lazy witch

slytherin princess. 20’s

[shallyne]

If there is one hill I am on it's Feyre's. I live on that hill, I breathe on that hill, I fight on that hill and I WILL DIE ON THAT HILL

[hopscotchkiss]

𖧁୧ mean!simon x reader ⎯ cw: age gap (unspecified & legal)

𓋭 ๋   ׅ simon needs you to stay quiet while your parents are down the hall. emphasis on age gap and all that jazz (reader is an adult).

18+ only. | reupload from lackadaisies. this is my fic, i'm not a thief!

likes & comments appreciated! let me know your thoughts please, reblogs are SO important ♥︎

“Christ, you can be such a kid sometimes; quit whining,” Simon sighs sharply with exasperation—bordering on urgency—hips slamming into yours as if to drive the point further home. He doesn't quite mean to be harsh, but he's on edge as is with your parents slumbering down the hall, and keeping you quiet is proving to be a task.

He watches you blubber and twitch on his cock almost like it hurts, and maybe it does, but it only reminds him of your youth and inexperience; something about that makes him angry. At himself? At you and your naïvete? At the sands of time itself, perhaps.

“Well, go pick on someone your own age then,” you mumble defensively, your furrowed brows peeking over your shoulder at him. A dewy flush has spread across your torso and creeps up your ears, sweat glistening along the valley of your curved spine as you twist to glare at him petulantly. Simon finds you pretty just like this—with your bra strap sagging down your shoulder and your lower lip sticking out, and all.

You don't even know the weight of your words.

He scoffs derisively, a near-laugh, almost amused by your quip despite himself. Guilelessly, your heart flutters triumphantly at the idea of amusing him somehow, for the modicum of approval, before Simon leans in to sneer in your ear, lips set in a straight line, “Shut it.”

“Yer gonna wake your parents, y'want that?” His fingers braid through your hair, gathering the strands at the base of your skull in a tight fist and dictating where your head stays. (A piteous 'Ow!' consequently gets muffled into the bedding.) He pulls out halfway before sawing back inside, watching your puffy cunt spread wide to swallow his thick shaft, a bead of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “Won't be able to fuck this sweet lil' cunt anymore if they take you away from me. We don't want that, do we, pet?”

“N-No—”

“Good.” He rewards your compliance by plunging into your heat with a thrust that makes the bedframe creak under his weight in protest, smushing your cheek in the mattress with the hand on your head. You scrunch your eyes shut to brace yourself for the onslaught Simon pours over you, jerking in time with his unforgiving ministrations. The frilly throw pillow wedged between the bedframe and the wall trembles with each pass, soaking up the noise while it takes the brunt of your activities.

The stickiness of your arousal streaks his shaft—glistening webs stretching out between you and his sack, drenching him anew as he withdraws then rams back in. His blunt fingers trace your mouth where choked moans emit from presently, inspecting the cushion of your lips in a sort of appreciation for your good, silent behavior. They slip past the rim of your warm mouth, forcing your lips to gape around the intrusion as they hook on; feeling your wet tongue under the pads of his fingers. Feeling you salivate as he grazes your tender g-spot. With all his years of experience and your lack of it, you're so easy to figure out.

He observes your voice inadvertently grow in volume as you struggle around the intrusion in your mouth, wringing out staccato whines from your throat as his cock pistons inside you. Your brows knit together helplessly, slurping, drooling, and whimpering around his digits all at once while you try to swallow your voice, and Simon aids you by relieving your jaw and letting you suckle on his fingers instead. Your soft lips seal around his middle and ring finger all too readily, puckered and suckling.

Simon can't help but coo at the sight in his low baritone, tutting quietly, “Just like that. Real quiet now, aintcha?” Your spit bubbles around his knuckles as he pushes deeper, enough to make you gag, but Simon makes it clear he doesn't mind the mess with the evidence of his desire throbbing inside your cunt meanly.

“Just need a firm hand to reel you in every now and again, hm? Is thaʼ what you need, luv?” The warmth of his breath brushes against the shell of your ear, his sweaty chest against your back, your eyelids blowing wide as you peek at his shadowy silhouette out of the corner of your eye. He can feel your tongue flounder against his fingers, a muffled noise behind his knuckles.

By way of the obstruction in your mouth, you don't bother with an answer—rather, your mind is someplace entirely—eyelids blissfully sliding shut as his girth, curved just right, plunges in and out of you, your walls squeezing around him welcomingly.

“Is it?”

Nodding your head in haste, your eyes water as his cockhead slams against what you're pretty sure is your cervix. You gasp for air as though trying to make room for him in your ribs, and Simon can feel every spasm of your aching pussy around him, painting your insides with pre.

The syllables of sorry and yes are mouthed around his thick digits, and a secret part of Simon relishes this, all of it: you, unadulterated and unfiltered. Still new, still unpolished. Simon, a grounding force. Someone to teach you to handle all that buzzing energy.

Simon's burly form is like a blanket on top of you, his angular nose nuzzling the nape of your sweat-damp neck. In the dark of your room, everything sounds awfully... wet—from the suckling sounds from your mouth, to the wet slide of his cock inside your dripping hole.

His eyes slide from the crown of your head to the strip of light under your bedroom door, which has remained undisturbed—until now. Simon’s heavy-lidded gaze lingers on the shadowy movement beyond it, the drone of his shallow pants filling your ears as you're immobilized under him, his broad frame blocking out the rest of the world.

It's only when his fingers pop past your lips and clamp tight over your mouth that you're alerted to the distinct noise of your father's yawning outside, floorboards creaking below his lumbering feet nearly lost under your own rapid heartbeat in your ears. “Quiet,” Simon mutters in your ear brusquely, straight teeth nipping at your earlobe.

“Honʼ? You awake?”

As your stomach drops fearfully, so too do your thighs clamp together when Simon bucks his hips against you.

“Hah, wait, Si—”

“Shut up nʼ take it.”

You're drowning in the sheets, really, getting fucked into the mattress by the man on top of you while your father's voice floats into the room. He never pulls out fully, just saws in like he's intent on making you feel every inch of his veiny girth and breaking you down here and now. Simon’s achingly close, and he's hardly eager to put this on hold for later—especially when your spasming cunt seems to be milking him for all he's worth. So he doesn't.

You don't respond to your father, hoping to feign sleep—and he tries again, God bless his soul. The bedding smothers your head, your stifled breaths echoed back to you making his voice almost inaudible.

“Could've sworn...”

The muttering trails off, and his footsteps lazily recede down the hall into a soft pitter-patter. You hold your breath, waiting to hear the click of his bedroom door, only it never comes. Is it anxiety or butterflies twisting in your belly? You can't tell.

Simon knows you're trapped like this, smothered and stuffed full with his cock, and he likes that. You have half the mind to keep your mouth shut as he unloads his spend in you with choked grunts, your kicking legs the only half-hearted sign of disapproval.

You tip over the edge just as heavy footfalls close in on your door, leaving a creamy ring around the base of Simon's shaft as he fucks his cum into you with wet squelches.

“It's 3 AM, go to bed!”

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๋      ׅ authorʼs note — oldie but a goodie, sorta. i can't reread my old stuff or i cringe. ( authors note from old blog : idk about you, but my parents still get mad at me for staying up late at my grownass age. this one is rushed & full of bad run-on sentences. enjoy my word vomit its so bad lool. )

© LACKADAISIES ‘25. | all rights reserved. copying, translation, or ai training not authorized; ask for direct permission before you take inspiration from my posts. iʼll cry if you copy my hard work, please be considerate.

[yeyinde]

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

[cvntycora]

𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 𝖫𝖤𝖥𝖳 𝖴𝖭𝖲𝖠𝖨𝖣

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : you confessed your undying love to zuko back when you were 17. he rejects you. you swear to never see him again. that plan falls apart the moment aang calls everyone back together- and brings along a handsome, mysterious airbender who seems to fit into your life a little too easily. now, between unresolved feelings, forced proximity, and a mission that refuses to stay simple, avoiding zuko isn’t an option anymore.

-> slow burn (or maybe medium burn idk)!! forced proximity, kinda a once sided enemies to lovers, love triangle, yearning zuko, you might get mad at y/n but dont get mad at me :), reader is kinda mean. noooo use of “y/n”

wc: currently 16.8k, will change as i update

**slow updates bc…I have a life lmao sorrryyy💔

PART ONE

-> atla movie spoilers, some ppl are ooc, cursing, nothing crazy. not proofread!

PART TWO

-> atla movie spoilers, ooc characters, still nothing too crazy i think. not proofread

PART THREE

-> mdni, oral (fem receiving), grinding, the nasty stuff isn’t w zuko lol, some characters are ooc again, atla movie spoilers, read the note at the end. mostly proofread!

PART FOUR

-> angst, ooc, not really any movie spoilers in this one, cursing probably lol. not proofread!

PART FIVE

-> coming soon **I’ve had a lot of recent developments in my personal life, sorry ab the slower updates 🥹

[wholoveseggs]

Emergency Contact

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader} You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...

♡ dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo ♡

8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...

You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.

And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.

The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.

"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."

Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.

You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.

"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."

He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.

"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."

Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?

You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you. 

You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.

But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.

"Father."

Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.

The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.

"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."

Your stomach dropped.

Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.

"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."

The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."

Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.

Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.

Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."

The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.

He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.

"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"

Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.

He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."

He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.

You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.

Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-

You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.

But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.

He's not coming.

The thought was a cold stone in your gut.

He's not coming. He was never going to come.

Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.

You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.

Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.

Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.

You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.

And the screams began.

Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.

Screams.

You stirred. The dream flickered.

Screams. Real ones.

Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.

And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.

Caraxes.

Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.

Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.

"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"

His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.

He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open. 

You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.

And then you saw him.

Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.

"Wife."

He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.

You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.

"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.

He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"

"They told me-"

He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"

You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.

Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."

He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.

Daemon moved before you could breathe.

He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.

The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.

It took seconds. Less.

"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.

There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.

The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.

"Keep moving."

You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation. 

And then he pulled you onward.

Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.

The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. 

But the fighting was over.

Byrch's men were on their knees.

Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.

The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.

Daemon walked you through them.

His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.

Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.

At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.

"Byrch."

Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.

The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."

Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"

"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"

"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat. 

Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"

"Because I- because-"

"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen. 

Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.

The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.

Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.

Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.

Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.

A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.

You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.

Daemon turned to you.

He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. 

"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."

"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.

He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.

"You're hurt," you breathed.

He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.

You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.

A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.

He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.

"Sovès" Daemon yelled.

Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.

And then the dragon launched itself into the air.

You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.

The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.

A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-

You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.

Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.

"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.

It was alright.

You were safe.

At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.

But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.

Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.

Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.

Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.

Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.

You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.

The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.

This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.

"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.

"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.

"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.

He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.

"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't."

He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.

"Daemon."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.

"I'll live," he said. "Sit."

You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."

His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.

The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.

"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.

"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."

You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.

He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.

"I should have killed them slower."

"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.

He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.

"That needs stitching."

"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."

"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.

You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.

But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."

"Breathe," you repeated.

"Aye, you're shaking."

You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.

"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.

"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.

"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.

His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.

"Why did you come for me?" you asked.

He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.

"Because you're my wife."

"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.

"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"

You didn't know what to say to that.

He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.

"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."

"Make meaning then."

He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.

"Drink."

You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.

"I didn't think you would come."

He said nothing.

"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"

"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.

You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.

The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.

"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over. 

He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"The truth."

"You won't like it."

"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising. 

"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?" 

He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.

"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."

He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.

Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.

By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.

He walked into the sea without a word.

You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.

You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.

You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.

The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.

The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.

"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"

"Something like that."

You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.

"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.

He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"

"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."

He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"

"Shut up."

He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."

You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."

"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."

"You are a terrible husband."

"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."

You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.

"You're selfish."

"And?"

"A cheater."

"Keep going."

"Infuriating."

"More."

"Unkind."

"Very."

He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.

He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.

"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.

He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.

"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."

He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."

You stared at him.

He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."

"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."

"You've never once asked me what I want."

He tilted his head. "What do you want?"

You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.

"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."

You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."

"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.

You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"

You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."

"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"

"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.

He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.

You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.

"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.

"Getting warmer," you murmured.

He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.

When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.

He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.

"How's your leg?"

"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.

"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.

"You're very far away," you said.

He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"

"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."

His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."

"How considerate."

"I have my moments."

You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Take what I want."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"

You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."

He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.

"What's all this for?" he murmured.

"Because I want to."

"Not because I rescued you?"

"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."

His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"

You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."

He kissed your fingertips.

"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."

"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."

"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."

He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."

You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.

Your cheeks flushed.

His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."

"I recall you being rather drunk."

"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"It's the truth."

You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.

"You're still too far away," you said.

"I'm right here."

"Then kiss me."

His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.

"Years of practice," he smirked.

You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.

"I don't want to hear about your practice."

"Then don't ask."

You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."

His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.

His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.

"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.

He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.

You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.

Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.

"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."

Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.

"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.

"Then take what you want, wife."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.

When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.

You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.

"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.

His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."

Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.

He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.

"Look at me."

His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're beautiful."

The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.

He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.

He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.

"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.

"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.

It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.

"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.

"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.

"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."

His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."

"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."

"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."

Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.

He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.

[templeofsoot]

simon is a horrible partner to sleep with in this weather. he wears only his briefs and gets clammy five minutes after falling asleep. you have to scoop to the very side of the bed because he's just too big and likes to dig his shoulder into the split between the mattresses (he's too cheap to buy a matrimonial) and you can feel the heat billowing off him even when inches apart.

he's always warm, maladapted to the mugginess, and you're not that different.

you touch each other less and less, nerves overstimulated by the temperature. he keeps muscling his way into the shower because its the only place you'll let him fuck you.

you wake up in the middle of the night with sweat in the divot of your spine and stare up at the ceiling in irritation. he doesn't care because he keeps sleeping.

rationally, it's not exactly his fault. he's just made of fat and brawn which heat up quick, and you like it in the winter, that the little space of the bed forces you two to squeeze together. its nice and you miss it.

your body is still somewhat asleep and not opposed to the idea of some touching.

you decide to test out that instinct by sliding a leg over his pale thigh, shuffling closer over the humid sheets. the regret is immediate, starting your retreat the moment your ankle itches with the warmth of his skin.

simon tries to fish for you with his eyes closed, and you swat his hand away before it can make contact. "no," you bleat, already back to irritated.

he grunts his disappointment while digging his face into the pillow. you can't stand the bed anymore.

its around three and you paddle down the hallway into the kitchen. the portable AC hooked into the glass door tempts you with the beeping of its spy light, but your feet drag past it — all the windows are open, wishing to catch some stray night breeze, and it'd be a bore to shut them close.

you think about pulling a knife from the drawer and hacking at yourself from the nape down. you want your skin off. instead, you open the fridge door for some water.

the cold air is so inviting that you forget about it and stand still in front of the appliance. it brushes against your exposed midriff and under the fine fuzz on your thighs. somewhere in the back of your skull your brain protests something about electricity bills and food preservation, but you really don't want to move.

"oi." simon pads behind you, and you realise you've been standing in place longer than planned. "yer lettin' the cold out."

"go back to bed."

"s'you can hog the fridge? move over."

you feel him on your spine and keep your elbow from wanting to knock him in the jaw. "go away."

he burrs that rumble that stands in for a chuckle and puts an arm over the top of the freezer, bumping his bicep into your crown. his belly is sticky when it slots into your back, perspiration blooming there immediately, so you slouch further towards the fridge.

"fuck off. this is my space."

"th'is my space," he singsongs, and he tugs the hem of your shorts over your ass, not even bothering with the front until the cheeks are out. he knows you don't wear anything under because his thumb pads at your labia to nudge it apart.

something makes you wince, his touch or the cold air or the heat. your body prims in interest, legs widening when he rubs the tent of his crotch up and down between your cleft.

"s'too hot," you try, but his shoulders are already pressing you down into more of a bend and sliding the fabric away from your pussy until it bunches at the top of your knees. he sticks his tacky fingers over your tacky clit and gives you a couple of good rubs.

"no, its not."

he decides for both of you. you feel light-headed and don't say otherwise.

he gives up too soon the effort of coaxing you away from sleepiness in favour of spitting into his palm and smearing the thick glob over your slit, wedging between your bodies. you want to scold him because saliva is terrible for your pH and he lets you open your mouth before he pushes two fingers inside, three knuckles in until you yelp.

when he fucks you, you have to press your cheek against the freezer door to not fall forward. it's too lazy to be any true shade of good, too pleasant to be any way of bad. he pins you there with his mouth on the bone and coos that your cunt's like a bloody fever, that you're such a wet girl, it's embarrassing. you're both aware most of the moisture between you is sweat.

simon bends his neck to lap at it on the start of your spine and you shiver when he tugs down your top so he can circle a nipple until it hardens in the cold air. you think that if it weren't for the fridge you'd pass out.

his thrusts are pushes, pressing against the fullness of your ass, made less to savour the back-and-forth and more because he likes how you pulse around his cock when they force you on your tiptoes.

he doesn't pace himself, and when you feel him throb, you almost stomp over his bare foot. "make me cum," you remind him, agitated, "simon, don't you dare- ah!"

you feel him grin with all his teeth, but he strums his fingers against your clit nonetheless. "shut up," he sighs, almost annoyed, nose fitted on your occipital. his hips smack against the back of yours when the motion of his pads has you tightening. "alrigh'. yeah, you cum too... tha's it..."

his spent slides down your legs into the gusset of your shorts, and you knock your knees together to keep it off the parquet.

"darlin'," he sniffs, like it's your fault, "look at you. yer all sweaty."

you hate him a little when he hounds you into the shower. you hate him a little less with cold water washing over you.

this time in bed, you're both naked, cool enough that you risk plastering under the wing of his lateral muscles. it still takes him only five minutes to get clammy, holding you prisoner under his arm.

[warmfrequency]

ripe

john price x fem!reader, smut (1.3k)

The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore — one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.

You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he won’t name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth — his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.

Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.

You wanted to get up to finally rinse.

To feel like a person again.

But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.

"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.

"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.

"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."

"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.

His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.

He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.

"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"

"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.

"Mm-mm," he protested.

Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.

He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.

He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.

"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."

You could hear his grin.

"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"

A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."

He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.

He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.

"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."

"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.

"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."

It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.

He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.

Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.

He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.

[valarrtheyoungprince]

if fmc had no issues with rhaenys’ birth and everything went as smoothly as it could, how long would it take valarr to breed her again? would he even last a full year lmao? im imagining him going full uncle maekar mode if her health permits it

Realistically in their dynamic? Valarr wouldn’t even last six months.

If Rhaenys’s birth was textbook-perfect—no tearing, no hemorrhage, and no threat to FMC's health, quick recovery, and FMC bouncing back with that post-pregnancy glow that drives him feral—he’d be on her the second the modern OB clears her for “intimate activity.” We’re talking four to six weeks postpartum at the absolute latest, and that’s only because he’s trying to be respectful.

But Valarr Targaryen in full obsessive-husband mode? The man who already worships her body like it’s his personal Valyrian relic? The second she’s off pelvic rest and the doctor says “everything looks healed,” he’s not waiting. He’s been counting the days, marking them on some internal calendar like a starving man. The breeding kink doesn’t hibernate just because there’s already one perfect silver-haired toddler running around.

Timeline breakdown:

• Weeks 1-4: He’s in protective caretaker mode on the surface—massaging her, bringing her whatever she craves, watching Rhaenys so she can rest. Underneath? He’s rock-hard every time he sees her nursing or just existing in one of his shirts, leaking a little pre-cum when she winces and he helps her into the bath. Lots of “I know, baby, I’ve got you” while his hands linger on her softer hips and belly.

• Week 5-6: Clearance day. He tries to be gentle the first time—slow, deep, missionary with lots of eye contact and “You gave me our daughter… fuck, you’re perfect.” But the second she moans and clenches around him, the switch flips. Prone bone, hand on the back of her neck, growling about filling her again so Rhaenys can have a little brother to protect.

• By month 3-4: He’s not even pretending anymore. Rhaenys goes down for a nap? He’s bending FMC over the nursery changing table or dragging her into the master shower. Morning quickies while the toddler is still asleep. Evening “stress relief” after he gets home from whatever Targaryen empire bullshit he’s running. He’s insatiable—breeding her every chance he gets, obsessed with the idea of knocking her up while she’s still got that lingering pregnancy softness.

• Would he last a full year? Lmao, no. Not even close. By the six-month mark he’s already in full Uncle Maekar energy—that “keep the bloodline strong, keep my woman swollen with my child” Targaryen traditionalist streak. He’d be tracking her cycles like a dragon watching its hoard, timing loads, making her keep her hips tilted after he finishes, maybe even getting a little ritualistic with Valyrian phrases whispered against her belly while he’s still buried inside her.

He wants them close in age. He wants Rhaenys to grow up with siblings who look like her. Most of all, he wants to see FMC round with his baby again—tits fuller, belly curved, that possessive satisfaction of knowing he did that to her. The man is unhinged about it in the hottest way.

Smut below....

The townhouse is quiet in that rare, golden hour after Rhaenys’s afternoon nap has finally taken. The baby monitor on the nightstand glows soft green—steady heartbeat, little silver curls splayed across her crib. You’re still tender, still adjusting to the new shape of your body, but the OB gave the all-clear this morning: Everything healed beautifully. You can resume normal activities. Valarr had been in the room with you, one big hand resting possessively on your thigh under the exam table, thumb stroking slow circles like he was already counting down the seconds.

He hasn’t touched you like this in weeks. Not properly.

Now the door to the master suite clicks shut behind him, and the air shifts. You’re standing by the window in nothing but one of his oversized black button-downs, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your breasts feel heavy, still sensitive from nursing. The faint stretch marks across your lower belly catch the late afternoon light like pale rivers on new land.

Valarr doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you—those mis-matched violet and brown eyes dark with weeks of restraint finally snapping. His suit jacket is already off, tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The man is massive even in stillness: broad shoulders, that tapered waist, the visible bulge already straining against his slacks like his cock has been half-hard for days just thinking about this.

“Doctor said you’re mine again,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, stepping close enough that you can smell his cologne and the faint trace of smoke from whatever he burned at the office. One veined hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “No more waiting, ñuha riña. No more watching you walk around this house looking like the mother of my child and not being able to bury myself inside you.”

You shiver. He feels it.

He walks you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed, then sinks to his knees like a man at prayer. Big hands push the shirt up slowly, exposing you to him. His breath ghosts over your skin.

“Fuck… look at you.” His mouth finds the soft curve of your belly first—kissing the faint marks, tongue tracing them with something close to reverence. “You carried her so perfectly. My strong girl. My wife in every way that matters.” The word wife still makes something clench low in your stomach even though there’s no ring yet. He’s been calling you that more and more lately.

His hands slide higher, cupping your breasts through the fabric before unbuttoning the shirt with deliberate patience. When it falls open, he groans. Your nipples are darker now, fuller. He leans in and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder when you gasp and thread your fingers through his silver hair. The pull goes straight between your legs.

“Valarr—”

“I know, sweetheart.” His voice vibrates against your skin. “I’ve got you. Been dying for this cunt for weeks.”

He works his way down, kissing every inch like he’s mapping new territory. When he reaches the apex of your thighs he doesn’t tease. He spreads you open with both thumbs and licks a long, slow stripe up your center, tasting how wet you already are for him. A broken sound leaves his throat.

“So fucking ready for me again. This pussy missed its owner, didn’t it?”

You nod, legs trembling. He eats you like a starving man—long, firm strokes of his tongue, two thick fingers sliding into you carefully, curling just right. He knows your body better than you do now. The stretch is familiar and overwhelming all at once. He adds a third finger and sucks on your clit until your knees buckle and you come with a choked cry, grinding against his face while he moans encouragement into your folds.

He doesn’t give you time to recover. He rises, shedding his clothes with impatient jerks. His cock springs free—long, thick, veined, the head already flushed dark and glistening. That famous Targaryen length that still makes your mouth water every time. Heavy, curving slightly upward, the shaft so girthy your fingers barely meet when you wrap them around it. A pearly bead of pre-cum rolls down the side as it twitches under your gaze.

“See what you do to me?” He fists himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. “Weeks of this. Jerking off in my office like a desperate boy while you were healing. Thinking about breeding you full again.”

He pushes you gently onto your back on the bed, spreading your legs wide and settling between them. The head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and insistent. He leans down, forehead to yours, one hand braced beside your head while the other grips your hip.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You do. Those mis-matched eyes are blown black with lust and something deeper—obsession, love, raw need.

“I’m going to fill you up now,” he whispers against your lips. “Gonna put another baby in you while our daughter sleeps down the hall. You want that, don’t you? Want me to breed this perfect womb again?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes in on the word, slow but relentless, stretching you open around that massive cock. The burn is exquisite. You feel every inch, every vein, until his hips are flush against yours and he’s buried to the hilt. He stays there, shuddering, letting you adjust.

“Fuck… so tight. Still so fucking tight for me.” His voice cracks. “Like you were made for this. Made to take my cock and carry my children.”

Then he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the room, obscene and perfect. He drops his head to your neck, sucking marks, whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

“You’re going to look so beautiful pregnant again. Tits heavy, belly round with my son. Everyone will know I couldn’t keep my hands off you. That I fucked you full the second I was allowed.”

One hand slides down to press against your lower belly, right where he’s bulging inside you. The possessive pressure makes you clench harder around him.

“Feel that? That’s where I’m going to put him. Right there. Gonna flood this womb until it takes.”

Your second orgasm hits you hard, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. Valarr fucks you through it, pace growing faster, more desperate. The bed creaks. His balls slap wetly against you with every thrust. Sweat slicks his skin, silver hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m close,” he growls. “Gonna cum so deep. Keep it all inside you like a good girl.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him impossibly deeper. “Breed me, Valarr. Please—give me another one.”

That does it. He slams in one final time and comes with a guttural moan, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum straight against your cervix. He grinds through it, making sure every drop stays where it belongs, hips twitching with aftershocks as he empties himself completely.

Even after he finishes he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, rolling you both onto your sides so he can hold you close. One arm bands around your back, the other hand stroking your belly again, almost reverently.

“Mine,” he breathes against your hair, voice hoarse. “All fucking mine. And soon you’ll be swollen with me again.”

You’re both still catching your breath when the baby monitor crackles. Rhaenys makes a small sleepy sound. Valarr chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Rest, ñuha riña. I’ll get her. And when she goes down for the night…” His cock twitches inside you, already half-hard again. “I’m taking you again. And again. Until my seed takes.”

He eases out of you carefully, a thick trickle of his cum leaking down your thigh. He watches it with dark satisfaction, then leans down and pushes two fingers back inside you, keeping it where it needs to be.

“Gotta make sure it sticks,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep. “I’m not stopping until you’re pregnant again.”

[valarrtheyoungprince]

Caged: Missing You

Short Drabble

Valarr had been away for three long days on a necessary business trip. The townhouse felt too quiet without him, the nights stretching empty and cool. You missed him deeply—the steady warmth of his body curled protectively around yours, the firm yet gentle way he held you close, the intense devotion in his eyes that made you feel utterly cherished.

But you also knew exactly how to make the distance feel even longer for him. You had always known how to push his buttons, how to wrap him around your finger with just the right amount of sweetness and subtle temptation.

Your messages started innocently enough, but you let them linger.

You: The bed feels far too big without you. The sheets are cold where you should be.

You sent a soft photo shortly after: you in one of his shirts, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, the hem resting high on your thighs as you stood in front of the mirror.

Valarr: You’re testing my patience, love. I have another meeting in ten minutes and now this is all I’ll be thinking about.

You smiled, knowing you had his full attention. A little later you sent another—lounging against the pillows, the soft material clinging gently to your curves, hair falling loosely around your shoulders.

You: Just something of yours to sleep in… though it doesn’t feel the same without your hands keeping it in place.

His reply came slower this time, the tension clear even through text.

Valarr: Careful. You know how possessive I get when you remind me what’s waiting at home. I’m counting the hours until I can fix that.

You: Then maybe you should hurry back… I’ll be here, soft and warm, missing the way only you can touch me.

You knew you had him right where you wanted him. The subtle teasing, the carefully chosen photos, and the quiet promise in your words were winding him tighter with every exchange, feeding that possessive hunger you loved drawing out. By the time his plane landed late last night, the air between you crackled with three days of built-up longing and restrained need.

//

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the asunlight bleeding through the half-drawn curtains of your townhouse. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of your shared sheets—clean linen, Valarr’s cologne, and the faint trace of the lotion you’d rubbed into your skin earlier. Rhaeyns has been asleep for hours in her room down the hall, the baby monitor on the nightstand showing nothing but soft, even breathing and the gentle rise of her little chest. The house is quiet. Safe. Yours.

You’re already half-dreaming when Valarr shifts behind you.

He presses in close, chest to your back, one long arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. His skin is fever-warm, bare, the hard planes of his body molding perfectly to your softer curves. You feel the slow drag of his breath against the nape of your neck, then the brush of his lips—reverent, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid to wake you fully.

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and want, barely above a whisper. “I’ve got you, my love. Just let me feel you.”

His hand spans wide across your waist, fingers pressing in with that perfect, grounding firmness—enough to remind you he’s there, that you’re his, but never bruising. He holds you like something precious. Something he’d burn the world down to protect. You sigh, melting back into him, eyes fluttering but not quite opening. No need. He doesn’t require you to be alert. He just wants you soft. Pliant. His.

You feel him, already hard and heavy against the curve of your ass, thick and pulsing with quiet need. He doesn’t rush. He never does when it’s like this—late, slow, when the rest of the world is far away. One big hand smooths down your hip, coaxing your thigh forward just enough for him to notch the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. You’re already slick from earlier, from dreams of him, from the way your body always seems to know when he’s close.

“Always so ready for me,” he breathes, voice thick with worship. “My sweet girl. So good.”

He pushes in—inch by slow, deliberate inch. The stretch is deep, full, breathtaking in its gentleness. A soft, broken sound slips from your throat as he seats himself to the hilt, his hips flush to your ass, buried so completely you feel him in your belly. He stills there, letting you adjust, letting himself savor the tight, wet heat of you clenching around his length. His forehead drops to the back of your shoulder, a low groan vibrating through his chest.

“Fuck… you feel like heaven,” he whispers. “Warm and soft and mine.”

Then he begins to move.

Not frantic. Not pounding. Just deep, rolling thrusts that drag his thick cock along every sensitive inch inside you. Each slow push forward makes your body jolt gently into the pillows, face half-buried in the downy softness. Your eyes stay heavy, lashes fluttering. Your head feels too heavy to lift, so you don’t. You let it rest, cheek against the cool fabric, lips parted on quiet little gasps and whimpers that only seem to spur him on.

His hand stays anchored on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold you steady for every deep glide. The other arm curls around you, palm splaying over your chest, thumb brushing lazily across your nipple. He keeps you tucked against him, cocooned, protected. Loved.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your ear, voice velvet and smoke. “Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you. Let me love you like this.” Another slow, grinding thrust that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. “You’re so fucking perfect when you’re like this—soft and sweet and taking every inch of me. My good girl. Always so good for me.”

You whimper, pliant and warm, body yielding completely. Every deep stroke sends sparks of pleasure rolling through you, heavy and languid, like honey poured slow through your veins. There’s no pressure to perform, no need to chase or tighten or do anything but feel. He fucks you like he’s worshipping at an altar—reverent, devoted, every roll of his hips a silent vow.

His lips trail along your shoulder, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach. “I love you,” he breathes between thrusts, the words raw and aching. “Gods, I love you so much. Feeling you around me like this… it’s everything. You’re my everything.”

You’re drifting, floating on the steady rhythm—his cock dragging so deep, so perfectly, the wet sounds of your joining muffled by the sheets and the night. Your eyes slip closed again. Your head lolls heavier into the pillow. He doesn’t mind. If anything, it makes his grip on your waist tighten with possessive tenderness, his thrusts growing just a fraction deeper, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he soothes, voice low and loving. “Just be here with me. Warm and soft. Let me make you feel good. Let me fill you up nice and slow until you’re dripping with me.”

One of his hands slides lower, not to rush you toward release but to cup you gently, fingers resting warm over your mound as he keeps that unhurried pace. The pleasure builds like a tide—slow, inevitable, pulling you under. Your walls flutter around his thick length, and he groans, hips stuttering once before he steadies again.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, lips brushing your ear. “So sweet for me. So fucking loved.”

You lose track of time. It could be minutes or hours—nothing but the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the deep, worshipful slide of his cock, the firm anchor of his hands on your waist, and the steady stream of murmured devotion in that rich, accented voice. You’re safe. Taken care of. Cherished.

When your climax finally washes over you, it’s quiet and devastating—waves of warm, trembling pleasure that make your thighs shake and your breath catch in soft, broken cries into the pillow. Valarr follows you over with a low, ragged groan of your name, burying himself as deep as he can and spilling inside you in thick, pulsing ropes. He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays there, arms tight around you, cock twitching with aftershocks, pressing lazy, sleepy kisses along your spine.

“Mine,” he whispers one last time, voice heavy with satisfaction and love. “Always mine.”

You drift back toward sleep like that—full of him, wrapped in him, warm and pliant and utterly adored—his hand still gently gripping your waist like he’ll never let go.

The room stays wrapped in that same hazy, pre-dawn quiet. Valarr hasn’t pulled out. He remains buried deep inside you, thick and warm, still half-hard and twitching with the aftershocks of his release. Your body flutters softly around him, milking the last drops as you drift between sleep and waking—limp, pliant, face still nestled into the pillow with a soft, contented sigh.

He props himself up slightly on one elbow, careful not to disturb you too much. The faint sunlight catches the sharp lines of his face—those striking Targaryen features softened by the hour and by the overwhelming love in his gaze. Blond streak catches the light as his bangs falls messily across his forehead as he stares down at you, eyes dark with hunger but shining with something deeper. Reverence. Possession. A devotion so fierce it borders on pain.

Gods, look at her, he thinks. So beautiful like this. Mine. All fucking mine.

He wants more. He always wants more. The urge to roll you onto your stomach, spread you wider, and fuck you again—harder, deeper, until you’re crying out his name and clenching around him in another shattering release—is almost unbearable. His cock twitches inside you at the thought, already beginning to thicken once more. He could take you again right now, chase that sweet, sleepy submission until you’re dripping with him, marked inside and out.

But he reins it in. Jaw tight, breath measured. You’re tired. So instead, he lets his free hand roam—slow, worshipful, greedy but gentle.

His palm slides up from your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs until he cups one breast fully. He squeezes with tender possession, thumb circling the soft peak of your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. A low, sleepy moan slips from your lips, muffled by the pillow. The sound goes straight to his cock, making him throb inside your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, barely audible. “That sound… you have no idea what you do to me.”

He rolls your nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly, then soothing with the rough pad of his thumb. His hips give the tiniest, involuntary roll forward—barely a thrust, just enough to press deeper and feel you clench around him again. Another soft, unconscious moan escapes you, your body instinctively pushing back against him even as your eyes stay closed, lashes dark against your cheeks.

Valarr’s gaze never leaves your face. He drinks in every flutter of your lashes, every parted breath, the way your lips tremble on those little sounds. His other hand stays anchored at your waist, fingers digging in with that firm, grounding pressure, holding you exactly where he needs you. He fondles you like he’s memorizing every inch—palming your breast, kneading the soft flesh, then sliding down to stroke over your hip and the swell of your ass.

He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder blade, then another lower, lips brushing your spine as his hand returns to your chest. He cups both breasts now, one in each hand, squeezing and rolling them with slow, deliberate care. His thumbs tease your nipples in lazy circles until they’re tight and sensitive. Every touch draws another breathy moan from you, sleepy and sweet, your body warm and yielding under his hands.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough with restrained need. “Just touching you. Feeling you around me. Listening to those pretty little sounds you make for me even in your sleep.” He gives one nipple a gentle tug, then soothes it immediately, groaning softly as your walls flutter around his thickening cock. “You’re so good, sweetheart. So fucking perfect. Warm and soft and mine to love.”

He fights the urge to move harder. His hips rock in tiny, shallow pulses—just enough to stay buried, to feel the slick warmth of his own release and yours mixing between you. One hand drifts lower, fingers tracing lightly over your mound, not demanding but adoring, pressing just enough to feel where you’re joined.

Your head stays heavy against the pillow. Eyes closed. Body lax and trusting. Another moan, longer this time, as he fondles your breast again, pinching and rolling with perfect pressure. Valarr’s breath hitches, eyes half-lidded with love and barely-leashed hunger.

“I want to take everything,” he admits in a low rasp, lips brushing your ear. “Want to fuck you until you can’t think. Until you’re shaking and full of me again. But I’ll be good. For you.” A soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Even if it kills me.”

He keeps touching—slow, endless caresses. Palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples, stroking your waist and hips like he can’t bear to stop. Every sleepy moan you give him is treasured, rewarded with another gentle squeeze or a shallow roll of his hips that keeps him deep inside you.

“Sleep, my love,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

And he does—holding you close, fondling you with reverent hands, cock nestled warm and full inside you, eyes fixed on your face with that unwavering, loving gaze as the night stretches on.

//

The minutes stretch into a comfortable, hazy blur. Valarr remains spooned tight behind you, still buried deep inside your warmth, his cock soft but full, content to stay connected. His movements have slowed even further into lazy, absent caresses—his large hand gliding slowly over the curve of your hip, up the dip of your waist, across the swell of your breast, then back down again in unhurried strokes. Each pass is light, almost absentminded, yet filled with quiet reverence.

He watches you the entire time.

His gaze is heavy with devotion, mis-matched eyes tracing every relaxed line of your face, the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the way your body stays so perfectly pliant against his. There’s fierce possession there too—the subtle tightening of his fingers on your waist whenever you shift, a silent reminder that you are his, that this peace belongs to him alone. He leans in occasionally to press a lingering kiss to your shoulder or the nape of your neck, breathing you in like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs, so softly it barely disturbs the air. “My whole heart… right here in my arms.”

A low, sleepy moan escapes your lips as his thumb brushes tenderly over your nipple. He smiles against your skin, that rare, genuine curve of his mouth that only you ever see.

A soft knock at the bedroom door breaks the stillness.

“Ma’am?” The nanny’s polite voice filters through the wood. “Sorry to disturb you so early, but Rhaeyns is asking for her mother. She won’t settle with breakfast.”

Valarr’s hand stills on your hip. He doesn’t want to wake you. You deserve this rest, this softness. His jaw tightens with protective instinct as he lifts his head slightly and answers in a low, controlled voice—quiet enough not to jolt you but firm enough to carry.

“She’s still sleeping,” he says evenly. “I’ll bring her down in a little while. Thank you.”

The nanny murmurs an understanding reply and footsteps retreat. Valarr exhales, pressing closer to you again, his palm resuming its lazy, possessive trail along your side. He nuzzles into your hair, devotion burning brighter in his chest.

But then comes the patter of small feet.

“Mama?” Rhaeyns’ little voice calls out, sweet and insistent right outside the door. “Mamaaa?”

The handle turns. The door begins to creak open.

Valarr moves with surprising speed for a man still buried inside you. In one fluid motion, he yanks the thick duvet up and over both your bodies, tucking it high around your shoulders and chest while pulling you tighter against him. His arm bands securely around your waist, shielding you completely as he twists slightly to block the view. The sudden shift presses him deeper for a heartbeat, drawing a soft, unconscious whimper from your throat that he silences by pressing his lips to your temple.

“Shh, my love. I’ve got us,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough with a mix of lingering arousal and fierce protectiveness.

The door opens wider. Rhaeyns toddles in, clutching her favorite stuffed dragon, silver curls tousled from sleep. “Mama? Papa, you're home!”

Valarr lifts his head just enough, keeping the rest of you cocooned and hidden beneath the covers. His expression softens instantly at the sight of his daughter, but his hold on you remains ironclad—possessive, shielding, loving.

“Hey, little dragon,” he says gently, voice warm but quiet. “Mama’s still very sleepy. Come here, I’ll take you downstairs for breakfast, okay?”

Rhaeyns hesitates, tilting her head, but Valarr extends his free arm invitingly while keeping the other locked around you. His heart pounds with a strange, tender mix of frustration at the interruption and overwhelming love for the little family you’ve built together. He glances down at your peaceful face once more, devotion and hunger still burning in his eyes.

He’ll finish what he started later. For now, he’ll protect this moment—and you—however he must.

//

The duvet feels heavier when you finally stir. Sunlight has shifted across the room, warmer now, and the bed beside you is empty. A faint ache between your thighs reminds you of the night—Valarr’s deep, slow claiming, the way he stayed inside you so long afterward. You shift your hips and feel it immediately: the warm, sticky slick of his cum still leaking from you, coating your inner thighs. It makes your cheeks flush hot with shy embarrassment even as fresh heat pools low in your belly.

He’s back. The thought hits you with a rush of longing. He’d been gone for three long days—some unavoidable business trip—and last night was the first time you’d felt him in what seemed like forever. You miss his solid warmth behind you already, the firm press of his hand on your waist, the reverent way he touches you like you’re the only thing that matters.

You lie there for a moment longer, thighs pressing together, feeling that mix of shy vulnerability and growing arousal. Your body is still soft and sensitive from sleep and from him. A quiet whimper escapes you as you roll onto your back, one hand drifting down to press lightly over your mound, feeling the evidence of him. It’s too much and not enough.

Downstairs you can hear faint voices—Rhaeyns giggling, Valarr’s low, patient replies. He’s handling breakfast. Good. You slip out of bed on unsteady legs, his cum trickling warmly down your thigh as you pad toward the en-suite bathroom. You need a shower… and a moment to yourself.

The hot spray of the shower envelops you as you step in, still carrying the warm, intimate traces of last night. Valarr’s presence lingers on your skin and deep inside you, making your cheeks flush with a shy kind of pleasure. You miss him already—the solid comfort of his body wrapped around yours after days apart.

Your hand drifts slowly down your body beneath the water. Eyes closed, you touch yourself with gentle, lingering strokes, breath catching softly as you chase the memory of his deep, worshipful closeness. A quiet, trembling sigh escapes you as pleasure washes through, soft and sweet, but it only leaves you longing for him more.

//

You slip into a comfortable robe and head downstairs, heart warming at the sight that greets you in the kitchen.

Valarr sits at the table with Rhaeyns on his lap, patiently helping her share bits of fruit with her favorite stuffed dragon. Her giggles fill the air, and Valarr’s low, affectionate chuckle follows. The tender domestic scene fills your chest with happiness and a deep ache of missing him. Even within the intense, protective world he’s built around you—the way he holds you so close, so completely—you love him with everything you are.

He senses you immediately and looks up. His mis-matched eyes soften with pure devotion and love, a slow smile curving his lips. You smile back, warm and radiant, at both of them, then step closer to join.

Valarr pulls you in with a gentle but firm hand at your waist, drawing you into a deep, loving kiss. When you part, Rhaeyns tugs at his shirt with a little pout.

“What about me, Pappa?”

You laugh softly, leaning down to press a playful kiss to her cheek and then the top of her silver curls. “There you go, my sweet girl.”

Valarr watches the two of you with open adoration, his gaze full of love and quiet possession.

//

Later, when Rhaeyns is happily playing and you have a private moment in the hallway, Valarr gently backs you against the wall. One hand rests beside your head while the other rests possessively at your waist.

“I missed waking up beside you this morning,” you whisper, cheeks warming. “It felt lonely without you… especially after the shower, when I was still feeling you and thinking of you.”

Valarr’s eyes darken with warmth and hunger. He cups your face tenderly, then leans in to kiss you—slow, deep, and full of possessive devotion. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I can fix that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough. His thumb brushes your cheek with aching gentleness. “Be good for me today. Stay soft and sweet like you were last night… and I’ll make it up to you tonight. I’ll take care of you again and again until you feel how much I missed you. How much I need you.”

He seals the promise with another lingering kiss, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

[moonlightttfae]

this is the hottest shit i’ve read in a long time

[valarrtheyoungprince]

Smut Drabble (Valarr x Reader)

This just... filthy and pure smut.

The townhouse bedroom reeked of sex—thick, musky, and sweet with your dripping arousal. Valarr had you speared open on his massive cock for what felt like hours, your slick pussy stretched obscenely around his veiny, wrist-thick length. He wasn’t fucking you. Not yet. Just keeping you stuffed full, balls-deep, while that evil little Dragon Egg vibrator buzzed mercilessly against your swollen, puffy clit.

“Fuuuuck, listen to that greedy cunt,” Valarr groaned, voice low and filthy. His dark hair was messy, lips parted as he watched your juices coat his heavy balls and drip down the crack of your ass onto the ruined sheets. “You’re soaking me, baby. Making such a nasty fucking mess just from warming my dick.”

The vibrator clicked higher. Your thighs shook violently around his hips, inner walls clamping and fluttering wildly around every thick inch of him. The head of his cock kissed your cervix with every involuntary twitch, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.

“Oh god—Valarr—” you wailed, nails raking down his chest.

He smirked, dark and possessive, grinding the vibrator harder against your throbbing clit. “Yeah? You gonna squirt all over my cock again, you filthy little slut? Come on. Milk me with that sloppy pussy. I want to feel you gush.”

Your first orgasm hit like a freight train. Your cunt spasmed violently, squirting clear fluid around the base of his cock in messy pulses that splattered his abs and thighs. The wet, obscene squelching sounds filled the room as your walls rippled and sucked him deeper. Valarr hissed through his teeth, eyes rolling back slightly, but he held perfectly still, letting your orgasm wring his shaft.

“Fuuuuck yes—that’s it. Good fucking girl. Look at you creaming all over me.” He didn’t stop the vibrator. If anything, he pressed it firmer, circling your oversensitive clit until your eyes crossed.

The second orgasm tore through you immediately after, even harder. Your pussy clenched so tight it almost hurt, rhythmic, milking spasms squeezing his fat cock like a vice. More squirt leaked out, dripping messily down his balls as you sobbed and shook.

“Again,” he growled, free hand gripping your ass hard enough to bruise, spreading your cheeks wider so he could feel everything. “Don’t you fucking stop cumming. I want this cunt ruined. Want it twitching and sore for days.”

Third. Fourth. They blurred together in a haze of overstimulation. Your clit was swollen and pulsing, nerves on fire, but the vibrator kept buzzing relentlessly. Each orgasm made your pussy convulse wildly around him—long, powerful squeezes followed by fluttery aftershocks that had his thick shaft throbbing inside you. Your juices were everywhere: coating his pelvis, running down to soak the sheets, the wet sounds of your cunt absolutely filthy as it gushed and sucked.

Valarr’s breathing grew ragged, his muscular chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Shit—baby, your cunt is fucking choking me. So hot and wet and greedy. You’re gonna make me cum just from this, aren’t you? Just from your slutty pussy spasming around my cock like a desperate whore.”

You could only moan brokenly, tears streaming down your face as another orgasm ripped through you. This one was brutal—your whole body seized, pussy clamping down in deep, rhythmic waves that practically sucked the cum from his balls. The sensation was too much.

Valarr’s control finally snapped.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m cumming—” he snarled, voice breaking into a guttural moan. His hips jerked up once, burying himself impossibly deeper as thick, hot ropes of cum erupted inside you. Pulse after heavy pulse, flooding your overstuffed cunt until it leaked out around his shaft in creamy white rivulets mixed with your squirt. He kept the vibrator pressed tight to your clit the entire time, forcing you to keep spasming through his orgasm, drawing out every last drop as your walls milked him dry.

“Take it—all of it, you filthy cumslut,” he panted, grinding up into you as he kept unloading. “Gonna fill this womb so full it’s dripping out of you for hours. That’s my good girl… my perfect little cockwarmer.”

Even after he finished, he left the vibrator on low, making you twitch and whimper around his spent but still-thick cock. His cum squelched obscenely with every flutter of your pussy. Valarr pulled you down against his chest, one hand possessively cupping your mound, fingers spreading your lips around his base so he could feel the messy mix of your combined fluids.

“Stay right here,” he whispered hotly against your ear, nipping your lobe. “I’m not pulling out until you’ve cum a few more times on my cock. I love feeling you lose your fucking mind while I’m still inside you.”

His thumb brushed your clit beside the vibrator, already teasing the next wave.

You were going to be a dripping, ruined, cum-filled mess by the time he was done—and you both knew you fucking loved it.

The overstimulation quickly became unbearable. Wave after relentless wave crashed through you, your cunt clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as fresh squirt leaked out around his thick shaft.

You were shaking, sobbing into his neck. Valarr drank in every broken sob and twitch, his own breathing growing ragged.

“Enough of this,” he finally growled, voice dark with raw hunger. “I need to fuck you properly.”

He clicked the vibrator off but left it on the bed like a promise. In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you both, pulling out with a filthy schlorp that made a heavy glob of his cum splatter onto the sheets. Before you could even whine at the emptiness, he flipped you onto your stomach and shoved your face down into the cum-stained pillow.

“Ass up, baby. Let me see that sloppy, bred cunt.”

You obeyed on instinct, arching your back and pushing your ass high. Valarr knelt behind you, spreading your cheeks wide with both hands. He groaned at the sight—your pussy puffy, gaping slightly, and leaking a steady river of his thick white cum.

“Fuck, look at this pretty mess I made.” He dragged the fat head of his cock through the creamy mix, teasing your clit before slamming back inside with one savage thrust. The prone bone position let him drive impossibly deeper, his heavy body blanketing yours completely, hips flush against your ass as he started pounding you without mercy.

Plap-plap-plap-plap—

The wet, obscene slapping of skin on skin mixed with the constant squelching of his cum being fucked deeper into you. Every brutal thrust punched the air from your lungs, his long, veiny cock rearranging your insides and battering your cervix.

“Valarr—fuck—too much—” you cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

“Too much?” He laughed, low and cruel, wrapping one veiny forearm around your throat and pulling your head back so he could growl right into your ear. “This is what you get for making me cum hands-free like a desperate whore. Take this dick, baby. Take every fucking inch while I breed you again.”

His pace was punishing—long, powerful strokes that made your ass ripple with every impact. His balls slapped loudly against your clit, the added sensation sending you spiraling into another orgasm almost immediately. Your pussy convulsed wildly around him, squirting messily around his cock and soaking his thighs.

“Yes—fuck yes, squeeze me just like that,” he snarled, hips snapping harder, grinding deep on every thrust. “Milk my cum out again. This cunt belongs to me. My personal cumdump. My filthy little cockwarmer turned breeding slut.”

He fucked you through it without slowing, the wet sounds growing louder and nastier as more of his load was churned into a frothy white cream coating his shaft. Sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. His free hand reached underneath you, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, mean circles.

Another orgasm tore through you, vision whiting out as your walls fluttered and spasmed uncontrollably. Valarr’s rhythm faltered, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.

“Gonna fill you again—fuck—take it all, baby—”

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep, guttural moan, pumping rope after thick rope of hot cum straight into your womb. The sheer volume made your lower belly feel full and bloated, excess seed squirting out around his cock with every lazy grind of his hips.

Valarr didn’t pull out. He stayed collapsed on top of you, heavy and possessive, cock still twitching inside your overflowing pussy. His lips brushed your ear, voice hoarse but tender in that obsessive way only he could manage.

“Such a good girl… taking everything I give you.” He kissed the side of your neck, then nipped it hard enough to mark. “We’re not done. I’m keeping you right here, stuffed and leaking, until I’m ready to fuck you again.”

His hand slid down to press possessively over your lower belly, right where you could feel the warmth of his cum sloshing inside.

“Mine. All fucking mine.”

//

I'm back. With some SMUTTT 🫦🫦🫦

Please stop me.

[yeyinde]

half-hoping to be eaten by a bear

JOHN PRICE x READER

18+ | noncon/rape. drugging. manipulation. found family's evil older sister: forced family.

Heady. Masculine. The scent of him is unlike anything you've ever smelled before. Equal parts comfort and safety (palo santo, sun-scorched sand; tobacco and dark, aged whiskey; rotting paper—lignin, furfural—and a damp, old basement in a house you don't remember but could never forget) and fear (stagnant water, kelp: like rotting wood pulled from from the deep sea; fire, smoke; sulphur; something rotten—cadaverine, putrescine—and sweat). The sharp dichotomy is dizzying. Paralyzing.

He pulls you in closer. his breath carries the smell of the ocean: the seafloor. His mouth splits into a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart; nothin' is gonna hurt you—"

is what he says, but what you hear is: except me.

It starts with a bad day that cascades into a spate of misfortune, and ends with you scraping together the meagre remainder of your pay just to treat yourself to dinner after a series of stress-filled months and burnout. 

Half-hoping to relax—for once—in a comfortable restaurant, eat good food, and stuff the splintering chasm inside yourself with Amritsari Kulcha, Papri Chaat, Biryani, and Salty Lassi—a bandaid over a sinkhole, really; but it's infinitely better than the microwave dinners and Pepsi you've been surviving on for the past few weeks. 

Good food, after all, heals the soul. 

But midway through dinner, you meet an older man when your fingers are dripping with the rich gravy from your Kadhai Paneer. He's ruggedly handsome—tall, broad shouldered; hairy (what winks out at you from the tugged collar of his red flannel button-down can only be described as fur)—and decidedly interested in you for some reason. Asks why you're alone. Why you're eating alone. Seems annoyed by the idea of it, as if you sitting at a small table, discreetly trying to wipe the sauce off your fingers (and secretly mourning not being able to just lick it off—a waste of such delicious, gingered gravy, really) was an affront.

You're not one to open up to strangers, but sometimes it's easier to talk to people you don't know than it is the ones you do, so when he pulls a chair over, it just—

It just pours out.

A deluge that leaves you trauma dumping over Samosa Chaat. 

Opening up to a man, a stranger, this dangerously attractive is a new low—even for you—but you soothe the sting of humiliation when you reach the part about your recent performance review by clinging to the simple truth that you'll likely never see him again. And even if you could, you wouldn't—

Not after sheepishly admitting that you've been doing nothing except work, come home and slink into your depression roster of comfort shows (and trashy reality television when your patheticism reaches an all-time high and you need something, someone else, to soothe the burn of it), eat terrible food, and nap until your alarm goes off and you lay in bed staring at the waterlogged ceiling, contemplating the sheer relief you'd feel if you got into a minor accident—nothing major, you hastily tell him when those dark brows raise a touch; but you think it would be a little bit of a sweet reprieve to spend a few days in the hospital—before the sad realisation that no one else is around to pay the bills for you comes back, and you're forced to drag your limp, tired body out of sheets that reek of sleep and paste on some approximation of a friendly face before going out and getting chewed up by the gears of life that never stop turning.

(god, won't they ever stop turning?)

It's almost cathartic. 

He listens, too. Quietly. Mullish. Almost impassively, you'd say, if you couldn't see the tick in his jaw beneath a dense layer of fur. It almost shames you. Almost because when he notices where your gaze drifts, and the slow, sudden diffident curling around your words, he pulls back. Reshapes himself with a single breath. Gone is the ire, the flare of anger. The tick of his jaw. All that remains is the tight, rhythmic clench of his fist pulling together so tightly, his knuckles bleach stark white beneath the gold glow of the overhead lights. The veins lacing his thick, hairy forearms bulge in a series of blue-green rivulets that disappear under the haphazard, uneven fold of his sleeves just beneath his elbow.

After a moment of silence, a brief interlude where you're not sure if you should start monologuing about your terrible apartment or your boss, he leans back in his chair, legs spread, splayed out until his knee knocks into your thigh, and huffs:

"sounds like you need a drink."

And it does. But you can't. Won't. "No," you etch out between slow, steady breaths. "That's a habit I don't want to get into."

He absorbs your words quietly, but looks—

annoyed.

"Sorry," you offer, but you're not sure why. "I just don't—"

"It's fine," he grunts, shaking his head. The tick is back. "How 'bout a coffee, then, mm? Tea?"

"Oh, um—"

Your hesitation brings out a strange rumble in his chest. A quiet, loose purr.

"My treat."

Rent, bills—phone, internet, insurance, monthly bus pass—and groceries have left you with nothing except one hundred and fifty until your next pay—a solid eighty of which are currently spread out before you (an optimal choice because it was buy one, get one free—even if you think the owner was just making it up because he felt bad—and you'll have leftovers for the next two days) and the rest will likely be spent on something else that pops up, like the slow coagulation of water and mould between the upper floor and your ceiling. Turning down a free coffee, or tea, isn't really something you want to do, even if the man offering makes you a little nervous, a little wary.

like a child, you think. He just has this air about him that reeks of authority. Of a hidden meanness that is one more no away from rearing its ugly head.

So you say yes—yes, sir, actually, and ignore the wicked flare in his blue eyes (a portend, perhaps; your mother always warned you about blue-eyed devils, after all)—and slowly start gathering your things while he flags down the only waitress in the restaurant, a young girl popping her gum behind the til and scrolling through tiktok on her phone. She brings takeout containers and the bill, and both of you ignore the perplexing pinch in his brow—because maybe he just doesn't understand that Indian food is amazing served hot and fresh, but somehow even better after it cools, after all the aromatic spices have a chance to soak into the gravy, to congeal and rest, elevating it into something godlike. You're taking it home. All of it.

And do, adding it to a small tote she pulls from behind the counter with their logo on it. nah, don't worry, she says when you ask her how much it is. it's on the house. a sweet gesture—until she adds: "you used to come here, like, every weekend, anyway. And we got worried when you didn't show. Had to talk my parents out of calling in a welfare check—but that's only because I saw you on the subway—"

The strangled thanks! makes him chuff. Thick arms folding over his broad chest as he taunts every weekend, mm? and you try to disappear into the crater of foam on the seat between the split in the pleather upholstery.

He shakes his head, almost fond; but something shifts across his face: a small frisson. A sudden wash of darkness after a thick, dense cloud drifts over the sun—

But it's gone in seconds. Tucked back inside deep, ragged canyons of blue that are a little darker now than they were earlier. Hidden behind a smile that creases his eyes until they, too, are almost gone.

"C'mon. Been itchin' for some good coffee all day—"

The girl leaves, throwing a loose grin over her shoulder. You make to call her back, you haven't paid, but his hand curls over the takeout tote, tugging. Don't worry about it is rasped out soft and low: I already got it.

But he didn't ask, and you're not sure if you would have said yes. Coffee is one thing. A—ninety-eight dollar—meal is another. You wonder if he knows you're not interested in—in hooking up. Not with a man old enough to be your father. Not with a man who reeks of barely leashed anger, and oozes a palpable sense of unflinching control. You have a life—however pathetic it is—and you're too young for—

for that.

for him.

(to be twisted up into a doll. a housewife. shelved until it's needed. collecting dust until he decides it's playtime. you like your independence. you want freedom, not a cage—)

So when he grunts, jerks his chin to the side, and says: "comin'?"

You say—

yes.

(you've always had a problem with speaking your mind and saying no—)

And this defect, this flaw, becomes apparent when he leaves the restaurant with just your things, and nothing of his own:

"You, uh, you weren't eating...?"

He slants a long look in your direction. Something like—like derision bubbles to the surface. "Nah," he evades, lips quirking up into a sly smirk. "Jus' pickin' somethin' up."

A noise grates in your ears. In your head. A whirring. A warning. The static, uneasy buzz of bees—soldiers fluttering around in uniform chaos; screaming about the threat looming closer to the hive, to the queen. You feel hot. Restless.

He nudges you into a small alcove, the bulk of his body sealing off every exit until all you can see, all you feel and smell is him. Spiced with bad choices; leather and ruin. Something metallic—

(later, you'll realise the stone-like scent is pure iron; but that'll only be after the cage doors snap shut.)

Heady. Masculine. The scent of him is unlike anything you've ever smelled before. Equal parts comfort and safety (palo santo, sun-scorched sand; tobacco and dark, aged whiskey; rotting paper—lignin, furfural—and a damp, old basement in a house you don't remember but could never forget) and fear (stagnant water, kelp: like rotting wood pulled from from the deep sea; fire, smoke; sulphur; something rotten—cadaverine, putrescine—and sweat). The sharp dichotomy is dizzying. Paralyzing.

he pulls you in closer. His breath carries the smell of the ocean: the seafloor. His mouth splits into a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart; nothin' is gonna hurt you—"

is what he says, but what you hear is: except me.

You swallow so hard, it aches.

But the no never comes. The no never has a chance to claw out from the sediment before he's pulling you along, dragging you into a place that's not a cafe, but a club. Pushing you into a booth. Boxing you in with a grunt, a barking demand for two whiskeys, neat. And a bottle of spring water.

You want to say i'm not drinking but what comes out instead is thank you, sir.

"Call me John when we're in public, sweetheart—"

The rest is nestled into the gleam of his teeth when leans down, hand cradling a glass full of murky amber, urging you to drink. Easy. jus' a sip. There's a good girl—

Simple words that rewrite your evening with a rough, calloused hand, and worn knuckles that scrape against the too-soft skin of your cheekbone when he grazes them over your flesh as the world turns into a smear, a kaleidoscope, of colour and sounds.

One sip turns into three, six. Into a full glass (two fingers, he grunts into your ear, teeth grazing your heated, feverish skin; remember tha'; it's how I like my whiskey, sweetheart—), another. Another—

Between the third and fourth, his fingers slipped between your lips. You slurp and gag around the thick spread of them as he watches, leaning back. Legs kicked apart, thick thighs spread. His other hand cradles his own glass—two fingers is slurred out against blunt nails; good girl comes with a scrape against your tongue that makes you shiver. At perfect, unquestionable ease with his fingers in your mouth. In public—shush, baby, no one is watchin'—with a stranger.

But the world tilts before the panic has a chance to rise. The swirling, sickening spill of colour is awash with black ink, and the last thing you see is drenched knuckles pasted across the background of gleaming teeth wrapped around a cigar.

"'bout time it kicked in—"

and then nothing more.

Marred in hazy, fracturing images is the weight of a body over yours.

A man. Palo Santo and the deep sea. Held between the unforgiving heat of a big, thick body—all hard lines and dense fur—and the soft, dampening cushion of a mattress.

It's all muddled. Stumbling out of a club you didn't want to go to, ankles wobbling on the pavement. The taste of whiskey and ginger-kissed tomato gravy on your tongue. Soft murmurs into your temple. Plans forming between alleys and streets. Takin' you home. You're a good girl. The best. Gonna be such a good—

The press of wood against your back. Fingers slipping, skating over slick flesh. Peeling your clothes off until they're pooled at your feet, sitting on the floor like a distant, murky polaroid. Familiar—in a faded, muted way; like flipping through a photo album and finding yourself nestled between the pages. Recognising yourself, but not the place. The event. A birthday party, maybe; but it's all wrapped up in cling film. Remember that? but the answer is always no.

He feels like that. The thick, soft thigh sliding between your knees, wrenching them apart, is a memory you keep reaching for, but can never catch. The rasp of hair against sensitive skin. The flicker of heat pooling behind your navel when he blunts his thigh against your cunt.

The no, too, is a memory you keep reaching for, but can never catch.

Kisses cut like little knives across your skin, leaving shallow lines that weep with the red-hot ooze of blood cooling in the stagnant air of a bedroom you don't belong in.

He says mm, you feel so good—

And it makes you feel good, too. A pat on the head. A kiss on your forehead. good job wrapped up in a i'm proud of you and a i love you that normally never comes.

It's easy, then, to find some form of comfort in him—however twisted up and rotten it might be. A succor. A facsimile of softness, of care. Like the bed—

The bed is soft. His body is, too. Soft and furry and hot. A bracket above you. His arms a tight, inescapable parenthesis curled beside your temple. He looms, arched overhead like a tower; a monument. Each roll brings him closer to you, close enough to blunt his damp chin into your sweat-slicked forehead. Small kisses to soothe the ache below: a steady, unending pain that grows, that throbs, when he rocks into you, giving you that kiss.

Everything is wrapped up in a wet, syrupy heat. The slick, slippery drag of your inner thighs over his ribs, the backs glueing to the damp fur on his chest when he bends down, and folds you into a new, unfamiliar shape. Opening you up wider. The slick, tacky pressure between your legs, at the apex of your hips; a burn—like a stretch, like a tear. A trickling drip of molten tar that makes his eyes roll when he sees it, head dropping back between thick, meaty shoulders as the groan is ripped out of him. Spilling into the satin drape of midnight with an echo that shudders through your bones.

The blunt press of him between your legs, inside of you, shifts with it, dragging him—his cock—deeper; the angle changing, deepening. Fuck, good girl—it's too much; too much but he doesn't stop—that's it, open up for me, c'mon, lemme in—he won't.

Your arms are rendered into paste. Into liquid. You can't even clench your hands around the thick fingers he threads between yours much less gather the ooze of your melting bones into your hand, strengthening them to push at his shoulders, his gut—anything to try and get him off.

But he bends down further, smothering you in the thick bed of hair on his chest; drowning you in the pool of sweat on his skin; and he takes. Ruthlessly. Brutally. Snaps his jaws around your throat, anchors your wrists in his hands, and slakes that simmering, barely leashed fury you glimpsed earlier into your swollen, sore flesh. Pounding into you hard enough to make your head rock, tossed back from the force. Only the bulk of his body keeps you pinned in place.

A shrill keen buoys amid the rough seas, but it just makes him groan along with it. Echoing your begs for mercy with his own blood-drenched monologue: so tight, such a pretty thing, good girl—

You don't feel good. You feel sick.

Seasick.

Each thrust is hard enough, deep enough, to make you gag. Choke. The quick swell of a simmering hypoxia is almost a blessing: a respite. and when he crushes your chest beneath his to drag his tongue over your cheek, quenching his thirst on the smear of your misery, you give in to that sirens call, and let whatever it is tugging on your ankle drag you down—

Misery coagulates into a thick line cresting over your eyelids.

A seal, you think, and for a long stretch of time (through hypnopompia—cool, damp sheets against feverish, aching skin; but you're running: fleeting from a beast with blue eyes and a gleaming grin, one that doesn't speak, but rumbles, like the rasp of a rockslide; gravel shorn against pavement; a hand biting through charred cork bark; the crunch of scorched, burnt duff underfoot; a clawing hand that gets closer with each rumble—to cognizance—the shift of sheets, a body moving beside you; the creak of a bed, a jostle; the hush of a breath whispered over your skin, words drowned out by the feverish thud of your heart banging inside its primordial cage), you consider keeping it intact. Sinking into the abyss between states where you can pretend your alarm is due to go off any moment now, and this is just another game you play where you pray to a higher power that it never will. That you can laze in a cotton cocoon; drifting between hypnagogia. Or pretend that you're an arthropoda buried in the rhizosphere—still a cog in the neverending grind of a big machine, but one that isn't sore in places you shouldn't be. Can't feel the heat of a body beside you. Or the ooze of something leaking out from between swollen, sore flesh and sliding down the back of your thigh before soaking into the sheets—a something that makes you feel sick to think about. to feel. To know is there, on your skin, inside of you—

You know your body. Know what's supposed to be there, and what isn't. And that—this thick, warm sensation oozing out from deep within—is not.

The worst of it all is that you can still smell the rich, spiced gravy on your fingers—once a comfort, a constant; the only splurge in the rigid confines of your ascetic life that you could reasonably allow, not desecrated. Marred with the reminder of tobacco and palo santo. Hadal breath.

The no that refused to dig itself out of the muck in the benthic zone.

But no amount of pretend can shape the sudden grip on your jaw into something it isn't.

Red-rimmed, bloodshot, and raw—you pry your eyes open through the ache, struggling through the haze, the smear, of sleep and tears, to stare at the grizzled face of a man you would have said yes to under different circumstances. The anger of last night is tucked back into those canyons, the crevasses of sharp blue, but a jagged edge of it lingers, poking through the shadows.

The look on his face culls the scream before it forms, but the penknife tapping across your chin buries it deep.

"Look," he rasps, and you think of that dream; the rockslide that tried to drown you in rubble. "This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but you—"

The grip lessens. Slacks into something soft. Tender.

You'd fall for it, you think—

if the bevelled edge of a small, sharp blade wasn't stinging your skin.

He huffs. The blanket shifts over his hips, and it's the draw of the abyss that makes you look, but instead of that ink black promise of nothing, you find thick, matted fur—

and his cock.

Half-hard in the hazy spill of dawn. Thick and fat, resting against his furried thigh. The sheen of it—his cum, you think, nauseous—is tinged pink. Your cunt clenches—a small, tremulous pulse, a throb, and you feel it, then. The sting. The burn. A pain sharp enough to make you drag in a noisy, screeching breath.

He follows your gaze. Hums, unbothered by the whimpered gasp, or the awful twitch of his bare cock. "Been a long time," he offers, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic. "Might've torn you a bit—"

It makes you sick. All of it. The feeling. The pain. The bitter sting of anger—

The palpable helplessness of knowing there isn't anything you can do about it. A silent agony that carries the devastating awareness that he doesn't even need the knife to subdue you. To threaten. A thing that kills something inside of you. Runs it through with a knife, spilling abject misery into your guts.

"w—what do you want?" your throat hurts when you talk, and you wheeze the words out into the silt clotting across your vision.

He hums again, and presses his arm down into the sheets, elbow digging into the pillow before it lifts, filling the empty space between his shoulder and head. His chin resting in the crux of his palm as he stares down at you.

The look on his face is—

Primal. Predatory. Starved.

—contemplative.

But there's an animal quality to it. Something—not human. Not right.

And then it clicks: the look on his face reminds you of those grizzlies you saw at the zoo. Curious in the way an apex predator is when everything around it is potential food.

A sentiment made much worse when he simply states: "a wife."

You remember that uncanny sense of awareness about him from last night before the no began to rot in the back of your throat. When you looked at him, and recognised the look in his eye as a meticulous, unerring warden in search of a ward to shackle to his side. A toy. A playmate. A thing to shape into something new, something that preened under his commands, and begged for his authority. A passive, submissive pet in which he could permit to kneel between his feet.

A wife—in name only.

"A mother, too," he adds, and the bed jostles when he shrugs. "For my twins."

twins. You see it, then: etched into the emerald paint and soft copper trim is the smatterings of small handprints; the lingering marks of children tucked into neat, symmetrical lines. A small shirt thrown over the back of a chair. A dress folded on his dresser. The armoire door gapes open; in it, several suits hang on a rack—

Along with two little black dresses.

He cranes his head over his shoulder. Grunts. "Funeral," he rasps. "For their mother."

a sad thing, he adds, but there's no grief in his eyes. No pain. No approximation of loss or suffering—just want. A bleak, dark thread of intent as the knot begins to slowly unravel.

The penknife is pulled away with a quiet, rough better not do anythin' stupid trailing behind it. You're smart, though, soothes the sting, but only just because you soon discover that the knot is not a knot at all—

It's a web.

They lost their mother a year ago, he rumbles, and you stay as still as a ghost as he sits up, and pulls you into his lap. Smothering a wince of pain into the soft press of his tummy against your cheek. Going lax, docile, as he stretches his legs out beneath your body with a grunt. and now they need someone to take care of 'em. raise 'em.

The panic is nauseating. "What about my—my job—"

"Called 'em an hour ago and told 'em you quit."

"But—"

"Gonna lay some ground rules, mm?" his hand falls onto your crown, stroking you like a dog. "All kids need a mother—"

The soft touch firms: his fingers trail from the soothing stroke against your temple to dig into the seam of your lips, pressing in. Your mouth opens with a quiet, sticky sound and he groans at the easy, numbed obedience you offer, a hushed good girl whispered beneath the squelch of dry fingers on wet flesh. Nails grazing your tongue as he adds, darker, pulsing like a bruise:

"and every good man needs a good wife."

With his fingers buried in your mouth, you can't say anything at all—can only lay there, nursing on his knuckles as the threat of these hands, that knife, looms like a spectre in the background.

"and a good mother doesn't scream. doesn't yell. doesn't ignore her kids or try to run away—does she?" you shake your head, eyes wide. Burning. Stinging with unshed tears. "Good. And a good wife is obedient. She listens. And that's what you're gonna do, isn't it?"

You nod. The nausea almost chokes you, but you swallow it down, swallow around the thick, nicotine-tinged split of his fingers as he hums, staring down at you. half-mad, maybe. Or fully mad.

A mad man. He has to be—

But he's put together. Has a job, a good one. Won't need to worry 'bout money. and good girls, good mums, good wives, get spoiled fuckin' rotten, don't they, sweetheart?

and a house in the countryside—one far away from town. From people. your new home.

The place where you'll raise his kids. Take care of him.

He's a simple man, he says. jus' want dinner on the table. and if you can't handle the kids, we'll hire a nanny, mm? you don't have to worry about anythin' anymore—not your job, not rent. No stress—

just him. his kids. and nothing else.

"We'll make this marriage work. I know we will, mm, sweetheart? You're a smart girl. You won't end up like her."

The web is thick. The silk strands tighten into a noose as he lays the groundwork, the rules, of what to expect. And outside of the ache, the threat of that knife, the stench of the no rotting behind your teeth, it sounds like the epitome of what you've been craving for so long now. A fantasy you could easily slip into when he sets a standard for himself—he won't hit you, won't cheat, won't yell; the house is just as much yours as it is his. He'll lavish you with things. With clothes and gems and all the luxuries you could possibly want.

take you to India, mm? get you some real food. know you like it—

and places you've never been before. Places you could never go without him—the Azores, a weekend in Hong Kong, sailing along the Ivory Coast. A pretty doll dripping with luxury. A smiling, warm mother pulling his children into a tight embrace. A wife—

wanting. waiting for him to get home.

The scariest thing is that there's no delirium staining sapphire. no smears of insanity. Just the bright, clear gaze of a man anchored in reality, and willing to do whatever he must to bend fantasy until it falls into his living hand. carving dreams into daylight. Into flesh and blood. As sane as Pygmalion, chiselling into marble.

Between the bitter taste of skin, spit, and nicotine, an acrid tang surges up from the back of your throat. The rotted remains of that no resurfacing, spilling leachates all over your tongue. It's there, suddenly, between your teeth. Your tongue pushes against it, trying to shove the necrotised husk out of your mouth and onto the slope of his belly.

But he must feel it. Feel the skin sloughing off against his nails—

"Gonna be good for me, aren't you?"

Blunt nails cut through the mouldered tissue, shoving it down your throat until it slinks back into its esophageal prison—a whalefall sinking down into the abyss. Cradled in the siliceous ooze and turbidites.

All that remains is yes. A helpless nod drenched in spit and tears. In an acquiescence whispered over the bevelled edge of a blade and a warm, rough hand that curls around your jaw and lifts your head up to meet ruthless slate. Brine pools.

"''course you are," he purrs. It's louder, deeper with your head so close to his stomach. A chuff. A low roar. "I knew it from the moment I saw you, mm. Knew you'd be the best fuckin' thing to happen to us—"

His fingers slip out from beneath your chin, curling over your cheek, the shell of your ear. The soft give of your temple—a gentle press, a small, rough kiss—before curving over your nape, thumb brushing the fragile knob at the top as the fingers in your mouth drive deeper.

Beneath your belly, he thickens. Fattens up. New warmth, a new, sticky slickness dampens your skin when you gag around his knuckles, eyes fluttering. Watering. Tears drip down your hot, feverish cheeks as the nightmare shifts, solidifying under his hand. The tapestry of your life, your freedom, unravelling with each nudge of his fingers in your mouth, down your spine, until his thumb is digging into your tailbone, thick, calloused fingers splitting your cheeks apart—

he lingers there, pausing on a low, decisive groan as ink spills over your eyes at the deep, burring gonna fuck you here, too, mm, gonna have all of you—

all his, he adds, and his fingers sink lower, cock pulsing. Throbbing. His hand pushing between the backs of your thighs until you give, wincing in discomfort because the shift of your hips makes your cunt ache. The squeeze of your thighs against your folds keeps the pain at bay, but spread open, parted, the cool morning air is agony on your swollen, abused flesh. But he doesn't let it stay untouched for long.

He cups your aching cunt in his hand. Splaying it across your seam until his long, thick fingers are buried beneath your pelvis, middle finger dipping into the indent of your mons pubis, brushing the sensitive skin above your clit until you shiver.

Dissatisfied with just holding you, his heel nudging into your folds until they part around the thick of his wrist. You can feel him still—the slick, thick ooze of his release smearing against his palm as he opens you up. Spreads you wide. 

It’s sick. Demeaning. He burrs low in his throat at the mess he left behind—been savin’ it, he groans, and you yearn, desperately, for that sweet bliss of sleep: jus’ for you. Ever since I saw you, I knew—and nudges his palm harder; the pads of his finger toying with your clit. Rubbing your flesh until your belly churns with—

with disgust. with nausea. 

—with heat. 

His fingers are dry. Rough. Stroking the embers still smoldering between your hips, fanning the flames until they grow. Burning bright. Incandescent. 

You hate it. Hate how good it feels. How good he makes you feel—

With a quiet groan in the thick of his throat, he drags his fingers out of your mouth. Holds his hand up to the soft spill of dawn cutting through the open curtains, and draping across the bed. They're wet. Soaked. Sticky strands of spit web between the knuckles of his index and middle finger when he peels them apart. Messy girl, he grunts, but it's fond. 

He brushes his fingers across your cheek, smearing cold, tacky spit over your skin as he looks down at you with that same false tenderness as before. Soft and sweet. A loving touch that makes you feel sick. 

“Gonna fuck you again,” he rasps, voice firm. Full of promise. His hand peels away from your cheek, sliding his sticky, wet palm down your spine before he presses it flat across your dorsum. 

His knee draws up, slicing between your legs until his thick, wooly thigh taps against your cunt. Between your bodies, his fingers twitch. 

Then he shoves. Grinding you into his thigh. Into his palm. 

And you hate it. Hate it—

It feels good. The sting is there, burning bright; a flickering ache that rears with each bump of his thigh only to be soothed with the same pressure. A strange duality of sensation that hums in your belly, oscillating between pleasure and pain. Distress and comfort. Keeps you balanced, in perfect equilibrium, between the two. 

His cock twitches. His hand slides down to curl over the back of your thigh, fingers digging into soft, plush meat in a painful, pinching squeeze. Jerks your leg up, over his knees. 

“Wanna watch you, sweetheart,” he says, and his breath reeks of algae, of salt. The look on his face, in his eyes, is trenched in an unfathomable black; a void, a maw. He's an open mouth, all eager teeth; wanting to devour you whole. And he does just that. Shapes you into a meal, into prey. A malleable spill of meat and tissue to sink his desires into; grips your bones in his firm fist, and cracks them open like crab legs before slurping at the sweet kelp of your marrow. A feast he can have over and over again—

and will, he promises, thick hand wrapping firm around his fat cock as he nudges you up—a pretty doll, a pliable wife—and makes you sink down onto him. Like coming home, he says, but it doesn't feel like that at all. It aches. Burns. The pain of it steals the air from your lungs, but he doesn't let go of your hips. Doesn't relent. Keeps forcing his cock into your sore, swollen flesh and shushes your sobs, the hitching whimpers, with promises you don't want—

Will never want.  

Time to be a wife, he grunts, and tugs you down those last, painful inches until you're flush against his hips. A pretty wife him—

It's too much. The agony is white-hot and vicious, but all he does is lift up, and lick the tears streaming down your face with a deep, guttural groan; savouring the taste of your misery as he pulses deep inside of you. 

You're not the first lachrymose bride, and maybe it's easier for him to pretend, too—lie to himself and say the tears are of joy instead of agony. That you want this, want him—

But then he curls his hand around your throat, blunt nails like little knives that dig into your feverish skin. Holding firm, steady, even as he grinds your sore cunt over his cock. 

“Gonna be good for me, and then—” the hand tightens, the warning clear: obey or else. “When mommy and daddy are done lovin’ each other, we're gonna go wake the girls up, and have breakfast, mm?”

His hand curves up, cupping your jaw. Isn't that right?

The no is buried under silt. You think about reaching for it, just once—

But his hand is quicker. Deft fingers bury it deeper until it's unreachable. All that remains is the yes, and it trips off of your tongue when he adds:

as one big, happy family, mm?

(this, you think, is what the bottom of the ocean must feel like, smell like: cradled against his damp, heaving chest, breathing in the scent of tobacco and leather. sex and sweat. blood.

his mouth is cold, damp, when he smears his lips across your forehead. it reeks of algae and rot. iron. wrought shackles. a tightening chain. an anchor, rusting in the deep, being pulled up to shore. ice cold and rough. heavy with concretions. with long, dangling tendrils of rusticles that gather across your body—

you think of that dark, endless mausoleum when he bends down, mouth full of smoke, ash, and demands: c’mon, sweetheart, be a good wife an’ give your husband a kiss—)

[silverlullabies]

Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.

Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.

Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.

Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.

It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.

Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.

Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.

He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.

You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.

His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.

The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.

Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”

When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.

You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.

Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.

Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.

He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.

One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.

Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.

Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.

The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.

He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.

Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.

You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.

“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”

He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”

The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.

He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.

You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.

The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.

He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.

Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.

He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.

You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.

When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.

You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”

He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.

Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.

Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.

You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”

He pushes in anyway.

“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”

Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.

[princessaddz]

Zuko had been trying to draw a map. A simple coastline, nothing complicated. Instead, his hand betrayed him. By the time he looked down, he'd drawn the curve of your jaw. He stared at it for a long time before he ripped the page out.

The second sketch happened the next night and the third happened a week later. After that, he stopped pretending it was accidental.

Months after the breakup, nobody knew about the notebook. Every page was you.

You laughing, asleep against his shoulder, sitting cross-legged on the palace balcony, reaching for his hand.

The sketches grew messier the farther he got. He was afraid he'd forget and was trying to preserve every version of you before time stole the details. Some pages only contained your eyes and others were covered in notes written in the margins. Tiny things  that nobody else would remember or care about.

The worst nights were when he couldn't remember your voice. He'd sit at his desk until dawn, sketchbook open, trying desperately to hear it. He’d try to remember the exact way you laughed and said his name. The way you'd whisper "Zuko" whenever you found him spiraling into one of his moods.

Some nights he could hear it perfectly but other nights it felt distant like a dream fading after waking up. Those nights terrified him because if he forgot your voice, what came next? Your smile?

Page 127.

A drawing he'd started earlier that evening of you sitting in a garden, head tilted back, smiling at something he couldn't remember. The smile wasn't finished and the eyes weren't right. He could feel the memory slipping. Little pieces disappearing every day and he hated himself for it.

Maybe if he had fought harder or said the right thing. If he'd been better, you might still be here.

A tear drop landed on the paper, making the pages wet. The dark spots of the ink began spreading across the drawing. He cried because forgetting was worse than losing you. 

Losing you once hadn't already destroyed him enough.

The next morning, a servant would find the Fire Lord asleep at his desk, head resting on an open sketchbook.The page beneath him unfinished with another portrait. A memory of a girl he couldn't stop loving.

☆Wrote this because I am in fact a yearner and I miss my ex. Lmao tags: @strangeprincessblog  @cinnamongirlkisses  @amethyst09  @skyavyel @butterflygirlblogg @rubyyworld @uchihabbynic @annichka 

[yenayaps]

Rose Garden Dreams

Pairing: FireLord!Zuko x RoyalAdvisor!Reader

Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, slowburn, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit, jealous!zuko, we’re already married in his head, found family trope(ish), zuko has daddy issues] wc: 7.5k

m.list | chapter four | chapter five | next chapter

You’ve been taking advantage of the Fire Lord. He remembered saying you could take one or two days off— it’s been four. He never thought he would see that from you.

Not that he cares. 

By all means, use him. Watching you abandon your duties these last few days has been quite the treat. 

Ryuko has asked about you. Not directly, but to other people. Zuko’s made sure to mention you around him, though. It was his own little way to point out your absence, while you’re out doing god knows what. 

Zuko didn’t want to know at first. 

Unfortunately, there’s only so much patience left once he’s done playing his role as the Fire Lord. He just couldn’t help himself. 

To what, exactly? Well…

“Zuzu?”

He stills, immediately recognizing that nasally little voice. Not to mention there’s only one person that would call him by that name.

Azula. She practically goes on to nag him, after randomly catching him at some food stall at the night market. 

“You dethroned me just so you could prance around town in a cape?”

Funny enough, she would’ve matched with her brother if she’d just worn her hood. It might be a little risky, but most people wouldn’t know what she looked like, anyway. She could get away with showing her face for the most part. 

Despite the initial whiplash from running into his sister, who’s been missing for well over a decade and is still at the top of the nation’s Most Wanted list, he’s quick to defend himself. 

“I’m not prancing around town,” he grimaces. “And what do you mean dethroned? You were never even crowned.”

“Yeah, because you interrupted my coronation!”

Their sudden quarrel catches the eyes of a few people walking by, along with the old vendor that was just trying to hand him his chicken skewers. Thankfully, everyone’s quick to mind their own in the Silk District. Fights were common enough— just keep walking and you’re sure to be safe once the brawl starts.

It’s as if they were children again, arguing over absolute nonsense. At first it was a dispute over her brief stint as the nation’s first Fire Lady. Now, they’re just throwing accusations at each other.

“Please don’t tell me you’re working in a brothel now,” Zuko grumbles, fully prepared to give her some money so she wouldn't have to be indebted to one. 

“I am not!” she scoffs. “And what are you doing here?! Last I heard, you have nearly twice the amount of concubines Father had kept.”

His eyes widened. Now was not the time to ask what he was up to. It’s not like he can tell her he’s been trying to scope you out all night, so he’s left scrambling. 

“Most of them were gifted to me,” he barely explains, more so stuck on where she heard that from. Azula made it sound like he hoarded them.

She continued to press him. “You never answered why you’re walking around town with a hooded cape.”

“I wanted some normalcy,” he throws his arms out, hoping that’d be enough for her.

Azula raises a brow. “So you go to the sex capital of the world?”

“I’m not here for the fucking brothels,” he suddenly snaps at her, but quickly collects himself as it only made him look guilty. “Sorry. I’m here for work. We’re in the middle of opening a rehabilitation facility.”

“Right,” she blandly says, crossing her arms and taking a moment to stare him down, lost on what else to say. At least she believes him. She would’ve continued to interrogate him, had she not.  

Zuko just looks at her as well. Not meaning to participate in a staring competition as he tried to figure out what about her had changed. Something felt off. 

Then her brows pinch together.

It’s the eyes. 

She thinks she’s glaring at him right now, but they’ve softened. And there’s actually a trace of light behind her golden eyes, rather than the dull orbs demonically possessed individuals often have. The only feature she shared with their father was that sadistic look he’d get on his face whenever someone angered him, yet there was no trace of Ozai in all her visible annoyance. 

All he sees is their mother. 

“So, how’s father?” she asks casually, figuring she might as well ask about the old bastard since he’s here. 

Zuko lets out a disappointed sigh, not bothering to hide how peeved the thought of their father made him. “He spends his days drawing flowers and demanding he be given dignity.” 

She sighs as well, because he just sounds pathetic at this point. “You don’t give into his demands… right?” 

“Oh, no, never,” he says with a reassuring tone. “He’s tolerable for the most part, but there’s periods where he needs more… help.”

His fathers fall from grace needs to be studied at this point. He will scream, cry, break his little board games that he hardly deserved to begin with, and demand new ones. Ozai drew a portrait of him once when he was 21. He was without a scar. It was touching, sort of. Really fucking odd, though. He didn’t exactly listen to his father when he explained the sentiment behind it, but he understood why there would be one. 

Zuko hung around until the servant brought his father dinner that night. Guess what happened when he didn’t allow the servant to give his father a slice of cake with his dinner? 

His father took the portrait down and drew a scar on both his eyes. 

The concept of self-regulation was completely foreign to his father—antagonizing him may as well have been a form of psychological warfare. Which is why Zuko started eating that same slice of cake as he watched his father have the meltdown of a century. 

“Yeah, Father is… Father.”

There was no need to elaborate, Azula completely understood what he meant by that. “Do they still whip prisoners?” 

Zuko pauses and looks at her as if she’s gone mad. “No….. that’s illegal.” 

She shrugs. “Some people only respond to physical discipline.” 

He hums tentatively, “Father usually behaves after a day or two of being put on a liquid diet.”

She finds herself coughing out a laugh, surprised he’d even do such a thing. She remembers the day Zuko visited her and Ozai in prison. He could’ve easily tortured the information he needed out of them, but instead he walked in with a tray of tea as he spoke of wanting to treat them with dignity— he used that word less than a handful of times, but his father continues to cling to it for his life. 

She couldn’t wrap her head around how someone could be so gullible, it disgusted her. 

Even when he cut her a deal, allowing her to walk freely as they looked for their mother, he disgusted her. He was weak for offering her tea, weak for allowing her to accompany him unrestrained, weak for letting her attack him during the trip. She was his tormentor and still, he forgave her, over and over again. 

She wonders if she’ll ever grow the strength to thank him for being the only one to show her forgiveness. 

“And mother?” she asks, struggling to hide her cautious tone. 

“She’s good. Still in Hira’a.” Zuko pauses, eyes filled with both relief and a little sorrow. He has a good bond with his mother and had always believed Azula deserved the same. He’d love nothing more than to reunite the two. “She never fails to bring you up whenever I see her.”

How sweet. 

And mildly triggering, given all the years she spent missing a woman who had forgotten her. She quickly catches herself from slipping into her thoughts any further—there was no need to punish herself like that, she had already suffered enough. 

It’s been over ten years since they’ve seen each other, and she still wasn’t ready. But, even in all her resentment, she still found herself wishing she could tell that she often thought of her, too. 

Rather than giving him a definitive no, she just rolled her eyes.  

Perhaps she has grown softer throughout the years. The last time she randomly appeared, she promised to make it her life’s mission to drive her brother to the brink of insanity in hopes to make him more like their father. Granted, she was fucking losing it at that time, having unresolved trauma and what not. Being locked in a cage like a fucking animal only made her worse. The final blow was when she was released to help find their mother, only to find out she chose to have the memory of them completely wiped.

Oh, that fucked her up. 

Azula refused to admit it at the time, but she’s closer to admitting it now after years of solitude. A changed woman, she was. Zuko should consider himself lucky to get away with just an argument today. Had their reunion been a few years sooner, that argument would’ve ended with the entire market burning down in flames. 

But, she was his little sister at the end of the day, and there’s no doubt she'd still be annoyed at the sight of him again the next time they inevitably run into each other. 

Azula closes her eyes and sighs, then lightly nods her head, “Well, I’m off. It was nice seeing you, Zuzu.” 

It didn’t sound like it. “Wh— hold on, where are you going?”

“A temple,” she vaguely says, not stupid enough to tell him exactly which one. Zuko probably would’ve let her be, but one couldn’t be too safe. “Have fun in the brothels!”

“I already told you I wasn’t here for the brothels— Azula, wait,” he calls after her, more confused than anything. “Do you need money or anything?”

His sister stops to consider it. She may have some at the moment, but prior to passing by, she was pretty low on silver. The only reason why she came here was to pick-pocket a few people. 

And by pick pocket, she means breaking into the homes of local lords and raiding their safes. Easy money. Can’t feel too bad about it either since they’re notoriously known for their corruption at a local level. She may be a criminal, but she was ethical.

“How much?” she asks, reluctant to jump right into accepting it.

He casually reaches into his pockets and pulls out a pouch of gold coins, lazily sifting through them before realizing he never had a number in his head. 

“Wow look at the Fire Lord giving a fugitive money,” she murmurs, earning herself a disappointed look from Zuko. “What?” 

“Don’t say that.”

She shrugs. “It’s the truth.” 

“Just take the fucking pouch,” he sighs, shoving the bag into her hands. “And please make it last.” 

“Aww, are you saying that because you don’t know when you’ll see me next? Are you gonna be sad after this?” she continues to poke at him. 

Suddenly, he feels a headache starting to blossom against the right side of his skull. “I don’t think I will,” he blandly says, rubbing his temple as she begins to laugh at him. “Will you do me a favor though since I gave you money?”

The question wipes the smile off her face, she hates being indebted to others. 

“The next time I see you, I want it to be with Mother.” She opens her mouth, probably to say something along the lines of not telling her what to do, but he doesn’t give her a chance to say it. “It can be five years from now or even twenty. Just go to mom whenever you’re ready and I’ll meet you two there.” 

She blinks. “Wait, does that mean I’m not an enemy of the state anymore?” 

“Oh no, you still are,” he lets out a laugh. “But if you have an emergency and really, really need help, send a letter to Mom.” 

She doesn’t say much at first. She was actually moved for once and it showed. 

“Thank you,” she says with a barely contained smile. 

It was natural for him to give her a weird look, it was the first time she’s ever expressed genuine appreciation. Not quite grasping how much weight those two words held. Maybe she’ll tell him one day, but for now, it wasn’t her problem. 

“You can thank me by going to mom’s one day.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Azula doesn't sound very serious when she turns to leave, but she really was and already had a date in mind. It would be sooner than five years, but enough to work on those flashbacks.

He watches her run off, scoffing out a laugh once she disappears into the crowd of people, leaving as fast as she appeared. 

Alone, again. 

Well, he’s not alone. He has his uncle. 

It’s time like this when he really remembers just how different his life has turned out. It wasn’t bad. Bittersweet, yes. But not bad. After years of being subjected to his Father’s cruelty and abuse, everyone’s moved on with their own lives

Even Azula.

Then it dawned on him that he had just committed treason. He wasn’t supposed to let a criminal like her continue to roam the earth without consequence. Yet he did. He gave her money, too— way too much of it. Had one of the imperial guards caught her, she would’ve been behind bars, just like their father.

But at that moment, he wasn’t the one who held the throne. He was simply someone’s brother. Their father may have played favorites, but he recognized long ago that he has scarred them both and that she, too, deserved freedom. 

—

Running around with Cyra has made you realize just how much you missed the crude humor and self-indulgent ways of the Silk District. 

Those who served the imperial court were the complete opposite. So proper and uptight. The amount of self-importance some had without contributing anything remarkable to the world was exhausting. You don’t think you would’ve lasted as long as you have had it not been for who you served. 

Although, he’s been a little too lenient with you during this trip. He hasn’t told you to come back to work once, which is why you’ve consistently gotten back to the hotel as late as 2:00 AM. You very well may be pushing your luck, but he never set a curfew for you and neither has Chamberlain. 

You were a bit nervous to see the Lord’s reaction after your first night. Being met with nothing but indifference only made it worse, making you question what his true intentions were. The worries lingered in the back of your mind until a couple nights later. 

There was nothing more anti-climatic than catching a glimpse of a cloaked man from the corner of your eye. 

Wearing a cloak here wasn’t an unusual sight, citizens covered themselves for all different reasons. Some, such as yourself in the past, did it purely for the look. Some did it to conceal their identities. It was the latter for the Fire Lord, who was apparently spying on you. 

Zuko rules over an entire nation, yet has the ability to shrink his presence down to that of a disregarded and overlooked vagrant. He's quiet when he wants to be, taking up such little space he may as well vanish into thin air. It’s quite the talent, allowing him to slip away into normalcy for an hour or two whenever the grandiosity of the palace became too much. 

Unfortunately for Zuko, you can spot him in a crowd. Easily. 

Maybe it’s from all the time you’ve spent with him—hours spent locked away in an office, days spent traveling, weeks spent visiting in foreign lands. 

Or maybe it’s something more. The possibility was not a thought you liked to entertain. It’s not because the thought itself wasn’t ridiculous—it absolutely was ridiculous. It’s as if the God’s decided to make a mockery out of your life when they had decided on your reality. 

You can just imagine them all brainstorming your fate in some heavenly council room.

“Let’s give her someone she can’t have,” one says. “Perhaps Azulon’s second grandson?”

“I love it. Put her in the least liked clan,” says another. “The boy will bring an era of peace and let their union create unrest within the other clans.”

“Brilliant. Make their connection devastatingly magnetic, as well,” the God of Misfortune excitedly says, followed by the room erupting in evil laughter. 

And devastating it was.

Zuko was well over a hundred feet away, just another body swallowed by a sea of people. Many walked past him, some even stared in his direction as their minds drifted off, but no one truly noticed. He was insignificant. Invisible. 

The gods continued to laugh, because you had noticed him, anyway. 

It was beyond just the odd, occasional pull. It was as if you were connected by a stubborn invisible string that enjoyed tugging at you, constantly reminding you of the person at the end of it. 

You disappeared shortly after noticing him, but quickly decided to have a little fun. You had brought Cyra along—weaving in and out of shops and alleyways. 

“You’re going to drive him mad,” she had said. 

“He already is,” you giggled at the thought of him losing sight of you once more. 

“I’m sure he just wanted to see if you were okay. You look like you’ve forgotten all about your duties! He’s doing no less than a hired guard would. It’s quite flattering, actually.” 

“He is a lunatic that’s doing it for free.” 

Cyra was more perceptive than that, but kept her own conclusions to herself, knowing the troubles it’d bring. It was a matter you chose to be blind to, and she believed you were better for it.

That was last night. 

Tonight, a local lord was throwing a banquet in honor of the Fire Lord’s visit. 

Back being the most important man in the room, he went. He’d be lying if he said he’d been looking forward to attending, but at least this one wasn’t as formal compared to most of the banquet’s he’s attended in the past. 

Zuko tried to enjoy it. He drank with those that wanted to share a drink with him, laughed as he listened to the stories the locals shared and said just enough to keep a conversation alive. It wasn’t enough, though— these are people that have thrived in a culture that rewards ambition and resilience. They were more interested in getting to know him as a person, and while appreciates being seen as one, he will not be contributing to a conversation about personal hardships. 

He hates conversations that lead to praise or pity. He’s never wanted to leave a place more. But that would be seen as rude, so he’s stuck having to redirect conversations, all while trying not to pay too much attention to you. 

To say you’re gone the entire day is not an exaggeration—neither him nor Chamberlain have gotten the chance to catch up with you. But he had a feeling you’d pop up. When you did, he realized he underestimated just how well connected you were. 

He’s never seen you this comfortable at an event before. Nor has he ever seen you in such a tight dress. He is thankful for the robe you paired with it for the evening. It did a wonderful job at keeping the inappropriate thoughts he would’ve had at bay. 

Lucky for him, Saiyo chose not to come tonight, crossing off whatever worries he would’ve had if he’d gotten caught for looking at you too much. 

“I couldn’t imagine the pressure of having all of those concubines.” 

Zuko genuinely laughs this time, Lord Joji was quite the empath. “They’re terrifying. You’d think having their own secluded area would bring them some peace and serenity, yet they spend their days brawling with each other.” 

The words slipped right out once it was just him and the host. He would’ve never shared that at any other event. 

Joji’s clearly enjoying it, laughing at the image in his head. “Perhaps it’s time to bring in some fake eunuchs,” he sips his sake. “Declutter the court, so to speak.” 

“Wait, what?” 

He tenses at the sudden drop in Zuko’s tone. He couldn’t tell if he was offended or not, but he grew anxious as the silence went on. “I was just kidding, by the way,” he forces out a laugh. “It’s uh— typical humor around here. I always forget how crass we can be at times. Haha… I’m sure we look like a bunch of heathens to the rest of the world.” 

“Huh?” The sudden self-depreciation pulled Zuko out of his thoughts. “Oh no, the humor here is wonderful. The eunuch idea is fucking genius.” 

Joji pauses and looks at him for a moment, stuck on how he called it an idea. “It worked well for my grand uncle,” he says, testing the waters. “He was able to bring the house back down to a comfortable number in no time.”

“Is that so?” There’s a bit of skepticism in his tone. “Probably didn’t have that many to begin with.”

“It may take some time. But once they’ve finished their jobs, you can catch one of them in the final act and he’ll confess to everything during interrogation.” 

“Getting more than one would be smart, wouldn’t it?” he muses to himself, then takes a sip from his glass. “You could probably just get a servant to catch them—avoid all the tears and pleading.” 

Joji nods, “You’d be surprised how many attendants are willing to spy for you in exchange for a small bonus.”

Zuko suddenly huffs out a defeated laugh. “They’d only just send more.” 

“Would you like my grand uncle’s information? Wait, never mind, I forgot you were—“

Zuko waves a hand. Even he forgot who he was for a moment there— he was bound to more than just the practice of keeping concubines. “I wouldn’t want to waste someone else’s time.”

“It wouldn’t be a waste at all,” he reassures him. “If you ever do change your mind though, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to him.”

“Thank you,” Zuko hums as something else catches his attention. “Could you remind me where the washroom is, again?” 

—

The moon casted a faint light over the host’s backyard, revealing stone paths that allowed you to walk through a lush garden filled with delicate flowers and soft shrubs. The path took you past several wooden arches, long overtaken by nature as vines wrap up and cascade over the structures, gently rustling with each breeze.

You had hid behind one when you first heard footsteps, and then waited. You weren’t actually avoiding him, you had already expected he’d follow you out here, and just wanted to creep up on him once he got closer. 

It’s not until he fully walks past you when you decide to make your presence known, magically appear a few feet behind him.

“Are you spying on me?” 

“No.” You failed to startle him, but did manage to make him feel wrongfully accused. “I was just– I knew you were out here and I thought I’d get some fresh air, too.“

He braces himself. He didn't need to see the glass in your hand to know that you’ve been drinking. You had given it away when you casually stepped out of the shadows to greet him. 

“Getting fresh air,” you muse to yourself as you walk up to him. “Like last night?”

The light drains from his eyes. He looks absolutely mortified, and doesn’t even try to deny it. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I figured it’d be fun setting you off on a wild goose chase. I’m sure you have a perfectly normal explanation, though.”

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he doesn’t sound very certain of it. “I was already planning on touring the place.”

“You know I’m just fine.” It’s not like he’d be much help if trouble were to arise, you were more than capable of defending yourself. “Does keeping me away from Ryuko make you feel better?”

Knowing that you weren’t mad should’ve made him feel better, but being spoken to like a child was so much worse. You look like you’re about to giggle at his response, regardless of what it was. 

“Actually no, I have a better question. Are you going to do this every time someone shows interest in me? Even when you already have Sai and all the other concubines?”

That’s not a question he wants to answer. He hasn’t even touched Sai at all during the trip, not that it’d make a difference since that was his job. “If you’re happy, then no.” How he still manages to be stubborn, you have no clue. 

Your lips twitch into a smile. “You don’t think I’d be happy with him?”

There’s a spark of annoyance in his eyes, realizing he’s going to have to come clean about something you most likely already know about. 

“You told him you liked your life and then he went on to tell you everything that was wrong with it— I think you’d be miserable with him.” He grows irritated by the words he was having to repeat. “And then he insulted your position by saying there was no future in it. You’ve done nothing but work towards bettering it!” 

You had a feeling he overheard that conversation and once again, your intuition hasn’t failed you. “Are you sure it’s not because he tried to say that you think you own me?” 

“Yeah. He studied me for an entire hour, yet I’ve never looked at you and thought of insulting you the way he did. He spoke over you that entire time and when he couldn’t sway you, he decided to hurt your feelings. And he still thought he deserved to be given a chance.”

He’s pretty much ranting at this point and it’s taking everything in him not to go off track and say something rude. 

“He deserves to have his fucking tongue cut out.” 

Whoops.

“…I think that might be too harsh of a punishment.” You said it more to lighten, trying to process how pissed off he’s been this entire time. 

“Whether you find it harsh or not makes no difference to me. You shouldn’t have been spoken to that way,” he muttered, waving away whatever dignity he had left. “I never want to see anything like that happen again.” 

You thought this would be more of a silly exchange where you’d make fun of him for being—well, pathetic. It would’ve been easier had he just felt threatened by Ryuko, but his reason for hating him is reasonable enough and you can’t find it yourself to tell him that he was wrong.

He waits for you to say the usual spiel about how he needs to stop making everything so difficult and to just have an heir already.

There was a bit of defeat in your tone when you spoke. “I wish you knew how tiring it is watching you do whatever you want, when I’ve done nothing but try to do the right thing.” 

You sigh and reach forward, fingers gently brushing over the apple of his cheek, and with Zuko being dwindled down to a man who takes whatever he can get, he gravitates towards your touch. 

“Maybe it’s time to give up,” he feebly suggests.

“If only the people knew how much of a fool they have for a ruler, too,” you softly say. 

And like the fool he is, he places his hand over yours and just holds it there— making it one of the very few times he’s ever allowed someone to touch the scar on his face. “And what if I was just a fool?” 

Now he’s just speaking nonsense. You know more than anyone how much he’d hate being a normal person. He liked having power—that was alright, he was one of the rare few who knew how to wield it properly.

“I wouldn’t allow that.” You continue to rub your thumb over his cheek, using a tone that’s far too tender for the answer you come up with. “I’d stage a coup d'état and put you right back where you belong.” 

His lips slowly curve in a smile. “You’re making it very hard for me to be angry with our circumstances right now.”

“I know, at least you have me as a loyalist,” you hum, slightly tilting your head as you get a better look at him. “I’m starting to grow a little homesick, honestly— even if it is boring there.” 

“You can go home early, if you want,” he offers with a second thought. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s only 3 more days.”

“I hope you’re nicer to me by then. I’m a little homesick, too.”

How charming. “That’s if I don’t drink my memories away after tonight— this isn’t exactly a conversation I want to remember,” you sadly admit.

Zuko’s eyes soften, wishing you’d drink more around him often—you’re quite endearing in the state you’re in. “And why is that?”

“Because I’d prefer not to be overcome with embarrassment when I wake up tomorrow morning.” 

His mind goes back to the morning after he first kissed you and chuckles. “It’s not that bad.“

You laugh blandly in return. “Not everyone’s as shameless as you.”

But perhaps it was time to even things out between you for once. He did complain about being the only one drunk that night, after all. 

So in the moment of silence you shared with him, you leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his cheekbone, allowing yourself to be selfish for once.

He’s never been so still in his life. You’ve yelled at him, rejected him, pushed him on to other women so many times that he’s lost count. Yet there was no denying that you felt something so incredibly deep for him. There was no need to spell it out— he saw it, felt it, heard it.

“What happened to never touching you again?” Zuko wasn’t complaining, but he was absolutely going to tease you. 

“I’m afraid that only applies to you,” you say, feigning sympathy. “Unless you’d like to order me to stop touching you, as well.” 

“I would never do such a thing,” he fights off a smile. “Though I would like to know what my punishment would be if I defied your orders.”

There was a sudden look of disbelief on your face, a little disappointment as well. “That is the sluttiest question I’ve ever heard, you know that?”

“I think the courtesans may have just corrupted your mind with all their crude little jokes.” 

“Perhaps. They told me I’d make a fine courtesan the other day.” You run the backs of fingers across his jaw, ignoring the sudden twitch in his eye. “Could you imagine such a simple comment planting a seed in my mind?”

Fortunately, you’ve had enough drinks in you to be able to dismiss the sinister laugh that comes out of him. “No. I don’t want to imagine that, at all, actually.” 

“Uh-oh,” you smile and take a sip. “Does the idea make you jealous, My Lord?” 

“Jealous? Yes.” He plucks the glass from your hand and takes a sip of your sake. “A little angry, as well.” 

“A little?”

His eyes narrow and speaks as if you had just challenged him. “I would buy you out before you got the chance to take customers.”

You throw out another idea. “What if I took a customer while waiting for you to finish the paperwork?” 

“I’d turn him into a eunuch.” He watches as your smile slowly fades away. 

“That’s a little much for a man that hoards concubines, no?” 

He thinks to defend himself against hoarding accusations, but forces himself to let it go. “Does it matter if you’re planning on drinking your memories away tonight?” 

You stare at him as you recall the last ten minutes or so. “I probably should.” 

“Were you not going to?”

“I was on the fence about it,” you give a contemplative hum. “Eh—better safe than sorry.”

You turn to leave, but Zuko grabs your wrists before you take a step. “You’re not going back to ignoring me tomorrow, are you?”

“Depends on my mood tomorrow,” you smile and snatch your wrist away. “Bye!” 

“Fuck—Wait! What kind of an answer is that?”

—

The last days of your visit were fairly normal.

You had ended up taking the rest of the time off. Everyone figured you needed the break anyways and you had zero objections to that. 

It was the last day when everything went south. 

Of course you just so happened to be there, after deciding to stay at the hotel for some extra rest before traveling back home. 

The Madame at Cyra’s brothel would’ve had no issues letting you take a nap there. Had you actually done so, you would’ve been sleeping peacefully right about now— rather than awkwardly sitting in a silent room full of people who are too nervous to speak.

After thirty minutes of being tortured by discomfort, Lord Zuko and the Chamberlain finally walk through the door. The tears started almost immediately.

You guess the guard who had to go fetch them didn’t say what the emergency was. They didn’t look very mad. Chamberlain looked more worried. Zuko just stood there while Concubine Saiyo and one of the guards got on their hands and knees to beg for forgiveness. 

“Lord Z-Zuko, I’m— I’m s-so so-sorry!”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty! Please spare my life. I beg you! Please!”

It takes a moment to click for Zuko and only you notice the glimmer of joy in his eyes when he finally realizes what has happened. 

You were hoping he’d send you back to your room, but ended up having to kneel a few feet away from the two adulterers as they had to recall their stories in full. You’re not sure why that was still protocol. Even Zuko looked miserable as he had to listen to them, but the Chancellor was known to be a stickler. 

The older man regretted it soon enough. Hearing the events of the sexual encounter quickly became a unique torture he was forced to endure. 

Saiyo began to beg again in the end, and you felt a little bad. She was a nice girl.

“Please—please!! I’ll do anything!”

Zuko offers a sympathetic hum, only to remind her of the law. “I have no other choice but to remove you from the court. What kind of a message would that send to the others if I let you stay?” He was full of shit.

“My f-family will kill me!” she continued to cry. 

He looks to the guard next to her, who’s staring out into space, tears all dried out. Zuko tries to ask him a question but struggles with the wording at first. Eventually he grows impatient and bluntly asks, “Did you enjoy fucking her?”

The guard grows pale, terrified of what the punishment for that would be. 

“I’m not executing you. Not whipping you, either. Or whatever physical punishment they have for these kinds of things,” Zuko lets him know.

The guard sighs in relief, then bows. “I— Yes, I did.” 

Chamberlain scoffs and looks at the guard in disgust. How the youth could willingly engage in such devious acts was beyond him. 

“Sai, do y—“ Zuko tries to get the concubines' attention, but she's too busy dry heaving to notice. “Saiyo. Sa—my fucking gods—Sai!”

She throws her head back and wails. “I’m s-so sorry, my Lord!!” 

“Do you want t—Sai, please,“ cut off once more, he slams his fist on the table next to him, startling everyone in the room. “STOP.”

She takes in a sharp breath, whimpering another apology as Zuko glared at her, daring her to sniffle again.

Zuko finally speaks and points to the guard. “If you don’t want to go home, I can gift you to him. You can be his wife.”

“W-wait— really?” 

Zuko notices her bottom lip quiver. “Don’t. Just answer the question.”

“O-okay, yes. Please. I can’t go home.”

“Great.” He takes a sip of water. “You all can leave now— except for you.” 

You don’t do a very good job of hiding your dismay, but you stay in place and wait for everyone to leave. 

Zuko opens his mouth. 

Saiyo pops in and whines, “Lord Zuko, do you hate me?!” 

He rests his head in his hand and sighs. “No, I don’t hate you.”

“But—I cheated!“

“That’s okay. We found you a place to live and you are safe,” he says, trying to maintain his patience to the best of his ability. “I need to speak with Ms.—“

“But will you be fine?” she whimpers.

Her question actually manages to make Zuko smile a little, but it’s for reasons he can’t exactly share. “I will be just fine,” he hums. 

The concubine needs some extra reassurance, so it wasn’t until a few minutes later when you two finally had the room to yourselves. 

“Don’t you think you’re sitting a little too far?” he asks.

You are. Without a word, you bring the floor cushion upfront, ignoring the pleased look on his face because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

There’s a bit of a stare off until you finally break the silence. “You’re not punishing me for this.”

“There’s nothing to punish you for,” he chuckles. “Not that I’d ever have the heart to, anyway.” 

“Then why am I here?”

“Just wanted to talk.” 

“I’m kneeling in front of you,” you mutter, stating the obvious. “This doesn’t feel very casual.” 

“Would you like to sit on my lap instead?” 

“No,” you answer rather fast. 

“Shame,” he relaxes, leaning on the armrest. “I must say I am having a very good day right now.”

You nearly roll your eyes, it’s not often you make mistakes, this one being punishable by death had it been made during the rule of the two previous Fire Lords. “I’m sure you are.”

“Feels very meaningful, as well.”

“Yeah?” You try to sound interested, but you have a feeling he’s going to eventually say something inappropriate. “How so?”

“You know,” he gestures at the door. “You brought them here because you wanted more space between us— I didn’t want space, I also don’t like my concubines. Then you ended up solving both of my problems and even showered me with some of your affection. I feel as if we’ve come full circle here.” 

That wipes the smile off your face, you were counting on him to be kind enough to pretend like it didn’t happen.

You force out a laugh. “What are you talking about?” 

He lets out an actual laugh, light and filled to the brim with content. “I’m talking about the banquet we attended a few days ago.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t—“

“Yes, you did,” he says, looking at you with amusement. “All drunk and sweaty, throwing yourself at me and begging me to f—“

“That did not happen!” you slam both hands on the ground and yelp. 

“Oh, so you do know?”

“I do, now stop—please,” you beg him. 

“Alright, fine,” he laughs. “Anyways, I just wanted to thank you, that's all.”

“Don’t thank me for any of that,” you murmur, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. “Ugh—If I’d known I’d be bringing two freaks together, I would’ve never brought guards. You should probably expect an apology letter from my father. Though I’m sure it’ll mostly be him begging you to allow him to torture the guard.” 

Knowing your father, the news will probably have a chill running down his spine and sickened with worry. A mistake like this could very well result in you being taken in as a concubine in place of Saiyo, since you and your father would be the reason why he had one less concubine.  

Zuko’s too busy thinking about how your father would be probably go into full, graphic detail on the proposed torture, leaving him mildy disturbed. 

“I should probably write him a letter—let it be how he finds out about the incident and let him know neither of you are at fault.” 

“If you could, that’d be wonderful,” you nod in content.

The weary look on his face never fades as his eyes trail past you and look off into the distance. Your father being the cause of it was hard to believe. There’s something he’s not telling you.

“I know I’m still on a break, but I’m on a fixed salary,” you say to lighten the mood, despite growing concerned over the sudden mood switch. “If you want my professional opinion.” 

He gives an apathetic hum, letting the silence drag on some more as he takes your offer into consideration. 

“I ran into my sister the other day.” 

Your eyes widened and he confirmed it with a subtle nod, then continued to give you a breakdown of their brief reunion. It sounded like something that would’ve been more heartwarming, but in the end you understood why he didn’t look very moved.  “I considered pardoning her, but that only lasted about an hour.”

“Probably for the best. She sounds like she’s found peace, and you got to avoid all the pushback and scrutiny a pardoning would’ve received.” You were sugar coating it, the council would’ve been up in flames. The only reason why you’re staying calm over him committing literal treason is because he seemed to need a friend right now.

“I’ll help her if she needs it, but she’s not coming back to the capital after everything I’ve had to do for this fucking place over the years. I gave my soul away in exchange for everyone’s peace,” he admits in defeat. “Fuck, sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” you murmur, not having much advice for him on the matter. 

It has gotten a lot better over the years, but the beginning years of his reign have left lasting effects on him, though he’d never admit it. 

He says it’s all been rewarding, but those years were thankless. No one took him seriously. He had multiple attempts on his life. He was terrified of being anything like his father, so his own people constantly took advantage of him for being too nice. When the word spread, people protested because they thought he was too weak. 

Things finally started to pick up once he began to ally with different clans and create factions, which allowed him to get even more done since people were more willing to help and support him.

He’s loved by the majority now, but you’ve come to realize that the damage had been done. You felt sorry for him. His main goal of helping others has never changed, but he has no interest in getting to know people. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he grumbles, rising from his seat. 

“I wasn’t looking at you at all.” 

He watches as you stand and walk to the other end of the room, putting the floor cushion in its rightful place. His gaze may have drifted lower than it should’ve, but it rose back up once you turned around. 

He looks like he’s about to say something stupid, so you shoot him a glare. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, pointing at the cushion you had just put away, “just reminded me of the empty bed I’ll have tonight.” Everyone was leaving tomorrow morning, except for the new couple, who were to leave right away. 

“Don’t complain as if you didn’t try to thank me for it,” you sigh. 

“I’m not. I might have another way to thank you, though,” he steps in front of you just before you pass him and leans forward. 

“Miss Advisor!” 

Concubine Saiyo was still turning the corner when she cried out for you. Zuko quickly spins around and you take several steps away from him. Saiyo comes trotting in shortly afterwards, tears streaming from her cheeks.

“I’m leaving now. I will miss seeing you!” her voice trembles. 

“I will miss you, too! I wish you the best of luck.”

Zuko had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but then found himself fighting back a smile as he watched you two wrap your arms around each other. If this was going to be the standard for farewells, he should just start bringing Concubines to trips, along with a fake eunuch. He’d be a free man soon enough!

“And because I like you, if you ever get sent to the west wing as a concubine, don’t listen to what any of them say because they are looking to set you up for failure,” Sai tightly grabs on to your shoulders, “the easiest way to win over the Lord’s affection is to relax your throat. It’s fine if you gag, if anything he’d rather you would—“

“SAIYO!” The name practically rips through both the Fire Lord’s and Chamberlain's vocal chords.

She glances at them, then hurries to tell you the rest. “The messier the better, honestly. Practice Yoga as well! He—“

“THAT IS ENOUGH.”

‼️ TAG LIST IS CLOSED ‼️

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[kurekoii]

𝐺𝑎𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 (𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡)

This is a sad fanfic please dont read if it will upset you art used in banner doesnt belong to me please reach out to me if you know the owner

(this is a very long post)

Zuko × Waterbender!Reader 

TW: implied death, war aftermath, missing presumed dead, grief, survivor’s guilt, found family fracture, rain symbolism, empty home

The air in Zuko’s rooms feels wrong at dusk—like the palace is holding its breath for someone who will never return.

He doesn’t know how to stop expecting the sound of you.

A soft knock from the corridor. The drag of soaked boots over stone. The low murmur you used when you were tired but determined—when you refused to let fear win. Some nights he swears he hears it: the ghost of your knock, the echo of your voice behind the walls.

So he does what he can. He makes rituals out of desperation.

Each evening, he lights the brazier. Each evening, he watches the flames catch and flare as if they might reach through memory and drag you home by the collar. He doesn’t ask the fire for answers. He asks it for time. For one more moment where the world still believes in returning.

The first courier came three nights ago.

Not with good news—never with good news—but with details sharp enough to cut. The ice had split strange near the northern shoals: thin where it should have held, thick where it should have been glass. A route marked on a war room table. Your name underlined with certainty by the way people avoided looking at it.

Zuko studied the map until the lines blurred, then studied it again until the world stopped being able to hide how small he was beneath the ocean’s weight.

The advisors spoke in careful tones—currents, pressure, conditions. They used words like unfortunate and likely and we will do what we can, but the truth sat in his chest like a stone that refused to soften.

His team hadn’t come back.

You hadn’t come back.

He goes to the harbor anyway.

The cloak he wears is too thin for the hour, and the salt air scrapes at him like a reminder. The pylons are bearded with ice. Lanterns knock against each other—bright, brittle sounds that make his teeth ache.

He watches the horizon until his eyes burn.

He tries to picture you out there—your posture when you were angry at a storm, your hands when you decided the ocean would obey. He tries to imagine you laughing as the cold bit through your sleeves, tries to place you so solidly in his mind that you could step out of it and into his life.

Somewhere between the third and fourth lantern, he catches himself thinking the wrong thought.

If I’d been braver. If I’d gone with you.

He remembers the way the door between you and him had always felt—too easy to open, too safe to rely on. He remembers, too late, how often he treated that safety like it was permanent.

When he finally speaks to the sea, his voice is hoarse.

“Come back.”

He hates that it sounds like begging.

He hates worse that some part of him believes the ocean might listen if he says it clearly enough.

Back in the palace, he is Fire Lord on paper and a boy with shaking hands in practice. He sits with grieving families, nods at the words people expect from him, and performs strength like a costume that doesn’t fit.

“We will search until—” he begins, and then the sentence breaks in his mouth.

Until what? Until the ocean decides? Until the ice decides you’re gone? Until the next courier arrives with rope burns and a bundle under oilcloth?

He can’t make never into something he says out loud.

So he doesn’t.

He starts searching instead.

Not officially—no one has the heart to commission another mission when the last one failed—but he slips out with crews who pretend not to notice him. He watches the water as if it might change its mind. He combs the shoreline until his knees are numb and his hands smell like brine.

Rain follows him back to the palace.

At first, it comes like a blessing—soft at the edges, a silver hush against the tiled roofs. But by midnight it grows relentless, as though the sky is trying to cleanse the world and can’t.

It hits the empty entryway in clean sheets and slides down the stone where you once stood.

Zuko stops one night beneath the archway and stares at the doorway like it’s a wound he keeps checking to see if it’s still bleeding.

He expects—

Nothing comes.

He starts holding onto smaller things instead.

Not the relics of heroism. Not the proud treasures the palace would want him to display. He holds onto the ordinary, the tender, the proof that you existed in a world that went on without you.

A folded letter you never sent—paper damp at the corners where you’d sealed it, then hesitated. A ribbon tied in the back of a drawer for no reason other than habit. A cup you left half-washed, as if you planned to come back and finish it later.

His grief has become a hoarding instinct.

He doesn’t even realize how far it’s gone until Katara finds him with his hands pressed to a bundle of cloth in the corner of the hall. His palms are cold. The cloth is colder.

She says your name carefully, like it might shatter if she speaks too loudly.

Zuko looks at her and wants to explain—wants to say that he is doing everything he can, that there are limits to what flesh can survive and that the sea isn’t human and doesn’t bargain.

But his throat is full of ash.

Instead, he just lets the quiet sit between them.

Katara’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t collapse. She just steps closer and touches the space beside him, not quite on him—like she’s afraid contact will break something that can’t be fixed.

Sokka finds him at dawn, dragging a hand through his hair like he can scrub the nightmares out of himself.

“You think you can pull them back with staring,” he says—not cruelly. Like he’s trying to shove Zuko back into the world where other people live. “You keep doing this, and you’ll tear yourself to pieces.”

Zuko opens his mouth.

No words come.

Because Sokka is right, and because the truth is worse: if tearing himself apart might make the universe feel guilty, he would gladly do it.

The second courier arrives at dusk.

The harbor has the kind of silence that hurts. Rope creaks. Workers lower their eyes. Someone says Zuko’s name too softly, as if volume could make the news less real.

A skiff comes in slow, already exhausted by what it carries. Oilcloth bundles shift under careful hands. Water beads along the edges of the wood like tears that didn’t get permission to fall.

Zuko walks toward the boat and doesn’t feel his feet touch the ground.

He waits until the bundle is placed into his arms before he lets himself breathe.

Then he kneels.

His breath fogs the oilcloth—witnessing heat where there should be nothing.

He keeps his hands steady. He keeps his face still. He keeps his mind from sprinting ahead into the certainty he can’t bear.

When he peels it back, the motion is reverent in a way that makes him sick with rage at the world. Like the careful handling will undo what careful handling can’t undo.

There are things he recognizes, and the parts he doesn’t recognize feel even crueler.

He doesn’t let himself cry—not at first.

Instead, he presses a palm to the place where warmth should have been. His hand trembles anyway. His body betrays him with microshocks of grief.

He whispers your name once.

Then again.

Then he stops whispering, because it doesn’t matter how quietly he speaks. The door won’t open. The ocean won’t return what it took.

He thinks about the last time he saw you at the palace threshold—how you stepped inside laughing, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the cold you pretended was nothing.

He remembers saying something stupid. Something small. Something that now feels like a crime.

I should’ve gone with you.

The words aren’t a thought anymore.

They’re a blade that keeps being re-sharpened.

After the funeral rites, after the official grieving is finished and everyone has done what they can to be seen doing it, Zuko returns to the empty rooms.

The rain has stopped. The world feels rinsed clean in a way that makes him want to scream.

He finds a place for everything you left behind, and in doing so he becomes the kind of man who builds altars out of furniture.

He smooths your last letter flat until the paper lies still. He ties your ribbon where it belongs. He sets your cup in the position you always used.

Then he does something he cannot justify: he sits by the entryway with the vigil of someone watching a battlefield.

He doesn’t lock the door.

He keeps it unlocked as if you might come back furious at the storm, as if you might call out from the hall, as if you might step in dripping and furious at how late you are.

Night deepens. The moon shifts behind clouds. The rain doesn’t return, but the memory of it does—like the sky never learned to move on.

At midnight, he lights candles.

Not because it changes anything.

Because it makes the house look less empty.

The palace glow is too gentle for what it contains. Firelight flickers along doorframes and polished stone, dancing across walls that no longer hold your reflection.

Zuko speaks into the quiet. He speaks like you can still hear him if he’s careful enough.

“I should’ve gone with you.”

His voice doesn’t echo.

But the house listens anyway.

He falls asleep in your chair—his head bent where yours would rest, your space filled by the shape of his grief. Exhaustion drags him down, but even in dreams he can’t escape the ocean.

He dreams of breakers lifting him with palms of water. He dreams of the sea opening like a path, inviting him to step in.

He dreams of your laugh.

He dreams of you at the threshold, barefoot and stubborn, parka open—no longer cold, no longer gone—turning your head like you’re about to scold him for waiting too long.

The door swings in the dream. The lantern sways. His body surges upright with hope so sharp it feels like pain.

He reaches for you.

And his hands close on nothing.

Morning comes without mercy.

The door stays shut.

The chair stays empty.

Rain doesn’t fall, but puddles remain along the stone like evidence. Like the world is insisting on continuity: yesterday happened, tonight happened, you didn’t get to come home.

Zuko stands slowly, as if moving too quickly might break whatever fragile boundary separates hope from madness.

He looks at the entryway again, the place where you should have been.

Then he makes himself do the one thing grief refuses to accept:

He doesn’t wait for the door to open.

He just lets the truth exist.

And when he’s finally able to move, he only moves because the house needs it—because if he stays still, he’ll turn into the kind of man who lives inside a vigil until even his bones forget the purpose of walking.

He sets the candles out one by one.

Light becomes smoke.

Smoke becomes memory.

The door remains closed.

And Zuko, Fire Lord and survivor, learns what the ocean teaches best:

Some things are taken, and the world keeps going anyway.

Sokka x waterbender!Reader

TW: argument, harsh words, implied death at sea, storm imagery, survivor’s guilt, unresolved conflict, last words left unsaid, blame-yourself spiral

Sokka’s doing his triple-check thing—lines, rigging, spare sails—and you’re listening to the sea like it’s choosing a language. He says the black shelf on the horizon is nothing yet, that you know storms, that you’re the best person for this scouting run. “It’s not about best,” you say, gentling the rope through your palms. “It’s about right.” “So it’s not right unless you say so?” He doesn’t mean it cruelly, but the wind stuffs the words full of grit. You flinch. He sees and hates himself for it. “I just—this is the plan.” “The plan doesn’t care if you come home,” you say, and it’s a truth with teeth. “I do.” He swallows. He’s been captain since he was a boy because nobody else would. Plans keep people alive. Plans do not leave room for the way you’re looking at him, for the boil of the sky, for the bone-deep tug that says wait. “Then trust me,” he says, too sharp because he’s scared. “Or don’t.” You say, “Don’t make me choose.” He says, “I already did,” and that is the first cut. You don’t kiss him before you go. You touch his shoulder like sailors do—a quick press. You tuck your braid under your hood, your knife at your hip, your faith in the ocean’s mood tucked into the place behind your teeth. He watches until the skiff is a bead on the waterline. He pretends the horizon is polite. When the rain comes it is not polite. Hours fold. He paces a rut in the dock. Plans unravel in his hands and slither away. He ties and unties the same knot until it burns his skin. Every thunderclap sounds like a door slamming. When the lookouts call, he runs. The skiff returns cracked and coughing, with two sailors and a coil of rope that belongs to you. He doesn’t ask which wave took you. He doesn’t ask if you called his name. He doesn’t ask, because there are only two answers: yes or no, and both carve him open.

He goes back to the dock when it storms, stands in the rain until he’s shaking, practicing apologies too late. He says them anyway, into wind that throws his words back at him like spray: You were right. I was scared. I should have stopped you. I should have gone with you. I should have kissed you. I should have— There’s a logic to weather he doesn’t understand. It breaks, always. It breaks and the sun returns and people say relief like a prayer. He wants a storm that never ends, something that can hold his mistake in its mouth and not let go. He keeps your knife in his boot. He starts checking knots softer. He stops using the word plan like a shield. When he hears thunder, he speaks to the water the way you did—gentle, listening. “Bring them home,” he says. “Or take care of them where I can’t.” The sea says nothing. He waits anyway.

Toph x firebender!Reader

TW: battlefield aftermath, implied fatal injury, sensory loss, inability to help, helpless rage, found family quiet, hand-holding at the end

After the ambush, the ground is too loud. Metal clatters where it shouldn’t. The earth complains under scorched footprints. Someone is sobbing into their sleeve; someone is lying very still and thinking very hard about nothing. “Hey,” you call, smoky and hoarse. “Twinkletoes okay?” “Aang’s breathing,” Toph says, kneeling, palms down, listening. “He’s fine. Where are you?” “By the… by the rock with the split like a smile.” You laugh, and it hurts. “Funny.” She grins reflexively and digs her fingers in, reading. There you are: a warm-blooded punctuation against the cooled earth. She walks without stumbling because she has you to aim for. When she finds you, it smells like the world cracked open too fast. Your fire has always been careful with her, a hearth in a house that remembers snow. Now the heat around you is wrong; it radiates and then pulls back, like a breath caught and held. She sits in the ash and takes your hand. “No napping on the job,” she says, bravado pitched high. “I haven’t insulted you in at least five minutes.” “You’re slipping,” you murmur. “What a tragedy.” “That’s my line,” Toph says. She listens. Your heartbeat is a metronome that’s learned a new song. It skips. It argues. It apologizes. She hates it. She leans closer, ear almost on your chest like a child, not because she needs to but because skin against skin is a language older than mountains. “I can fix it,” she says, hands shaking now. “I can—there’s pressure. I can move it. I can—” “No,” you breathe. Your fingers flex around hers, brave. “You’ll hurt yourself. And… you can’t.” She could peel a city like fruit. She could fold a palace into a suitcase. She could do every impossible thing except the one in front of her. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she says. It comes out small. “Okay,” you say, gentle. “Then do this. Stay.”

She feels the last heat leave the rock under your back like a lamp turning down. Your heartbeat used to be a door she could put her ear to, eavesdropping on joy. The quiet it leaves is a wound with edges. When the others find them, no one says her name. They put hands on her shoulders that she shrugs off like rain. She reaches for the ground because it has never lied to her. It tells her what she already knows: you are weight without pulse. Toph clears a place in the earth that’s soft as a bed. She lays you down with all the ceremony she pretends to hate. She presses her palm to your sternum, where she used to feel the kick of laughter between your ribs, and makes a vow the dirt hears. “If the world ever tries to take you from me again, it’s going to have to take me too.” Later, when she sleeps, she dreams in quiet. It’s awful. She wakes and hammers her fist into the ground until it sings. Somewhere in the vibration she almost hears you laughing.

Katara x firebender!Reader

TW: healer’s failure, implied fatal wound, mercy, grief, guilt, sunrise death, lover’s forehead touch, promise breaking

She gets you onto the flat rock you like, the one that soaks the morning sun first. Your fire always spilled out of you at dawn like greeting an old friend. Even now, your fingers twitch when light touches them, reflexive, like you’re reaching for a spark. Katara pulls water from the river until it rises around them like a slow curtain. Her hands glow. She talks because sound is a balm. “Remember when we stole Sokka’s jerky and he pretended to arrest us? Remember the market in Shu Jing and the scarf you haggled down from three copper to one? Remember—” “Remember when you promised,” you say, and blink an apology. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair,” she says, and lays her palms over the worst of it, where your shirt is dark and the fabric sticks(your bleeding),and the edges are hot with the kind of heat that means the body is bargaining.

“Katara,” you whisper. “I’ve got you,” she says. “I’ve got you. Stay. Breathe. Stay.” She can feel the water pulling and refusing in the same motion. It wants to knit. It wants to smooth. It slides off a place too deep, too ragged; it cannot get a grip. She pushes anyway, sweat slipping into the river, teeth clenched, every part of her focused down into her hands and the light and the steady will not take them from me. The sun lifts. The light goes from blue to gold. Your breathing dithers like a child deciding whether to misbehave. “Tell me a story,” you say. She tells you how the moon taught her to heal. She tells you of nights she sat on rooftops and listened to people dream. She tells you you’re the bravest person she’s ever met, which is not a story but a truth. She tells you tomorrow’s weather like it’s a fact you’ll share. “Tomorrow,” you repeat, smiling like it fits. “Good.”

. Katara folds your hands at your sternum, a pose she’s given a hundred strangers, and for the first time she hates it. She wants your hands where they belong: in her hair making a mess of braids, on her hips when she scolds you, pressed flat to her back when you slide into the tent late and warm. She rests her forehead to yours. “I promised,” she says into the smallest space left. “I lied.” The river doesn’t argue. It takes what she gives it: your name, a sliver of hair, the heat from her cheeks. She lets the current carry the promise away, out to where the ocean can make it its own.

She will keep your scarf. She will wear it when it’s too hot. She will learn to call the river a friend again, but not today. Today, she sits on the rock until her shadow swallows it whole.

Aang x earthbender!Reader

TW: secret pregnancy reveal, implied fatal injury during mission, grief for two futures, found family fracture, avatar-state grief tremor (controlled), gentle body care.

You come back to him carried, not walking. The others make a place that is shade and quiet and water, and Aang kneels and is suddenly every age he has ever been—twelve and scared, a hundred and tired, seventeen and trying to be steady for everyone.

“Hey,” you say, brave and bright through pain. “Heavy day, huh?” “You’re the earthbender,” he says, and tries to smile. “You’re supposed to like heavy.” You squeeze his wrist. “Do you promise to listen? I need you to listen.” “I’m listening,” he says, and the air turns obediently still, a room with the door shut. “I was going to tell you,” you breathe. Your eyes close for a beat. “I wanted—there wasn’t a good time. And it was so new I didn’t want to name it and make it… breakable.”

He looks at your hands on your stomach, at the way your body has always read the ground like scripture. He feels the old world and the new world tilt. “You—” He swallows too fast. “We—” “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t know for sure. But I felt it. The ground felt it. Like a drum with a softer beat inside the beat. I was going to find a healer after this, when we got back, and tell you with tea and those sesame cakes you like.” His hands hover. He cannot bear to press and cannot bear not to. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, because there are a thousand other words and none of them are big enough. “Thank you.” You laugh and it hurts and he wants to fight the air for letting it. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.” “It’s not like this,” he says, fast, certain in a way that frightens him. “It’s not.” He calls the air colder for your skin. He smooths the stone beneath you so it cups your spine the way his body has a hundred times, a shape made for you. He calls water close without dripping, asks it to be a hush instead of a flood. You touch his cheek. “Aang. Stay with me.” “I always do,” he says, and he means it like a vow that outlives language.

He washes your hair. He braids it the way Katara taught him, clumsy but careful. He smooths your eyebrows because you always made a joke about your unruly face before a council meeting. He arranges you in the way of your people, asks Toph what the earth likes best for comfort, listens to the answer and gives it. That night, he sits by the little cairn they build, hands on the stones as if they are a heartbeat he can coax back. He sings a lullaby Monk Gyatso used when the older boys couldn’t sleep—the one about the sky that doesn’t end and the ground that does, which always made you snort because you insisted the ground is a circle too. He speaks to both futures. He says your name and another that never got chosen. He apologizes to a person who may have been and to the one who was, and he thanks you for both. When he finally stands, he touches the top stone like a forehead, like a kiss. He bends the grass so it grows toward the cairn, an emerald tide that will keep it company. He lifts his staff. He doesn’t fly. He walks. The ground remembers the weight of him, and for once, that’s enough.

Thank you to @st4rjojo for this amazing idea, i hope you all enjoy it

please leave more requests/ comments i always appreciate them and will do my best to respond

[balladofthestar]

right where you left me, maekar targaryen

SYNOPSIS. When a young Egg stumbles upon a warped, long-forgotten diary in the quiet light of Summerhall, he accidentally unearths the fragile remnants of his father’s past.

WORD COUNT. 8,244

PAIRINGS. maekar targaryen x fem!reader

NOTES. mentions of death, heavy angst, mentions of y/n, talks of war, arrange marriage (lemme know if i missed smth!)

IN EVERY KINGDOM, the crown demands a price, and sometimes, the cost is the very heart that beats beneath the velvet and steel.

The dust motes in the quiet library of Summerhall danced in the weak afternoon light, illuminated by a sliver of sun piercing the high, arched windows. Egg had only come to the chambers searching for Aemon. The older boy was supposed to be reviewing his maester’s translations, but the room was empty. 

Aemon’s heavy footfalls had echoed down the hall just as Egg slipped inside, and in his haste to avoid being scolded for snooping, Egg had bumped heavily against a tall, precarious stack of leather-bound tomes. With a deafening crash, dozens of books cascaded across the marble floor. 

Egg winced, rubbing his shoulder as he dropped to his knees to right the mess. Most of the volumes were dry histories of the Seven Kingdoms, but one dark, leather-bound journal had slid far beneath the heavy oak desk. It was warped with age, the leather worn thin at the edges, as if it had been handled often and then not at all for a very long time. Egg reached out, dusting off the cover, and opened it out of pure curiosity.

Egg’s thumb traced the edge of the leather-bound tome before he turned the cover. The handwriting inside was undeniably his father’s. Messier. Uneven. As though the words were written in haste, or in youth. 

On the very first page, a bold title was inscribed: The Adventures of Maekar, Y/N, and Dyanna. Below it, in a distinctly different ink and a rushed, heavier hand, was an additional note: and Baelor. Frowning, Egg turned the page. The breath caught in his throat.

It was a delicate charcoal drawing of a woman. She did not have the pale hair or the striking violet eyes of his late mother, Dyanna Dayne. Her features were softer, her hair dark, and a faint, knowing smile was captured in the strokes of the charcoal. Not stylized. Not arranged like the portraits that hung in the halls. There was no attempt to make her look grander than she was, no careful positioning of hands or jewels or posture. She was simply . . . there. 

The name scrawled beneath the portrait was simply Y/N.

Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, dark and unbound. One strand had been sketched twice, as if the hand that drew it had hesitated before settling. Her mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to it. 

Egg stared at the page, his thumb tracing the graphite. He had never known his father possessed the gentle, deft hand required for such a portrait.

As he stared at the delicate charcoal strokes, Egg’s mind drifted to the very moment his father’s hand had rested upon this parchment. 

The afternoon heat in the Red Keep’s old gardens was tempered only by the thick, ancient vines that wove through the stone trellis above, casting long, shifting shadows across the marble benches. They were six and ten then, hovering on the precipice of adulthood but still largely naive to the heavy, unyielding realities of the realm. For a few stolen hours, the politics of the court, the looming threat of the Blackfyres, and the arranged marriages of great houses felt a world away.

In the shaded alcove, Maekar sat with a piece of willow charcoal pinched between his rough fingers, leaving a trail of dark soot across his knuckles. Across from him sat Y/N, completely unaware of the intensity in his gaze.

He recalled every detail of the light: the way the golden sun of King’s Landing caught the rich, dark strands of her hair, catching the edges and turning the dark brown into an amber halo that framed her features. She had turned to him, her face lighting up with genuine amusement as she shared a quiet, breathless jest about Dyanna Dayne. Dyanna had spent the morning walking with her head down, looking terribly solemn after being politely but firmly dismissed by one of the Baratheon boys, a family known for their dark, tempestuous looks. Y/N had giggled into her hand, noting with a playful glint in her eyes that Dyanna seemed to have a distinct, unchanging preference for dark-haired men.

When the jest gave way to her full, free laughter, the sound seemed to resonate through the shaded alcove. Maekar had found himself completely unable to look away. He stopped breathing for a moment, his hand trembling against the rough, heavy tooth of the parchment. In that exact heartbeat, the prince was overwhelmed by a strange and melancholic realization: he was capturing the only part of her he would ever truly possess. The crown and his father's expectations would ensure that she belonged to someone else, but on this small square of paper, she was his.

He began the sketch with her cheeks, letting the charcoal soften and shade the roundness that gave her face its gentle, unassuming warmth. He traced the smooth dip of her chin, capturing the soft, slightly round lines that separated her features from the sharp, severe angles typical of other women. Every stroke was a secret declaration. In the silence of the garden, Maekar poured all the words he was never allowed to speak into the fragile graphite, preserving the young woman before the realm broke them both.

Egg continued to flip through the pages, his eyes widening as the truth of it settled in slowly, unwillingly. The diary was not only ink and confession, but it was a memory made visible. Y/N alone, drawn with a patience that felt almost careful. Y/N laughing, head tilted slightly as though caught mid-sound. Y/N looking away, as if she had always known she was being watched.

And then—

The group.

At first, only three.

Maekar, younger then. Dyanna beside him, composed even in ink, her posture always steadier than the world around her. And Y/N between them in some drawings, or just slightly ahead in others, as if she never quite belonged to standing still. The alcove appeared often in the background. Stone arches, half-shadowed light, the same place where time seemed to hesitate before moving on.

Egg’s fingers paused over one page.

There, his father had written in a neat line beneath a sketch of the three of them sitting too close together on worn stone steps:

“We were not yet what they wanted us to be.”

Further on, the drawings changed.

A fourth figure appeared.

Baelor.

He was always drawn differently—less composed, more open, as if even ink struggled to keep him within the frame. In one sketch, he leaned over Maekar’s shoulder, reading something off-page. In another, he stood between Dyanna and Y/N, laughing at something none of them would later remember clearly enough to repeat.

Egg traced the edge of one sketch where all four of them stood together in the alcove.

“Do you remember this?” Baelor’s voice echoed faintly from the past, as if caught between pages rather than time.

“You tripped over your own words,” Y/N had said in the drawing’s memory, though Egg could almost hear her now, amused rather than unkind.

“I did not,” Baelor had replied immediately.

“You absolutely did,” Dyanna’s voice had cut in, calm as ever.

Maekar—drawn slightly apart, watching rather than joining, had only said, quietly, “He always does when he is trying to sound clever.”

“And yet you never stop listening,” Y/N had answered, turning toward him in the sketch with that familiar expression, half challenge, half something softer she never said aloud.

The ink on that page was heavier around Maekar’s figure, as though he had pressed harder when drawing it without realizing.

Egg turned the page again.

The group changed slowly over time. Not in number at first, but in distance. The alcove remained, but the spaces between them widened in ways the drawings did not explain, only recorded.

Baelor appeared less often. Y/N lingered longer in the margins. Dyanna remained steady in every frame, even when the others did not. And Maekar—

Maekar was always there.

Even when he was not.

Egg stopped for a long moment on one final sketch: all of them together again, but not quite aligned. As if the moment itself had been drawn while already slipping away. No one in it was looking at the same thing.

And beneath it, in his father’s handwriting, smaller than before, almost careful enough to be forgotten, were the words:

“We thought it would last because we had not yet learned what endings look like.”

Then, the drawings stopped, replaced by pages of dense text. They were letters. Hundreds of them. Letters written in his father’s hand, addressed to Y/N, filled with confessions and longing. But they had never been sent. Egg read the margin of the first entry:

“Y/N,You told me to write instead of speaking, if I could not say it plainly. I do not know if this is better. There is no one here to interrupt, no one to correct me, and yet I find I hesitate more with ink than I ever did with words.”

It had been spring—the kind that came with more rain than warmth, the stones weree damp, the air heavy with it. The corridors smelled faintly of wet stone and something green just beginning to return.

He had not meant to run, and yet he did.

The alcove was already occupied when he reached it.

“You’re late,” Y/N said, glancing at him from where she leaned against the narrow curve of the wall, her voice even, as if she had been waiting long enough to expect him.

“I was not meant to come at all,” Maekar answered, still catching his breath, rain clinging to the dark strands of his hair and dampening the shoulders of his doublet.

“That has never stopped you before.” 

He did not return the remark. For a moment, he only stood there, hands half-curled at his sides, as though unsure what to do with them now that he had arrived.

“What is it?” she asked, more softly this time, straightening just a little, her attention settling fully on him.

“Nothing.” The word came too quickly.

“That is a lie.” Y/N did not move closer, but her eyes lingered on him, patient in a way that suggested she had no intention of letting it pass.

Maekar let out a breath, quieter now, his shoulders lowering slightly. “I came to ask you something.”

“Then ask.” 

“You will answer plainly?” he said, his voice steadier, though there was still something held back beneath it.

“When do I not?” 

“When it suits you not to.” 

“Then I will answer as plainly as I please.” She shifted her weight against the stone, unbothered, as if the terms had already been decided.

Maekar looked at her then, properly, as though measuring whether that would be enough.

It was not.

But he asked anyway.

“How,” he began, slower now, choosing the words rather than letting them come, “does one tell someone that he loves them?”

The question settled between them, simple in its shape, heavier in its meaning.

Y/N did not laugh. She did not look surprised. Instead, she watched him, more carefully now, as if measuring not the question, but the reason for it.

“Is this for you,” she asked, “or for some poor girl who has not yet realized her misfortune?” Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered, searching.

Maekar frowned faintly. “You said you would answer plainly.” His eyes flicked to hers, expectant, though guarded.

“I am,” she replied, unhurried. “I am asking plainly.”

“It is a question,” he said after a moment, his voice flattening slightly. “Answer it.”

“You could tell her.” She said it simply, as though it required no further thought.

Maekar exhaled, the sound sharper than before. “If it were that simple, I would not be asking.” His hand flexed slightly at his side, betraying a hint of impatience.

“Then it is not simple,” she said. “Which means you will say it wrong.” Her tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact.

“That is not helpful.” 

“It is true.” 

He looked away then, toward the narrow opening where rain fell in a thin, steady line beyond the stone. For a moment, he said nothing.

“I would not say it wrong,” he said at last, quieter now, though there was a stubbornness to it.

“You would,” she replied without hesitation, the faintest trace of amusement returning. “You would make it sound like a command. Or a warning.” Her fingers brushed idly against the edge of the stone beside her, as though the observation came easily.

“I would not.” His gaze returned to her, sharper now.

“You would,” she repeated, almost gently. “You would stand too straight, and speak as though you expected something in return.” 

“I would expect nothing.” The words came firmer, though not entirely convincing.

“That would not be how it sounded.” 

A pause followed.

He glanced back at her, something sharper in his expression now. “Then how should it sound?”

Y/N leaned back a little more fully against the stone, her posture loosening.

“Not like anything at all,” she said. “Not something rehearsed. Not something you have turned over in your mind until it has no life left in it.”

“And what does that leave?” 

She looked back at him.

“Write it.” The answer came simply.

Maekar frowned slightly. “Write it.” He repeated it as if testing the weight of it.

“Yes.” Y/N nodded once, small and certain.

“That is your answer?” His brow furrowed, unconvinced.

“It is the only one you might manage without ruining it.” There was no mockery in it but only a quiet honesty.

He studied her a moment longer. “And then?” he asked.

“And then,” she said, “you do nothing with it.”

Maekar stilled. “Nothing.” The word came slower now.

“You write it,” Y/N repeated, “and you keep it. You do not send it. You do not speak it. You let it remain what it is.”

“That is not telling her.” 

“No,” she agreed. “It is not.” 

“Then what use is it?” His voice dropped, quieter now, the question no longer argumentative.

Y/N held his gaze.

“It is for you,” she said. “Not for her.” 

A longer silence followed.

“And if that is not enough?” he asked, after a moment, the words quieter still.

Y/N’s expression shifted, though only slightly.

“Then you were never meant to tell her at all.”

The rain filled the silence that followed.

Maekar looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to find something in her face that had not been there before.

He did not.

“Very well,” he said at last, the words measured, as though settling something within himself.

Y/N’s mouth curved faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “Very well,” she echoed.

And that had been the beginning of it.

The lines stretched longer than the ones before, filling more of the page, the ink pressed firm as though each word had been considered before it was allowed to remain.

“You said it would make it easier—that I would think before I spoke. You were right. I think too much now, and say nothing at all.  

There was a faint smudge beneath the last line, as though the ink had not been given time to dry before the page was turned—or as though a hand had lingered there longer than it should have.

It is a strange thing, to be so certain of something and yet have no place to put it. I find it follows me regardless. In the yard, in the hall, even at the table where I am expected to listen and not speak unless spoken to. I hear my own thoughts louder than any man’s voice. You speak as though it is simple—to set it aside, to let it remain unspoken, to trust that it will not grow into something unmanageable. I do not think you understand what you have asked of me.

A line had been started beneath it, then struck through so harshly the parchment bore the mark.

Another line followed, written cleaner, though no less heavy.

Or perhaps you understand it better than I do.

There was more space now, as if he had paused longer before continuing.

I tried, today, to speak as I always have. It felt wrong. Every word I did not mean sounded louder than those I did. You spoke to me as though nothing had changed. I answered you the same. I do not know which of us lied better.

The ink lightened toward the end, the pressure easing, though the hand remained steady.

If this is easier, as you say, then I will endure it. But I think you have mistaken silence for peace.”

The ink ended there, but the space it left did not.

What followed in the pages after was not immediate, no new entry, no hurried continuation. Only a stretch of blank parchment, as though even writing had its limits, and he had reached them. But the story did not end with the letter. It only quieted. They went on as they always had.

There were mornings in the yard where the air still held the damp of the night before, where steel rang against steel and men shouted over one another, and she would stand just beyond it, half in shadow, watching without seeming to. She never stayed long. Long enough to be noticed, never long enough to be questioned. Maekar learned, without meaning to, the exact moment she would turn away—just before the noise grew too loud, just before the sun climbed too high.

At the table, nothing changed. She sat where she was meant to, spoke when spoken to, and listened the rest of the time. There was no strain in it, no sign of anything misplaced. If anything, she seemed more at ease than most—unbothered by the weight of names and expectations that pressed on everyone else. She would glance at him sometimes, briefly, the same way she always had. Not lingering. Not avoiding.

It was that sameness that unsettled him.

The alcove did not belong to them anymore, though no one had claimed it. It remained as it had always been—narrow, half-forgotten, the light never quite reaching it. He passed it often enough to know when she had been there. A shift in the dust, a mark along the stone where someone had leaned too long. Once, he found a loose thread caught against the edge, dark against the pale wall. He did not touch it.

There were days when they spoke.

Nothing of consequence. Small things. Observations that required no answer. It would have been easy, for anyone watching, to believe nothing had changed at all. They did not stand too close. They did not lower their voices. There was no urgency in it, no need to linger.

Once, in the corridor, she paused a fraction longer than she should have, as if she meant to say something and thought better of it. He noticed only because he had already begun to move past her. By the time he turned, she was gone.

Another time, it rained again, steady and without wind. He found himself at the alcove without recalling the path that had brought him there. She was not. He stayed anyway, longer than made sense, longer than he would have admitted. The stone was cold beneath his hand. The sound of the rain filled the space too easily.

He did not go back the next day.

Or the day after that.

But he thought of it. 

Egg’s fingers shifted slightly against the edge of the page.

"You were right, Y/N. I must carry the duty of a prince, and you must carry the duty of your house. If I love what I am forbidden to love, I must do so silently. I will not send these. I will keep them within my own heart, as you asked."

The correspondence spanned years, chronicling a quiet, aching love that neither dared to speak aloud.

The entries continued, not in neat order, but in fragments—moments caught and kept.

“Y/N, Dyanna says you laugh too easily. Baelor says you do not laugh enough. I have decided they are both wrong. You laugh when you wish to, and not when it is expected. I think that is why they notice it at all.”

Another page.

“Y/N, you stood by the window today and said nothing for nearly an hour. I thought you angry. When I asked, you told me you were only thinking. I do not know which unsettles me more—that I could not tell the difference, or that I wanted to.”

Another.

“Y/N, they have begun to speak of marriages more often now. It is no longer spoken of as something distant. Names are mentioned, then dismissed, then returned to again as though the choice might settle itself if left alone long enough.

The writing grew tighter toward the bottom.

Yours has not been spoken yet. I find I listen for it regardless.”

After that, the hand loosened again, though not entirely. The ink was lighter, as if written at a different hour, or with less certainty

“Y/N, you told me not to come to you again. You said it would only make it harder, that there was no sense in making something difficult worse by indulging it. You spoke as though it were already decided, as though we had only to accept it and be done.

The line that followed was written slower.

I did not argue. I should have.”

You came to me tonight.

The ink there had bled faintly into the parchment, as though the quill had lingered too long.

You asked me to take you away. You did not speak of where, or how, or what would follow. Only that we would go, and that it would be enough.

There was a long space beneath it.

Long enough that Aegon could almost feel the hesitation that had lived there.

I told you no.

The next line came harder.

I told you to stay. I told you it was not ours to choose, that there were things greater than what we wanted, that it would not end as you thought it would. You did not argue. That was worse.

The diary did not move cleanly from one day to the next after that.

The pages grew uneven—entries breaking off, resuming later in a different hand, as though written at odd hours or in moments stolen between obligations. Ink smudged where it should have dried clean. Words pressed too hard into the parchment, then faded where the hand must have faltered.

They had met there, though neither had meant to. Or perhaps they had. It was difficult to tell, even in the way he wrote it.

She had been the one to speak first. She had not circled the matter, had not softened it into something easier to refuse. She had asked him plainly, and when he did not answer, she had asked again, until there was no space left between the question and the answer he would not give.

There were lines in the margins, written smaller, tighter—admissions he had not allowed into the body of the entry.

I would have gone. I thought of it. I nearly said yes.

The ink there had been smeared, as though his hand had passed over it before it dried.

But the entry itself remained unchanged.

He had turned her away.

They had met at the alcove, though neither had meant to.

He had gone there because there had been nowhere else to stand. Because the keep had begun to feel smaller with each passing hour, every corridor leading him back to the same thought. And she had been there already.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The corridor was dim, the torchlight thinning, leaving the alcove half in shadow. It seemed smaller than it had been before. Or perhaps there was simply no room left for anything unspoken.

“You meant it,” she said.

“I did.”

She searched his face, as though something might still be undone if she looked long enough.

“You cannot,” she said.

“I can.”

“You will not.”

He did not answer that. The silence stretched.

“Then this is how it ends,” she said.

“It does not end.”

“It does,” she replied. “You have made certain of it.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “Y/N—”

“Do not,” she said, not sharply, but with enough weight to stop him. “Do not make it something else. It is simple enough as it is.”

“It is not simple.”

“It is,” she insisted. “You have chosen. That is all there is to it.”

He did not deny it.

The quiet that followed was not empty. It held everything neither of them would say.

“You asked me once what you should do,” she said, softer now.

“I remember.”

“I told you to write it,” she went on. “I thought that would be the end of it.”

“It was not.”

“No.” Y/N let out a breath, faint, almost soundless. “It was not.”

She looked at him then, properly.

“Come with me,” she said.

No urgency. No desperation. Only certainty.

“We can leave before morning.”

But Maekar did not move.

“It will not matter where,” she continued. “Only that we are not here.”

“It will matter,” he said.

“It will not.”

“It will follow us.”

“Let it.”

He shook his head once. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“I do.” Her gaze did not waver. “I am asking you to choose.”

The words settled between them. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, nothing had changed.

“I have,” he said.

Y/N went still.

“And this is it,” she said.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Say it again.”

“Y/N—”

“Say it.”

He held her gaze.

“You will marry him.”

The words did not echo.

Y/N nodded once.

“Very well.”

She did not argue.

That had been the worst of it.

He left her there.

He had told himself, before he turned, that he would not look back. Not once. Not even at the end. The corridor stretched longer than he remembered. Each step came measured, counted without meaning to.

One.

Two.

Three.

He kept his gaze forward, fixed on nothing.

Thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

The sound of his own steps followed him too closely, as though the silence refused to leave him.

Seventy.

Eighty.

Ninety.

He did not slow.

He did not slow.

One hundred.

One hundred and ten.

One hundred and twenty.

The distance should have meant something by then.

It did not.

One hundred and thirty.

One hundred and forty.

One hundred and forty-three. That was what it took to reach his chambers.

It should have been easy.

It was not.

He pushed the door open. The room was dark, untouched. For a moment, he stood there, as though the distance he had put between them might settle into something final. Then the air shifted. The window stood open.

The night had come in with it; cool, quiet.

And there—

She was still there. At the alcove. Exactly where he had left her.

As though those one hundred and three steps had meant nothing at all.

The next line in the diary had been written with such force the ink had nearly torn through the page.

I should have gone back.

One moon later, Maekar was betrothed to Dyanna Dayne. There were no entries after that. For a time, Egg could only stare at the empty pages that followed, his fingers resting at the edge as though something more might reveal itself if he waited long enough. Nothing did. The parchment remained clean, untouched—too clean. It unsettled him more than anything written before.

What had passed in the day of Y/N’s wedding, and the days that came after?

Nothing.

Or nothing his father had allowed himself to keep.

It did not make sense. Maekar had written everything—things better left unsaid, things no one was meant to read. He had not spared himself in ink. And yet here, at the very moment where something should have remained, there was only absence.

As if he had chosen not to remember.

Or worse— as if he had not trusted himself to.

Egg turned the page.

And there it was.

Three moons after the wedding—three moons into what remained of their lives—the First Blackfyre Rebellion began. The entry resumed without preamble, as though nothing had been lost between one page and the next.

Maekar and Baelor were summoned to lead the royal troops.

Y/N, A month has passed since they bound me to another name. It was done as such things are—spoken before witnesses, sealed in duty, and left without room for refusal. I have kept my place in it as I was expected to. I have done all that was required of me. There is nothing in it that is mine. War came as it always does—announced first in whispers, then in certainty. Baelor and I were summoned to lead the king’s forces. There was no delay. There never is, when the realm demands it. I did not think of you then as I should have. Or perhaps I did, and chose not to name it. They told us after. You had been taken in the confusion—caught where the fighting had turned without warning. No one could say how long you had been held, only that you had not been where they believed you would be. By the time word reached us, it was already too late to prevent it. We were told there would be a rescue. That it would be handled. I believed them. That is my failing as much as any other. When they found you, it was not as they had intended.

There is a faint break in the ink there, as though the quill had been lifted and set down again with care.

An arrow, They said it cleanly, as though that made it something easier to bear. As though the manner of it mattered. I was not there. I was not there to see it. I was not there to stop it. I was not there to do anything at all.

The next lines were written more evenly, but pressed harder into the page.

It should have ended there. It did not. The crown required something from it. Something to hold the lords in place, something to quiet the questions that follow any loss not properly explained. They found it in your name. A scapegoat, they called it—though not in those words. They said it was necessary. They said it would preserve the realm. They said many things that sound like reason when spoken aloud. Your brother had written to the enemy. That much was true. The letters were found. They were placed before men who had already decided what they meant. And you—

There is another pause in the line, longer this time.

You had kept them. You had said nothing. Not to protect yourself, but him. It did not matter. They named you traitor before the day had ended. Your house was stripped of its standing. Your name was spoken once more only to condemn it. What remained was erased with a care I have not seen given to anything else.

The writing steadies, though something in it feels colder now.

They did not return you to your home. They did not grant you the rites of your house. No stone bears your name. No place was marked for you. It was decided you would not be remembered in any way that could be spoken of again. As if that were a thing they could decide.

The final lines are written cleanly, without hesitation.

You were made into something lesser so that the realm might remain whole. Baelor did not speak against it. I did not stop it. This is what we chose.

He did not wait to be announced. Baelor’s tent was lit within, the canvas walls shifting faintly with the wind. Voices had only just quieted when Maekar pushed through, the flap snapping shut behind him with more force than needed.

Baelor did not look up at once. He stood over the table, one hand braced against it, the other resting near the maps spread wide. Only when the silence stretched did he lift his gaze.

“You should have sent word,” Baelor said, his voice even, as though nothing in the world had changed.

Maekar did not move further in. “Is it true?”

Baelor’s expression did not shift. “You will have to be more specific.”

“Y/N.” The name came sharper than he intended. “What they are saying of her.”

A pause. Brief. Measured.

“It is what has been decided,” Baelor said.

“That is not what I asked.” Maekar took a step forward now, the lamplight catching the edge of his expression. “Is it true?”

Baelor studied him a moment longer than necessary. “Her brother corresponded with the enemy. Letters were found.”

“And she?” Maekar pressed.

“She kept them.”

“That is not treason.”

“It is enough.”

“For whom?” The words came quicker now. “For the men who need a story to tell? For the lords who would rather believe it than question what happened?”

“For the realm,” Baelor said, the answer immediate, as though it had already been spoken too many times. Maekar let out a short breath, something close to disbelief. “You believe that.”

“I do not need to believe it,” Baelor replied. “I need to accept it.”

“She was your wife.” The words landed heavier than the rest.

Baelor’s gaze did not waver. “She was.”

“And this is all you have to say of it.”

“What would you have me say?” Baelor’s tone did not rise, but there was something firmer beneath it now. “That the crown is wrong? That the lords are fools? That the war should wait while we argue over what cannot be changed?”

“It can be changed.”

“No,” Baelor said, quieter now. “It cannot.”

Maekar shook his head once, more sharply than before. “You have not even tried.”

“I have done what is required of me.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is the only thing that matters.”

A silence followed. Not empty—just thin, stretched too tight.

“She did not betray you,” Maekar said, slower now, each word measured. “You know that.”

Baelor’s hand shifted slightly against the table, though his expression remained composed. “It does not matter what I know.”

“It should.”

“It does not.”

Maekar stared at him, as though something might break if he looked long enough.

“She protected her brother,” he said. “That is all she did.”

“And that is enough,” Baelor answered, the words echoing his earlier tone, though quieter now. “For them,” Maekar said. “Not for you.”

Baelor did not respond.

“That was your wife,” Maekar went on, his voice lowering, though the weight of it did not lessen. “Your name. Your honor. And you would let them strip it from her as though she were nothing.”

Baelor’s gaze hardened, just slightly. “I would preserve what remains.”

“At her expense.”

“At the realm’s necessity.”

Maekar let out a breath, slower this time. “You would sacrifice her.”

Baelor did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word settled heavily between them.

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “For the realm.”

“For the realm,” Baelor repeated.

A faint, humorless breath escaped Maekar then. “Of course.”

Another silence.

Shorter this time.

“And you?” Baelor asked, his voice quieter now, though no less steady. “What would you have done?”

Maekar did not answer at once.

When he did, it came without hesitation.

“I would have chosen her.”

“They brought her back.”

The words left Maekar before he could stop them. They did not sound like his own—too hollow, too measured, as though someone else had spoken through him. Baelor stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly aligned, though there was distance in it all the same.

“They did,” Baelor said.

Maekar kept his gaze forward. He did not look, not at the covered form, not at the men who stood too quietly around it. He knew if he did, something in him would give, and he could not afford that. Not here.

“And you stood there,” he said.

“I did what was required.”

Required. The word settled wrong.

Maekar felt his jaw tighten, though his expression did not shift. “You knew,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “You knew all along.”

Baelor did not answer. He did not need to.

Maekar let out a slow breath, his hand curling slightly at his side. “You knew what she was to me.”

Still nothing.

“And still—nothing,” he finished.

“She was my wife,” Baelor said at last.

Maekar almost turned at that. Almost.

Instead, his gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice lowering. “And yet you said nothing when they named her traitor.”

“It would have changed nothing.”

“You do not know that.”

“I do.” Baelor’s voice did not rise. “The decision had already been made.”

Maekar’s lips pressed into a thin line. That was the worst of it—not the certainty, but the acceptance.

“You did not even try.”

Baelor shifted slightly beside him, the movement small but deliberate. “The kingdom was at war. The lords needed something to hold to.”

Maekar let out a quiet breath that held no humor. “So you gave them her.”

“I preserved the realm.”

The words were steady. Practiced.

Maekar closed his eyes for a brief moment, the image pressing in regardless—her standing where he had left her, unmoving, as though she had been waiting for something that would never come.

“At her expense,” he said.

“At necessity.”

Silence followed.

Not the kind that passed, but the kind that settled.

Maekar’s gaze dropped, just slightly, to where the ground met his boots. For a moment, he said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—not louder, not softer, but they were  stripped of anything unnecessary.

“I would have chosen her.”

He did not know why he said it. Perhaps because it was the only thing left that had not been taken from him.

Beside him, Baelor did not react.

“I know,” he said.

Maekar let out a slow breath. Of course he did.

“And you would choose the realm.”

“Yes.”

There it was.

Simple. Clean. Final.

Maekar nodded once, more to himself than to Baelor. Something in him settled with it, not acceptance, not peace. 

“Of course you would.”

Another pause.

“They will have you wed again,” Maekar said, his voice flattening, as though the words no longer held weight.

“They already have.”

Egg did not turn the page at once.

There was something between the entries, something that did not sit like the rest of the writing. The ink was uneven, not from haste, but from restraint, as though every stroke had been forced.  It began again in the same hand, but it no longer carried the same control.

Y/N, I said I would not write again. I said your name would not reach this page again, not even in ink, not even when no one is meant to read it but myself. And yet I have nothing else left that does not feel like a betrayal.

They speak of Dyanna Dayne as though she is already something settled. As though I am already someone who belongs elsewhere. I listen to them agree on my life as if I am not inside it. And I say nothing, because there is nothing left in me that knows how to interrupt it.

There was a break then—long, uneven pressure where the quill had pressed too hard into the parchment.

I tried to draw you today. I do not know why I thought I could still do it. I have not seen you in so long that I had begun to believe I would not forget. But I did.

Your face is no longer something I can hold in my mind without losing it halfway through. I begin to draw the outline, and then I stop. Not because I do not remember you, but because I cannot decide what part of you comes first. Your eyes, or your mouth, or the way you used to look at me as if I had already said too much before I spoke.

I tried to remember your voice. Which was worse. It slips away before I can hold it properly. I can recall that you spoke, that you said my name in a way that made it feel like something different than it is now. But I cannot hear it anymore.

The writing grew smaller toward the bottom of the page, as though the hand had begun to tire, or lose something essential in the act of continuing.

I have begun to fear that if I stop writing, there will be nothing left of you that I can still reach. And if I keep writing, I will only prove that you are already gone in every way that matters.

Y/N, If you can still hear anything of this, if anything of you remains where I cannot follow—come back. Not as you were meant to be. Not as they would allow you to be. Just come back.

Y/N, it is done. Dyanna Dayne. I have said her name enough times now that it no longer feels like it belongs to someone else. That unsettles me more than I can explain.

Today, my son was born. They told me I was meant to feel something immediate. Relief. Joy.  But I did not know what I felt. I held him because I was expected to. Because Dyanna could not. Because the room was full of eyes. He is called Daeron.

Aerion was born today. They placed him in my arms, and I found there was nothing in me that knew what it was supposed to feel like at first. Only the weight of him, small, real, and inconveniently alive in a way that demanded attention I could not fully give. I am aware, even as I write this, that I should not be writing to you at all. You are gone. That is not something I forget, even when I try to speak to you as though you might still be somewhere that words can reach. And I am not who I was when I last wrote your name without consequence. I have a wife now. I have children. I have a life that continues whether I stand inside it or not. And still—when I am alone with ink and silence—I find myself returning here, to something that no longer exists, as if it might answer me if I say it carefully enough.

Y/N, I do not know what it is I am meant to name this anymore. I have tried to reduce it into something simpler, something that fits within the boundaries of what I am allowed to feel. It does not obey me. For a time, I thought I understood it. I thought there was only you, and that everything else was what had been placed over you like a covering I never consented to wear. That is not entirely true. Dyanna is kind. She does not ask more of me than I can give. She has built a life beside me that does not demand I bleed for it to remain standing. I have come to respect her. I have come to care for her in ways that feel . . .  honest. And that is where it becomes difficult to speak clearly. Because I thought love was meant to erase everything else. I thought it would leave no room for contradiction. But I find that I can sit beside her and not wish to leave. I find that I can listen to her and not feel as though I am betraying something by doing so. And still—when I write your name, it does not feel like memory. It feels like interruption. Like something unfinished has stepped back into the room without permission. I do not know what it means that both of these things exist in me at once. I do not know what it means that I do not want to lose either of them. I am beginning to suspect that I have spent too long believing love is meant to be singular, when all I have ever been is divided. If that is a failing, I do not yet know how to correct it. And if it is not… then I do not know what I am supposed to do with it.

The final entry in the journal was written the night Daella was born, when Dyanna had nearly died in childbirth. 

Today, I looked at the child and realized I had built a life out of duty, yet I have lived as a ghost. I lived as though I were never truly part of it.  Y/N, my beautiful Y/N . . .  you are gone. Not fading. Not distant. Gone. I will burn these pages tonight. I will not keep what remains of you in ink any longer, nor allow myself the comfort of returning where I no longer belong. There is nothing left to build from what we were. Dyanna is my wife. My children are here. My life has already moved forward without waiting for me to follow. And so I will close this chapter as it must be closed, completely, without remainder. And I will not open it again.

There was a long smear beneath it, where the ink had dragged across the parchment. As though the hand had stayed there long after the words had ended. And after that— Nothing.

Egg sat back, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for hours. A shadow fell over the doorway, and he looked up to see his father standing there, a stern frown on his face. His eyes fell to the open journal in the boy’s hands. For a long, agonizing moment, neither man spoke. The air felt heavy with the weight of the past. Then, Maekar walked slowly toward his son, looking down at the portrait of Y/N. A tear, stark and unbidden, traced a line down the prince’s weathered cheek.

"I remember," Egg whispered softly, looking up at his father. "I remember when you tried to burn this, long ago. Mother found you, didn't she? She took it from the flames and put it back on your study desk."

Maekar did not answer at once. His gaze stayed fixed on the journal, though it no longer felt like he was seeing the page itself. It was somewhere behind it. Somewhere further back.

For a moment, he was not standing in the present at all.

He was in a room lit by firelight, too bright and too close, the air sharp with smoke and regret. The parchment had already begun to curl at the edges, blackening where flame touched ink. He had held it too tightly, as though grip alone could decide what would be lost.

“I am telling you to stop,” Dyanna’s voice had said. Not raised. But just final in a way that did not leave room for argument.

“You do not understand,” he had answered, though even then it had sounded hollow.

“I understand more than you think,” she said.

He had not looked at her. Not at first. Only at the fire. Only at what he was trying to end before it could outlive him.

“This should not remain,” he said. His hand tightened around the pages. “It is nothing but memory.”

“So is everything you are afraid to name,” she said quietly.

That made him still.

The fire snapped once, louder in the silence that followed.

Dyanna reached for him, not the flames, not the journal—but him. Her hand closed over his wrist, steadying rather than stopping. “You do not burn this because it is meaningless,” she said. “You burn it because it is not.”

His breath caught, shallow.

A moment passed where neither of them moved.

Then she spoke again, softer this time. “A prince is entitled to his memories,” she said. “Even the ones that break him.”

A beat.

“Put it back.”

He had wanted to argue. He had wanted to become something simpler than what he was. But there was nothing simple in her voice, only the quiet insistence of someone who would not turn love into permission for destruction.

“It does not make me any less your wife,” she added. The journal lay closed now, where the meeting of cover and page.  Maekar’s hand rested on it for a moment longer than necessary, as though confirming it was still real, still here, still not gone.

Then Dyanna spoke—softly, from the doorway, already turning to leave him to it, granting him the silence she always seemed to understand better than anyone else.

And when Maekar did not look up as Dyanna left, he only stared at the journal—at her portrait—filled with the heavy realization that he would always be back right where he started, and always right where she had left him.

AUTHORS NOTE. weee first ever post here on tumblr! fingers crossed this doesn't flop :< i haven't written in a while so this might not be my best hehe likes and comments are very much appreciated! <3 (@/darlingofvalyria in ao3)

[rubyys-domain]

aang and wifey my loves

i am FUCKING OBSESSED with tbtr im counting the hours until the next update i need it now i love them so much 😭😭😭

STOPPPPP OH MY GOD 😭😭😭

THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL I’M ACTUALLY LOSING MY MIND?????

The outfit, the spiritual feel of it all, the jewelry, the air nomad emblem AHHH

THE HANDS?! THE INTIMACY?!?! 😭

HIS BACK OMGGF

This is literally EXACTLY how I envision them in my head while writing TBTR.

Like you somehow captured the entire feeling of their intimacy and relationship???

I love you SO MUCH for making this genuinely 🥹🤍

You’ll definitely see more of this kind of atmosphere in the next chapter too— though minus the romance for now because we’re entering first meeting territory 😋

But seriously, thank you so much for this. I keep staring at it like an idiot 😭