Fleetings Thoughts

[catbayunthestoryteller]

The Prince in the Candleflame

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU

Summary: Reciting an old Valyrian spell in the candlelight works and you end up summoning a dragon prince, getting more than you bargained for.

a/n: Modern AU but with magic, let's gooo! I know this is the third series I've started but the idea came to me suddenly and I had to share. Ok but older Aerion though, trained and matured from fighting in the Second Sons and Blackfyre rebellion, you could even say a dilf, still kinda insane though. You can imagine him younger too, ig, doesn't really matter.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, manipulation, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, attempted breeding, I don't think it's necrophilia...Ghostfucking, maybe?

The rain had not stopped all day in King’s Landing.

In a modern city it meant traffic snarled along black glass towers, water streaking down the windows of office blocks, umbrellas bumping shoulders on crowded sidewalks. It meant the smell of damp asphalt drifting in through the revolving doors of corporate buildings.

It meant another evening where you left the firm after dark.

You worked on the thirty-second floor of a sleek, cold tower belonging to one of the most prestigious legal and financial firms in the capital. The sort of place people envied when they heard about it at dinner parties.

You had the position people wanted. You had the salary people wanted. You had the life that, on paper, looked enviable. And yet every day you woke with the same weight in your chest.

The work itself was endless. Emails stacked upon emails, deadlines that crawled over one another like ants, clients who demanded urgency over problems that did not matter. The office lighting was too bright. The air conditioning was too cold. Every meeting felt like you were performing competence instead of living.

By the time you left in the evenings, your mind felt wrung dry.

You rarely had the energy to see friends anymore. Invitations gathered unanswered on your phone. Messages from old university acquaintances remained politely acknowledged but never expanded upon.

It wasn't that you disliked people. You were simply too tired. Too tired to dress up. Too tired to talk. Too tired to pretend enthusiasm.

Instead, you went home to the small apartment you rented not far from the city center, small but clean, with tall bookshelves and a desk permanently cluttered with notebooks.

And on those shelves sat the only thing in your life that made the exhaustion worth enduring.

Valyria.

Old Valyria had fascinated you since childhood. The lost civilization of dragonlords. The empire that had dominated the known world before its sudden destruction in the cataclysm known as the Doom.

Ten centuries ago the dragons had died out. Magic had faded.

What remained were fragments. Scrolls. Cracked tablets. Half-translated inscriptions.

You spent nearly all your extra income chasing them.

Museum memberships. Academic conferences. Antiquarian auctions. Collections of obscure journals and reproductions of damaged manuscripts.

The lost language of High Valyrian had become your obsession.

Not the simplified modern dialects still used in ceremonial contexts, but the ancient version scholars reconstructed from ruins and surviving texts.

A dead language. You loved it anyway.

The sounds were beautiful, sharp and liquid at once, like a blade moving through water.

Tonight, as you stepped into your apartment and closed the door behind you, rain still whispering against the glass, exhaustion pressed down on your shoulders the way it always did.

You dropped your bag onto the table. Kicked off your shoes. Stared for a moment at the stack of papers waiting on your desk. Then your gaze drifted to the newest addition.

The scroll lay carefully unrolled beneath a protective sheet of glass.

You had acquired it only two days earlier.

A rare thing, expensive, but not impossibly so because most scholars believed it to be little more than ritual poetry. The text itself was fragmentary and poorly preserved.

But the script was unmistakably High Valyrian.

You crossed the room slowly, fatigue temporarily forgotten.

Lifting the glass cover, you traced a finger just above the brittle parchment without touching it.

You had spent most of last night translating.

What you found had made you laugh quietly to yourself.

Because it appeared to be a spell.

Not metaphorical religious language. An actual ritual. A calling of ancestors.

The Valyrians had practiced blood magic, that much historians broadly agreed upon.

But that had been long ago. Magic had died with the dragons. Everyone knew that.

The only faith still claiming supernatural power in the modern world was the cult of the Lord of Light, and even they produced little more than parlor tricks and theatrical sermons.

Your scroll, by contrast, was charmingly archaic.

It described lighting candles. Reciting a prayer in High Valyrian. Calling upon the blood of the dragon to answer.

A poetic gesture, surely. Perhaps once performed as part of funerary rites.

Still, you had spent years studying the language. The translation had come surprisingly easily. Which was why, as you changed into comfortable clothes, the idea occurred to you. Not because you believed it would work but because you loved the language, and speaking it aloud felt like breathing life into something that had slept for a thousand years.

You placed three candles on the small table in the center of the room.

The rain outside softened to a steady whisper.

You dimmed the lights.

Then you struck a match. The first candle flickered to life. Then the second. Then the third. The small flames cast warm gold across the apartment walls.

For a moment you felt faintly ridiculous.

You glanced at the scroll again.

“It's not like anything will happen,” you murmured.

The words of the spell were delicate and complex. You had practiced them silently all day. Now you spoke them.

Your High Valyrian was careful but imperfect, the pronunciation shaped by years of academic reconstruction.

The invocation called to blood. To lineage. To the forgotten empire. To the ancestors who had once ruled from the smoking towers of Valyria before the Doom swallowed them.

The language built in rhythm, phrase upon phrase.

You read to the end. Then you lowered the scroll and waited. Nothing happened.

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back against the couch.

“Well,” you said to the empty room, “that would have been too easy.”

For a moment everything remained perfectly normal.

Then the flames changed. The candles did not flicker the way small flames usually did.

Instead they stretched upward, longer, brighter. A sudden wind swept through the apartment though every window was closed. The flames surged high, impossibly high, spinning together in a spiral of gold and orange.

Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.

“What the...”

The fire twisted. It gathered. The shape forming within it was wrong. Too large. Too alive. The flames roared upward like a storm. Something moved inside them.

At first it resembled a dragon. Not a full beast but the outline of one. Wings half-formed in fire, a long neck arched.

You stumbled backward.

The heat did not burn you, but it filled the room with a crackling pressure that made your ears ring.

The dragon shape collapsed inward. Then the fire became something else.

A tall figure. Humanoid. Its body was made entirely of flame.

You couldn't breathe.

The figure shifted again.

The fire dimmed.

The heat receded.

And where the inferno had stood a moment before, a man now stood on your living room floor.

He was beautiful in the way statues were beautiful. Alabaster skin. Sharp, prominent cheekbones. Eyes the color of deep violet glass. His hair fell in pale silver waves down his shoulders. He wore clothing that looked like something pulled from historical paintings, dark black and crimson, richly embroidered, cut in the severe elegance associated with the old Targaryen dynasty.

The air still shimmered faintly with heat.

His gaze fixed on you.

And there was something in it that made your stomach drop.

Hunger.

You pressed yourself against the back of the couch, heart racing so fast it felt painful.

“What...what are you?”

The man tilted his head slightly.

Then he smiled.

It was a slow, pleased expression.

“Ah,” he said softly, voice smooth as velvet. “You speak.”

The accent was strange: archaic, precise.

His eyes moved across your apartment curiously before returning to your face.

“I wondered,” he murmured.

You forced your voice to work. “Who are you?”

The man drew himself up with easy, almost theatrical grace.

“I,” he said, “am prince Aerion Targaryen.”

The name meant nothing to you.

Your silence seemed to amuse him.

He stepped closer.

You felt the temperature rise slightly again.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of the blood of the dragon,” he continued. “Son of a royal line of house Targaryen. Once heir to the Iron Throne.”

Your mind struggled to process the words.

“A Targaryen prince,” you repeated faintly.

He inclined his head. “Yes.”

You swallowed. “That’s impossible.”

His smile widened. “Is it?”

You glanced wildly toward the candles.

They still burned on the table but the flames had grown thinner now, flickering uncertainly.

“You…you were in the fire.”

“A convenient doorway.”

Your mind raced.

“This…this can’t be real. Magic died centuries ago. When the dragons...”

“When the last dragons died,” Aerion finished calmly.

“Yes.”

He considered you for a moment. “Magic fades,” he said. “But it does not disappear entirely.”

Your pulse still thundered in your ears. “What did I do?”

“You called.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the scroll on the table.

“You used an ancestral summoning. Crude by old standards but effective.”

You stared at him.

“But I don’t have Valyrian blood.”

Aerion’s eyes lifted again. They glowed faintly in the candlelight.

“Child,” he said softly, “you would not have reached me otherwise.”

Your stomach tightened. “I…I don’t look Valyrian.”

“Time erodes many things.”

He stepped closer again. Too close. You could smell smoke and something sharp, like heated metal.

“There were many branches of the dragon’s blood,” he continued thoughtfully. “Not all remained within the royal line. Over centuries the blood thins…spreads…hides.”

He looked around your small apartment again.

His expression turned faintly disdainful. “And yet here you are.”

You bristled despite the fear. “What’s wrong with it?”

Aerion gestured lightly at the room. “You live in a cramped stone box. You labor for coin like a merchant’s daughter.”

He looked back at you. “You are blood of the dragon. Your ancestors ruled empires.”

Your laugh came out sharp. “Well my ancestors aren’t paying my rent.”

He regarded you curiously. “You are unhappy.”

You hesitated. Then sighed. “Yes.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then something like interest flickered across his face. “Fortunate.”

You frowned. “Why fortunate?”

Aerion stepped behind you suddenly.

You stiffened as he circled you. His chest brushed your back. The contact was startlingly solid, warm and real.

A low sound escaped him. A groan. As if the simple sensation of proximity pleased him far more than it should have.

“You feel alive,” he murmured.

His hands hovered near your waist.

You went very still. “Aerion...”

“Do you know what death is like for a Valyrian?”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

“We are not sent to darkness,” he said softly. “Nor to the heavens of other faiths.”

His breath ghosted faintly against your neck. “Our dead awaken in something…else.”

Your pulse raced faster.

“An ancestral plane,” he continued. “A reflection of Valyria as it existed before the Doom. Towers. Rivers of fire. Endless skies.”

You swallowed. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It is not life.”

His voice dropped. “We exist. We remember. We wait. Our gods don't show themselves. We do not posses a defined form as we did in life.”

His fingers finally settled on your waist. The touch was firm.

“I have not felt another body since my death,” he murmured.

A shiver ran down your spine.

“That was…centuries ago.”

“Yes.”

You forced yourself to think. “You said I called you.”

“I did.”

“And you can do magic.”

“To a degree. Death has its benefits in that regard.”

His thumb traced slowly along your side. “Blood binds power.”

Your voice came out slightly breathless. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can influence your life,” he said. “Your fortune. Your path.”

Your mind snapped back to attention. “Luck?”

“Yes.”

“You could just…make things better?”

“I could.”

You turned your head slightly. “And what would you want in return?”

Aerion’s smile returned. Sharp. Pleased. He leaned closer until his lips hovered near your ear.

“Three wishes,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

“Within the limits of my power. Wealth. Opportunity. Freedom from the drudgery you despise.”

“And the price?”

His hands tightened faintly at your waist. “Three moons.”

Your brow furrowed. “Aerion, that’s not very specific.”

He chuckled quietly. “Servitude.”

Your stomach flipped. “What kind of servitude?”

His mouth brushed lightly against the curve of your neck, not quite a kiss.

“Each night,” he said, voice low with anticipation, “you summon me.”

Your pulse pounded. “And?”

“And you offer me your body.”

Silence filled the room. Your thoughts spun wildly.

He continued calmly. “I cannot kill, unfortunately. I cannot resurrect the dead. Life and death is not within my grasp. My power also cannot reshape the world beyond your life. I am bound to you, my blood.”

His fingers slid slowly along your side again. “But within your life…I can grant much.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Three wishes.

A way out of the exhausting life you hated.

Money. Freedom. Security.

You opened your eyes again. “And if I refuse?”

Aerion withdrew his hands. His tone remained mild. “Then the candles burn out…and I return to my limbo.”

He paused. “And you return to your miserable life in the morn.”

You stared at the floor. Your job. The endless exhaustion. The quiet loneliness.

Three months.

You exhaled slowly. “Three wishes,” you said.

“Yes.”

“And I can summon you again.”

“With the spell. Add my name so only I will answer. Otherwise, next time you might end up with a man like Bloodraven.”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine.”

The word left your mouth before you could reconsider.

Aerion’s eyes lit with unmistakable delight. “Excellent.”

He moved so quickly you barely saw it. His mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was fierce. Ravenous. Centuries of hunger poured into the contact. You gasped against his lips as he pulled you closer, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“You cannot imagine,” he murmured roughly, “how long I have waited to feel this again.”

He lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your heart hammered wildly as he carried you towards the bedroom.

“The candles,” you said faintly.

He glanced toward the living room.

“They burn still.”

You barely had time to react before he laid you down.

Aerion’s silver hair fell forward as he leaned over you, violet eyes bright with something fierce and ancient.

“I can only remain while the fire lives,” he said softly.

Your breath came uneven. “And after?”

“You summon me again tomorrow night.” His fingers brushed your cheek with surprising gentleness. “Three moons.”

He smiled. “Let us begin.”

He did not remain gentle for long. He sank into you without much preamble.

Time had become difficult to measure.

The world had narrowed to warmth, the shifting weight of a body that had not belonged to the living world for centuries and yet felt startlingly real.

Aerion moved with a kind of restless intensity, as though he feared the candles might die at any moment and drag him back into whatever strange half-existence waited beyond the veil. There was eagerness in the way he touched you, curiosity as well, a prince rediscovering something he had once taken for granted and lost for far too long.

And, embarrassingly for him, impatience.

He finished quickly. You were startled to feel his seed spill into you. For some reason, you hadn't considered that he'd be capable of producing bodily fluids, even though he felt plenty alive and warm-bloodied. After the first time, he leaned back on his hands with a sharp exhale, silver hair falling across his face as he looked down at you with narrowed violet eyes.

“That,” he said slowly, “was…shorter than I would prefer.”

Despite everything, despite the impossible circumstances, despite the lingering shock, you found yourself laughing breathlessly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still trying to steady your breathing. “Is there a proper schedule for ghost princes?”

“I am not a ghost.”

He sounded mildly offended by the word, though his mouth twitched faintly.

“A spirit,” he amended after a moment. “A soul. A remnant of royal blood. But not a ghost.”

“Right.”

He considered the situation for another moment, clearly displeased with his own lack of endurance. Then he leaned down again, one hand sliding along your waist, his expression sharpening with determination.

“My body,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, “has not known warmth of a woman in centuries.”

His gaze lifted to yours again. “It appears it must reacquaint itself.”

The second time lasted longer. So did the third.

Aerion’s confidence returned steadily with each attempt, the impatience melting into something more controlled. The frantic hunger softened into fascination. Every touch seemed to delight him anew, as though the simple reality of another person beneath his hands was still miraculous. He even deigned to learn how to make you cum, tutting when you writhed beneath him. You suspected that he only helped you finish because he enjoyed the feeling of your wetness gushing as he was still rocking his hips into you, groaning as your walls tightened around his cock.

Several times he paused only long enough to study you with open curiosity, brushing his fingers over your arms, your shoulders, your throat as though memorizing the shapes.

“Remarkable,” he murmured once.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out.

“I am appreciating.”

You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

By the time the candles had burned noticeably lower, both of you were lying tangled in the sheets, the room warm with lingering heat. Aerion stretched beside you, one arm behind his head, looking far more pleased with himself now than he had earlier.

“That,” he declared with satisfaction, “is much better.”

“You’re very proud of yourself.”

“I have reason to be.”

He turned his head toward you, violet eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“And now,” he continued lazily, “a promise must be honored.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself on one elbow. “The wishes.”

“Yes.”

Aerion reached out, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your stomach as he spoke, the motion absentminded and strangely intimate.

“Your first request was fortune,” he said. “Riches obtained through luck rather than labour.”

“That’s the idea.”

His expression turned thoughtful.

“Luck is easily bent,” he said. “Coins fall the right way. Opportunities appear at the correct moment. Men with wealth become suddenly generous.”

He glanced up at you.

“And I assure you, there will be no consequences. I will not entangle you in misfortune disguised as gifts. Your fortune will come cleanly.”

You searched his face for a moment. “You can really do that?”

“I can.”

His hand moved slowly across your abdomen, warm and heavy.

“It is a pity,” he added almost idly, “that my power does not extend further.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Aerion’s fingers stilled.

“If I possessed the full strength of my blood as I did in life…I could shape flesh. Bind life.”

Your stomach tightened faintly when his hand pressed more firmly there.

“It is a shame,” he continued thoughtfully, “that I cannot create life now.”

You blinked. “That’s…a very strange thing to say so casually.”

Aerion tilted his head. “Is it?”

His eyes swept over you again with the same measuring look he had given earlier.

“You would bear strong children,” he said. “And with my blood, their Valyrian heritage would be far purer than yours has remained through the centuries.”

You let out a startled laugh. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Perhaps.” He did not sound particularly convinced.

Instead, he shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he looked at you more closely. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Are you courted?”

You stared at him. “Courted?”

“Yes.”

You laughed again, louder this time. “No.”

Aerion’s brow creased. “No?”

“I work forty-five hours a week,” you reminded him. “I barely see my friends. Dating isn’t exactly a priority.”

He studied your expression carefully, as if confirming that you were telling the truth.

Then his demeanor shifted. The lazy amusement disappeared, replaced by something more severe. “You will not take lovers while you are bound to me.”

The firmness of his voice caught you off guard.

“Excuse me?”

His gaze held yours steadily. “You have given three moons of service,” he said. “Your body belongs to me during that time.”

“That seems a little dramatic.”

“It is appropriate.”

“You’re not even alive.”

Aerion’s expression hardened slightly. “You will not whore yourself out while you serve me.”

The blunt phrasing made you snort despite yourself. “I wasn’t planning on ‘whoring myself out,’ thanks.”

“Good.” He relaxed again almost instantly, the tension draining from his posture, satisfied.

After a moment of quiet, you stretched and glanced toward the doorway where the candlelight had grown noticeably dimmer.

“They’re burning down,” you said.

Aerion followed your gaze. “Yes.”

“You’ll disappear when they go out?”

“That is the nature of the spell.”

You pushed yourself upright slightly. “Do you…want something to eat before that happens?”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “Food?”

“There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

Aerion considered the suggestion for a moment before shaking his head.

“I do not feel hunger,” he said. “Nor cold. Nor fatigue.”

His lips curved faintly. “I would feel taste, I could gain little pleasure from eating but not so much that I want to eat for the sake of it.”

“But you do get pleasure from…” You gestured vaguely toward the bed.

His smile sharpened. “Yes.”

He reached out and pulled you gently back down beside him, brushing your hair away from your face with surprising care.

“That,” he said softly, “is something I remember well.”

The room had grown darker now, the candle flames reduced to small trembling points of light.

Aerion leaned closer, studying you as though committing your face to memory.

“For centuries,” he murmured, “there has been nothing but stillness.”

His fingers slid lightly along your cheek. “And then you called.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you said nothing.

Aerion leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, less ravenous than before but no less intense.

When he finally pulled away, the candlelight was flickering sharply.

One flame sputtered. Then another.

Aerion glanced toward the doorway, already fading slightly at the edges.

“Tomorrow night,” he reminded you.

“Tomorrow night,” you echoed.

He brushed his thumb across your lip once. “Do not forget my name when you summon me.”

“I won’t.”

The final candle guttered.

For a brief moment his figure shimmered like heat above a fire.

Then prince Aerion Targaryen vanished with the dying flame.

And you were alone again in your apartment, the rain still whispering against the glass as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.

a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: I honestly cannot remember who wanted to be on every Aerion fic taglist and who on just the Growing Strong series taglist. Hope you guys like the fic. But if you don't, just comment a literal dot, just this - . , and I will remove you from this series' taglist. Hope I made it easier for you to just comment a dot instead of writing a message. If you do want to be added to the taglist, comment that you do and I'll add you.

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[myladysapphire]

Pretty in pink I

Maekar never expected to marry again, never expected to love again. he tried to be a distant husband, a husband in name only. and yet you with your sweet smiles, kind eyes made it so hard for him to forget to be the stern man Westros knew him as, made it hard for him to forget that he didn't want to fall in love.

Maekar Targayren x Florent!reader

Word count: 3,661

CW: MDI 18 +, Arranged marriage, angst, bedding ceremony, smut. innocent and sweet reader, grump x sunshine. age gap. slow burn. by angst i mean a lot of angst like i cried writting some of this.

Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four

You had always been kind, had always been taught to find kindness in everything. To see the good in everyone. You were a sweet flower, as your mother would say, with none of the cunning of a fox, despite your house sigil. You were the perfect lady, kind, caring, beautiful and always doing what was expected of you. Even when it meant marrying the king's youngest son, becoming his second wife and mother to a large brood of children, the oldest of which was closer in age to you than your future husband. 

You had looked on the brightside, as you always did, you thought of a man who might grow to love you, a man who perhaps would be like the fairy tales you read as a child, a man willing to go to war for you. You thought of his younger children; perhaps they would grow to love you as a motherly figure, not as a mother. You knew you could never replace her, but you hoped perhaps there would be great happiness in your life. Even if you were to be the notoriously hard and tough man they call “the anvil”. 

You grew hopefully as you journeyed to the crownlands, thinking of the life you would live as a princess. 

You had never met the man that would be your husband, nor any royal to be exact, you would meet him for the first time on your wedding day. But your parents hadn't met till their wedding, and now they were the picture of adoration. You were the youngest child of five, though the only girl, and you had spent your whole life watching your brothers fall in love, allowed to marry ladies of their choosing. 

And yes, you were idealistic, but why wouldn’t you be? You have never had to worry about anything, never had to know a single second of sadness. 

You were filled with a sense of nervous joy as you journeyed to the sept, dressed in a pure white gown, with pink accents throughout your gown, small pink flowers laced throughout your dress, and your veil a soft blush. On your shoulders sat your maiden cloak, the blue a tricking contrast against your dress, the fox of your house sat proud on your back as your father escorted you into the sept. 

Prince Maekar stood tall as you walked through the sept, his gaze unmoving as you stood in the door, waiting for the orchestra to start the procession. 

He was far more handsome than you had expected. Though his face was stern, his cheeks were marred with scars, but they did not take away from his looks. He was thickly built, his silver hair was cut shorter than you had expected, but his eyes were what drew you in. As you walked closer, your father's grip on your arm grew tighter. The closer he got to having to let you go, you noticed the lightness of his eyes, you couldn’t tell if they were blue or purple. Your gaze locked with his as you finally approached the altar, your father hesitantly letting go of your arm, placing a soft kiss on your brow. 

Maekar's jaw ticked as you stood before him, his gaze assessing you as you greeted him with a soft smile. Your hands were joined with his as the septon began the ceremony, the roughness of his hands against the softness of your own. 

The septon droned on as you memorised every inch of your new husband, taking in the sternness of his face, how he seemed permanently annoyed by everything around him, how his hands were holding on to yours but seemed to play with your fingers as the septon spoke, he was doing it mindlessly it seemed as he stopped the second you drew attention to it. 

He spoke the vows quickly, his voice sharp and eager to get it over with. Your smile faltered. 

He kissed you quickly, barely touching your lips before moving back, and the smile faded from your face. 

The carriage ride to the red keep was silent, with him letting go of your arm as soon as you stepped inside. He sat opposite you, his eyes not once looking at you. You had tried to talk to him, but every response was a simple grunt. Your smile didn’t return to your face. You, a woman who had never stopped smiling her whole life, who had knights and lords falling at your feet to speak to you, and now your own lord husband didn’t even dare to look in your direction. 

The rest of the night was much of the same, your husband didn’t once ask you to dance, didn’t utter a single word, at least to you. He spoke with his brother Baelor and his children. But not with you.

You loved to dance, never had you had a feast, let alone a wedding, where you didn’t dance the whole night.  Instead, you sat and watched, drinking your wine glass until it was emptied and refilled over and over again. The only people you spoke to the whole night were Maekar's sons, Daeron and Aerion. Daeron, who seemed to delight in your drinking, had made you laugh a few times but had easily moved on to some of his drunkard friends. And Aerion, who leered at you and spoke something about being pumped full of dragons in no time, as he stared at the neckline of your dress.  Your brothers and sister in laws circled the room and spoke kindly to you, but stayed no longer than a few minutes, as was appropriate, it seems. 

The hours droned on slowly, and before you knew it, the bedding ceremony was called. 

Maekar had merely grunted and stood up, his hand flexing slightly before he offered it to you, leading you out to the floor before the rabble of lords who had been eyeing you all night could get their hands on you. 

You had participated in your fair share of bedding ceremonies, you knew what to expect, and yet as they pulled your clothes off you, leaving you entirely bare as you pushed your way into your marital chambers. Maekar sat on the bed waiting for you, wearing far more clothes than you. 

You blushed, reaching to cover yourself as you felt Maeker’s gaze on you. He cleared his throat, standing from the bed, and pulling at the laces of the breeches he still wore. 

“Husband,” you greeted, your smile returning, though feeling far more awkward than ever before. 

“Wife,” he nodded, the first words he had said to you outside of your vows.

“What do we, um, what do we do now?” you asked, awkwardly, your hands covering you up. 

“We consummate,” he grunted, pulling back the covers of the bed and getting in. He stared at you, waiting for you to move. You didn’t. “You do know what is to happen?” he asked, his voice a little awkward but not lacking any of its coldness. 

“Of course I do, I just…” You trailed off, slowly moving towards the bed.

“What?” he asked harshly. You flinched back, halting your steps slightly. 

“Nothing,” you mumbled as you finally approached the bed, settling in under the covers, grateful for the sheet to hide your body. You played with the covers, following the pattern with your fingers, waiting for Maekar to move. 

He sighed as he looked at you, his hand reaching out to stop your movements. “Stop that,” he ordered. You nodded, stopping instantly. You felt the weight of reality settle into your shoulders, realising for the first time in your life that optimism didn't always lead to happiness. 

Makear sighed before he crawled over to your side of the bed. 

He didn’t kiss you, didn't hold you to him, nor did he whisper sweet nothings in your ears. The consummation was over before you knew it, and Maekar, as quickly as he arrived, left. 

He didn’t look at you when he left, said no words, bid no farewells. He just left. Leaving you alone in a room that wasn’t your own, in a keep that wasn't your own. And a marital bed that you felt would never live up to the dreams you held in your heart. 

You cried yourself to sleep that night. 

It was such an oddity for you to cry or feel sadness. The last time you felt sad was when your cat died when you were ten. Never once had you felt sadness this great. Never once did you cry yourself to sleep, praying no one could hear your cries echoing across the hall. 

You knew love and warmth grew with him, but you hadn’t expected there to be such coldness. You hadn’t expected there to be a wall of ice between you, a wall so thick it rivalled the wall in the north. 

You began to question everything your parents had told you. Everything they had told you about your marriage night was a lie. What else would be? 

You got little sleep that night before the maids came in at dawn and awoke you softly. Though strangers, they treated you softly, bathing you in a lavender-scented bath. They wash away the small trickles of blood between your thighs. Wash the tear stain marks off your face. And spoke in hushed tones as they prepared you for breakfast. 

You were the first to arrive, settling at the end of the table, your gaze flickering across the room, noting all the tapestries and art that adorned the walls. The table was filled with fruits and berries, and pastries of all sorts filled the table. 

You contemplated filling your plate before everyone else joined, you were hungry, having eaten little at the wedding feast. 

But before you could reach for even a single grape, the door opened and in walked your husband. His step faltered when he saw you. His gaze took note of your pink gown and the soft smile that graced your features as he appeared. 

Prepah's last night was a blip, maybe he was drunk or nervous. You may as well start today anew. Perhaps your sadness from last night was a one-time occurrence and would quickly be forgotten. “Husband,” you greeted, standing up as he walked towards you, taking a seat at the head of the table. 

“Wife,” he greeted in turn. Grunting as he sat down, reaching to fill his plate. 

“How did you sleep?” you asked, following his lead and filling your own. 

“Fine,” he grunted, not looking at you. The door opened as you went to speak, his younger children running in with their Septa. They called for their father as they ran in, stopping short as they saw you. Aegon bowed, and Daella and Rhae both curtseyed. “My lady,” they greeted, before rushing to fit for a seat next to Maekar. Daella won, sitting closest to him and Rhae next to her. Aegon moved to sit next to you, sighing in defeat. And Aemon, who wandered in with a book in hand, moved to sit beside Aegon. 

The children rambled on over breakfast, asking you all sorts of questions and answering each one you had for them. You smiled softly at their rambles, though your gaze turned to Maekar, hoping to see some softness, hoping to see that he wished to talk to you as much as his children did. Instead, he scowled the second your gaze met his. 

He left the second he was done, not waiting for his elder children to walk in. He ruffled his daughter's hair as he walked by, bidding each of his children farewell. Only side-eyeing you as he left. 

Perhaps last night wasn’t a blip after all. 

He was fucked, totally and completely fucked. He was the second, he saw you walk into the sept in your pretty white gown covered in pink. The second he saw your smile, the second he touched you.

He didn't need another wife, he had six children, had loved before and had absolutely no need for a wife. And yet you appeared. His parents had wed him off and introduced you, a perfect flower from the reach. Eager to be plucked. So perfect and so entirely unlike him. 

He didn’t want a wife and had hoped you would be easy to ignore. And yet as you spoke your pretty words to him, he realised you wouldn't be, he realised that you were as sweet and kind as his father had said. And yet you were stuck with him. He was cold, colder since Dyanna had died. You couldnt possible be happy with the arrangement. Happy with him as your husband. Perhaps you would be happy if you were a wife in name only. Then you would be happy, and not chained to him for the rest of his life, and miserable for it. 

And yet you, with your smiles that could outshine the sun, seemed to make him melt. 

You were too soft, too sweet, too happy. He had noticed it easily, you would hate him, resent him, and he wouldn’t blame you. Not when he never wanted to marry. 

He would do his duty and nothing more, and yet last night, when he had done that, guilt ate at him. It was clear you wanted a sweet, loving husband, but he couldn't be that, wouldn't be that.  And yet when you greeted him this morning, with gentle eyes and a nervous smile, he almost took back his desire to be a husband in name only. When he noticed his younger children adoring you, how easily you spoke with them, eager to know them. To know him. 

Gods, it would have been easier had you been cold, had you been mean or ugly. But you were anything but. Beautiful, as happy as the sun, kind and caring, and always dressed in pink. And he hated all of it. Or atleast thats what he told himself. 

He tried to be as distant and cold as he could be, and yet time and time again, he was drawn back to you. As time went by and you had all travelled to Summerhall, he had made sure you had your own chambers. Not once did he visit you. Not once did he seek you out. 

And yet you were always there. In his library, his dining hall, and even with his children. You often found yourself in the garden at the same time as him, or standing there at the exact moment he decided to look out of it. Always there, always kind and soft. And he hated it. Hated how you drew him in, no matter what you did. Hated how he fucked his fist to you every night, your name and face on his lips.

You were kind and never had a bad word to say about anything or anyone. Everyone you had ever met would say you were the nicest person they had ever met. They would say that hate was something you were incapable of. And yet as time went by and the coldness between you and your husband seemed to grow, you began to feel the fires of hate breaking into your heart. Your husband was ever distant and running from you the second your paths crossed, offering only grunts in response to your kind words. Never once attending the endless lists of activities you invited him to, you were beginning to hate him. 

You had lost hope of a happy marriage when the third month of it came with no touches, no words, no caresses or even acknowledgement.  He did not try to welcome you, did not try to make you feel at home, or try to fill the loneliness that filled your heart.

You felt so alone and isolated. Sure, his children were kind, and as the months went by, they were happy to see you whenever you’d help with their lessons or entertain their day. But you had no one to speak to, you had no maids or ladies in waiting to chat to. 

You had no one, and whereas before it was rare for you to cry or feel sadness. Now it was rare to feel joy. Every night, tears wet your pillow as the ache of loneliness filled your very soul. 

Maekar didn’t notice, seeming to be annoyed with your presence in his home, to even think about your feelings. He avoided every room you frequented, left every meal before all his children left, as if the thought of being alone with you physically pained him. 

The only time you smiled or laughed was with his younger children. And though you had learned to love them dearly, you were entirely unhappy in your marriage, if you could even call it a marriage. You were more of a reluctant occupant than a wife. 

And yet a part of you still waited. A part of you hoped to wake up one day, with Maekar beside you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and declaring his love for you.  It’s why you had continued to be kind, soft and always perking up when his gaze fell on you. You invited him to tea, tea that he never joined. Dinners alone, which he either avoided or conveniently brought at least one of his children along to.  

You had formed a mindless routine. Every day, you said good morning and asked him how he slept. Whenever you got to breakfast before him, you would prepare his tea and pile the food onto his plate. Hoping that one day he would take notice and thank you instead of just grunting in acknowledgement.  Every day you’d bring him his lunch in his solar, loitering to see if he needed anything. He never did. You would walk around the gardens, always stopping in front of the window to his solar, a book or paints in hand, as you spent hours either reading or painting. Spending at least a  few hours every day with his children. Helping with their lessons and bringing them to see him every night before they went to bed.  And when it was time for him to go to bed, you would dress in your night gown, prepare him a nightcap and see if he wanted you. He never did. Though you felt his gaze on you when he dismissed you, you saw the flexing of his hand as you walked out of his reach. 

But he never acted on his gaze, his desire to touch. He never did anything. Other than grunt. 

You did a million little things for him every day, replacing the flowers in his solar, placing a bookmark between the pages of the book he had placed upside down. And so many other things that he would never notice. 

You wondered if he’d notice if you stopped. Stopped showing up to meals, stopped trailing after him, stopped waiting for his attention.

You doubted it, and knew deep down you couldn’t. 

That's until it hit six months of marriage, six months of coldness. Of you talking to a wall of ice. 

Six months of growing closer and closer to his children, with little Rhae, a girl who never knew her mother, a girl of only five, a girl who had called you mama in private and then made the mistake of calling you mama in front of Maekar. 

He didn’t say anything at the time, he waited for them to go to bed and waited to escort you to your rooms. And waited until the doors closed behind him. 

He leant against the door, his body shivering with rage. “How long has she been calling you that?” He asked, his tone dripping with anger. No fear? Mayhaps, you couldn’t place his tone, his feelings, “You want to replace my children’s mother? Is that it?” 

You flinched back from the harshness of his tone, “what no, I-“

“Shut up and let me speak, woman!” He interrupted, turning to face you, “You are not their mother, you should have corrected Rhae the second she started calling you that!”

“I did, I promise, but she wanted to call me it anyway-“

“Well, you should have tried harder!” His voice bellowed, “You are not there, mother,” he slammed his hand against the wall. 

Making your whole body flinch, backing away from him slowly as tears began to spill from your eyes. 

“I know, but that doesn't stop them from wanting one,” you spoke softly. Daella slipped and called you mama once, and Eggs' hand was rarely not in yours. All three of them insist on you tucking them in every night, and little Aemon wrote to you every week.

He sighed deeply, his eyes finally turning to yours, noting how you had flinched from him, how you stood against your bed, your gaze not on him for the first time. “You're not their mother, you're just my wife!” he stopped breathing deeply, speaking just loud enough for you to hear, “not more, you can’t be more, you can't be here, you'll never be her,” you weretn sure he had intended on you hearing it, but you had anyway. And he noticed you had too late. 

You turned your back to him, refusing to let him see you crumble, to see how badly his words had affected you. You waited for him to leave, but instead, you felt him walk closer. His hand hovering over your shoulder, “I didn't mean that-“ he said, reaching for you, only for you to flinch from his touch.

“Get out,” was all you said, your body wrapping into itself as you waited for him to leave. He hovered, waiting for something. Perhaps for the sweet, obedient wife you had been to show up. To accept his apology and his words. But you felt all of that slip away the second he said those words. 

Taglist

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All dividers by @zaldritzosrose

[myladysapphire]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Baelor "Breakspear" Targareyn

The rose and the hammer - one shot

An arranged marriage between a pair haunted by the ghost of their pasts and their fear of falling love again. And yet fate seems to find its way into the unwilling pair as they fall in love and a love match is formed but fear of history repeating itself haunts them.

Illict Affairs - one shot

wedded to a man who consideres himself a dragon made flesh, you find your self cracking under your perfect facade. the only person who notices, who danes to think of you and see you breaking from the inside out. your husbands uncle. The very man you had been yearning for since the day you met him.

How he would court you - Headcanon

Maekar Targaryen

A feast fit for the gods- one shot

Maeker enjoys very few things, but you his wife is something he will always enjoy

Pretty in pink - one | two | three | four

Maekar never expected to marry again, never expected to love again. he tried to be a distant husband, a husband in name only. and yet you with your sweet smiles, kind eyes made it so hard for him to forget to be the stern man Westros knew him as, made it hard for him to forget that he didn't want to fall in love.

How he would court you - Headcanon

Valarr Targareyn

How he would court you - Headcanon

Ser Duncan the tall

The Stags Knight - one shot

when ser duncan sneaks into your fathers tent, an unlikley freindship is formed. and when Ser duncan saves you from the wraith of a jelouse prince, a tale of romance follows

Tears run down my thighs - part one | part two

You had never fit in with your family, always longing for someone to notice you for you, know you for you not the princess you were. never truly known or respected, your feelings never taken into account, that was until Dunk.

Aerion "Brightflame" Targaryen

Obsessed - one shot

obsession was a dragons nature, possession was a princes. it was only fitting for Aerion to be entirley obsesed with you, the one person he saw fit to wed a dragon. his wife, his possession. you.

How he would court you - Headcanon

Daeron Targaryen

Arbor gold - one shot

finding a wife for his eldest had long been a task Maekar failed to complete, what house what accpet a drunkard for a son in law? none excpet Westros largest wine trader, who's daughter the very prince "defiled" at the ashford tounrey.

navigation

[summerdiphylleia]

the intimacy of knives: masterlist

pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!oc , daeron targaryen x oc

Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply. Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features. Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,” He dropped to one knee.

Chapter I: The dynamics of love

Chapter II: The colour of spilled blood

Chapter III: A stage for the seven

Chapter 3.5 : I've had some tricks up my sleeve

Chapter IV: I kneel and I feel nothing but stone

Chapter V: And despite myself I am going to miss you

Chapter 5.5: I've dreamed of you, Clarice of the Eyrie (Part I)

Chapter 5.5: I've dreamed of you, Clarice of the Eyrie (Part II)

Chapter VI: The river always finds its way

a/n : reply here to be added to the taglist!

warnings: sex, violence, cheating

[lalalovelyly]

Were you SILENT or were you SILENCED

Valarr x reader

The reader is a foreigner, i made sure not to describe where she's from

Synopsys: In which your betrothed is always silent or silenced

Word count: 4k

Warnings: None

The letter had been written on parchment so fine it felt like silk, sealed with wax the color of dried blood and stamped with a three-headed dragon. You had read it seventeen times.

My dear Yn,

I am told we are to be married. I hope this news does not displease you. The gardens of the Red Keep are said to be beautiful in spring. Perhaps you would like to see them when you arrive. I should like to show them to you.

Yours, Valarr Targaryen

It was not a love letter, precisely. It was too brief, too formal for that. But there was something in the turn of phrase—I should like to show them to you—that had made your cheeks warm the first time you read it, and the seventeenth time as well.

Your mother had noticed. Your mother noticed everything.

"You're smiling at that scrap of paper again," your mother had said, not unkindly. "Shall I have it framed?"

You folded the letter quickly and tucked it into your sleeve. "I am merely attempting to decipher his handwriting. Some of these letters are quite peculiar."

"Mm. And that explains the blush, does it?"

That had been nine moons ago. He wrote about the weather, mostly. About a white horse he'd had as a boy. About a tournament he'd once attended where a knight broke his lance so spectacularly that everyone laughed. He wrote about his little brother Matarys, who apparently collected beetles and kept them in tiny boxes under his bed. He wrote about his father, Prince Baelor, with such obvious affection that your heart squeezed reading it.

He never wrote about himself, his looks specifically.

What does he look like? you had asked in your third letter, as delicately as you could manage.

His response had taken six weeks to arrive. I am told I resemble my father, but slighter. My hair is brown, mostly. There is a streak of silver in it that my brother says looks like someone spilled milk on my head. I have not decided whether this is an insult or mere observation.

That was all.

When you pressed further—surely there are portraits?—his next letter had been almost apologetic.

Portraits are not so common here as I understand they are in the Free Cities. The artists we have tend to paint kings and queens, not second sons who are second sons only until their father becomes king. I could commission one, but it would take months and you would be here before it was finished. Perhaps it is better that you meet me in person. I am told first meetings are more honest than paintings.

You stared at that paragraph for a very long time.

It was the kind of thing a person wrote when they had something to hide.

"He's ugly," you announced to your empty chamber one evening, three weeks before your departure. "He's definitely ugly. That's why there are no portraits. That's why he won't describe himself. He's probably covered in warts. He probably has three eyes."

But then you would read the part about the white horse again, and the bit about his brother's beetles, and you would think: even if he has three eyes, at least he's kind.

By the time the ship departed from the harbor of your home city—wherever that city might have been, some prosperous mercantile power with excellent banking institutions and very good pastries—you had worked yourself into a state of resigned acceptance.

You were sixteen years old. You were an only child, which meant you would inherit everything: the banking houses, the trade routes, the warehouses full of spices and silks and dyes. The marriage alliance with House Targaryen would make your family untouchable. It was a good match. A brilliant match.

Your future husband could have three eyes and warts on his warts, and you would still marry him with a smile on your face.

(Though you did pack an extra vial of rosewater facial tonic, just in case.)

---

The voyage took nineteen days.

Nineteen days of watching the horizon, of practicing your High Valyrian with your tutors, of having your mother remind you constantly to sit up straight and not fidget with your sleeves. Nineteen days of your father reviewing the terms of the marriage contract for the four hundredth time, muttering about dowries and inheritance rights and the precise legal status of any potential children should the worst befall the Targaryen line.

By the time the ship passed through the Gullet and into Blackwater Bay, you were so thoroughly sick of maritime travel that you would have kissed solid ground even if it were made of broken glass.

You were not prepared for King's Landing.

The city rose from the shore like a fever dream, sprawling, chaotic, and impossibly loud even from the water. The Red Keep perched on its hill like a dragon settling onto a carcass, all crimson walls and towers that caught the afternoon light.

And the smell. "Oh," you said faintly, pressing a handkerchief to your nose. "Oh, dear."

Your mother, who had visited Westeros once before as a girl, looked entirely too smug. "I did warn you."

"You said it was 'quite aromatic.' You did not say it smelled like someone died in a fishery and then the fishery caught fire."

"That's Flea Bottom on a good day. You'll get used to it."

"I will never get used to it. I will live in the Red Keep with my windows sealed forever. I will commission a glass garden and only breathe air that has been filtered through roses."

Your father patted your shoulder absently, still reading his contract. "That's the spirit."

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was exactly as overwhelming as you had feared.

Dragon tapestries lined the walls, their eyes following you as you walked the length of the hall. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous thing of melted swords that looked nothing like the elegant seat you'd imagined. Torches flickered. The floor was stone worn smooth by centuries of feet.

At the foot of the dais stood the royal family.

You recognized King Daeron II immediately—an older man, dignified, with a kind face and the violet eyes that marked his bloodline. Beside him stood a woman you assumed was the queen.

But it was the younger man who caught your attention.

He stood slightly apart from the others, as if he wasn't entirely certain he belonged in the family portrait. He was slim, fine-boned, with dark brown hair. And running through it, catching the torchlight like a thread of moonlight, was a streak of pure silver.

He was not ugly.

He was not covered in warts.

He was, in fact, quite possibly the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Oh no, you thought, as your stomach performed a complicated maneuver that felt rather like a dragon taking flight. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Your eyes met across the hall.

He smiled. It was a small smile, a little uncertain, a little hopeful. It was exactly the smile you had imagined when you read his letters about white horses and beetle collections.

You smiled back. You couldn't help it.

And then your father was propelling you forward, and there were introductions to be made—endless, tedious introductions, with King Daeron greeting you in passable Valyrian and Queen Someone-or-other complimenting your dress and a prince named Aerys (cousin? uncle? you couldn't keep them straight) asking about the interest rates in the Free Cities as if that were an appropriate topic for a first meeting.

Through it all, you kept trying to catch Valarr's eye.

He kept trying to catch yours.

You never quite managed it.

---

"You must be exhausted from your journey," Queen Myriah was saying. "We've prepared chambers in Maegor's Holdfast—"

"Your Grace, if I might—" Valarr stepped forward, but his grandmother was still speaking.

"—with windows facing the gardens, as I understand you're fond of—"

"Grandmother, I only wanted to—"

"—and we've arranged for a bath to be drawn, of course, after such a long voyage—"

"Grandmother."

Queen Myriah paused, turning to look at her grandson with the particular expression of a woman who was not accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes, Valarr?"

Valarr opened his mouth.

"I'm sure the prince was merely expressing his thanks for your hospitality," your mother cut in smoothly, with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life navigating diplomatic situations. "We are all most grateful."

Valarr closed his mouth.

You stared at him.

He looked at you, helpless, and shrugged very slightly.

That's odd, you thought. Why didn't he just say what he was going to say?

--

The welcome feast lasted four hours.

You sat at the high table, surrounded by Targaryens and Martells and various other noble houses whose names you couldn't possibly remember, and you watched your betrothed attempt to speak to you approximately seven times.

The first time: he leaned toward you, opened his mouth, and was immediately drowned out by Prince Maekar (another uncle? brother? you were losing track) banging his cup on the table and demanding more wine.

The second time: he got as far as "I hope the journey wasn't too—" before a servant dropped an entire platter of roasted peacock directly behind you, creating a crash that made you jump and Valarr wince.

The third time: someone—his brother Matarys, you thought, a gangly boy with the reddish hair grabbed his arm and began whispering urgently about a beetle he'd found in his pocket.

The fourth time: Queen Myriah asked you a question about Essosi fashions, and by the time you'd finished answering, Valarr was being pulled into conversation with one of the Dornish cousins.

The fifth time: he actually managed to complete a sentence—"I wanted to ask if you'd like to see the gardens tomorrow, perhaps after—" but at that exact moment, a dog ran through the hall chased by three small children and a very angry-looking septa, and everyone turned to watch, and when you looked back at Valarr he had given up and was staring at his wine cup with an expression of profound resignation.

The sixth time: you tried to initiate the conversation yourself. "Prince Valarr, I was wondering—" but Prince Baelor chose that exact moment to stand and propose a toast to the happy couple, and by the time everyone had drunk and cheered and drunk again, the moment was lost.

The seventh time: the feast was ending. Guests were rising, stretching, preparing to retire. Valarr stood, took a breath, and turned to you with obvious determination.

"Lady Yn, I—"

"Valarr." King Daeron appeared at his grandson's elbow, looking fond and apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but your father wishes to speak with you before he retires. Something about the seating arrangements for tomorrow's council meeting."

Valarr looked at his grandfather. He looked at you.

He looked at the ceiling, as if asking the gods why they had abandoned him.

Then he bowed to you—a proper bow, graceful despite his obvious frustration—and followed his grandfather away without having spoken a single word to you all evening.

You watched him go. Huh, you thought. That's strange.

---

The next day, there was a tourney.

Not a proper tourney, apparently—just a small exhibition, some knights practicing for an upcoming event, but the royal family attended anyway because that was what royal families did. You found yourself seated in a shaded stand between your mother and a princess whose name you kept forgetting (Rhaenys? Rhae? Something with an R), watching men in armor crash into each other with enthusiasm and very little grace.

Valarr was down in the lists, mounted on a black horse that you recognized from his letters as the descendant of that white horse he'd loved as a boy. He rode well, you noticed. His armor was black, and he moved like someone who'd been training since he could walk.

Between jousts, he looked up at the stands.

Your eyes met.

He started riding toward your section.

"Oh, look," your mother said brightly. "Here comes your intended. How lovely."

Valarr reached the edge of the stands, dismounted, and removed his helm. His hair was damp with sweat, the silver streak standing out brightly against his forehead. He smiled up at you—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.

"PRINCE VALARR!"

A knight came galloping up, armor clanking, horse lathered with sweat. "My prince, you're needed! The hand—"

Valarr closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at you with an expression of such profound suffering that you nearly laughed.

He bowed. He remounted. He rode away.

You stared after him.

That's seven times, you thought. Eight if you count the feast last night.

The princess beside you—Rhaegar? No, that wasn't right—leaned over. "He's usually more talkative. I'm not sure what's got into him."

"He's usually talkative?"

"Oh, yes. Chatty, even. Drove his tutors mad as a boy, always asking questions." The princess shrugged. "Perhaps he's nervous. First betrothed and all that."

Chatty, you thought. He's supposed to be chatty.

---

That evening, there was a smaller dinner. Just family, supposedly, though your family counted, so it was still nearly twenty people gathered in a solar that was somehow even more opulent than the great hall.

You had dressed carefully. Your best silk, your mother's pearls, a touch of the good perfume. You were determined to speak to your betrothed if it killed you.

Valarr, for his part, looked equally determined.

You were seated across from each other. Close enough to talk, if you leaned in. Far enough that you'd have to raise your voices slightly over the general dinner conversation.

Valarr leaned forward.

You leaned forward.

"I wanted to apologize for—" Valarr began.

"DID YOU SEE THE JOUSTING TODAY?" Prince Matarys had apparently inherited his brother's poor timing. He was leaning around his father, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "SER ARLAN UNHORSED THREE KNIGHTS! THREE! I've never seen anything like it!"

"That's wonderful, Matarys," Valarr said, with the strained patience of an older brother. "I was just—"

"And then Ser Gerold's lance broke, and everyone gasped, and—"

"Matarys." Baelor's voice was gentle but firm. "Let your brother speak."

Matarys subsided, looking abashed.

Valarr took a breath. "Thank you, Father. Lady Yn, I only wanted to say that I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to—"

"Valarr, dear." Queen Myriah smiled at him from the head of the table. "Would you be a love and pass the salt?"

Valarr passed the salt.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

Nine, you thought. This is actually impressive in its own way.

---

Three more days passed.

Three more days of near-misses and interruptions. Three more days of Valarr opening his mouth at precisely the wrong moment. Three more days of you watching him be pulled away by relatives, servants, urgent messages, unexpected visitors, and once—memorably—a cat that ran across the path just as he was approaching you, causing him to trip and spend several minutes apologizing to both the cat and a nearby septa who had nothing to do with anything.

By the fourth day, you had developed a theory.

It was a ridiculous theory. An impossible theory. A theory that made absolutely no sense.

But you couldn't shake it.

"He's mute," you whispered to your mother that night, after yet another dinner during which Valarr had been interrupted approximately fourteen times.

Your mother, brushing her hair at the dressing table, paused mid-stroke. "What?"

"The prince. Valarr. He's mute."

"He is not mute. I heard him speak at least three times today."

"No, you didn't. You heard him start to speak. You never heard him finish. Did anyone hear him finish? I certainly didn't. He starts sentences and then something happens and he never gets to complete them. It's been four days, Mother. Four days, and I have never heard his voice."

Your mother resumed brushing. "That's because you're both being constantly interrupted by his enormous, overbearing family. It's not because he's mute."

"How do you know? Have you heard him complete a sentence?"

Your mother's hand paused again.

"That's what I thought." You flopped back on your bed, staring at the canopy. "He's mute. He's been mute this whole time. That's why there were no portraits, not because he's ugly, but because he can't speak and they didn't want me to find out until I was already here."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why would they hide that he's mute? It's not exactly something you can conceal forever."

"Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice. Maybe they thought I'd be too dazzled by the dragons and the castle to realize my betrothed never actually says anything."

"Yn."

"Maybe he's not just mute. Maybe he's also illiterate, and someone else wrote those beautiful letters about white horses and beetle collections. Maybe I've been deceived. Maybe this whole marriage is a lie."

"Yn."

"Maybe—"

"Yn." Your mother turned on the bench, fixing you with a look. "He is not mute. You are being dramatic. Go to sleep."

You went to sleep.

You dreamed of a brown-haired prince who opened his mouth and produced only silence.

---

The next morning, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

If you couldn't speak to Valarr in the presence of his family—which seemed physically impossible, given that they materialized out of thin air every time he tried to form a sentence—you would speak to him away from his family.

The gardens. He'd mentioned them often in his letters, telling her how he would have taken her to walks every day. He'd tried to mention them again at the feast, before the dog incident. The gardens were clearly significant to him. If you went to the gardens, surely he would eventually appear.

It was, you admitted, not the most sophisticated plan. But it was a plan, and after four days of frustration, you'd take what you could get.

You found the gardens easily enough, they were exactly where the servant said they'd be, through a covered walkway and down a set of stone steps. They were beautiful, too, full of roses and fountains and carefully trimmed hedges. Not as elaborate as the gardens back home, perhaps, but lovely in their own way.

And there, standing by a fountain in the shape of a dragon, was Valarr.

He was alone. He was looking at the water, one hand resting on the dragon's stone snout. He hadn't heard you approach—the fountain was too loud—so you had a moment to simply look at him.

He was even more beautiful up close. The silver streak in his hair caught the sunlight. His profile was sharp, elegant, exactly the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a portrait. His shoulders were tense, though. He looked tired.

You cleared your throat.

He spun around.

For a moment, you simply stared at each other.

Then Valarr smiled—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.

"Lady Yn. I—"

"Before you say anything," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I just want you to know that I don't need you to speak. I mean, I'd like to hear your voice eventually, but if you can't—if there's a reason you haven't been able to—it's fine. Really. We can communicate other ways. Writing. Gestures. I'm very good at charades. My cousins used to say I was the best charades player in the family, and we had some very competitive games during the—"

Valarr was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"—festivals," you finished lamely. "So. Yes. Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me however you need to tell me."

There was a pause.

"I'm not mute," Valarr said.

You blinked.

"You're not?"

"I'm not."

"But you never—every time you try to speak, something—and I've been here four days, and I've never heard your voice, and I thought—"

Valarr's lips twitched. "You thought I was mute."

"I thought you might be mute. Yes."

"Because my family keeps interrupting me every time I try to speak to you."

"Because your family keeps interrupting you every time you try to speak to me."

You looked at each other.

Valarr's lips twitched again.

You felt heat rising to your cheeks. "This is embarrassing."

"It's not embarrassing. It's—" He stopped, and then he laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine and unguarded. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and also completely understandable. I've been trying to speak to you for four days. Four days, and I haven't managed a single complete sentence."

"Seventeen attempts," you said. "I've been counting."

"Seventeen?"

"Eighteen if you count the time with the cat."

Valarr groaned, but he was smiling. "The cat. I tripped over a cat."

"It was very graceful. You apologized to the cat. I've never seen anyone apologize to a cat before."

"The cat looked offended."

"The cat was definitely offended."

You stood there for a moment, grinning at each other like idiots. The fountain burbled. Somewhere, a bird sang.

"I'm glad you're not mute," you said finally"

Valarr stepped closer. "I'm glad that you came looking for me. Despite thinking I might be mute. Despite seventeen interrupted attempts. Despite the cat."

"I almost didn't. I thought about just accepting that I'd never hear your voice and we'd communicate exclusively through written notes for the rest of our lives."

"A romantic tragedy."

"A comedy, really. Two people in love, separated by an overbearing family and a surprising number of cats."

"In love?" Valarr's voice was soft.

You felt your face go warm again. "Well. Potentially. I mean—" You gestured vaguely. "The letters. The horse. The beetle collection. I might have developed a small fondness for the person who wrote those letters. Even if that person turned out to be mute and covered in warts."

"I don't have warts."

"I can see that."

"And I'm not mute."

"I can hear that."

Valarr took your hand.

It was a small thing. Just his fingers curling around yours, warm and gentle. But it felt enormous, standing there in the garden with the roses blooming and the sun warming your faces.

"Yn," he said quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you now. If that's all right."

"It's more than all right."

He leaned in.

"BROTHER!"

You jumped apart.

Matarys burst through the hedge like a small, enthusiastic cannonball, face flushed with excitement and—yes—a beetle cupped carefully in his hands.

"You have to see this one! It's iridescent! It shines in the sun! I've never seen anything like it! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere! Grandmother wants you for dinner, she says you're not to be late again, and also there's a message from the Master of Coin about something, and—"

Valarr closed his eyes. You started laughing.

Matarys was still talking.

"—and it's not just any iridescent beetle, it's the rarest kind, the kind that only comes out after rain, and I had to follow it for ages because it kept flying away, and then it landed on a rose bush, and I thought, this is it, this is my moment, and—"

Valarr stood there, eyes closed, hand still loosely holding yours. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the battle between brotherly affection and profound frustration.

You squeezed his hand.

He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something new in his expression now, a determination that hadn't been there before.

"Matarys," he said.

"—and the way the light catches its wings is like nothing you've ever—"

"Matarys."

His brother finally paused, beetle cupped carefully in both hands, looking up with the innocent confusion of a puppy who doesn't understand why no one is throwing the ball.

"Yes?"

"That's a remarkable beetle."

Matarys beamed.

"And I would very much like to hear all about it. But first—" Valarr turned to you, and there was a glint in his mismatched eyes that made your breath catch. "First, I need to finish something."

He let go of your hand.

For a terrible moment, you thought he was leaving. That Matarys had won again, that the interruption had done its work, that you would be left standing in the garden with nothing but the memory of almost being kissed.

But Valarr didn't walk away.

He stepped closer.

And then his hands were cupping your face, gentle and warm, and his lips were on yours, and the world narrowed to nothing but this: the softness of his mouth, the faint scent of something clean and pleasant, the way your heart stopped and then raced to make up for lost time.

It was a brief kiss. A handful of heartbeats, no more.

But when he pulled back, you were quite certain you would never be the same.

"Finally," you breathed.

Valarr's smile was incandescent. "Seventeen interruptions. I refuse to let it become eighteen."

Behind him, Matarys made a small sound of realization. "Oh. OH. I—should I—do you want me to—" He looked down at his beetle, then back at the two of you, then down at his beetle again. "I'm going to go. With my beetle. Somewhere else."

"That's probably wise," Valarr said, not taking his eyes off you.

Matarys fled. For a moment, you simply looked at each other. The garden was quiet again, save for the fountain and the birds. Your lips were still tingling.

"So," you said. "That happened."

"That happened." Valarr's thumb traced a slow path along your cheekbone. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you walk into the Great Hall."

"Since then?"

"Since then." His smile turned slightly rueful. "I had a whole speech prepared. About how beautiful you were. About how your letters had been the best part of my days for the past year. About how I hoped you wouldn't be disappointed when you met me in person."

"I was not disappointed."

"Good." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "I was terrified, you know. That you'd take one look at me and—"

"And what? Run screaming from your warts?"

He laughed, that warm unguarded sound you were already coming to love. "I don't have warts."

"I know. I checked. Very thoroughly, just now."

"You checked for warts while I was kissing you?"

"A lady has her priorities."

He was still smiling, but something softer had crept into his expression. "Yn. I'm sorry it took four days. I'm sorry for every interruption, every near-miss, every time I opened my mouth and someone—" He glanced in the direction Matarys had fled. "Someone appeared."

"You can't control your family."

"No. But I can control what I do now." He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. "I'm going to take you on a walk. Tonight. Before dinner."

"Are you?"

"I am. We'll go through the gardens—the real gardens, not just this little corner—and I'll show you all the places I wrote about. The rose arbor where the bees get drunk on nectar and stagger around. The fountain with the fish that my brother tried to catch when he was five. The bench where I sat and read your letters, over and over, until I'd memorized every word."

Your throat felt tight. "You did that?"

"I did that." He squeezed your hand. "And then, if you're willing, I'll take you to dinner. And I'll sit beside you, not across from you, so that when I want to speak to you, I can simply lean over and do so. And if anyone tries to interrupt—"

"Yes?"

"I'll kiss you again. Right there at the table. In front of everyone."

You laughed. "You would not."

"Try me."

The look in his eyes suggested he was absolutely serious.

"I'll hold you to that," you said.

"Please do." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I should go. Matarys is probably waiting with his beetle, and if I don't admire it properly, he'll be hurt. But I'll come for you at sunset. We'll walk. We'll talk. No interruptions."

"Sunset," you agreed.

He smiled, that hopeful, uncertain smile that had made your heart turn over in the Great Hall, and turned to go.

He took three steps.

Turned.

And kissed you again.

This one was longer. Deeper. His hand slid into your hair, and yours found the front of his tunic, and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing a little faster.

"Just in case," he murmured against your lips.

"In case of what?"

"In case something happens between now and sunset. A falling chandelier. A sudden invasion. Another cat."

"Another cat?"

"The Red Keep has many cats."

You laughed, breathless. "Go. Admire your brother's beetle. I'll be here at sunset."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed your forehead—a soft, reverent thing—and then he was gone, striding through the garden with a new lightness in his step.

You touched your fingers to your lips.

They were still warm.

Sunset, you thought. Sunset couldn't come soon enough.

[3416]

this entire sequence of ilya coming to shane's apartment.. their first time... ilya leaving shanes apartment....... absolute CINEMA

[dragoncopper]

Nutmeg Masterpost

TITLE: Nutmeg

PAIRING: Noah Sebastian x Reader (dom/sub)

SUMMARY: Due to really bad anxiety, you sign up at an agency that matches you with a dominant partner. 

WARNINGS: 18+ DOM/SUB.  Noah is a soft!dom and pleasure!dom, but definitely dominant.  Smut, control, rules, guidance, mild painplay, denial, exploration.  (There is no harsh degradation, humiliation, punishment etc, it’s not going that hardcore.) Each chapter will have its own warnings.

It starts off a little slow for reasons the story will reveal – it’s not straight into the kinky stuff.

I’ve done research, but this will probably not be a typical display of dom/sub – not all elements will be present.  I have a specific idea in my head for Noah and it does not always fit the ‘norm’.

CH1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4 | CH5 | CH6 | CH7 | CH8 | CH9 | CH10 | CH11 | CH12 | CH13 | CH14 | CH15 | CH16 | CH17

TAGGING: Feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged in updates.

[hederasgarden]

Gladiator II Masterlist

Lucius Verus

Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife Series

Thank you @seitmai for this lovely banner.

Ab Initio (2K | Mature)

Terrified and alone, you find comfort in an unlikely place - Rome’s mightiest Gladiator.

Protego te (2.1K | Mature)

Macrinus’s ambition brings you and Lucius to the Colosseum, introducing another level of complexity into your dynamic (sequel to Ab Initio). 

Memorias (1.1K | Mature)

Late at night you and Lucius share memories of the lives you once lived.

Post tenebras lux (5.9K | Mature)

You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena (sequel to Ab Initio).

Docendo discimus (1K | Mature)

Lucius teaches you to defend yourself.

Finis (7.8K | Mature)

Lucius comes for you (Epilogue to Post tenebras lux).

Vi et animo (Mature | 1.2K)

When one of Rome's senators insults you, Lucius makes an example of him.

Nunc scio quid sit amor (1.7K | Mature)

Lucius tells your son the story of how he fell in love with you (takes place after drabble 1).

Drabbles

Drabble 1 - The birth of Lucius and the readers first child.

Other Series

The Price of Survival (Mature | 2.6K)

Modern AU. Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one.

One Shots

Desire (Mature | 770)

Prompt - Werewolf Lucius + breeding. +feral +possessive + bite-kink.

Headcanons

Valentine's Day with Modern Lucius

[athenaluciscaelum-deactivated20]

Coming up with ask again 🤭

Dante pregnancy headcanons through various installment of the franchise (i mean his reaction when he found out that his wife is pregnant)?

Note: You can ask me anytime or as many times. I work on a first come, first serve basis. So no problem

Dante finding out his wife is pregnant through various installment of the franchise:

!!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Rated: Mature

Words: 3275 words

Warning: Mention of Pregnancy, unprotected sex, demon sex, mention of abortion

Disclaimer:

Feel free to leave comments, but remember to be nice and civil.

LETS ROCK!!

So again, few assumptions were laid down here.

This is a loving relationship between Dante and Y/N. Two are married, since ask specifies 'wife'.

Pregnancy is unexpected and not planned. As for a planned one, the reaction remains the same; he will be happy.

No matter how sad and depressed he is or what he says. You will be his home, and he will come to terms and embrace you and the baby. It's just a matter of when?

You love this baby, and you are willing to fight for him/her. You want to protect them from the movement you were made aware of their existence.

Devil May Cry 3 Manga and Video Game

Dante here is young; he was eighteen when you two got married. It was rather quick, you both agree. But with your certainty that you both are meant to be together, Dante was swooned by the fact that you were still there after years of his stupidity, pain and nightmare. You didn't make his nightmare go away, but you made it so bearable.

Dante was always sure to use protection; he had to be. He had a terrible father, or so he thought back then, and wouldn't be a bad father himself.

Then something changed; Temen-Ni-Gru was erected, and Dante had to send you to safety. He asked you to go to Enzo, who will keep you out of the city. When he came back at night, you were asleep in a motel room. You couldn't understand how he knew that this is where you were; Enzo kept it secret. But it was your Dante, or... he wasn't. You could see his eye glowing red; you knew he was a demon.

You yelped as he literally lunged at you, pinning you on the bed. You moaned as he started to kiss and lick your cheek, lips and neck. You shuddered; his tongue felt long and slim like a snake. You cupped his face; it was pitch dark in the room, only moonlight illuminating your face... You spoke concerned... "Dante? Are you okay?" His voice came out rough, deep and metallic. "Need you…" You smiled, "I missed you too..."

You were about to scream when he morphed into something inhuman, but when he looked at you and touched you. It was his gentleness, his love, his soul, and his heart. Dante was scared. "Am I hideous, scary?" You cupped his scaly face. "Scary? My God, you're divine...missed you...you are back, you're home, baby..."

Dante's claws were quick to shred your clothes. "My sweet angel..." You never saw Dante so desperate and needy; he was rutting into you...as he hungrily kissed your lips. He was quick to plunge in you; it felt so different, big and with bumps. Your head felt dizzy… it was too much, but he kept hitting your sweet spot. You could not remember how many times you came, but it felt so good when he filled you to the brim. Dante collapsed on your limp body as soon as he was done; he morphed back into his human self.

A few weeks later, you felt sick for days, throwing up; your breasts were tender, and you were dizzy many times. You were a little dumb in this department and didn't think much. Dante has been so depressed since he came back. He was mostly at his desk looking at those gloves. He cried so many nights in your chest about how he couldn't save anyone he loves. But you promised him that he saved you. You blamed your skipped periods on stress you were feeling with Dante. He was the lowest, and it was obvious you felt the same.

So when you went to the doctor, they told you that you were pregnant. You were scared, so scared. You walked back to Devil May Cry, thinking about how Dante will react. He was at his lowest; you both were not financially secure, and what if he didn't want this?

Dante was deep in a whisky bottle in the afternoon, his head on his desk. You spoke softly, "Dante?" Dante shook his head, "Yeah...babe...? Good day at work?" You walked up to him and sighed, "We need to talk...."

Dante sat up straight as you held his hand and placed it on your stomach. You spoke scared, "I'm carrying our child..."

Dante blinked; was he drunk? He looked at you. He moved his hand across your stomach and tried to feel a little life in you; he was sure now. He was scared, shocked, and happy…happy not to be the only one alive of Sparda blood. "You want this with me? Look at me ..."

You just smiled and nodded, tears in your eyes, "I can't imagine it with anyone else." Dante hugged you tight. He knew his father was a better person, and he aspires to be the same for you and the baby... or more.

Devil May Cry 1 and Anime

Dante and you had quite a night before he left for Mallet Island. He was just excited he would finally avenge his mother, and you wanted your husband in your arms before he faced Mundus. When he left for Mallet Island, you were scared. Dante wanted you to stay at Devil May Cry and asked Morrison and Lady to make sure you are safe. When Dante came back, he was quiet, too quiet.

He confided in you how he killed Vergil again, and he will never be able to forgive himself. You held him tight. You had something of your own to share with him. But you did not know when and how; you were so scared.

You have seen the worst of Dante; he didn't mask anything in front of you. He just lashed out, "Why are you wasting your life with me, Y/N? You deserve better!" You were picking up bottles littered around the office; he wasn't speaking out of spite but out of genuine concern and fear. To him, he was not enough; he never would be. He destroys everyone he loves; he feared the same for you.

You sat up; you were feeling so tired and uneasy. You sighed, your hand instinctively resting on your belly, "Dante...Stop...I—" Dante looked at you with pain and saw the way your hand rested on your belly...his eyes questioned you... You nodded, "Yes, we are going to be parents."

Dante was stuttering, "How far along are you?" You thought, "A month..." Dante gulped, "Mine?" You shouted, "Dante!" Dante ran a hand across his face; he just hoped you would treat him like the shit he is and maybe even cheat on him, giving him the pain he deserves. But he knew you would never.

You cupped his face, "Dante...it's going to be fine..." Dante shook his head, "No...I will harm you both...maybe I should leave…"

Dante was making his way to exit; you can keep the place or whatever he has, but he has to be away; he will take care of financial responsibility for you and the baby. He will work to the bone...but he has to stay away. Because he loves you both.

You stopped him with all your weight, "Dante! No!" You cried, and he stopped in his tracks. You pooled on the floor crying like a child, your pregnancy hormones not helping. Your head in your hands, "God! Dante! I can't do this without you! I won't do this without you! I want the baby to have us both! Please!"

Dante saw how much he was hurting you; he was quick to gather you in his arms and put you down comfortably on the red leather couch. He removed your shoes, and he guessed your feet were swollen; he massaged them. You looked at him scared.

He was scared too, of hurting you and the baby. He spoke after a while, "Please....I need time…" You nodded. "It's okay...just remember we need you...always."

For initial checkups, Dante sent Lady with you; he was scared that even his shadow might be an omen for the baby. You were always sharing all news with him. You pinned an ultrasound for him of twins – a girl and a boy – on the fridge. You can see love in his eyes for his children. But his fear was palpable.

You were quite swollen, and four months in, you were showing a little bump. You lay down on the bed in a little nightie. Thanks to pregnancy, your breasts were heavy. Dante was in the office; you called for him. "Dante..." He bolted up to the room, the fear in his voice evident, "Is everything okay? You're in pain?" You nodded, "Yeah…can you help?"

Dante was unsure. "Sure...how?" You spoke tiredly, "My breasts are tender...can you help?" Dante looked at your heavy breasts; he was drooling inside. He was staying away from you from fear of harming you or the baby in any capacity... but you need this now, right? His big hands started to massage your tits... you moaned, and he felt it in his cock. He drank in your flustered face and how you bit your lips; god, he should paint you. You looked at him with love; he gulped, "Are you feeling better now?" You nodded, "Thanks...but nipples?" Dante was quick to pull down your top and play with your nipples, pinching and twisting them. You whimpered. He lowered his head to suck on your nipples one by one.

You were so wet, his knees driving up to your core to help you ride it out, and it certainly helped. He held you close, picking you up to place you on his thigh as you rode him... you were left satisfied. He smiled, kissing your head and belly, "Sleep tight...my world…"

Dante missed no appointment afterwards.

Devil May Cry 2

You didn't know how this even happened. Dante was always deep in a bottle, missions, or arguing with you. It was never you who argued. Dante was at his lowest, and he intentionally argued with you to drive you away. You could see through it in no time.

Dante spoke bitterly when he came back from hell, "Still here?" You were shocked at his cold voice, "Yes...are you okay? Lucis came... She told me everything... I asked Trish to help, and she figured out a way to open some portal for you." Dante laughed bitterly, "So...I should be thankful to you now? It was all you, right?" You shook your head. "That's not what I meant...Dan—" Dante stopped you, "So what you meant! Huh? I should be so thankful; you stick by poor me!" You cupped Dante's face. "Hey...I'm here...you are going to be fine....stop this..."

Dante clenched his teeth, "Why do you have to be so understanding...?" You hugged him tight. "Because I love you... and you have made me very happy..."

This was not one attempt; your friends asked you to leave Dante, labelling him 'toxic', but you knew Dante. There were better days; you have seen the best of life with him. You won't leave his side just because he was at his worst. Yes, sometimes it was unbearable. But even Dante would melt at those points, and there will be fleeting moments that will remind you. Why you two were together. He could be 'not nice' to you but never cruel. Or so you thought.

When you missed your periods, you were in denial. You took tests, and you hid all those positive tests. You had no courage to tell Dante. He was a mess; you cannot bring a child into this mess. But you wanted to protect this child with your heart and soul. It was a part of him and you. You would do anything for the child in you.

You told yourself every morning that you would tell him today. But you failed; it was already two months in. Dante was either always on a mission or in his bottles. You were not sure what to do. You were taking care of all bills and finances. Since Dante was barely taking any mission that came with a pay cheque.

You were asleep in bed after a long day of work. When the door to your shared bedroom was slammed open by Dante, he was angry and cold, "Did you ever intend to tell me!?" You were confused and frowned; your head was pounding anyway. "What?" Dante looked at you in fury; he spoke bitterly, "You think I won't notice...you throwing up every morning. You can't do it, baby...these cursed ears pick up everything. You thought I wouldn't notice your sweet human scent as a subtle hint of the demon in you now!? You really thought you could hide your meds from me!? Why do I have to know it from Lady!?"

You were pale and confused, "Lady?" Dante spoke angrily, "Yeah, she left me a pay cheque saying I need it now... She was for once not ripping me off! You really thought you could hide this!?" You shook your head as you sat in bed, your head pounding with stress, pregnancy, work and now this, "I was going to tell you…" Dante shouted, "When!?" You were not even thinking clearly now, "Soon..."

Dante was scared...so scared; he needed you to say it, "Say it..." You spoke, looking at your belly, "I'm pregnant..." Dante's denial could not work anymore; he shook his head in trying to still deny it, "No…" You looked up at him sadly, "Dante...it's true..." Dante shook his head. He spoke with a heavy heart, "Y/N, we can't.....abort it..." Your whole world was crashing; you couldn't understand what he was saying... You shook your head, speaking incoherently. You were barely functional, "No...Dante...you didn't hear it right...it's our baby…" Dante was quiet and sombre. "I did...I can't do it...either abort it or..." Your eyes were wide. "Or...?"

Dante gave you a sympathetic look. You shook your head, "No! No! No! Please!" Dante closed the door, leaving you alone. You lay down in bed, curled up, crying. Dante could hear you; his heart clenched, but he knew he had no other choice.

You were in bed till late afternoon; you even skipped your day at work because you were sick. Dante knocked at the door; he came in with a bowl of fruit; he sat it on the bed. You sat up in the bed, the stress on your face obvious; anyone could tell you were not okay. Your eyes were puffy, and your head was pounding. Dante spoke sympathetically, "Here… you need nutrition..."

You were choking on your words as your heart felt heavy, "Why do you care? You want our child dead…" Dante froze for a second; the words were so heavy. He ran his fingers through your hair. "Because I want you to live..." You looked at him, and you pleaded, "It's going to be okay; you're here." Dante looked at his hands; he felt useless. "When was I ever able to protect anyone I love?" You were determined: "I will have my child anyway. I will protect them! With you or alone!"

Dante nodded, "You made your choice..." You nodded, "I did..."

You left Devil May Cry in a week. Dante said you could stay, but you didn't want to. You could go back to your parents, but they will just remind you how they were always suspicious of Dante and will ask you to consider an abortion. You rented a little apartment.

When you went for your next appointment, you saw two little beans on the screen – a girl and a boy. You kept the ultrasound. Something in your heart said to send it to Dante. He was a father no matter what. So you gave it to Morrison. Dante was in his office; it was late at night. He opened the envelope and saw it. Any doubt in his mind cleared.

You heard a soft knock on your door. You opened it to find Dante...he hugged you tight, "I'm so sorry..."

You hugged him back, "You always come along..." Dante buried his face in your hair. "I'm so scared..." You cupped his face, "Yeah, me too...but we are in this together."

Devil May Cry 4 and Novel

Dante had a change of heart in Fortuna. When he looked at Nero, he saw a possibility he never entertained in his mind. There could be the next Sparda blood who could grow up safe. Dante reached back home happily.

You found out while he was gone. You were ready for everything. You will fight for your baby; your packs were already packed, just in case.

Dante was back with a wide smile; you smiled back. You wanted to tread carefully. Dante hugged you tight. "Y/N, babe, I missed you..." You summoned courage...and pulled back, "Dante...I'm pregnant...and I won't give up on my baby...even if it means I have to do it alone."

Dante was surprised; he muted any part after 'I'm pregnant', a wide grin on his face, "What!? Baby!? My baby!?" You were confused; he is happy. You nodded, "Our baby..." Dante quickly picked you up and twirled you around. You squeaked, "Dante! I am feeling dizzy!" Dante puts you back on your feet and rubs his neck sheepishly, "Sorry...but I'm going to be a father!" You smiled and nodded. He got on his knees to put his ears against your stomach; he sighed. He could hear those strong little heartbeats. It sounded like two – must be vibrations, or so he thought. He sighed contentedly, kissing your belly. You ran your fingers through his hair.

He picked you up bridal style and climbed up to your room. "You will rest now...no stress or overwork." You smiled, "I'm just one week in…" Dante opened your shared bedroom door. He frowned at your packed bag; now that he remembers, you were saying something else too... Dante looked at you. "Babe, why are your bags packed...?" You tried to dodge the question, "Just vacation..." Dante sets you on the bed. "You thought...I would kick you out because you are pregnant? What monster do you think I am...? I'm disappointed, babe."

You shook your head, "Dante ...no!" He clicked his tongue. "You should have more faith in me." He pouted; you cupped Dante's face to make him look at you, "No...I..." Dante started being dramatic, "What a world? My wife thinks so little of me..."

You sighed, "How can I make up?" Dante thought, "I pick the nursery theme…and decor." Your mouth was wide open at the disastrous idea. But you had no option but to agree.

Dante never missed an appointment; he was a very involved parent and a partner. He made it the most beautiful and loving part of your relationship. Though he reconsidered ever having kids after seeing the pain you went through.

Devil May Cry 5

Dante was thinking as he looked into the mirror after coming back from hell, "Am I too old?" He looked at you reading on the red leather couch; he could tell your sweet human scent changed, but he will wait for you to tell.

When you did tell him at night. He was happy; he hugged you tight, and he was grinning ear to ear. He sighed, "Are you happy?" You nodded, "very much." He kissed your forehead, his hand protectively on your belly wherever you go.

He was protective, but not overprotective. He was taking more jobs to make everything financially secure for you and the baby. He called over Kyrie and Nero a lot to help you.

He will be very happy and ready to be a father.

Tagged: @violet-2084-turkish-warrior

[mildlysedat3d]

I will never recover from the new opening of this song 💀💀

[noahsebastions]

there’s just something about men with tattoos and long hair that also look a little nerdy that really do it for me wbu

[iwasntstable]

[CREDIT] : gifs by @silent-stories — original source.

He's such a cuddler. You can't change my mind. I know he'd come up behind you and wrap his long arms around your waist, nose buried in your shoulder and neck, leaning into you, and squeezing you against him tightly. Whispering into your skin how much he missed you and how much he loves you.

You, snaking your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest while he rests his cheek against your head. His arms instinctively encircling your shoulders, hands stroking your back affectionately as all your stresses and worries melt away and are instead replaced with his love.

Him leaning down to wrap his arms around your waist, with yours automatically finding their place around his neck. Your hand, brushing comfortingly, softly through his hair. He rests his forehead against your shoulder and squeezes you so tight against him as he nuzzles in closer. You can barely feel where you end, and he begins. With his large palms caressing up and down your spine, you sway slightly, side to side in each other’s arms, reluctant to let go.

Him, always having a hand on your hip or waist when he passes you by, stroking or patting you fondly. Holding you in place with one arm around your middle while he reaches for something across the table or on a high shelf. Pulling you selfishly close. Trailing his arm, his hand, and finally, his fingertips off your body as he leaves, trying to maintain contact for as long as possible.

Not seeing each other much all day, so when you get a second alone before you both have to dash off again, you lean into him just to feel his warmth and hear his heart beating through his chest. He rubs your back in the embrace. Neither of you need to say “I love you,” because you can feel it in the way you’re instinctively drawn to each other. Always ending up in each other’s arms.

☰ 𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HEADCANNONS/CUDDLYNOAH [projects] ﹂ [my work] | in progress | favourites 　﹂ all | multi-part | one-shot | blurb | [head-cannons] | ask 　　﹂ [cuddly-noah] | size-diff-fluff

[veephoenix]

To drown your sadness in a sea song.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x mermaid!reader Parts: one - two - three - four - five - epilogue Trigger warnings: none, really.

PART TWO — THE BODY | Words: 1.5k

He’s trying. He wants to be thankful. He got more than what he asked for. The torn notebook page he’s holding in his hand has got a few lines written on it. Mostly about her. It’s more than he’s been able to come up with in months. But he still cannot find the right sounds to go with it, the melodies, and it’s driving him insane. 

He drops the pen onto the coffee table in his living room and gets up from the sofa. Beyond the windows, the sun dips below the horizon after a day cloaked in clouds. The scent of coffee permeates the air in the house. His phone lies abandoned on the kitchen counter, its screen accumulating missed calls and unanswered texts. He feels no compulsion to reach for it. He could easily let it sit there for weeks without so much as a glance. It wouldn’t make any difference to his misery. 

The only pull he’s feeling is towards the ocean. 

Last night, as he lay in bed with his fingers tracing the contours of the glass pendant and the taste of her on his lips, he decided it wouldn’t happen again. 

Perhaps it hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. Maybe she was real. 

The memory of the pressure of her moist lips against his definitely was. 

Maybe he wasn’t crazy, but he would certainly lose his mind if he got attached to her. So, he resolved not to return to that beach, not to seek her anymore. He had sought a respite and he had got it. Time to move forward and get it together. The real world had no room for fairy tales, and certainly no room for salvation through a kiss. 

Yet, he can’t stop thinking about it. 

“Fuck it.”

Noah grabs his keys and strides out of the house. 

The drive to the beach is not more than an hour. As the coastal road stretches out before him, the sun dips lower on the horizon, bidding farewell to its eternal paramour, the moon. 

Arriving at the shore, Noah scans the water, but there’s no glimpse. 

She’s not there. 

She’s not in the water.

He finds her behind a rock, her body curled in a protective position on the sand, damp hair covering her face. She’s naked from head to toe. 

Yes, from head to toe. Her tail is gone, and in front of Noah there’s just a girl curled up in herself, covered in sand and salt, wet, and shaking from the cold. 

 Driven by an instinctive need to shield her, Noah sinks to the sand beside her, checking her up with his eyes first before getting his hands on her and brushing aside strands of hair from her face. He murmurs words of comfort, promising her safety, assuring her that he’s not going to let anything happen to her. 

He takes off his hoodie and covers her body with it, wrapping her fragile form in the little warmth from his body that remains in the piece of clothing. Her lips are tinged with blue from the chill, and tears are glistening in her eyes—whether from the sea or because she’s about to cry, he cannot tell.  

As he attempts to help her up, she instinctively reaches for him, her arms encircling his neck. Holding her close, he stands, casting a fleeting glance toward the ocean, but there’s only darkness, no hints like the one he used to notice the times she was swimming towards the shore, towards him.

She’s alone and he’s the only one to claim her. He cannot bear the thought of leaving her to the mercy of fate. He hopes the sea forgives him for taking her away, for this act of possession. He’s got his own fair of experiences to know that, sometimes, it’s not enough to expect to heal on our own, and he cannot conceive the idea of letting her spend the night laying in the sand, like the corpse of a fish that hasn’t been able to keep up with the tide and it’s slowly dying.

He helps her into the passenger seat of his car and steals a quick glance at her eyes. She doesn’t look scared; a bit out of place maybe, but she attempts to reassure him with a small smile that falters as a shiver wracks her frame.

As he ignites the engine, he cranks the heating to its maximum, unconcerned about what beads of sweat might threaten to cover his body. His sole focus is ensuring she doesn’t freeze on the way to the house. 

It takes him no more than forty minutes to arrive back at his home. Noah’s certain he’s racked up a few speeding tickets along the way. Not that it matters. He stole glances at her during the journey. She was leaned against the window, eyes closed, breath steady, hands clasped together. He notices the remnants of her former self in the bluish-purple scales on her knees, that even though as human as his, they’re an echo of her origins, or perhaps a sign of what she was and no longer is. He cannot tell. He cannot understand what’s happening. 

Upon reaching his doorstep, he opens the passenger door for her and offers to pick her up, uncertain as if she can stand on her own feet and walk. She dismisses him with a shake of her head, opting for just holding onto his arm as she sets her two bare feet on the ground. 

He gets concerned when he notices the debris scattered across the path to his door, dry leaves, pebbles, and dust. Without hesitation, he rejects her headshake and scoops her up once more. A soft sigh escapes her lips, and his heart skips a beat. She rests her head against his shoulder and allows him to carry her inside. 

He directs them toward the ground floor bathroom, where there’s a bathtub that’s never been used. While warm water starts to fill it, he stands before her, meeting her hesitancy. It’s clear she’s not feeling quite herself. She’s grappling with this unfamiliar body she now inhabits. 

She’s never been like this before.

It will take time for her to adjust, but she finds comfort and relief in the way he’s looking at her. His brown, dark gaze was adoring when she was in the water. His gaze is adoring now. If anything, he seems even more enchanted. 

When he softly instructs her, she obeys without hesitation. “Arms up,” Noah says.

Around them, there’s only the sound of his voice and the occasional crack from the house caused by the wind.  

She lifts her arms up and Noah removes the hoodie from her, dropping it on the floor. Immediately, his eyes rack her body up and down. Her human body.

Guilt floods him as his gaze lingers on her breasts and between her legs. She’s captivating, tempting, and mysterious. 

He’s enraptured. 

And so is she even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

He’s sweet, attentive, and handsome. He’s also belted in sadness, and that’s where her interest bloomed first.  

Forcing himself to meet her eyes, he can see her cheeks flushing and he wants to slap himself. 

Her lips are still purple. 

He checks the water and a moment later extends his hand to her. 

She steps into the tub, settling herself as the warm water envelops her body up to her shoulders. This is not the ocean, but it’s where she chooses to be, with him. 

With tender care, Noah washes her, rinsing away the salt and ocean scent from her body and hair. He shampoos the long strands with a product he’s never used. He’s cautious when he touches her skin, especially the tiny scales scattered across her shoulders, knees, and elsewhere. They’re a reminder of what she once was. They’re dulled now without the moonlight’s caress. Yet, he can’t help but still marvel at them. 

As he tends to her, her eyes remain closed, and he adores the way in which she lets her head rest in his big hands while he massages her scalp. She’s never been touched like this, and she can sense his enjoyment in giving so much reverence to her. 

It’s only after some time and with her hair clinging to her shoulders and back that Noah rises from his kneeling position. To retrieve a clean towel from the cupboard, he moves only a few feet away. She follows him with her eyes. 

She swallows. Nerves coil in her stomach. The knot on her throat starts loosening. 

She’s scared but she will try. 

With his return, his tall figure looms over her. He’s offering a warm smile and an extended hand once more to help her stand and wrap her in the towel. 

Worry creases his brow at the sight of her expression. 

He’s about to ask her what’s wrong when she does something that leaves him utterly speechless. 

“Noah,” she says, her voice barely a honey-dripping whisper, but a whisper, nonetheless. 

'PART THREE — THE SADNESS' COMING UP TOMORROW

[veephoenix]

To drown your sadness in a sea song. ⋆｡𖦹 °.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x mermaid!reader Parts: one - two - three - four - five - epilogue Trigger warnings: mental health issues; implied depression.

PART ONE — THE KISS | Words: 1.3k

He’s heard tales about creatures like her before. He’s certain his grandma used to read books about them to him as a child. Mermaids. He doesn’t remember much, though. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do. He just stares at her.

Her face is heart-shaped. She’s got long hair cascading over a bare torso. Her lips are thin and pink, her eyes vast and blue as the ocean itself. Tiny patches of shiny scales adorned her shoulders, chest, and wrists, while from the waist down, her legs are missing. Instead, a beautiful tail flaps against the water. 

She’s the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen. Not in a beautiful way, but in a mesmerizing sort of manner. He can’t keep his eyes of her, maybe because she’s also staring straight at him. 

They don’t say anything. 

Noah is here, in this secluded corner of the earth, a piece of land hidden from the rest of the world by towering rocks on the shoreline. Things hadn’t been good lately, and the whole ordeal going on with work and his colleagues has started to take a toll on him. 

The thoughts that haunted him the night before were unsettling and dangerous. They scared him and kept him awake. To avoid the story from repeating itself, today he left his house before those thoughts got the worst of him. 

He came down to this distant beach because they say that gazing at the vast expanse of the ocean puts life’s troubles into perspective and makes them seem insignificant. He’s not convinced about it, but the creature staring directly into his eyes has certainly seized his attention, and all he wants to do is to approach her, ask her why she’s there instead of traversing the ocean’s depths, and what sort of fascinating thing she’s seen in him that’s keeping her gaze fixed upon him.

The first thing he asks her is her name, but he gets no reply. 

Mermaids are known for their alluring voices and their melodious songs, however, under the moon’s gentle glow that first night, Noah realizes that this mermaid has no voice. He finds out because of the pained and disappointed expression that crossed her features each time he sought answers and each time she couldn’t provide.  

It’s painful to watch. A deep-seated desperation for something to go right courses through him.

As if sensing his distress, she splashes some water his way, just a few droplets to catch his attention again. This time, she has a little smile on her face, and it’s sweet and innocent. 

He decides he feels at peace merely looking at her, and if that’s what the sea has got to offer him, he will take it. 

It’s been ten minutes or maybe an hour. Noah is not sure, and he doesn’t care. He lets the minutes meld into hours. He doesn’t want to worry about time anymore. He knows once he’s back home and away from the ocean he will have to get back to the mundane; phone calls, meetings, a working schedule, and all that. But for now, while he’s here, with her, time doesn’t matter. They regard each other with the intensity of a summer storm. 

She disappears after a while.

The second time he meets her, she offers him something more than just her smile and company. 

She extends her arm out of the water, droplets cascading between her fingers, and Noah instinctively opens his palm out for her. When she drops the amulet, it’s the first time they touch. It’s merely the brush of her fingertips against the skin of his palm, but it’s enough for him to know that he wants more. 

 Looking at it, Noah feels grateful. In his hand lays a necklace. It’s just a piece of weathered thin rope, adorned with a glass pendant containing a miniature world: inside, there is a bit of the ocean, a few drops only, a sprinkle of sand, and a minuscule pearl. The weight of it is not much. All the same, he’s convinced he’s holding a treasure from the depths.  

When he looks up, she’s looking at it with a mesmerizing smile, content that even if she cannot offer him the gift of her voice, she could give him something else. 

There’s sweetness in her eyes. 

Yearning, too. 

He can guess enough by the look on her face: she wants to communicate with him, to tell him something. Yet, she cannot bring herself to, and the pain of it spreads through her delicate features as they stare at each other after he’s muttered a low ‘thank you’. 

She motions around her neck and then signals to him. Understanding her unspoken message, he hangs the necklace around his neck. Her expression shifts and she’s smiling again. It’s just a tiny smile but it will do for now. She sees him reciprocate the feeling, too, and that’s all she had hoped for tonight. 

 The young man is beautiful, and she wants to tell him. He’s goodhearted despite the thoughts that have been scarring his mind for the past weeks and she wants to acknowledge him that she can feel it. 

Instead, she can only offer him a place of her home in that precious necklace, hoping that he will understand that he’s worth the ocean. 

The third time he goes down to the beach it isn’t just to seek solace from the noise of the world. It’s also because he longs to see her. A voice in his head tells him he might be under an enchantment, some sort of bewitchment. She’s after all, a mythological creature, and he’s too mundane and too rational to believe this is real. Life is no magic tale, or is it? 

Maybe it’s all in his head. 

Maybe the sleepless night, the headaches, the arguments with his teammates, his dissatisfaction at the turn his life has taken has started to show its effects. Nevertheless, he wants to see her, if only one last time. 

She’s already waiting for him by the time he arrives, but she’s cautious. She’s perched behind a massive rock partially submerges. She peers at the descending path in anticipation of his arrival. The way they greet each other feels like they’ve reached home after a long journey.

Her tail gently flaps at the water as she rests her body on the shore, her forearms and palms laid on the sand, her long neck stretched towards him. 

Noah doesn’t stop. He takes off his shoes and socks, but he doesn’t bother rolling his jeans up.

He crouches down. The water laps at his feet, seeping into his clothes. The salt tang of the ocean fills his senses. She’s shining under the moonlight when he grasps her chin with his thumb and the bend of his index finger. 

Droplets of water rest on her eyelashes. There’s no fear in her eyes. Her lips are wet, and he dives right for them. 

He kisses her, his lips trapping her lower lip in a tender clasp. 

Worried that she might pull back, he’s taken by surprise when, instead, she presses her mouth harder against his and parts her lips a little to give him more access. It’s like diving into the depths of the ocean, tasting a bit of the world we know so little of. 

If the water touching his feet is cold, he cannot tell anymore. A shot of warmth is spreading through him as he moves his lips ever so slowly against hers. He would have loved to elicit a moan from her, some sound, but he knows by now that’s not going to happen, and he doesn’t let the disappointment take a hold of him. He relishes in the comfort of kissing the shiny creature in the water, thinking that if this is the respite the ocean has got for him, he’ll gladly take it.  

'PART TWO — THE BODY' COMING UP TOMORROW

Author's note: I'm aware I have tons of projects going on at the moment. I'm looking forward to complete The Unmaking of a Warrior & Into the Abyss of Bad Habits this month, but bear with me and my random ideas in the meantime 😶‍🌫️

[thatchickwiththecamera]

Novocaine - Too Close To Touch (ft. Bad Omens)

The beginning lines of Noah’s verse in Novocaine is word for word from his Instagram post last year.

Here is the full verse:

Hearing the two of them sing on the same track and knowing that Keaton is gone. Fuck. I am not okay. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must have been for Noah to record.

[velinxi]

Lord of the Rings fanart! I watched for the first time recently and loved it

[idwt-money]

all in the little details 🫶🏼✨️ (im obsessed with his freckles)