacing for days.

"You," her father began coolly, "have been missing for three days”

She sighed, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time. "Father. before you start, Benedict was injured. Mrs. Crabtree can attest—"

"I don’t give a damn about Mrs. Crabtree," he snapped. "You were alone with him. Unchaperoned. For days."

Y/N laughed,actually laughed as she tossed her gloves onto the hall table. "Oh, come now. This is Benedict. My oldest friend. our families are friends. The ton knows we’ve been inseparable since we were children."

"Precisely the problem." His voice dropped dangerously. "You’re not children anymore."

Her fingers stilled on the edge of the table.

He stepped closer. "Do you think me blind? That I haven’t noticed the way you look at him?“

She lifted her chin. "what of it?”

Her father exhaled sharply through his nose. "Then you’re a fool. The Bridgertons may be powerful, but they are not untouchable. Neither are you. the ton would gossip if they knew, Lady Whistledown too”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Penelope you knew would never, but the Ton yes. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying," he enunciated slowly, "that you will remember what your duty is."

"My duty," she echoed. "You mean marry some boring lord and spend the rest of my days popping out babies with him while he’s sleeping with every courtesan in London?"

Anger flashed across his face. "Do not speak like this. It is unbecoming of a lady.”

Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides.

A lady. The words tasted like ash. She knew coming back from France she would have to play the part,the demure smiles, the practiced curtsies, the endless hours spent embroidering useless cushions. And for what? So she could suffocate in silk and polite conversation while men like Benedict, like the rest of them lived as they pleased?

"You want me to be a lady?" Her voice cracked. "Then perhaps you should have raised me with honesty instead of hypocrisy."

Her father recoiled as if struck.

"You think I don’t know?" she continued, the dam inside her finally breaking. "About your visits to Madame Devereux’s? About the gambling debts you hid from Mother? About the fact that the only reason you care about my reputation now is because it affects yours since mother died, that you have to deal with it instead of her”

Silence. Heavy. Terrifying. For a moment, she thought he might strike her. Instead, his shoulders sagged. Her father’s breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. The firelight caught the new silver in his hair, the deep lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before her mother’s passing.

"You’re right," he said quietly, and the raw admission stunned her more than any denial could have. "I have failed you. But not in the way you think."

He turned toward the window, his reflection fractured in the glass.

"When your mother was alive, she..." His voice thickened. "She saw you,truly saw you. The fire in you, the cleverness. She used to say you reminded her of herself at your age." A humorless chuckle. "and you are, so very much like her y/n… God help us both."

Y/N’s throat tightened.

"I’ve been trying to protect you," he continued, "the only way I knew how since she left. By molding you into what society expects. But you..." He finally faced her, his eyes suspiciously bright. "You have always been uncontainable. Like a storm no one can control."

The grandfather clock ticked in the corner.

"So what now?" she whispered.

He reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a sealed letter stamped with unfamiliar wax. "This arrived for you yesterday. From France."

Her fingers closed over the parchment. The moment she saw the looping signature. leo De Montfort. her stomach dropped.

Her father’s gaze was heavy on her.“Your choices y/n follow you always, Just as mine do” He stepped closer, hesitantly brushing a loose curl behind her ear,a gesture so reminiscent of her mother that her chest ached. "You want freedom? Then understand this,the price is higher for women. And whoever you choose in life.” She was surprised her father was so observant of her and Benedict. But De Montfort, gods the man doesn’t give in. She crushed the letter in her fist. Upstairs, in the privacy of her room, she lit a candle and read the words that she’d been running from, a stupid decision she’d made in France, not deserving of the word Lady.

“I am coming for what’s mine” The flame devoured the paper, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. Y/N was standing in the flickering candlelight, the ashes of Leo’s letter crumbling between her fingers. Her mind races,France feels like another lifetime now. A lifetime where she played the reckless debutante abroad. Although to her father she was becoming a lady. Where rules were fluid and consequences felt distant. But now? Now there are shadows at her door, and Benedict. Benedict, who looks at her like she’s his entire world. deserves the truth. But how does one confess that their past is a loaded pistol aimed directly at their future.

The next morning dawned too bright, the sunlight slicing through the drapes like an accusation.

Y/N stared at her reflection, fingers tracing the bruise just beneath her collarbone. Benedict’s teeth from the carriage, a mark half hidden by lace. The ghost of his hands still lingered on her skin, his voice whispering wicked promises against her throat. Y/N pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window. London bustled below. The sound of her bedroom door clicking open made her turn. Her maids entered, carrying an armful of fabric.

"Good morning, milady," the first said cheerily.

Y/N managed a smile. "Good morning."

The maids began sorting through the gowns, their chatter filling the air. Y/N moved to sit at her vanity. She watched her reflection in the mirror, trying to memorise the mask she’d perfected.

The brush dragged through her hair in slow, practiced strokes,on each side. The repetitive motion usually soothed her, but today her fingers trembled. The maids’ chatter about ribbons and lace swirled around her like a distant hum.

“The pink silk today, I think," she murmured, staring blankly at her reflection. Perfect posture. Soft smile. Eyes bright but not too bold. A lady’s armor. Her fingers paused at the bruise again,the one she’d tried to conceal with powder. The maids pretended not to notice, but she caught their exchanged glances in the mirror.

One of them held up a fichu. “Perhaps this would best cover—“

“No." The word came out sharper than intended. She softened it with a practiced laugh. “sorry, yes the fichu will do”

The maids bowed their heads and resumed their work. By the time they fastened the last button on her gown, she looked in the mirror, every inch the composed lady, back straight, lips just parted in serene anticipation. Lies. All of it. Behind that porcelain smile, her pulse hammered. She had no idea how to look at Benedict Bridgerton and pretend she didn’t know the taste of his skin.

———

The tea house was a haven of cream and lace, high ceiling, and elegant furniture. Nothing on the French but next to. The Bridgertons had already gathered at a table near the window, laughter echoing amidst the clatter of silverware. Y/N felt Benedict’s gaze slide to her like a caress as she approached, but she kept her expression cool. It nearly shattered when he smiled at her. A slow, crooked smile that made her heart stutter. Benedict, of course, looked unfairly handsome.

The table was laden with pastries, scones, clotted cream, and lemon curd. Anthony was regaling the table with some story.Colin and Eloise were engaged in heated discussion. Violet Bridgerton sat sipping her tea, watching the entire scene unfold with that fond, watchful smile. Y/N was then seated across from Benedict, and she was hyper aware of every minor movement, every faint brush of his fingertips against the tablecloth. A silent game of cat and mouse. His shoe knocked against hers deliberately under the table, a whisper of contact. He was sitting so close she could smell the familiar citrus scent of his cologne. His lashes shadowed his cheekbones as he pretended to focus on Eloise and Colin. But his knee, angled towards hers, moved infinitesimally closer. His gaze flicked briefly to hers, dark and promising.

A thrill raced down her spine. She picked up her tea with shaking hands, pretending not to notice. Meanwhile, Violet Bridgertons attention had drifted to her. "You look lovely today, Y/N," she commented.

Y/N forced a smile, hoping her face didn't betray anything. "Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. You're too kind."

Violet's eyes drifted again. "Did you not sleep well, dear? You seem tired."

Y/N's heart hammered. "Oh, I've had some trouble sleeping lately," she said lightly. "But it'll pass, I'm sure."

The tea in her cup trembled. Benedict's thumb traced a slow circle on her thigh.

Y/N almost dropped the damn cup. She inhaled, tried to still her suddenly ragged breathing. His touch was a brand through the silk.

Violet was still watching her, concern in her eyes. "Are you certain?"

Meanwhile, Benedict lifted his teacup to his lips, drinking like this was perfectly normal. Like he wasn't currently sending her mind spiraling into a thousand different directions under the table. She pressed her thighs tighter together, his fingers moving higher.

"Quite certain," she managed.

His hand tightened briefly, almost possessive. Under the table, his hand then nudged her legs apart, just enough to slip his hand between.

His thumb grazed the sensitive skin,drawing tiny, maddening circles.

"Because I'd be happy to recommend a herbal remedy," Violet was saying.

Y/N almost choked on her tea. The heat of his touch made her dizzy. Her fingers trembling, she set her cup down carefully.

"Really, it's nothing," she gasped. "I'm simply stressed." Benedict hid a smile behind his teacup. His fingers continued their languid journey up her inner thigh, sending goosebumps over her skin.

Meanwhile, her father was shaking his head. "Stress? That's absurd. You're far too young for such nonsense." Y/N was gripping her skirt beneath the table, trying to stay steady. Benedict's hand crept higher.

Her mind spun with what he was doing. Heat curled low in her stomach, impossible to ignore. The conversation around the table went on, oblivious.

"Too true," Violet agreed. "You should be worrying about suitors and gowns."

Benedict's fingers dipped dangerously close to her core. His gaze met hers,wicked, as his thumb ghosted over the sensitive skin. She swallowed a whimper.

Oh yes, Violet. Absolutely no stress at all. Just the minor matter of my former French lover who might burst into London at any moment and oh, I’m fucking your son and currently being unraveled by your son’s fingers under this very table. But yes, gowns. Definitely gowns are the pressing concern here.

Her teacup rattled against the saucer. Benedict’s smirk deepened. He was enjoying this. Torturing her.

“You’re quite right, Lady Bridgerton,” she said, voice impressively steady. “I’ll focus on more appropriate diversions.”

Like your son’s mouth. Preferably somewhere less crowded. Then Benedict’s finger pressed just there. Y/N shot to her feet.

“Forgive me,” she blurted, cheeks flaming. “I am just nipping to the powder room”

She didn’t wait for a reply before fleeing toward the powder room. Behind her, she heard Benedict murmur something about fetching more lemon cakes before his chair scraped back.

Y/N fled into the empty powder room, heart pounding. She leaned against the door, gasping in much-needed air. Just a few minutes. She just needed a moment to get herself together. Outside, the faint chatter from the table could be heard. No doubt they would wonder where she was. But the thought of sitting back down, of feeling Benedict's gaze upon her, was more than she could bear right now. She splashed water on her overheated face, praying her expression masked the inner chaos.

Then the door creaked open.

Her pulse spiked. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. His reflection appeared behind her in the small mirror. He leaned against the door, arms crossed, gaze burning even in the mirror. She stiffened, trying to maintain some semblance of control. She had to look composed. Unruffled. As if he hadn't just been driving her half insane under the table. Benedict's eyes darkened as he locked the door and he pushed away from it. Prowling towards her. The moment the lock clicked, the air between them crackled with tension. Benedict didn’t speak,he didn’t need to. His hands were already at her waist, spinning her around before pressing her back against the sink. The porcelain rattled as her hip knocked against it, but neither of them cared. His mouth crashed into hers, swallowing her gasp as his fingers dragged up her skirts. There was no finesse now, no teasing,just raw, desperate need.

“I couldn't wait," he growled against her lips, nipping at her bottom lip.

She clawed at his shoulders, fingers tangling in his cravat. “Someone—someone will hear—"

His laugh was dark, sinful. “Then you’ll have to be quiet."

And then his hand was there, He licked his index fingers before sliding them through the wet heat between her thighs. She bit down on her own wrist to stifle a moan, thighs trembling as he pressed one long finger inside her, then two, curling just so….She arched off the sink,her breath coming in ragged little pants against his neck. His thumb circled her clit in tight, relentless strokes as his fingers pumped deeper, faster—

“Benedict” Her voice broke, her nails digging into his biceps. He kissed her again, swallowing her whimpers as she shattered around his fingers, her thighs clamping around his wrist. Only when her gasps slowed did he pull back, lifting his glistening fingers to his mouth with a wicked smirk.

“Delicious," he murmured, sucking his fingers clean.

Her legs nearly gave out. Then,voices in the hallway.

Benedict cursed under his breath, hastily straightening her skirts before tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “We’re not finished,I can never tire of you” he promised darkly, unlocking the door and leaving just as footsteps approached. Y/N barely had time to smooth her expression before Eloise burst in, eyes narrowed.

“There you are,"she said suspiciously. Y/N barely had time to smooth her skirts and compose herself before Eloise strode in, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

Eloise had her hands on hips. “You do realise that vanishing with my brother—is not subtle, yes?" Y/N pretended to adjust her fichu, avoiding Eloise’s gaze in the mirror.

Y/N innocently replied “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean."

Eloise dryly eyes her. You thought she’d be more pissed. “You’re both terrible liars. Also, your fichu is inside out."

Y/N glanced down,damn it, it was.

Eloise began muttering, “I hate being the observant one”

Y/N's cheeks flamed again. She quickly fixed her fichu, avoiding Eloise’s gaze as she tried to look nonchalant. Eloise folded her arms. “I suppose you’ll try to deny anything happened, like a fool.”

Y/N tried to rally. “Eloise, I don't know what—“ But Eloise cut across, her tone hardening.

"Don't insult me with half truths, Y/N. I am you friend, one of you oldest ones remember. You and Benedict think you're being subtle. You're not."

Y/N exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. There was no point lying,not to Eloise, whose perceptiveness bordered on terrifying.

“Fine,” she muttered, pressing her palms to her flushed cheeks. “Yes. It’s—complicated.”

Eloise’s brows shot up. “Complicated? You mean improper”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up Y/N’s throat. If only Eloise knew just how improper they’d been moments ago. But then Eloise stepped closer, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Are you serious about him?”

Y/N hesitated,then nodded. Eloise groaned dramatically. “Ugh. Gross. I always knew you fancied him.”

“I did not—!”

“You did. Remember that summer you spent mooning over him when you were? actually never mind,I swore I’d throw myself into the Thames if you two ever..”She mimed vomiting.

Y/N shoved her lightly. “Rude”

Eloise smirked. “And yet, here you are, confessing your scandalous affairs to me.” She sobered slightly. Not all of them you thought, that was another thing you needed to tell her. “Just—don’t break his heart. He’s irritating, but he’s still my brother and you are my friend”

Before Y/N could reply, Eloise turned on her heel and stalked out, tossing over her shoulder: “Also, fix your hair. You look thoroughly debauched.”

Y/N groaned, staring at her reflection,wild-eyed, lips swollen, curls half fallen from their pins.

Damm Benedict Bridgerton and damn her for loving him.

——————

Taglist: @xadenforever @ilikemintpeassss-blog @fanficscuziranout @borednessa @jackierose902109 @malcomtoddsn1gf @natureartisian @thevirgoviper @malcomtoddsn1gf @bobo-bush @freyafriggafrey @outpostsworld @raynetargaryan2

[a-scribes-sanctum]

Benedict Bridgerton

Tangled Threads

Part 1 - A scandalous return

Part 2 - A Bridgerton in Distress

Part 3 - Temptation and consequence

Part 4 - Unravelling in blue

Authors note/summary: The tension between Y/N and Benedict reaches a boiling point. The return to London looms, an unspoken ache between them. But when night falls, restraint shatters.

Well. That happened.

Listen, I went into this chapter fully intending to write some cute, nostalgic fluff. But Benedict Bridgerton had other plans. That man looked me dead in the eye and said No. Yearning. Now. So here we are.

Thanks again, Your Messy, Emotionally Ruined Author.

Warnings: 🔞🔞 This fic is for mature audiences only!!! Explicit sexual content, Emotional vulnerability, Mild injury mention,

Word count: 4.7k

Benedict POV

Later that night.

The moon hung heavy over the countryside, silver light spilling through the cottage windows like liquid temptation. Benedict Bridgerton was going to hell. He paced the length of his room, his wound be damned,every step was a punishment, every breath laced with the memory of her. Y/n in the lake, water sluicing off bare skin, droplets clinging to the dip of her waist before…

Christ.

He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping until his scalp stung. It wasn’t enough. Across the hall, through the thin walls, he could hear the faint creak of her bed. She’s just there.His fingers twitched at his sides.

Y/N POV

Y/n’s fingers trailed down her own throat, tracing the path a single droplet had taken earlier,the one Benedict’s eyes had followed with something far darker than casual interest. She’d felt his gaze like a brand. Now, in the quiet dark, she let herself imagine it was his touch instead. His hands skating up her thighs, his mouth hot on her collarbone, his voice rasping look at me as he…She bit her lip to stifle the sound crawling up her throat.

Benedict POV

Benedict finally gave in.

One stroke. That’s all he’d allow himself. Just enough to take the edge off this unbearable need. But then he remembered the way she’d smirked at him. At least have the decency to compliment the view and his grip tightened.

Y/N POV

Y/n arched off the bed.

Fuck.She could still smell him,bergamot and sweat and the faint metallic tang of his blood from when she’d pressed the bandage to his skin. Her fingers moved faster.

Benedict POV

Benedict’s breath came in ragged bursts. This was wrong. Or was it? She was right across the hall, likely sleeping, unaware that he was…His hips jerked.

Y/N POV

Y/n’s thighs clenched around her own hand. If only she could be Louder. Let him hear. She pictured him, his eyes gone black with want. The sheets twisted around her legs like sin itself, suffocating, trapping. She kicked them off with a frustrated groan, her skin fever hot even in the cool night air. Damn him.

Her fingers dipped lower, teasing the slow, torturous rhythm he’d once used when teaching her to sketch. Light at first, barely there, then firmer, guiding, until she was gasping. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. Would he watch her like that again? Would he press her into the mattress, his breath ragged in her ear, his grip bruising.

Benedict’s POV

He couldn’t stop.

Every thought was her,the hitch in her breath when she’d bandaged him, the sly curve of her mouth when she caught him staring, the way her thighs had glistened in the moonlight as she stepped from the lake. His teeth sank into his own forearm to muffle the groan tearing from his throat as his hips arched off the bed. This was ruin.And he was too far gone to care.

The tension coiled tighter, unbearable. He dragged his palm over himself again, teeth clenched, the image of her burned behind his eyelids. Y/n arching against her own touch, her lips parted in a silent cry. His fingers tightened. One stroke. Then another. Harder. Faster. And when the release tore through him, his head fell back against the pillow, his groan lost in the suffocating dark.

Y/N POV

She was so close she could scream. Her fingers moved in desperate circles, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She imagined Benedict watching her,no, touching her. His hands replacing hers, his mouth hot on her neck. Then the climax hit her like a wave, pleasure cresting sharp and sudden. She arched off the bed, biting her lip bloody to keep from crying out.

———

Benedict POV

Dawn crept through the windows, painting the room in pale gold. Neither of them had slept. Benedict descended the stairs gingerly, his wound still tender but healing. He'd spent a largely sleepless night, mind consumed in fantasies that wouldn't recede. The kitchen was quiet,the early morning light still muted. Mrs Crabtree was at the stove stirring a pot of something that, judging by the smell, would make his stomach growl if he weren't so preoccupied.

"Morning, Mrs Crabtree" he drawled, snagging a piece of toast.

She glanced up from stirring. "You look dreadful, boy. Didn't sleep?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Bad dreams."

She raised an eyebrow, eyeing his disheveled hair and tired eyes. "I bet."

Benedict tried for a nonchalant tone. "Have you seen Y/n this morning?"

Mrs. Crabtree gave the porridge another slow stir before fixing him with that knowing look. "Haven't laid eyes on her yet," she said, her tone laced with dry amusement. "Strange, considering she's usually the first one raiding my pantry at dawn."

Benedict swallowed the last bite of toast, dusting crumbs from his waistcoat absently. "Perhaps she overslept."

Benedict ambled toward the the living room ostensibly, passing the library. The door was ajar. And there she was. Sprawled inelegantly in the armchair, one leg draped carelessly over the arm, her stockinged foot swinging idly. The morning sun gilded the curve of her ankle, the dip of her calf where her skirts had ridden up just enough to show her thigh. Benedict froze in the doorway, watching as she turned a page, oblivious.

She looked…delectable. The sunlight traced the curve of her throat, dipped into the hollow of her collarbone, slid down the line of her leg. The rise and fall of her chest, her breathing, was languid, completely at ease. In contrast, the drum of Benedict's heartbeat pounded through him like a cannonball, too damn loud. He knew he should walk away. He should keep his gaze respectable. He should not imagine his hands gripping the softness of her thighs.

The air in the library was thick with silence, save for the slow tick of the clock and the quiet rustle of Y/n turning another page. Benedict lingered in the doorway, fingers curling against the wood grain, his pulse hammering as his gaze traced the dip of her inner thigh where fabric had ridden up. He imagined sinking to his knees right there,between her sprawled legs. Pressing his mouth to that soft, untouched skin. Would she gasp? Would her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, hard, exhaling a ragged breath. He had to pull himself together, before she looked up and saw the state he was in. Before she realized how deeply those simple, maddening movements had affected him. He forced a casual tone, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "Enjoying your book?"

She looked up, startled. Her gaze flicked over him, taking in his disheveled shirt, his messy hair. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lip.

"I am" she said nonchalantly, turning another page. His eyes tracked the movement, the way her skirt rode up another dangerous inch. His mind was a jumble of filthy images, all of them starring her and that goddamn skirt. He swallowed, hard, managing to keep his voice even.

"May I…join you?"

Her smirk widened. She closed the book and set it aside, crossing one leg over the other, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs and ankle again before it was tucked neatly behind the other leg.

"Be my guest."

He managed to cross the library without tripping over his own feet, a small miracle. He sank into the armchair across from hers, pouring himself a cup of tea in a desperate attempt to look nonchalant. It was an impossible feat with her eyes studying him like that. He could almost feel her gaze on his skin, as tangible as the heat between them.

She tilted her head, watching him.

"You seem…on edge this morning" she commented, her voice soft and almost mocking. Benedict stirred his tea with deliberate slowness, the silver spoon clinking against the fine china. Then he lifted it to his lips, letting the metal slide against his tongue in a slow, languid drag. His eyes never left hers.

“Do I?"

Y/N's POV

The spoon. The goddamn spoon.

Y/n's fingers tightened around her book as she watched Benedict’s mouth close around the silver, his tongue tracing its curve with deliberate, sinful precision. Heat pooled low in her stomach, sudden and searing. She exhaled sharply through her nose, willing her pulse to steady. He knew exactly what he was doing. And worse,she was letting him. Her grip on the book turned white knuckled. Bastard. Benedict’s smirk deepened as he set the spoon down with a soft clink. “You look flushed," he murmured.

His voice was like velvet, but she wouldn't let herself be enticed.

"It's warm in here."

His gaze flicked to the fireplace, the remains of last night's fire. "Is it?"

He crossed his ankles, lounging back in the chair with feigned casualness. But she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch.

He lifted his teacup to his lips. Her eyes followed his every move. He took a slow, leisurely sip. And damn him, he let a soft moan escape as the liquid slid down his throat. Her breathing quickened, a traitorous reaction. He set his cup back on the saucer with deliberate care, his gaze never leaving hers. "I suppose it is a little...hot."

A dangerous edge underlaid his words, and heat coiled through her, tightening in her abdomen. God, she wanted to smack him. Or kiss him. She couldn't tell which impulse was stronger. Her voice came out as a ragged whisper.

"Maybe you should open a window."

Benedict rose gracefully from the chair,too gracefully for a man with a healing wound and stretched as he moved toward the window. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders before riding up just enough to reveal the edge of his bandage, the faintest peek of skin where her fingers had tended to him yesterday. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away. “That wound seems to be healing well," she remarked, feigning disinterest as she traced the spine of her book with a fingertip. He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk infuriatingly knowing. “Yes, thanks to your... capable hands."

The window latch creaked as he lifted it, letting in a cool breeze,not that it did much to relieve the feverish tension thickening the air between them.

Her jaw tightened. “Don't mention it."

“Oh, but how could I not?" He turned, leaning back against the sill, arms crossed. “You’re quite the nurse."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “And you're quite the terrible patient."

He chuckled, low and warm. “Terrible?“

Y/N stood abruptly, the book slipping from her lap onto the floor with a soft thud.

"You know what?" she said, her voice sharper than intended. "Maybe we should get some air. It is a little hot in here”

Benedict's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, like he'd been waiting for her to break first. He pushed off the windowsill with deliberate slowness. Then he stepped closer just a little.

He was close enough now that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, could smell the lingering warmth of his skin beneath the crisp bergamot scent of his cologne. His gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second,just long enough to make her pulse leap. She skirted past him, the space between them crackling with heat. She could feel his gaze on her back as she stepped onto the lawn, the damp grass cool and dewy beneath her stockings. She let out a breath, willing her pulse to slow. Then she heard his footsteps behind her. Deliberate steps that sent a shiver down her spine. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite define. His gaze skimmed over her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her wind tousled hair. He was handsome, gods he always had been.

The wind snatched at her skirts as she turned, forcing her to press them down with impatient hands. Just in time to see Benedict bend over, his fingers closing around something on the ground. A kite? it looked like Gregory’s old forgotten kite,half buried in the grass. Of course.The thing was battered, its painted silk frayed at the edges. And the way Benedict held it up, grinning like a boy with a stolen sweet, made her stomach flip.

"Come on," he said, jerking his chin toward the open field. "Let’s see if we can get this thing going."

The challenge in his eyes, the rakish tilt of his head, it was infuriating And irresistible.

" I haven’t flown a kite since being a child, you know I was sent to France to become a lady and civilised?," she muttered, stomping toward him. He chuckled, his voice low and smug. "Oh, I can tell."

She shot him a sharp glare, but he only laughed again. It was a beautiful sound, like the rumble of thunder before a storm. He held out the kite, his fingers grazing hers for a brief, tantalizing moment. "Hold this."

She obeyed, taking hold of the strings as he instructed. The kite felt impossibly tiny and fragile in her hands, but she held on tight.

Benedict’s POV

“ I am injured," he reminded her, grinning shamelessly as he gestured to his side. “So this has to be you."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, gripping the spool of string with a stubborn determination that made his chest tighten. And then she ran. God, she ran like she was twelve again,skirts clutched in one hand, hair streaming behind her, laughter ringing out as the kite caught the wind and lurched skyward. Benedict hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it rushed out of him in a sharp exhale.

She was radiant. Not polished. Not poised. Not the carefully cultivated diamond of the ton that she'd been trained to be. Just her,wild and unfiltered, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with triumph as the kite soared higher.

It was bewildering.

And breathtaking.

For a moment, he forgot about stolen glances and midnight fantasies. Forgot about aching wounds and unspoken desires. There was only this,her joy, reckless and unchecked, and the unbearable urge to chase after her, to catch her. The kite jerked violently in a sudden gust, tearing from her grasp.

“Oh no you don’t!" she yelped, bolting after it, her boots kicking up clumps of grass. Benedict laughed, loud and unguarded, before wincing at the pull of his stitches. But it didn’t stop him from following.

Her shoulder pressed against his, warm and solid. Her breath came in quick, uneven bursts,each one a quiet confession of the wildness they’d just indulged. He stared up at the sky, acutely aware of the way her pinky finger had somehow tangled with his. She turned her head toward him. Her lips were parted, her eyelashes casting long shadows over cheeks still flushed from running. There was a question in her eyes,one he didn’t trust himself to answer. So instead, he grinned. "You’re still terrible at kite flying."

She kicked his ankle lightly. "I will give you another injury if you aren’t careful”

The tension hummed between them, thicker than before, threaded with something new. Something reckless. And then,A distant voice shattered the moment. Mrs. Crabtree stood at the edge of the field, hands on her hips. “food is getting cold you two!”

The dining room was too small. That was the only explanation for why every glance, every brush of their fingers as dishes were passed, felt so deliberate. Y/n stabbed her fork into her potatoes with unnecessary force.

"So," she said, her voice falsely light. "I assume we will be Back to London soon, then?"

Benedict’s jaw tightened around his sip of wine. "Once I’m fully healed, yes."

Mrs. Crabtree snorted between them. "Which won’t be nearly soon enough if you keep aggravating it chasing kites."

Silence settled again, heavier this time. The scrape of silverware was deafening. Mrs. Crabtree shook her head, mumbling something about stubborn, careless men as she left the room. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality. And then they were alone. Benedict put down his knife with an audible clink.

"You sound as thrilled as I do about returning."

A humorless laugh bubbled up from her throat. "Yes, I can hardly wait to return. The endless balls and dinner parties and simpering debutantes,oh and the gossip. I can hardly wait to be the subject of every scandal sheet again."

Benedict smiled wryly. "You do seem to make a habit of causing trouble."

She arched an eyebrow. "Me? I believe the last time I checked, it was you with the injury."

Benedict leaned back in his chair, studying her. He knew why she didn’t sound thrilled and This table felt like an ocean separating them. "Will you miss the freedom?"

She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. "I will. will You?"

His eyes never left her face.

"You know I will."

His voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. "Especially since this version of you,wild, untamed, smirking at me from across a damned field,is the one I've missed the most."

Her fingers stilled on the napkin. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. And then,Clatter. Mrs. Crabtree bustled back in, arms laden with a steaming pie. She glanced between them, snorted, and muttered something to herself. Lord save me from lovesick fools.

Later that night, when the house was silent and the moon high. Benedict paced his room, frustration and desire warring within him. The clock ticked relentlessly on the wall, each second another reminder of the hours separating him from the woman he needed. Needed,wanted,desired,ached for. The night deepened. Moonlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in a pale,lunar glow. He paused, his hand clenching into fists. Damn it,damn it. He couldn’t do this anymore. He threw on a shirt and stalked into the silent hallway.

Her door was just down the hall.

He stopped outside, his heart hammering like a wild thing. This was madness. He shouldn't be here. He should be in bed, resting,healing,being the sensible one. Except when it came to her,he was neither. He raised a fist toward the door, hesitated. Maybe she was already asleep. A small mercy,he could turn around and— The door opened.

Y/n stood there, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, her silk nightgown clinging to every curve, the delicate corset beneath barely containing the rise of her breasts.

She was wearing silk. Silk that glided like water over her curves, dipped dangerously low at her collarbone, gathered just above her hips in a froth of lace. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders like a waterfall.

Benedict knew a saint couldn't have resisted that sight. They stood staring at each other in that moment of stunned realization, her lips parted and eyes wide. His chest was heaving. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He took a single step forward and she spoke.

"Benedict”

His name was barely past her lips before he crashed into her, his hands gripping her waist, his mouth crashing down on hers in a searing, desperate kiss. The door slammed shut behind them as he backed her against it, his body pinning hers with reckless abandon. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she gasped against his lips. No words. No hesitation. Just this,heat and hunger and years of pent up longing unraveling in the space between them. He didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to give it either.

Y/N’s POV

Y/n’s pulse raced as Benedict pulled her in tighter, his body a perfect,solid heat against hers. Her fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth moved to her throat, leaving a trail of hot,open mouthed kisses just below her ear. A ragged hiss escaped her as he gripped her thighs, hitching her higher, pinning her more firmly to the wall.

His name slipped from her lips in a gasp, “Benedict”rough and desperate,half plea, half prayer. The way it tasted on her tongue was intoxicating, like stolen brandy and summer storms. His groan vibrated against her throat, fingers tightening on her thighs as if he couldn’t bear to let go. She arched into him, nails scraping down his back, needing more, needing everything. Ripping his shirt over his head. The years of restraint, the time away,the way he’d always looked at her like she was both salvation and ruin. And it all unraveled now in the desperate clutch of their bodies.

Benedict's POV

God, the sounds she makes.

Her breathy moan coiled straight through him, tightening his gut, sending fire licking down his spine. Every hitch of her hips, every gasp of his name, every fuck whispered against his skin was a blade twisted in the sweetest way.

He wanted to devour her.

Wanted to map every inch of her with his mouth, memorize the way her body shuddered beneath his hands, drown in the taste of her skin. But more than that,Christ he wanted her to remember this. Remember him. Even when they returned to London, even when duty and society tried to force them back into their roles, he wanted her to lie awake at night aching for this. For him. He wanted her always. His teeth grazed her collarbone, his voice ragged against her ear. “Tell me you want this." A demand. A plea.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Benedict’s lips brushed her ear, his voice low and rough with desperation.

“please tell me you want this."

She whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair. “Yes”

He growled, pressing her harder against the door, his lips finding hers again in a kiss that was anything but gentle. When he pulled back, his voice was raw, wrecked.

“Say it properly.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. “I want you”

His chest constricted. It wasn’t enough. He needed her to know,needed her to feel the way she unraveled him. How she always had. His lips ghosted along her jaw, down her throat, teeth scraping where her pulse fluttered wildly. “You have no idea,” he rasped, “how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” She arched into him with a gasp, and he cursed under his breath.

“Every damn time you walk into a room, I forget how to breathe. Every time you laugh,it cuts right through me. Every time you look at me…God Y/N, it is like standing too close to a flame.”

His hands slid up her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, and she shuddered.

“You burn me alive,” he confessed against her skin. “And I’d let you. I want you to.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze,her eyes dark, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. His heart thundered at the sight.

“Benedict—”

He kissed her again, harder this time, swallowing her moan. When he broke away, his voice was rough with longing.

“Tell me you feel it too.”

Her fingers traced his jaw, his lips, his collarbone,slow, reverent. Then she whispered the words that shattered him.

“Every second.”

His breath left him in a rush. That was all it took. His hands found her thighs, hitching her up as she wrapped her legs around him, and he carried her to the bed with a desperation that bordered on worship. He lowered her onto the mattress with trembling hands, his gaze searing. The fire had burned low, casting the room in shadows that licked across their skin. He was above her, braced on his elbows, his eyes fixed on her face as he traced a shaky finger down her cheek, down her breasts. Pulling her corset open just so slightly so he could trace circles over her nipples.

"God, you are beautiful" he said, his voice a reverent whisper. His hands then trailed lower, tracing the edge of her corset leaving goosebumps in their wake. He had dreamed of this, and nothing could compare. Her hands found his jaw, drawing him down, and their lips met in another kiss. Each kiss was a question.

Do you need me? Do you want me? Have I made you burn the way you make me burn?

Y/n's nails scraped along his back as he kissed down her throat, his heart in his throat. God, the sounds she made, each one sending heat coiling through him. He was dizzy, drunk on her. He pressed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat, the proof of her desire.

"Say my name again" he breathed, kissing her jaw. "Please"

She complied, her voice a breathless whisper as she said his name again for him, and he shuddered at how much the sound of it on her lips affected him. His hands skimmed her bare thighs, gripping her waist.

"Off," his voice was a rasp. He tugged at her corset. She unraveled. He was breathless. Almost reverent as he gazed at her. Benedict stripped off his trousers as well with impatient hands, his gaze never leaving hers as he knelt between her thighs. His fingers glided down her stomach, lower,then paused. He lifted his fingers to his lips, watching her reaction as he slowly wet them with his tongue before dragging them back down, tracing circles where she was already slick with desire. Her breath hitched, her hips arching instinctively into his touch.

“Benedict,please”

His name on her lips was his undoing. He lowered his mouth to her, tongue replacing his fingers, drinking in the taste of her,honey and heat and sin. Her moan was ragged, fingers twisting in the sheets. His lips curled against her skin as he worked her slowly, relentlessly, until her thighs trembled, until her breath came in shallow gasps. Only then did he rise, pressing his forehead to hers, his own breathing uneven.

“Look at me,” he demanded. She obeyed, her eyes glazed with pleasure. He lined himself up, every muscle taut with restraint.

“Tell me you’re mine.” She arched beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yours.” He thrust into her in one smooth stroke, stealing her gasp with his mouth.

The moment was incendiary. The air between them crackled with something feral, something beyond restraint. Benedict groaned against her lips, forehead pressed to hers as he gave her a moment to adjust, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Fuck” His voice was shattered, barely recognizable. Her breath hitched, nails raking down his back as she arched beneath him. "Move."

And Benedict, ever the artist, ever the gentleman, lost all semblance of control. His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, each thrust stealing another ragged gasp from her lips. She was tight, impossibly so, her body clenching around him in a way that had his vision blurring at the edges.

"God, Y/n”His hands gripped her hips, dragging her harder against him, desperate for more, deeper, closer.Her legs locked around his waist, her fingers twisting in his hair as she pulled him down for another searing kiss,messy, desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. He groaned into her mouth, the sound rough, wrecked. Every thrust was a collision of heat and friction, every ragged breath shared between them a promise.

Her nails bit into his shoulders, her thighs tightening around him as her breath came in broken gasps against his lips. "I,Benedict, please I’m going to..”

He knew that tone, that tremble in her voice.

"Cum for me," he growled against her throat, thrusting deeper, harder. "Let me feel it." And she did,her back arching off the bed, her cry muffled against his shoulder as she shattered beneath him, her body clamping around him in waves of pleasure that had him seeing stars.

He followed her over the edge with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled into her, his entire body shuddering with the force of it. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their labored breathing, the sweat slick press of their bodies, the frantic drum of their hearts. Benedict collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her spine. She sighed, curling into him, her head resting over his heart. Outside, the first light of dawn crept through the curtains.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

——————-

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