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historiaxvanserra · 5 months

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Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: After his mate and the mother of his son abandons them, The High Lord and Nyx are left alone and wanting.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

The sky is painted in hues of lavender and mauve and the flowering ivory clouds shade Velaris in a perpetual state of dusk. The silvery light of the waxing moon seems to cast you in a gentle opal light as you approach the opulent manor. The High Lord’s townhouse is nestled in the heart of the city of starlight and wreathed in the colors of twilight; a slate facade that looks as though it is crowned in green, climbing ivy and night-blooming jasmine frame the large bay windows on the ground floor. From here you can see the large stained-glass window on the top floor, light refracts and it casts a myriad of dancing light onto the stone below-- dappled pinks and roses that fracture and give way to amethyst and indigo.

You spare a look to your aged companion as she breaches the threshold of the High Lord’s residence and, on unsteady feet, approaches the ornate wooden door and knocks thrice.

You remain for a moment a solitary figure at the entryway of the property, contemplating the series of events that led you here. Mother above, you chastise yourself. The thought occurs to you then, that perhaps you had made a mistake in coming here; that you should have given yourself more time, that you should have remained in the quiet solitude of the library where the world seems like a bitter memory.

“Come, girl.” Madja’s voice is tired and impatient as she beckons you closer with the wave of a crooked finger. “Don’t just stand there.”

You swallow thickly, bowing your head in obedience and you notice how her eyes soften as you approach the door tentatively.

“Nervous?” the old woman asks, you feel her eyes on you-- examining and critical.

“A little,” You admit, eyes downcast as you loose a shaky breath, “I haven’t left the library besides for training in quite some time.”

You stare down at the sleeves of your faded pewter robes as they billow in the evening breeze; the silver embroidery around the cuffs has begun to fray and the layers of fabric gather about your waist, the pleats have been poorly ironed and the heavy fabric falls over the curve of your hip haphazardly and pools to the floor in a swathe of heavy cotton. Shame pools in your stomach at the sight of your slippers as they peek out from the skirts of your robe.

It’s about time you asked Clotho for a new set of robes you think.

“You’ve met him before, no?” Madja’s voice breaks the tenuous peace you have found in those moments. You look up at her and a deep set frown graces her weathered face, “when you first came to Velaris?”

The visions fall on you like night; the Moonstone Palace saturated in onyx and jade, the reflections of your face in the marble of the throne room floor, the sentries as they dragged you before the High Council. The sounds of your screams and a sea of rubies and pearls as the bodice of your dress is torn away from your heaving chest-- all that red. Terrible and red.

Hewn City had always been cruel to you. You, a useless daughter to an ambitious man. The dreams are less vivid now but the sound of footsteps on marble still haunts you.

“Yes, it was him who brought me to Velaris-- after-afterwards,” You acquiesce to her questioning, eyes set on the light beyond the frosted glass panes of the onyx doorway, “though I doubt he remembers.”

Your avenging angel.

Madja looks at you carefully, taking account of you before she nods to you in silent acknowledgement.

The door to the High Lords townhouse opens with a flourish to reveal Morrigan. She’s more beautiful than you remember, radiant even as the dark shadows of sleep cling to her. Her golden hair hangs in loose waves over the delicate curve of her shoulder and though the deep umber of her eyes meets yours in a warm inviting stare as she utters your name.

She knows your name.

“Come on in from the cold.” she beckons you with the curve of a slender hand. You smile politely as you cross the threshold of the house. The wards fall away as you pass through into the foyer and the smell of mandarin and night blooming jasmine flood your senses.

The foyer to the townhouse is truly beautiful; a testament to the fine artistry and craftsmanship that seemed to define Velaris’ art district. The walls are paneled wood, painted in a shade of twilight that can only be found here, in The Night Court, and the burgundy carpet so rich in color that it reminds you of a blood moon, the oil paintings that hang on the walls seem to exude an air of majesty unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

In this room night reigns triumphant and you behold it all with a sense of wonder and awe. A careful deference to the love and care contained between these walls. It is a home that has been truly cherished by the people that live here.

“Did Madja tell you why you had been summoned here?” Morrigan’s voice is soft and sweet and the feeling of her hand on your robed arm pulls you from your thoughts.

“Sorry - I - uh” I stutter, glancing between her hand on my arm and the unyielding warmth of her gaze. “No she didn’t, only that there was a position in the High Lord’s household that Clotho recommended me for.”

“It was my recommendation actually,” Morrigan smiles proudly, letting her hand drop to her side idly. “Clotho just happened to agree.” The words leave her lips with the ghost of a smirk as she recalls the conversation between her and the High Priestess.

The last time you had spoken to Morrigan would have been in Hewn City, all those years ago. You abandon yourself to those days; when you had been the cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. The girl you were died under that mountain. The woman that stands in her place had been forged of blood, and splintered bone-- made strong by violence and tempered by time.

You nod solemnly and cast a glance to Madja who watches on in quiet curiosity.

“Rhys is upstairs,” Morrigan says softly to you both, gesturing up the staircase to the upper level of the house, “I’ll fetch him down”.

You notice then how troubled Mor looks. The rings around her eyes are pale purple and blue and her skin, once radiant, has become pale and sallow. She begins her ascent up the stairs with a small wave of her hand signaling Madja to follow. From here you can see a singular light that pierces through the blanket of the dark that shrouds the upper levels of the house.

Mor regards you once more as Madja passes her on the stairs and points towards the ornate door that leads to the antechamber at the heart of the house. “Go on in, we won’t be a moment.” In a flourish of golden blonde hair and crimson Morrigan winnows away and leaves you to linger in the foyer for a quiet moment.

The smell of cherries and marigold shades the air in her absence.

Voices, disembodied and distant from the upper levels of the house draw you into the heart of the house.

The antechamber of the High Lords townhouse is a beautiful living room, plunged into near darkness spare the slivers of jade light that dapple the dark walls from the emerald chandelier, even in the darkness you can make out the dark marble of the hearth that is draped with moonflowers and ivy. The low backed chairs are elegant and worn from use and there are books strewn about the room and a small library contained neatly in the alcove.

Your eyes find the painting hung above the hearth; immortalized on oil and canvas the High Lord of Night and his Lady. The High Lord is painted in a deep navy tunic and the silver paint mimics the delicate embroidery favored by the Velarian tailors in The Rainbow. His violet eyes shine bright against the dark.

He is a thing of dark beauty, you think.

In this light, his High Lady looks as though she is wreathed in starlight as smiles down on the antechamber from her place above the hearth. You observe the pointed curve of her nose and the upturn of her cerulean eyes and something aching and jealous festers in you at the sight of her beauty.

Otherworldly and ethereal.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The low tenor of a man calls out from the darkness of the room, the voice is measured and devoid of any emotion as it permeates the dark. The male cuts an intimidating figure in the low light and all thought and sound eddies from your mind. You’re sure the sound of your heart like an echoing war drum is loud enough to shake the mountains as he takes a step towards you.

“High Lord?” you question. He steps further into the light and you regard him pensively; his skin is pallid and his eyes are ringed with dark circles of amethyst that trouble you. His onyx hair is left tousled and the ends have grown long enough to curl away from the harsh lines of his face. The sharp junction of his jaw has become obscured by the smatterings of coarse, black hair that grow there.

Even still, even in the unforgiving jade light, he is the most beautiful male you have ever seen. He smells of night blooming jasmine and violets undercut with something inherently masculine. Pine and whiskey perhaps.

His presence is something truly captivating; dark and intoxicating. When he looks at you there is only dark in those violet eyes.

The High Lord sinks into the worn armchair by the hearth with a deep sigh and for a moment he allows his eyes to flutter closed as he breathes deeply and all you can do is surrender yourself to that dark magnetism. The dying fire in the hearth warms him and in this light you notice the golden hues of his skin and the dark inky trails tattooed across the planes of his chest where his shirt opens.

“You’re staring--” The High Lord’s violet eyes falls onto you. In those liminal spaces between the seconds, when he is looking at you, all ceases to be. You tilt your chin downwards, hoping to avert his gaze, as you offer him a courteous bow.

“My apologies High L-” the apology is cut off by the High Lords gentle protests. None of that, Love.

You pray to the mother that he doesn’t notice the flush along the tops of your cheeks or the wild fluttering of your heart at the pet name.

“Sit down,” The High Lord gestures simply to the seat across from him by the hearth and his whole demeanor is somehow softer when you deign to look at him again. Wordlessly you comply with his request, a careful hand runs down the length of your robes to smooth out the lazy pleats in the skirt as they fan out around you in the low backed chair and while you don’t dare to meet his eyes directly you can feel him looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes though his voice is distant, despondent even and his eyes find the painting that looms over the hearth. “The portrait-- It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He muses, tipping the rim of his whiskey glass towards the portrait.

“Very beautiful, High Lord.” you agree, smoothing the heavy material of your robes again. He watches you then with a curious glint in his eyes and he takes a few moments to assess you.

“Just Rhysand will do,” He smiles lightly, though there's a sense of apprehension as he regards you playing with the threads of your sleeves for the third time in so many moments, “there’s no need for such formalities when it’s just the two of us.”

“No of course not,” You agree and look at him through thick lashes and offer him a small smile in return, “forgive me, I’m--” you extend a hand to him over the small end table between the arm chairs and he takes it in earnest shaking it lightly. A calloused pad of his thumb rubs an absentminded circle into the skin of your hand before he brings your hand, trembling and slender, to the sulk of his lips and places a chaste kiss against the knuckles.

“I know who you are, Priestess,” he says lightly-- playfully. You offer him a polite laugh in return and nod your head again.

Something dark burns in his eyes in those moments; silver and violet. Like the darkness between the stars. He smiles to himself then, a soft beautiful thing. A secret shared between him and the dying light in the hearth as he picks at an errant threat on the stitching of his shirt.

“Why am I here, Rhysand?” You ask, inhaling deeply, hoping that his answer might assuage the anxiety that has been coiling in your stomach all afternoon. The door to the antechamber opens then and light, golden and radiant spills into the room all at once. The radiant light reveals the room to you fully, you observe the emerald velvet chairs and the dark wood furnishings, the landscapes hung on the walls and the rare manuscripts and novels bound all in black that line the walls.

This house is something truly breathtaking.

It feels like a home you realize.

“There you are!” Morrigan's velvet voice smothers the morose tension in the room as she comes into view. She’s since shed the tiredness that plagued her before and you notice the way her hair frames her face like a halo of gold in the soft ochre light. In her arms, swaddled in sapphire spider silk, is the High Lord’s son.

“We were beginning to wonder where you had gone.” Mor coos at the bundle in her arms as she approaches Rhysand who takes the babe in his strong arms.

As if he could get any more beautiful-- the man looks as though he was carved by The Mother.

It’s wrong, you know. He is your High Lord and you are…

The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord, you remind yourself.

Rhysand glances at me hesitantly and I meet his eyes briefly before focusing on the babe in his arms. He’s since broken loose from the swaddling and his chubby fist clutches at his fathers shirt. I can just see the top of his little head, it's all tufts of curly blue-black hair and pointed pink ears. You smile fondly to yourself as he continues to wriggle in his father’s grasp.

Gods, it’s been so long since you had smiled that wide without the feeling of guilt that usually attends it.

“You used to be a governess, didn’t you?” Mor says by way of explanation for your summons. To her credit her smile never falters even as your demeanor hardens against her, “Clotho said you had talked about it a few times.”

“Yes. I was,” You admit swallowing thickly, your voice comes out strained like the words themselves pain you to speak, “that was a long time ago though.”

That had been long before him.

You must have only been a youngling yourself. You had been happy-- that much you remember. Those were the happy recollections of your old life; summers spent under the opal lights of The Moonstone place, children’s laughter like birdsong that breaks apart in the humid air as you danced and sang long into the nights. Of dark autumns and smoky air, a bonfire and a small hand that holds your own with such gentle reverence.

“Clotho said you wanted to leave the Library?” Rhysand questions you, his eyes are dark and filled with a thinly veiled darkness that draws you into their depths as you speak to him without pretense.

“I do,” You answer him honestly, your voice wavering only a little, “I don’t want to spend my days rotting in the depths of that House.”

Rhysand considers it carefully and his face twists into a pained expression that almost breaks your resolve. You hadn’t meant to hurt him-- never. But you’re done hiding in the dark.

The world is a cruel place and full of cruel men. It always had been and it always will be. There is nought you can do to change that. So why should you cower from the world any longer?

You want to live.

The whining of the restless babe in Rhys’ arms rouses your attention and something akin to longing gathers in your chest as you regard him. You pull a lip between your teeth as he fusses and Rhysand struggles to soothe him. The babe looses a cry that comes out as a pitiful howl and you can feel a small ripple of power permeate the air.

“May I hold him?” The words take everyone in the room by surprise and the High Lord only nods easily and stands to pass the babe into your arms.

“I’m grateful,” You continue as Rhysand stands before you and transfers his son’s weight into the crook of your arm, “To you and your court for providing me, and girls like me with somewhere to heal but--”

“But you weren’t meant to cower in the darkness of the library forever.” Rhysand’s words come out as little more than a whisper and the feeling of his warm breath on your skin is something entirely perverse.

You shake your head, mouthing an inaudible ‘no’ before lowering yourself back into the chair by the hearth, hoping to hide the rosy blush that spreads across your cheeks. Rhys doesn’t retreat back into his armchair like you had thought he might and instead sinks to his knees before you and allows one of his son's fists to wrap around his ring finger. The babe seems to quieten then in your arms as he nuzzles against your chest, one balled first clinging to his father and the other pulling at the neckline of your robes and he smiles sleepily in your arms.

Looking at him now you are overcome with the realization of the absence that had stained this family’s happiness. Rhysand had given himself completely to a woman who had changed her mind. And their son-- their son; all cherub cheeked and big blue eyes framed with dark lashes-- had been abandoned by the woman who was supposed to love him without condition. Before the ghost of her had been an abstract thing. Something intangible and errant, a whisper or a memory, but now, as you look between the babe in your arms and the woman immortalized about the hearth you feel nothing but biting fury. A dangerous wrath only tempered by the stilling of the High Lord beside you.

It is Morrigan’s movement at the side of the room that rouses you from thought. “Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement?” The smile that graces her lips is brilliant and calculating and the sparkle in those umber eyes tells you she is genuine in his intentions.

“An arrangement?” You ask hesitantly, raising one arched brow to her.

“Yes.” The High Lord nods in agreement as Morrigan approaches you all casually, sauntering over to snatch a glass of wine from the decanter, “you’re free to leave the Library at any time but--”

“Help me take care of Nyx,” The High Lord beats you to it, his voice is soft and gentle and one of his fingers runs along the curve of Nyx’s ear as he begins to doze in your arms.

“High Lor-” You start, and you’re torn between declining outright and trying to dissuade them altogether, “Mor, I haven’t cared for a babe in well over 60 years.”

“Listen to me,” Rhysand’s violet gaze is unyielding and when you can no longer avert his gaze he takes on of your hands in his own and all but pleads with you, “take care of Nyx, for one year-- just until I get used to doing it on my own-- just until he starts his pre-schooling.”

The thought of him raising his son all alone pains you, a physical, bone deep ache that settles over you. You mourn for him then, for the love he thought he had, for all that he lost and then you mourn for the babe in your arms. For the son who will grow up without knowing his mother’s love. The High Lord looks at you through dark lashes and you note the tiredness in his eyes and the desperate sadness that seems to radiate from him these days and yet, he smile softly at you. As one might smile at something lovely and precious.

“And in return?” You ask peering down at him with sympathetic eyes when his whole body goes lax.

“I’ll help you get set up somewhere-- anywhere you want.” The words come quickly and if you were a cruel woman you would see what more he would offer you. But when he’s looking at you like you might just be his last hope you can’t find it in you to do anything but allow yourself to be persuaded by him.

You see a home; a cottage maybe, made of ancient stone and covered with climing ivy and jasmine. On the outskirts of Velaris, away from the artisans and market stalls of the main square, but close enough that you never feel truly alone. A home and it smells of mandarin and moonflowers, the sound of children laughing, and a garden blooming with violets in the garden in the leonine yellow heat of high summer. You smile wistfully and you swear you feel the gentle caress of a hand in your mind's eye.

“You can live here with us in the meantime” Rhysand continues gesturing to the house around you.

It’s warm and inviting and your body sings in response to the prospect.

“I don’t think that's a good--”

“Just until you find somewhere of your own.” He assures you standing to his full height before you. He casts a morose glance to the portrait that hangs about the hearth and you can see the moment his violet eyes meet painted cerulean.

“Rhys--” You warn gently.

“Please,” He turns to you again and the desperation in his tone has you yielding to him further, a gentle sweep over your face before settling on the sleeping babe in your arms, “please.” He repeats it once more and you swear your heart breaks just a little bit for him.

He had saved you once, you think. You had only been a girl then but you remember looking at him in that light; he looked like the shadow of some dark winged God-- avenging and angelic.

Perhaps this time the girl can save the God.

“A bargain then.” You muse lightly holding out a pinky finger to him.

Rhysand huffs out a laugh and curls his finger around your own. Nyx’s hand seems to flex in response, his own tiny pinky finger outstretched in agreement.

“A bargain.” With the simple confirmation you feel the gentle burn of a promise as it kisses its way up your wrist, and you see Rhysand’s own inky sigil as it glows faintly on the skin of his outstretched arm.

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhysand x you #rhysand x y/n #rhysand acotar #rhysand imagine #rhys acotar #rhys fanfic #rhysand headcanons

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astrolovecosmos · 4 months

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The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

#zodiac #astrology #planets #sun #moon #mars #venus #mercury #jupiter #saturn #uranus #neptune #pluto

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luxthestrange · 10 months

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KNY Incorrect quotes#44 Fire Opals

After Mugen Train Arc...but you coming in the last minute to save your soon-to-be husband, Akaza of course threw Muzan under the bus saying he wanted Kyojuro to be a demon to get you to return...while also saying this could be the chance to get rid of Douma-

Demon!Y/n*Laying Injured Kyojuro on their lap as they bandage him and smile...the light of day reflecting his eyes, completely enamored by them*...Boy, your eyes are like fire opals...Gee! Huh...That's pretty corny, though, huh?

Kyojuro*Taken aback as his completely cut off-guard by your face in the sunlight and the compliment* NO!-N...no, not at all, Any man would like it!

Demon!Y/n*Sitting him up, Nuzzling both your foreheads with closed eyes*When we get home...I will nurse you back to help...and help you regain your strength...Just we two~

Tanjiro: Ooh, that would be wonderful!

Demon!Y/n*Blinks and looks to see a young green boy* Three? ...*Spots then a sniffling yellow boy and a...boar masked boy also crying* Five?...*A tiny pink demon child pops her head from behind the two*...Six!

Kyojuro*Smiles seeing the Group and opens arms for them to come who run up to him to cry and hug him* Oh, yes, Y/n...These are my children-I MEAN my new Tsugukos!

Demon!Y/n*Kisses his cheek making the Hashira turn completely dazed*Oh how sweet~...little ones can you watch over him...I need to take care of some ..."family" matters*Stands up with a smile...but with dragon eyes*

-In the infinity castle-

Muzan*Working in his lab, calmly*...

Demon!Y/n*Blasting the door to the palace with fire*MUZAN I WILL KILL YOU!? I WILL ABSOLUTELY KILL!?! I WILL RIP OFF EVERY HAIR OF YOUR BODY!?!

Muzan*Standing still with wide eyes*...

Demon!Y/n: I SWEAR I WILL RIP THAT MAN INTO SHREDS AND MAKE A DRESS OUTTA HIM!?*Spotted him working but felt someone picked them up*KUKOSHIBO LET ME GO!?!

Kokushibo*Holding you by your armpits*No my darling, You need to calm down! Your feeling murderous!

Part 7 of:

https://www.tumblr.com/luxthestrange/720686325508046848/kny-incorrect-quotes30-muzan-20?source=share

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mothpawbs · 1 year

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edit: yooo part 2 is out go look at it!!

royal gals from arc 1! i used this as a way to further illustrate and explore my fashion headcanons, and i love how these turned out. design notes under the cut!

CORAL: i wanted her to look deceptively kind and bubbly, so i tend to draw her big and round like a whale. two inspiration for her design are king dorephan from breath of the wild and granmamare from ponyo. i give her a big coral crown and pearl jewelry. she has a lot of teardrop shapes bc she's probably sad about a lot of things

GLACIER: my favorite queen <3 i wanted her to look regal and no-nonsense but kind. with the exception of her crown, most of her accessories are very sleek and minimalistic. and of course i had to give her glasses because i'm obsessed with giving dragons glasses. i can't decide if the spikes on that crown are opal or enchanted ice, but the studs are black tourmaline.

SCARLET: the og bad bitch!! i love designs that make her look like the world's scariest, swankiest peacock, and the animated wings design was a huge inspiration here. her face markings are meant to look like a helmet. the mail vest she's wearing here is more for show than protection, an ostentatious piece she wears around the palace rather than something she'd don in battle. this is generally the fit i imagine she would wear to court sessions and arena matches.

MOORHEN: i would love to know more about her tbh. i like the colors i gave her, i think the shades of brown work really well together. the cord around her neck represents her sibs, the knot having four coils to symbolize each of them. she has agate embeds all over her, with the majority on her horns, wings, and wrists/ankles. i imagine she has tattooed wing membranes as well.

GRANDEUR: i wanted to make her look regal and positively ancient, and i think i succeeded well enough. her frill shape vaguely matches glory's, as well as her affinity for orange and gold color accents. the flowers are based on tropical rhododenrons.

BATTLEWINNER: ooo she was fun. basically no opportunity for fashion, as i'm sure anything she'd try to wear would burn or melt in her lava bathtub, but i got to do some fun scarring on her. her snout is all scratched up, one of her horns broke off at some point (i imagine that happened during her throne challenge, and that nightwings spar with their horns like rams or deer. she probably got slammed into a wall or something) and her ears are all kinds of shredded. any water vapor around her face and neck tends to solidify into ice, building up into big sparkly icicles over time.

#digital art #mag art #wof #wings of fire #royalty #queen coral #queen glacier #queen scarlet #queen moorhen #queen grandeur #queen battlewinner #seawing #icewing #skywing #mudwing #rainwing #nightwing #character design

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my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction · 2 months

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The Taming of Man: chapter two - Dragon Shifting!Katsuki Bakugou x F!reader

Yet another chapter of this getting cranked out, slowly waiting for burnout to catch up to me :/ Hope you Enjoy!

ONCE AGAIN, This is incredibly based on the song The Willow Maid by Erutan, I highly recommend giving it a listen for the best experience.

Warnings: Cursing, reader is She/Her and will be AFAB in later chapters, Shirtless Katsuki, and copious amounts of grass-touching

words: 2,684

"Do you vow allegiance to your land?"

"I do."

"Do you vow allegiance to your people?"

"I do."

"Do you vow to never leave, and to spend every day hereafter in your country?"

"..."

"ugh," your handmaid Ururaka sighed, shaking her head and shutting the aged book in her lap. "You can't hesitate! How do you expect to be crowned if you hesitate," she scolded, her brow furrowing.

"I know, I know," you groaned, hanging your head in your hands. It was going to be your 20th birthday in a month, and as princess of the fae you would have to go through your coronation to become queen of the fae. you have to make an oath, the same oath you were just practicing, in order to be placed on the throne. The people took this very seriously, and if they sensed you were being disingenuous they wouldn't allow your crowning.

"I just...what if there's good out there? what if things have changed?" You peered at your trusted servant seated across from you from between your fingers, watching as she looked displeased and sighed again. "And what if there's not? You know what happened, you've heard the stories," she explained, gentle yet firm.

You sat back up, looking out through the baby-blue stained window right next to you. You watched as children played in the courtyard, golden glitter shooting from their fingers as they "shot" at each other. Pegasus' pulled wagons of fruit and grain in, men and women unloading them and carrying the bags into the door that led to the royal kitchen. Life was so quaint, so perfect, so comfortable, and yet so...boring.

"I don't see the issue if I already go out there," you grumbled, crossing your arms with eyes locked on the scene before you. Ochako rubbed her tired eyes, quite frankly sick of your bullshit, and just stood from her chair. "You know the issue, a Queen doesn't leave her people," she said pointedly, coming around behind you and beginning to braid your hair into a bun. The tension was going to give you a headache, you just knew it.

your lips pressed together at her words, and sighing in defeat you said, "fine...but I'm not a queen yet." Ochako let out a sniff of amusement, smiling a little to herself. "you know how your mother would feel if I let you go," she reasoned, scooping a little gel from a container on the vanity behind her and slicking back your baby hairs.

"well yeah, that's what secrets are for," you laughed, wincing a little as you felt your hair twist in her skilled hands. Ochako was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing her options. "...don't expect me to lie if you get caught."

You nodded eagerly, and she gave an affirming nod back as she finished your hair. "There," she said in an accomplished tone, happy with the bun, and you stood to hug her. "Thank you," you exclaimed, grabbing your basket and rushing out. You'd want to wash your clothes, you loved how the water made them feel. "It's not like I'm allowed to say no anyways," she called after you, raising and dropping her arms dejectedly.

You zoomed past servants and scholars, your bare feet pounding against the opal halls of the palace you called home. Room after room you passed, the library, the billiards room, the study, all to get to the window just before the stairs. After all, why go down 5 flights of stairs when you could hop out a window? You popped it open, looking down to check if that abandoned wagon was still there, and blithely hopped out. Your sage green skirt and white underskirts caught a little wind, blinding you for a second, before you landed on the wagon full of hippogriff down.

You didn't feel a thing, although the pile was difficult to climb out of. You plunged your hand into the dense fluff, grabbing a rope before clambering out of the feathers. Your feet sunk into mud as you walked towards the giant wall that protected the castle, the white material gleaming in the sun. You threw the rope over the side, listening for the sound of metal hitting metal as the weighted end clanged against an anchor. Perfect.

Tugging it first to be sure it was secure, you began to climb up the side of the wall, your corset making it increasingly uncomfortable. Your feet stuck a little to the wall, thankfully not slipping, and it took you a full minute to climb all the way to the top. Once you reached it, you stood for a second surveying the area, taking a breath of fresh air and watching for anyone who might see you.

Seeing nobody, you grinned and jumped down, knees bending as you hit the ground. You began to run, giggling happily and undoing the bun Ochako worked so hard on. You were practically flying, running far from the palace that kept you feeling imprisoned. You could feel the eyes of the birds and chipmunks, you could hear them giggling with you.

You started to slow down, your legs beginning to hurt, and you stopped to sit on a rock. Catching your breath, you looked around, examining the forest you called your second home. The sun dappled through the trees, the grass releasing a gold shimmer with each disturbance, and the scent of the spindling vines covered in white flowers citric and sweet.

You smiled, stretching a little and standing back up. From now on, you walked leisurely, sure no one would catch up to you, even if they realized you were gone. While walking, you began to hum, singing the song of your country. It was ingrained in your history, a legend many took incredibly seriously. You yourself believed it, but you didn't think it was so relevant now.

It took you a while, but you finally reached the babbling brook you were so fond of. It shimmered different colors from different angles, sometimes purple, sometimes red, sometimes every color in between. You kept walking down the side of it, singing your song the whole way, until you reached the perfect spot. In the very center of this part of the stream was a ring of water club mushrooms, each cluster a different color.

Carefully, you balanced on rocks peaking out the top of the brook, not wanting to fall and get swept away. Once you reached the circle, you took a deep breath, holding it and hopping into the center.

Suddenly, you were underwater, slowly treading up to the surface. You reached the top, swallowing up air and climbing out. The second you left the water, you and your clothes were dry, as was your basket. You looked around, taking in the smell of the multicolored flowers. You set down your basket on the giant tree stump, its number of rings somewhere in the thousands, and skipped through the flowers and to the trees as you sang your song. "See me now, oh ray of light in the moondance," you sang, hitting each note perfectly. It always satisfied you when you could do that.

You grabbed at the pink Tea Fruit hanging low on the branches, taking a bite. It was something like the mix between a pear and a plum, rich flavor with a crispy crunch. The juice dribbled down your chin, staining your shirt, and you smiled as you took a couple more to snack on while you sat.

Making your way to the giant stump and singing your tune the whole way, you plopped down and ate your fruit, listening to the sound of the forest. Birds joined you in song, fluttering down and sitting with you. You gave them the core of your fruit, allowing them to peck at it. A deer pranced in, a deer you knew well. You pressed your forehead to hers, staring into her big, clear eyes. You held a fruit to her mouth, smiling as she gladly took it and settled at your feet.

The next couple hours went like this, enjoying the sun, fresh air, and water. Animals came and went as they pleased. The scent of wild flowers filled your nostrils. All the while you sang your song, and all the while you thought about the outside. You had never gone farther than the little ring of trees, and any time you tried to look much farther, all you could see was mist.

As much as you wanted to explore, it unsettled you. Something primal told you no, told you to stay in your safe little field...and yet something else a little louder told you something was out there for you. Something big. You sighed, looking up towards the sky and shaking your head. You restarted your song for what felt like the billionth time, not even questioning why you wouldn't stop. You just...did. You felt like you were preforming for a waiting crowd.

Treading the water with your feet, you watched that same glittering effect change and shift. Suddenly, the once twittering birds around you fluttered, flying off in groups. You watched in confusion, looking towards the opposite direction of the flock, wondering if you should be scared too. You could hear footsteps, and smell the scent of blood.

Your singing stopped, and you looked even closer. You could just barely see the outline of a man, and despite your better judgment you got up and walked closer. Now you could see him completely, he was a man who was incredibly attractive. He looked like the sun.

His hair was light blonde, glowing even, and his eyes, fuck, those eyes. Sharp and intense ruby red, like he held the manifestation of pure passion in them. His build was strong, each and every muscle chiseled and defined, especially noticeable as he was lacking a shirt. You could see scales trailing up his forearms, an orange-red and nearly translucent. Lastly, a chain of animal tooth, amber, and cat's eye hung on his neck...

You knew what he was. You knew what The Dragonborne did to your people...You should be scared...but, this Dragonborne hasn't done anything, right? And this feeling in your chest, the swelling of emotion like destiny was pulling on your heartstrings, it didn't mean nothing, right?

Katsuki was surprised to see you notice him, and twice as surprised to see you walk towards him. What was he thinking, coming all the way out here? This was crazy. He shouldn't fear you...He didn't fear you! who said that?

"Hey," he barked, stepping closer to you. You didn't back down. "Hey," you said inquisitively, your hands twitching a little as you wanted to reach out and touch him. "W-who are you," he growled, a little bit of steam blowing out of his nose. stuttering? what, was he five? He cursed himself in his head, hating that he of all people would fall nervous in front of a beautiful woman.

"Who are you," you countered, at this point you were just echoing what he was saying. You shook your head, not wanting to be so...annoying. "I-I'm (Y/n)," you blurted out, sticking your hand out for him to shake. he pushed it to the side, getting closer and crossing his arms. "How did you get here? Where are you from," he interrogated, staring you down.

You just stared back, not one to be intimidated, and pursed your lips a little. "uh, I swam, and Gildflå," you chortled, a little attitude in your tone as you gestured vaguely to the creek. He looked where you pointed, glancing back and forth as his scowl deepened. Who the fuck does this chick think she is? He's never heard of any Gildflå, and he knows every country in the world. "You think I'm joking," he scoffed, glaring daggers at you.

"No...I mean, if you are, you're not very funny," you tittered, looking past him now. "And I could ask you the same thing, where are you from, how did you get here?" He rolled his eyes, but answered all the same. "I'm from Forrmidūl, and I walked." He was nothing if not honest. "What's Forrmidūl?" You didn't know? nobody this side of the planet didn't know. "alright, now you're joking." You laughed and shook you head, walking back to the stump and taking a seat. He followed without even thinking, like a lost puppy, and sat next to you. "I wish I was. I'm not really from here," you sighed.

...you really weren't from here. Katsuki knew when people were lying, he could smell it, and he couldn't smell the sweet yet bitter scent of deception on you. He took your appearance, from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes, completely enamored. You wore a ring that had engravings of a language he's never heard before, inlaid with gemstones he's never seen.

"...You're a faerie." He didn't sound shocked, or happy, or devious. He was just making a statement, an observation. You looked away from him, down at your hands, and smiled a little. "aaand you're a Dragonborne," you sighed, glancing back at him. "...What's it like," you ask quietly, brows creasing with confusion, perhaps even desperation. "What's what like," he grumbled, patience as thin as ever.

"Out there," you stated, tilting your head towards where he came from. You were so clueless, he almost felt bad for you. almost. He rolled her eyes, looking down at the water. "Dangerous. 's not a place little faerie girls who don't know shit," he said scornfully.

You laughed a little, looking up at the sky as it began to slowly fade into orange. "Well...What if you made me know shit," you offered, looking over at him with pleading eyes. Now it was his turn to laugh, his eyes meeting yours. "Yeah? What'd I get in return?"

you hummed in thought, bringing your knees to your chest. "I could...heal that," you said with a teasing tone, pointing at his wounds. He was about to just scoff and get up to leave, but something in him told him to accept. He wanted to spend more time with you.

"...You know magic," he asked gruffly. You nodded eagerly, gold flakes coming from the tips of your fingers just to prove it. "I can make potions too," you proposed, wanting any reason to both learn about the outside and keep spending time with him.

He thought for a moment, looking at the water as he did so. People who could do magic so easily were rare, if not impossible to find. "...every day you bring me a potion of my choosing, I'll give you a lesson."

You grinned widely and practically jumped up with joy, immediately giving him a squeezing hug. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou," you squealed. He was stunned for a moment, but quickly pushed you off. "yeah yeah, I'm the best, whatever, shut up," he groaned, standing up. "Bring me a healing potion tomorrow, and I'll teach you then."

you nodded happily, that gorgeous smile unwavering. "Will you be shirtless tomorrow too," you teased, your eyes holding mischief. He froze, shocked for a second, before turning scarlet and growling. "You want this or not," he shouted, practically foaming at the mouth.

You just laughed, waving him off as he walked back to the woods and kept his arms crossed over his chest. You were just about to leave too, when you realized something important. "Wait!"

He begrudgingly turned around, shouting, "what," as loud as you were. "What's your name," you asked, a curious look on your face. He paused, pressing his lips together. "...You gonna cast a spell on me or somthin'?"

You chuckled, you never knew such a myth existed here. "No, You're just hot and I figured that'd be important," you called back. He tensed, redness flooding from his face to his neck, before whipping around towards the forest. "It's Katsuki," he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets.

You laughed, yelling, "Byeee Katsuki!"

Stupid girl. Doesn't even know how good his name sounded coming from her damn mouth.

Stupid feelings.

Ahhhh it's startingggg! please please please let me know how you feel, is it bad, is it good, are you completely confused, etc. I just love getting feedback, and if you have any questions please direct them to my Ask Me Anything box :)

Taglist: @xxiamabookdragonxx @the-galaxy-fiend

#fanfic #fan fiction #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #new writeblr #katsuki bakugo mha #fantasy bakugou #The Taming of Man

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chocogi · 1 year

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He’s worked too hard for this to not work.

Thick, cold ichor spelled out foreign words around an intricate octogram.

He had to go to far places for the requirements, and with Teyvat crumbling under his feet, it was getting more dangerous for either him or Klee to come out of Khaenri’ah’s haunting ruins.

It was still a mystery to him how the faded, cracking walls of the palace still held up. Maybe Teyvat itself knew.

A red claw from a Daemon, a broken-off, shining horn from a Dragonoid not unlike an opal, an elemental spirit trapped in a jar, a broken vial of blood from a True Giant, the atlas bone of the last Divine Ancestor, a feather of a Fallen, the heart of a Demonoid, and simple slime condensate from a Hydro Slime.

All of them are covered in syrupy, cold divine blood, and they thrummed with power not native to Teyvat.

Not that Albedo cared. He simply wanted the godling in the golden cocoon alive and well.

Ha may not have had any ties to the Creator, but Klee does. And maybe, he’ll find his answers and gain another little sibling.

All eight requirements sat on their respective corners of the Octogram, and as he quietly whispers unfamiliar words into the ruins’ stale air, the Octogram glowed brightly.

Klee peeks her head out from behind one of the pillars.

Albedo stands a little ways away from the Octogram, his back to his little sister.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“..yes. It’s okay, Klee. We will be okay. And we’ll get a new friend.”

Elven ears perk up. “Will they like Jumpty Dumpty?”

A timid, tired chuckle. “I’m sure they will.”

The golden threads around the icy body started to move, like they’ve woken up.

The blood bubbles and evaporates, not leaving any mark on the dirtied and faded royal carpet. the eight requirements on the eight bloody corners vibrated and dissolved into blue pixels.

Albedo sighs quietly. “Come, Klee. Let’s make something for the Creator, okay? I’m sure they’re hungry.”

Klee perks up and skips over to her tired brother., giggling happily.

Your eyes flutter, and you wake up surrounded by now-inanimate golden thread in a dilapidated throne room. You blink blearily and and sit up, looking around to lock onto Albedo’s worried gaze.

Albedo quietly offers you food and a glass of water. “Good afternoon, are you okay?”

You sniffle in a pitiful manner and accept the shared food, before shaking your head no.

His arms wrap around you while you eat, Klee offering her hugs as well, and the three of you huddle for comfort in the palace ruins.

Teyvat’s destruction halts to a stop. Your cheeks go damp with sparkling tears.

And despite him lacking both warmth and chill, you find comfort and safety wrapped in his arms.

A part two was requested by three people, and i was like, okay, but i really just wanted that drabble to get out of my drafts already because its been in there for almost a half year. no beta we die like teppei

idk man but part one works as standalone, someone just wanted this scenario and so i stuffed it with an anime reference

#thoughtless meja #genshin impact #genshin sagau #sagau #genshin #genshin impact sagau #albedo genshin #genshin impact klee #klee #genshin angst #genshin scenarios #genshin comfort #hurt/comfort #idk anymore #hey look tho i hope yall enjoy this just as much as yall enjoyed what is now pt1 #albedo #klee genshin impact #spark knight klee

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wh40kartwork · 1 year

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Opal Palace / Primaris Eliminator

by Logan Feliciano

#imperium #eldar #tyranids #locations #space marines #loyalist astartes #primaris space marines #other chapters #dark imperium #warhammer #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #40k #logan feliciano

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mtg-cards-hourly · 10 months

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Opal Palace

Artist: Logan Feliciano TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

#mtg #magic the gathering #tcg #logan feliciano #opal palace #warhammer 40 000 commander #land

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 6: Dawn]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

She’s worse than you could have ever imagined.

She’s dignified and graceful and courteous, stunning like an opal or a pearl, a portrait in motion. She has hushed footsteps and large bright eyes that dart around taking in every detail. You can tell she’s intelligent, everyone can tell, and that’s worse than all the rest of it; as she and Aemond stroll together through the gardens, she asks him questions about history and hunting, and then has clever retorts to his answers. Their conversation has the seamless, pacific quality of language between people who have known each other for years. It’s just like the Duke of Hightower said it would be. She is precisely the sort of woman Aemond would have chosen for himself.

The Duke prattles on about various features of the palace and its grounds, inflating favorable attributes like a seller at a horse auction whose children are waiting hungry at home. It’s not difficult to imagine what fuels his freneticism. The king, unresponsive and reeking of decay, lies dying in his bedchamber. Rhaenyra is keeping a vigil there. She must genuinely love him, as there is nothing more to gain from cooling his forehead with damp cloths or clasping his feverish hands. The Greens have no such tender heartache brewing within them. They mourned King Viserys long ago, not his death but his dreadful, interminable absence.

Rhaenyra refuses to leave her father, and Daemon refuses to leave her here in London unprotected—though he should be riding north to command soldiers pledged to the Blacks—and so the two factions circle each other like snarling dogs. The second the king dies, the war will erupt, and everyone knows this. The court is a powder keg. Letters are scrawled, noblemen are dispatched to raise their banners, no one eats or drinks anything unless it is brought to them by a lifelong loyalist. In the past 48 hours, there have been twelve fistfights, seven sword duels, and no less than five deaths, six if you include the poisoning servant who (allegedly) threw himself from a window of the Tower of London before he could be racked. And for once, the Greens’ supporters know exactly what to say to you. They fawn over your health and mourn your losses, all four of them, as if they happened only yesterday. They never tire of expressing their horror. They vow that the treacherous, murderous Blacks must not be given any further opportunity to endanger you or the child you now carry. You are not just—at long last—a true Green. You are a beacon that draws ever more allies to their side. You are a talisman. You are an example of how mercilessly low Daemon will sink to devour his adversaries: a serpent, a wolf, a butcher who no man of honor could count among his friends.

You are walking behind Aemond, Kunigunde, and the Duke of Hightower with Nico and Daeron, trying to remember how to smile, how to speak about trivial things like fabrics and feasts. Nico is hoping that even considering the haste with which this wedding must take place, the kitchens will manage to whip up some famous Austrian dessert, cheese strudels or Linzer tortes or Marillenkuchen, a sort of apricot cake that is renowned throughout the Continent. You can’t follow her phrases; your hearing goes in and out like a tide. Late-April rain, cool and benign, falls in large sporadic droplets.

The Duke is rambling: “You’ll see that we have here in the gardens all manner of herbs, angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary…” He does not mention pennyroyal, a word that now brings tears to your eyes. “There are a plethora of roses, of course. Bluebells, daffodils, wisteria, tulips, lavender. And calla lilies, a symbol of matrimony, I believe. Perhaps you would like to use some in your wedding bouquet.”

“Do you grow any edelweiss?” Kunigunde asks in a voice like windchimes.

“Edelweiss…?”

“It is found in the Alps,” Aemond explains. “Small white blossom that thrive in rocky limestone soil. It cannot survive in England, regrettably.”

“A shame,” Kunigunde says with what you would guess is well-disguised homesickness. “It’s my favorite flower. That’s what’s used in my perfume, you know.”

“A splendid scent!” the Duke chirps, and he is not a man inclined towards chirping. He is a child on Christmas morning, a hound who’s found the trail of a fox. “We shall arrange to have edelweiss perfume shipped here directly from Austria for you.”

“Ah! But I see you have an infestation.” Kunigunde points at the grasping emerald vines that are spilling from the grey stone walls of the palace down into the gardens.

The Duke follows her eyeline. “Oh, ivy, yes. Well, there’s no stopping that. A stubborn weed. It would cover the whole world if it could.”

You and Aemond glance at each other, like a reflex, then immediately look away. His cheeks flush a deep hectic pink.

“But it kills,” Kunigunde says. “It smothers everything else. It must be tamed.”

“We’ll have it ripped down,” the Duke assures her, then leads you all into the royal stables to escape the rain.

Kunigunde drifts down the aisle, inspecting each stall. She moves swiftly past Caraxes; he kicks at the walls when she comes near, flattens his ears and glares with bulging black eyes. Kunigunde’s gown is not the sunlike gold of the Holy Roman Empire nor the green of the family she is marrying into. She wears a harmless unaffiliated color, a pale watery pink that makes you think of the organs of a gutter bear: a lung, a kidney, the deflated globe of a stomach. She’s not trying to prove that she’s anything. She doesn’t have to. Everyone knows exactly who she is: the only daughter of a kingdom far larger, wealthier, and more stable than England. As the wife of the second son instead of a third, she will outrank Nico. As a superior partner in every conceivable way, she will eclipse you.

Sir Criston Cole arrives, hauling Aegon along like an errant child. Your husband keeps running away and hiding in stairwells, in trees, behind curtains, under beds. He knows people are always searching for him now, wanting to meet the almost-king, trying to coax him into discussions of alliances and war plans. He sighs and bows to Kunigunde, his white-blond hair uncombed, his ocean-blue eyes groggy.

“Welcome to England, princess. And, uh, I presume you have a nickname of some sort…?”

Kunigunde blinks bewilderedly at him. “Why would I require a nickname?”

“Jesus Christ,” Aegon mutters, and wanders away to pet Sunfyre.

“We’ll purchase you a horse of your own,” the Duke of Hightower promises Kunigunde, papering over the mishap. Aemond has migrated to Vhagar, stroking the white blaze of her face, ticking her velvety muzzle with his expert fingers that you wish you could stop staring at. “A gift to commemorate your marriage. Any color and breed that you wish. Perhaps a golden Akhal-Teke like Sunfyre, or a mighty Percheron like Tessarion, or a breed from your native Austria if you’d prefer…”

Kunigunde stops at your horse’s stall. She marvels at her—gleaming black coat, vast muscles, defiant eyes—and gasps in delight. “Meine Güte! What is this one?”

“She’s an Andalucian,” you tell her. “From Navarre.”

“Your homeland,” Kunigunde notes gently, like someone who knows the pain of being exiled from the same earth that grew you.

“Yes, princess.”

“She’s beautiful,” Kunigunde declares. “Gorgeous. Formidable. What do you call her?”

“Midnight,” you reply, then steal a glimpse of Aemond to test his reaction. He pretends not to be listening, but again his cheeks color with a fleeting wash of scarlet. His betrothed—in a few short hours, his wife—observes this thoughtfully. It’s nothing as low as suspicion; it’s an intelligent, acute sort of awareness. One can look at her face and see gears and levers shifting, hear the ticking of a clock.

When the Duke continues the tour to show off the archery fields, Kunigunde insists that he begin without her; she will have you escort her there shortly. As soon as the rest of the group is out of earshot, she leans into you and takes your hand, painting the air with her fresh, lively edelweiss perfume.

“Is it awful?” she asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

You genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about. “What?”

“His eye,” she says. “Prince Aemond’s lost eye. A grisly thing, surely. The scar is bad enough, but the eye? I can’t imagine having to stare at it while…while…well, you know. While he’s lying with me. Fortunately, I have been assured that I won’t ever have to see it. But I’m sure you have. I’ve heard that you’re very good friends.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. I haven’t seen it myself.” You’ve wondered about it, though never with such scandalized revulsion. There’s nothing about Aemond that could disgust you. And then you say to comfort her: “But he’s well worth it.”

Kunigunde smiles hopefully. It’s the first time you’ve detected genuine vulnerability from her, but it’s there. “Is he?”

“Yes. He’s very clever and chivalrous. He has no vices, drinking, gambling, idleness. He loves history and sword fighting. He always smells of smoke and leather and hard work, like a blacksmith’s forge. He always has ink stains on his hands. And he writes poems.”

“Poems? Really?” Kunigunde says. She’s pleased, but she’s something else as well. There’s that watchfulness in her face again, too many layers for you to sift through. “Have you read many?”

You reply briskly as you lead her out into the scant rain: “Only one.”

An hour later—when the Duke of Hightower has concluded his ever-so-slightly-desperate flaunting of Westminster Palace and turned his attention to the hurried wedding arrangements—you return to the royal stables to see Midnight. You brush out her coat, feed her handfuls of oats from your palm, wrap your arms around her colossal black neck and rest your head against her, feeling the radiating heat of her body and the thudding of blood in her veins.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you tell Midnight. She nickers in reply, a low sympathetic rumble.

You hear footsteps in the aisle. Anxious—you really aren’t supposed to be going anywhere alone until the Blacks have left the court—you step out of Midnight’s stall to see who it is. Aemond is waiting there, his silvery hair wet from the light rain, wavy and dripping.

“What do you want?” you pitch at him.

He speaks with hesitant, quiet words. “I just wanted to express…I’m aware that…I’m sure this is difficult for you.”

“What an astute observation. I hope your tutors were well-compensated.”

“Ivy, I know how you feel—”

“Do you?” you snap. “Have you ever had to feign pleasure as some drunken stranger was invading you? Have you felt that your entire worth was whether or not you could produce a living son—an endeavor that might kill you, by the way—and then been vilified when you could not do it because you were being poisoned, all that sacrifice undone like someone pulling out a loose thread from a tapestry, all those nights of forced smiles and premeditated moans wasted? Have you stolen seconds of happiness, your first in a year, only to watch the person who gave them to you marry someone who is not a pitiful failure by any possible metric but a godsend who surpasses you in every way? Have you felt what it’s like to carry one man’s child when you desire another? No, you haven’t, and you never will. You have no fucking idea what this feels like.”

“We need to end this,” Aemond says. “The Holy Roman Empire must support the Greens’ claim to the throne. All our lives hang in the balance. Yours, mine, Aegon’s, my mother’s, Daeron’s, Nico’s. Everyone’s.”

“Right,” you hear yourself tell him.

“My wife…” And you flinch as he says it, like he’s hit you, a palm crashing against your face, a wave of flesh and bone. “She has to be happy here. She has to have a real marriage.”

“Unlike mine.”

He closes his eye. “Yes.”

“Then go,” you say, biting back sobs. “Go and get ready for your wedding.”

“You don’t think I’m being ripped apart by this?” he demands, striking a fist against his chest. “You don’t think I’d like to have some choice in the woman I’m bedding? For once in my life? You don’t think I’ve spent hundreds of hours wondering how our lives would look if the timing had been different, if you could have been wed to me and Aegon given the emperor’s daughter?”

“She’s perfect, she’s…” Your voice breaks off, bitter and fracturing.

“Yes. She must be, everybody agrees. Even the Blacks are in awe of her. They’re petrified by the advantage this match gives us. But I can’t see it. Because I’m not the man I was before and I can’t get him back. Because now I’m covered in you.”

You clean tears from your cheeks with quick, aggravated swipes. “I’m sorry our momentary indiscretion has become such a source of regret.”

“I don’t regret it.”

You look at each other from across a chasm of silence like a miles-wide torrent of dark cold water, a river, a channel, an ocean.

“I’ve made something for you,” Aemond says, kindly now.

“You’ve had it made, you mean.”

“No.” He shows you his hands. He made it himself.

“I don’t want it.” But you’ve made something for him too: a tunic to wear as he takes Kunigunde’s hand in marriage, deep forest green with bears and horses and roses stitched into it with gold thread. You’ve already given the tunic to Daeron so he can present it to his brother this evening. You won’t be there when he’s getting ready. You wouldn’t be able to bear it anyway. “I won’t accept it.”

“Then I’ll leave it in the box where you keep your sword.”

“Aemond, you don’t have to pretend,” you say. “I know you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding me. You can start now.”

He comes to you and lays his hand on your belly; you’re not showing yet, but everyone knows you carry Aegon’s child. And now that the sinister cause of your previous losses has been revealed, there is no reason to believe that this one won’t live. “I will always protect you. And the child.”

You reply cynically: “Because if it’s a boy, he might be the king someday?”

Aemond shakes his head. “Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.”

He turns away and walks out into the rain, a grey spring afternoon hurtling towards night.

~~~~~~~~~~

You hide in the stables for as long as you can. When it grows so late that you know people will start looking for you—Nico wanting your opinion about her dress and her hair, the Duke of Hightower ensuring that the vessel carrying Aegon’s heir hasn’t gone missing—you take Midnight and trek down to the edge of the forest. She’s as good as any guard who might escort you; she’s been known to bite and kick at anyone besides Aemond and Vhagar who ventures too close. You use the spade you keep stabbed into the earth there to dig up the pink ivory wood box your sword is stowed away in. The soil is already soft, recently disturbed. There beside the blade, on velvet the same color as the flag of Navarre, is a thin gold chain with a charm attached to the center. The charm is a leaf with three distinct points like little mountains, like a crown.

“Ivy,” you tell Midnight, showing her the necklace. “He’s carved a leaf of ivy.”

Midnight only peers at you, onyx-black eyes attentive, ears pricked forward, chomping on the mouthful of lush wet clovers.

You put on the necklace—feeling traitorous, feeling heartsick, feeling comforted somehow—and then pick up your sword. You take it to the base of the tree to carve the dates you’ve left there ever-deeper, keeping them alive in a way that your first four children never will be. You locate the small imprints in the bark, and then you stare at them in puzzlement, the sword in your hand abruptly unnecessary. Someone else has already revived them recently. Someone else has traced over the dates so they won’t fade.

Aemond’s words come back to you like rain after a spell of drought: Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.

You press your knuckles to your trembling lips and sink to the dark damp earth, embers burning in your eyes and your throat.

“I’m in love with him,” you say aloud for the first time. “I don’t want to be. But I am. And I don’t know how to stop.”

And you stay there for what feels like a lifetime before you return to the palace to ready yourself for his wedding to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ceremony is almost ludicrously simple in its haste, in the Duke of Hightower’s urgency to get the marriage finalized before King Viserys’ death. Aemond and Kunigunde recite their vows in the tiny private chapel, the same place you found him after you lost your last child, after you read his poem.

It’s like I’m reliving everything between us, you think as you look down at the wooden floorboards, unable to watch him linked by the hands with the woman he will share his life with. The stables where we first spoke, the chapel where he gave me the name that only he knows, where now he pledges himself to be someone else’s husband. The beginning and the end.

Aemond wears the tunic you made for him. Kunigunde wears a delicate and impassive pale blue. You wear the gold ivy leaf necklace and a gown green like envy. There is no sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows today. Even if the sun had not already set, the sky is thick and churning with rainclouds. There is thunder somewhere, distant, ominous. Hundreds of candles illuminate the chapel like a pinpoint inferno in a world full of darkness.

In the Great Hall, the Greens sit at the high table together: the Duke of Hightower and Queen Alicent, you and Aegon, Nico and Daeron, Kunigunde and Aemond, Sir Criston Cole pacing restlessly, seeing threats in every shadow. No Blacks attend, nor would they be welcome to. Their great defender lies dying on the other side of the palace as the Greens stitch the final thread into their design. This is the Greens’ triumph to revel in. Everyone knows it will be their last glimmer of joy before the bloodshed begins. The English countryside is blooming with banners: green roses, black roses, but none in the proper color. You are the only one whose homeland is red. You have already written to Alonzo that the war is imminent, that the Blacks have slaughtered your children and risked your life. Soon ships, soldiers, archers, horses, and gold from Navarre will be arriving in London. You fold your hands together over your belly, wondering if the war will be over by the time you deliver your child, how many lives it will claim, what sort of king Aegon will be.

Beside you, your husband drains cup after cup of wine, but he cannot escape the inevitable. When the Greens wage war, it is his claim they are fighting for. And as long as he lives, it is he who must wear the crown. Aegon glances at you, smiles tiredly, dark patches around his eyes like a badger’s. He reaches over to touch you fondly, your hair and your cheeks. He drapes an arm across the back of your chair and rests his head on your shoulder, one hand on your belly. Aemond watches this, his eye sharp and glacial, then departs with his new wife to dance.

“How are we tonight?” Aegon asks. Meaning both of you, you and the baby.

You twirl messy locks of his white-blond hair around your fingers. “Well enough, all things taken into consideration.” And you wonder, as you do with increasing frequency, what sort of man he might have been if he hadn’t been beaten black and blue by the demands placed upon him since infancy. “Aegon, when are you happiest?”

“I don’t know,” he says, as if he hasn’t ever considered it. “Never.”

“Never? Really?”

“When I’m with Sunfyre,” he decides. “And when I think about the fact that I’ll always have you.”

He can’t mean that. He’s spent most of the past twenty-one months ignoring me.

“I miss you,” he murmurs. “I miss being with you.” He turns your face to his and kisses you sloppily. The Duke of Hightower rolls his eyes—this is far from decorous feast behavior—but is otherwise content to ignore it. Across the exuberant hall, the Montfords hang their heads in resigned disappointment. Aegon’s murky gaze skates over your body: green velvet, gold metal. “I was always uneasy about it because of the pressure to give the Greens an heir. But now…you are already with child. And neither of us were at fault for what happened before.”

He kisses you again, his tongue darting between your lips, wine and drowsy desire. And you think, through a fog of melancholy and self-loathing: Could I find some happiness with him? If Aemond will spend his life with Kunigunde, if Nico will know true passion with Daeron, if Rhaenyra will have Daemon’s single-minded devotion until it destroys them and their children too…could I have something for myself that makes the burden of existence lighter? Could I even learn to love him? If I tried for months, for years, for decades?

“I understand if we can’t lie together,” Aegon says. This is a stipulation you have been clinging to; it is more of a recommendation from physicians than a decree, a guideline that many couples break without consequence. It is a convenient excuse for an unenthusiastic wife to neglect her marital obligations. “But when you’re ready again…I want you. No one else. I want you so fucking badly it’s killing me. It’s all I can think about.”

It's just an escape, you think, you know. It’s a port in a storm for him. And yet…perhaps it could be the same for you. You push back his hair and touch your lips to his forehead. “You can have me, Aegon. If you’re gentle.”

He beams at you, dazed with wine and reckless optimism. “I always am.” And he’s right; he is. “Shall we dance, wife?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to. And I’m certain that you are not capable of it at the moment.”

He takes your hand and staggers to his feet. “Let’s walk then.”

Aegon accompanies you around the perimeter of the hall, clumsy and stumbling, yes, but also proud, his palm on your belly, presenting you to various Green-affiliated noblemen and their wives, daughters, sons. They are warm and compassionate to you, appalled by your now-infamous suffering, mindful of the fact that if their faction wins you will soon be the queen; and with a husband like yours, the people closest to him will be more influential than the king himself. Among the dancing couples, Daeron spins and giggles with Nico. Aemond revolves with Kunigunde—she’s almost as good a dancer as you are, almost, though as far as anyone besides you and Aemond know she’s the best at court—but his eye follows you and Aegon around the crowded room, betrayed even though he has no right to be, incensed by the only honorable choice you can make. Aegon’s wine sloshes out of his cup each time he trips over his own feet, leaving a trail of maroon puddles on the floor. You sip mead now, weaker than wine and sweet with honey. You cannot stand the thought of apple cider; even the scent of it makes you nauseous and unbearably sad.

The Duke of Hightower, red-faced with frustration, appears as Aegon clutches the wall to keep his balance. “For the love of God, go eat something! Sir Criston?” The Duke waves the knight over. “I command you to take Prince Aegon back to the high table and do not permit him to leave it until he has consumed no less than one full plate of bread and meat. Is that understood?”

“Does the apricot cake count?” Aegon slurs.

“Fine,” the Duke agrees, and Aegon is ushered away. You and the Duke of Hightower stand together without speaking, watching Aemond and his wife dance together, two flawless figures with their hands resting lightly, sheepishly on each other, speaking in clandestine voices that no one else can hear. It knocks the air out of your lungs once, twice, again. This is going to kill me, you realize. I can’t drown out the memory of his voice with Aegon’s. I can’t stop wanting him.

You say with dark disdain: “My beloved grandsire-in-law. Did even you ever dare to dream of a future this bright?”

“He should be groveling in appreciation for this arrangement and so should you.”

You glare at the Duke and echo something you once heard Aemond say to him. “You care nothing for love.”

The Duke of Hightower turns to you; his voice cuts like jagged, rust-laced metal. “I loved my wife more than you could fathom, princess. More than the future or the past. More than my titles, more than my children, more than myself. And yet over the course of five days I watched her die of fever—insane, in agony—and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing. There was no amount of money to pay or men to cut down with a blade. The wheels of the world turn again and again, and we’re all just running on top of them until it’s our turn to be dragged screaming below and crushed into oblivion. None of us own anybody. Not even the ones we’d kill for. All we own is our legacy. That’s all we can salvage from the maelstrom of this life. And this…this…this affinity between you and Aemond? It has no place in a future where we could win.”

You study Kunigunde—the daughter of one emperor, the sister of the next, the wife to the man you love, the future mother of his children—and marvel at what you would give to be her. Anything, everything.

“If you love him, you will not imperil him,” the Duke says. “You will not jeopardize our ascension.”

“I love him,” you confess in a splintering whisper.

The Duke of Hightower frowns at you in disappointment, in disgust. “Learn to hide it better.” Then he sweeps away to make his rounds among the noblemen, to ensure their banners are rising and their loyalties unfaltering.

Nico, in exuberant spirits as always, finds you and joins you in observing the newlyweds. She reads the words in the lines of your face, the wonder in your eyes. The princess from Austria is beautiful, brilliant, flawless. She is entirely worthy of him.

“Yes, she’s certainly the next best thing, isn’t she?” Nico says cheerfully.

You furrow your brow in confusion. “Second to who?”

Nico grins. “You, of course.” And then she sees your horrified expression. As usual, she’s hit just a bit too close to the mark, to the truth. Nico stammers an explanation. “I mean, you know, because you’re such good friends, and you understand him, he’s so odd to most people, so unnerving, but you like him as he is and he’s clearly smitten with you, and if you weren’t already married to Prince Aegon you’d be his choice for a wife, I’d imagine, but since it’s impossible…”

“Very impossible,” you say flatly.

“Right,” Nico capitulates, anxious. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, Nico.” You lay a hand on her shoulder and then her flushed cheek, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’m very tired.”

“You have had a very eventful few days.”

“I’ve aged centuries.” Sometimes I think I’m already dead.

“Would you like me to come back to your rooms? We could read, or do needlework, or just sit and talk by the fire…”

“No, you stay. You’re having such a good time. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

“It’ll be ruined if I fear you’re unhappy.”

“I’m happy,” you insist. “I’m happy, Nico.” I’ll never be happy again.

Courtiers are beginning to tease the newlyweds good-naturedly, shooing them off to bed. Kunigunde flashes her audience a timid, demure smile. Aemond is stoic; he wears no emotion that you can decipher. He raises his wife’s hand in the air, and there are whistles and applause. Then the couple retires to Kunigunde’s bedchamber, flanked by a flock of servants who will ready them for the essential next step: cleansed bodies, prayers recited, blood on white sheets. The room is spiraling around you; all the air in your lungs evaporates; your vision is speckled with dizzying splotches of darkness. In the midst of the cheers, you flee unnoticed from the hall. As you pass by the high table, you see that Aegon has laid his head down beside his plate and is practically unconscious. You fly through the corridors and take refuge in your bedchamber, a sanctuary, a prison.

You don’t even let your ladies undress you. You send them away and kneel down on the bearskin rug and stay there waiting for nothing, time crawling over you, prickling and slow and murderous like ivy. As the bells toll and the hours pass you imagine what they mean, you envision it, though you wish you couldn’t. Now he is taking off her nightgown. Now he is combing out her long lustrous hair with his agile fingers. Now he is admiring the glow of her bare skin in the firelight. Now he is tracing the slope of her jaw with the lightest touch—entranced, reverent—and tilting up her chin to kiss her. Now his hands are on her throat, her breasts, her waist, her thighs that have never been stained with the blood of another man’s child, parting them, reaching between them, angling himself to enter her. But he won’t rush; he won’t want to cause his lover pain. For all of their innumerable differences, he and Aegon have that in common.

You stare into the flames until they blur and bleed together, your eyes brimming with tears. And suddenly it feels like the fire is inside rather than out: your throat, your lungs, everything you’re made of, searing through vertebrae and veins. It feels like you could burn until there’s nothing left but echoes, threadbare ricochets of memory, a murmur of ash. Aegon does not appear. He’s probably not fucking some Green loyalist’s daughter, you concede that much, but he’s gone nonetheless: passed out under a table, or in a stairwell, or in the garden, or in Sunfyre’s stall in the royal stables. Aemond is bedding his wife and Nico will dance with Daeron until the sun rises but you are here alone, alone, alone, and you always will be. When Aegon drinks himself to death you will be widowed. When your child is born it will be given away to wetnurses and governesses. Nothing here is truly yours. Even if the Greens win, there’s no scenario in which you do.

I should have gone back home to Navarre when I had the chance. I should have fled from here like a sheep from wolves. And now I’m trapped. I’m so fucking trapped.

You cover your mouth with both hands. You don’t want anyone to hear you sobbing and decide to investigate, to piece together what has caused you such distress. Tears pour down your cheeks like spring rain. And you know now that if you are ivy to Aemond, then surely he is the same to you: a merciless trespasser, vines that have grown through your palms and into your bloodstream, scraping along the path of ruby arteries until they strangle the heart. There’s no point in trying to rip him out of you. There’s no way to return to the person you were before.

The bedchamber door flies open and slams shut, so quickly it’s over before you register what’s happening; hurried footsteps travel across the wooden floor. You whirl to find Aemond standing in the stone-heavy silence, in the firelight. You’ve never seen him like this before. He’s still wearing his eyepatch, but his long silver hair hangs free and wild, strands obstructing his face. He is dressed in only loose trousers and a white sleeping shirt that has been unbuttoned down to his navel. He’s backed himself against the wall. He’s trembling all over.

You rise and go to him. “Aemond…?”

He pushes your hands away when they settle on his forearm. “Don’t,” he pleads in a whisper.

“Alright,” you agree immediately. He won’t look at you, his blue eye darting everywhere except your face. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head, breathing rapidly. Perspiration gleams on his bare chest, etchings and basins and steppes you’d only ever imagined. You ask him softly: “What happened?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Aemond says. At last, his gaze catches on yours, as if he’s surrendering, as if a gap in a page has been filled. “Not with her.”

Oh God, what is going to happen to us? What the hell is going to happen?

Before you can ask him, Aemond’s palms are on your tear-streaked face, and he’s kissing you with an intensity that cuts through all the strings that were knotted around you just minutes ago: hopelessness and solitude and bone-rattling terror. Your hands debate stopping him; instead, they come to rest on his salt-damp chest, exploring hungrily, a feast after famine. He’s begging for you in every way but words. There’s no question as to what your answer will be. There should be, but there isn’t; you need him in a way that is inescapable, like the seasons, like time.

You take blind steps backwards until your bare feet meet the bearskin rug, downy black fur of a beast that was killed for you. You stumble down onto the rug together, Aemond on top of you and tugging impatiently at the laces of your gown, you pulling up the hem, unable to wait, unwilling to lose the mindless rush of this moment. The necklace he made for you is a stripe of frost against your sweltering skin. You nip teasingly, ravenously at his neck, tasting smoke and paper and ink and leather, leaving flairs of red that vanish within seconds like dissipating smoke. Your fingers snag in his long white-blond hair; you lift his shirt from his back, inhaling a split-second hint of his wife’s edelweiss perfume as you toss it away. Aemond yanks off his trousers. He’s big, you knew he would be; bigger than his brother, bigger than you are confident you can endure.

Please let this be everything I hope it can be, you think fearfully. Please don’t let it be the way it was with Aegon. Please don’t let it be nauseating, tiresome, lonely, painful. The trepidation must show on your face.

“I won’t hurt you,” Aemond swears. “I’ll never hurt you.”

He retreats, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, and drags you towards him, burying his face between your legs; you bite down on your wrist to keep from crying out in pleasure. Beneath the gathered layers of your gown, his lips and tongue—greedy, dominating, starving for you—find the place where you are most sensitive, most aching. He licks, circles, licks again, sucks gently until you can feel that powerful wave of heat, bliss, finality building in your muscles and your nerves.

Not like this, you think. I want him closer to me when it happens. I want him inside of me, one with me.

“Aemond, come back,” you moan. “Please, please, come back. I need you. All of you. I need you right now.”

He rises obediently, his lips and chin dripping with your wetness, and kisses you deeply, intoxicatingly; you can taste yourself on him, minerals and desire, love and earth. He’s positioning himself between your thighs, two fingers of his right hand slipping effortlessly inside of you, working to ensure that you are prepared for his thickness, his length. You’re nodding as your hips move with his rhythm, gasping in air like you’re drowning, lost in a lust-red haze of helpless desperation. “Are you ready?” he asks in a ragged whisper.

“Yes, yes, Aemond, yes.”

His lips traverse your throat, the arc of your jaw, your cheek. “Stop me if you need to, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll go very slowly.”

Kissing the side of your face, his left hand smoothing back your hair, Aemond begins to ease himself into you. There is pressure—tremendous, delicious pressure—but no pain yet. He stops to give you time to adjust; and perhaps it’s for him as well, shaking with euphoria and anticipation, trying to last long enough to please you. The first tentative rays of dawn are bleeding in from the slits between the curtains. And then there’s a sound that at first you don’t recognize: a creaking, a draft of new air. It’s the bedchamber door opening.

It happens too quickly for you to push Aemond away, to make any attempt to disguise your treason, your lethal weakness. There is only time to turn your face towards the open door to see who has discovered you. Perhaps it is the newlywed Kunigunde searching for her absconder husband, or the Duke of Hightower ready to drag Aemond back to consummate the marriage, or Daemon coming to murder you, or a servant or a guard or Queen Alicent or Sir Criston Cole. Each would be horrific in its own way, legacy-shattering, life-threatening.

But the intruder is none of these people. It is the one silhouette you didn’t even consider. You had assumed he wouldn’t be here. He’s almost never here.

The person in the doorway is Aegon.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

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lunamaraproject · 4 months

Text

LUNAMARA: Fragments [3]

🦢

“What’re you doing?”

Felix doesn’t startle - Elsie is hardly the most stealthy in her approach. He pulls himself bodily out of the large filing box he was halfway falling into, having to unstick a stray notepaper from his long hair, and turns to smile at the young girl.

He would never call her that out loud, now that she’s reached that particular age where a youngster insists they’re grown enough and hates to be treated like a child. To do so would be inviting her wrath, which in turn would mean Rufus’ wrath, and Felix can’t afford that.

“Sorting through some old historical documents,” Felix replies, holding up a few sheafs of paper. “Though, it hurts my soul a little that items from my youth are now called ‘historical documents’.”

“Well you fought in the war, you must have known you’d be making history,” Elsie says, sitting on the edge of the box in her wide, poofy skirt, quite unlike the typical style of courtly formal wear. Her moonlight silver hair is worn in two buns on either side of her head, which always makes Felix think of those adorable ‘bear’ animals from the surface. He knows that if she let her hair down and dressed appropriately, she’d be the spitting image of her mother the Queen. Perhaps that’s why she never does so.

“Actually, at the time, I was more worried about where the next meal was coming from. We were on the surface, and there’s no manna there, so it was quite nerve wracking,” Felix chuckles, turning the old scraps over in his hands. “And I wasn’t the only one. We don’t have many official documents left from that time, since all of them were digital, and the systems are down or gone now. Mostly just these letters sent to home by soldiers, or other odds and ends.”

“Hmm,” she kicks her feet back and forth, craning her neck to look at what’s in his hand. He shows her, though her face immediately twists in a frown when she realises it’s in Common. He should really teach her how to read it, but they have other priorities than learning nearly-dead languages. “If there was no manna, what did you eat?”

“Surface substances. They grown on the plants, and sometimes it’s the plants themselves. I was somewhat loathe to eat any of the moving, breathing creatures, but the humans weren’t, and nor were most of my comrades by the end of it,” he tucks the sheets into a pocket in his tunic, and glances around the cavernous shelves of the palace archives. “It tasted amazing.”

“Tasted?”

Felix smiles at her, chuckling. “Surely when you were very, very small, someone brought you something from the surface to eat…? Someone devastatingly beautiful…?”

Elsie looks thoughtful, then snaps her fingers in realisation. “Oh, yeah! Cassius brought me that thing! An ah-pull!” “I did! I brought it!” Felix whines miserably, hanging his head by her knees like a forlorn pet. “I can’t believe you forgot my thoughtful gift! My beautiful apple!”

“Oh please, I was like, 25!” Elsie huffs. “How am I going to remember one gift from a century ago!”

Felix clutches his chest. “So cruel! I got that apple from one of the last attempts to reclaim the surface! I almost got chipped! Look!” And he hitches up the edge of his tunic to reveal…

“...I can’t see anything,” Elsie declares, squinting at his thigh.

“There! This hairline fracture!” he pokes pointedly at the thinnest, most nigh-invisible line just above his knee, showing the faintest glimmer of orange fire-opal bright crystal underneath. “Never been the same since!”

When he raises his gaze, he’s met with the patented ‘Totally Over It’ Elsie look. “How can you be so old and such a whiny baby at the same time.”

“Ack! You’re too cold, Princess Elsennae!”

“Ugh, stop! Stars, can you be any more embarrassing?” she shoves his shoulder, though with no real force, and stands up, dusting off her skirts. Certainly, this room isn’t the cleanest. “I’m going back upstairs, come find me if you discover anything actually cool or useful.”

And with that summary end to the conversation, the last of the royal family of Lunamara marches her way out of the archives, leaving Felix in the dark, surrounded only by the history he himself is a part of. He smiles, and tries to remember what an apple tastes like.

Maybe one of the files in here will describe it.

🌗

More from LUNAMARA:

Fragments [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]<-- More every Thursday!

Comic [Prologue]

Art by Luka (http://nousanti.tumblr.com/) Story by Pidge (http://pidgestories.tumblr.com/)

#lunamara #lunamara project #nousanti #pidgestories #artists on tumblr #felix cygnus #princess elsennae

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historiaxvanserra · 4 months

Text

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of | Chapter 2

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: The High Lord of Night makes a bargain with a beautiful Priestess and he has come to collect.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

Last night you dreamt you went to Hewn City again.

You are a girl; coloured in the shadowed jade light of the Moonstone Palace, and your body feels unlike your own. A hostile vessel-- empty and aching-- longing for some semblance of release. You call into the darkness words akin to prayers; Mother, save me; Father, please.

From the darkness no answer comes.

Then, as all dreamers are, you are possessed of a sudden magic; you walk the halls of The Moonstone Palace. As a shadow or a memory. The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. An Ill-faded bride to a mercurial God. The time passes strangely there in the dark dreamscape; the passing of time marked only by the slivers of opal light that pierce through the blanket of the dark each night. Fractured rays of pearlescent light that dapple the marble floors and high, onyx ceilings. You cherish those fleeting moments where hope bleeds into you with the rapidly falling night. It is those moments you cling to as dawn breaks.

The morning light creeps in like hunger; veins of first light that cascade-- all golden and ephemeral-- cutting through the darkness of your dormitory as the dream slips away from you again. A figure, obscured by your sleep addled haze, falls into view and you feel it as their weight settles at your side. The feeling of a fine bone hand runs along your bare arm, soothing and gentle and she whispers words close to comfort to you as the world around you comes back to life.

A myriad of light and color.

“Clotho is looking for you,” Gwny smiles down at you and her eyes shine in the first light. All glinting cerulean -- flecked with gold -- reminiscent of a diadem your mother had worn when you were a girl. That diadem and all memory of the woman you called mother is little more than a distant dream now.

A cruel reminder of the home you left.

“What does she want?” You murmur lowly as the fleeting remnants of sleep still cling to you. You rise with haste from your bed with a quiet reluctance and make quick work of pulling on your heavy pewter robes before the morning chill has time to kiss its way up your bare skin. Judging by the slivers of gold light that spill onto the plush rug beneath your bare feet it must only be about 9am but nonetheless, you’re late at starting the day. Gwyn hovers by your cluttered desk, flicking over some of the parchments there, as you dress hastily. By the time you’re covered and running a comb through your unbound hair you turn to face her.

She’s dressed in dark training leathers and her long auburn hair is adorned with white and silver ribbons that make her look as though she is crowned in starlight. She is every inch the Valkyrie in this light you think. Half-divine with an ethereal look about her.

Like a tragic heroine from some old myth.

“I didn’t ask,” Gwyn shrugs and her eyes meet yours in the broken mirror as your fingers twist and braid your hair as it cascades over your shoulder. Something flickers in those blue gold eyes then, some devilment pools in them as she regards you with a delighted smile that arches on smirking.

“Come on, you’ve got a visitor too.” You smooth a hand over the ill-fitting robes and sigh dramatically as you collect the scrolls and the hastily written notes you’d been studying. Gwyn retreats from your dormitory laughing and humming playfully as you fall into step with her as she rounds the corner into the Library itself. A night chilled breeze graces you as you descend into the lower levels where Clotho will be waiting for you and as you approach the balcony overlooking the ground floor you catch the scent of night blooming jasmine and citrus.

That smell seems to follow you these days. It smells so much of the home that you left all those years ago.

A cruel trick of the mind.

Sunlight filters through the large stained glass window that lights the antechamber of the library and as you round the stone pillars the world as you know it is crowned in gold light as the shadowed sun beams illuminate the great cavern of the Library. The Library deep in the bowels of The House of Wind is a feat of architectural grandeur; Like Hewn City, the house itself is carved into the dark stone of the mountain that looms over the City of Starlight, and everything within is saturated in shades of coal and bone. The Library itself is made up of a series of levels and floors, all held in place by dark pillars of the same stone. The large Gothic archways are adorned with carvings and intricate patterns and tapestries -- embroidered on black cloth -- illustrate the mythos of the court you were born into. Tales of dark Gods and gentle maidens. As a girl you had spent many nights enamored by the dark magnetism of the Gods of old and the cruel and beautiful Goddesses they loved. The Library, sacred as it is, breeds a strange sense of reverence in you. For the knowledge contained between its sanctified walls.

The Library is home to the High Lord’s vast collection of Prythian’s mythological texts; Holy relics of the arcane Gods which had once been venerated and revered in these lands so long ago. All that is left of them now, resides in the deepest part of the Library, where you spend most of your days. There in the bowels of the Library something ancient and foreboding calls to you. The knowledge contained here in the dark heart of Velaris could bring kingdoms to their knees if one were so inclined. And in truth, you had thought about surrendering yourself to the call of the darkness that lies dormant in the depths of the mountains more times than you can count or would care to admit. In it, you feel something kindred to you; something aching and empty that resonates somewhere deep in your soul.

As if the very fibers of your being are composed of the same darkness.

When the High Lord had first brought you to the library-- broken and aching-- there existed in you a vengeful wrath that longed to rage until the mountains gave way beneath you. Until the men who had hurt you were nought but dust and age-worn bone. All that rage. All that grief. It had been a terrible thing; haunting and terrible. But it had been yours. So you clung to it, until the girl you were was dead and buried beneath that mountain. And from her ashes the woman was born; tempered by time, and made strong by the faith you had found there in the library’s darkening aisles, in sisterhood, and in forgiveness.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Gwyn’s gentle humming as you are cast out of the memories that come back to you in flashes of jade and twilight.

“I best get back to Merrill before she comes for my head,” Gwyn exclaims loudly, smiling so bright that you’re sure she must be up to something. You offer her a small nod and a polite goodbye which she returns in earnest as her footsteps fall in sporadic succession and they echo down the aisles. You smile at her fondly and descend further into the main floor of the library still clutching onto the hastily compiled notes that are stuffed into the small cloth bound book you had been reading. Anxiety pools in your stomach, coiling and twisting as you approach Clotho’s office.

The office is situated on the main floor of the library and as you approach through the long, empty aisles the door to Clotho’s office falls into view and the swings open with a magical flourish. Through it a large figure emerges followed by the beautiful Priestess, who looks utterly impassive, even in the presence of such an intimidating figure as the High Lord.

You had always admired Clotho; her unwavering courage and fierce devotion to the Priestesses in her care. Her soothing presence and gentle smiles had been a source of comfort and strength for you in those first few months where you had thought you might surrender yourself to the mercy of the darkness that lurks in the bottom of this sacred Library. Since then it is her courage that had made you strong and her friendship that you valued above all else. There was a faith in the sisterhood you had found here, bonds forged of suffering and healing, made strong by the time in these sacred walls.

Now you must find something else to put your faith into. Who or what that might be you are not entirely certain. Yourself perhaps. And though Clotho was hesitant about your decision to leave the library and her behind, she had offered you her support and comfort all the same.

You approach the Priestess and your High Lord with a quiet caution as your school your face to a neutral expression that doesn’t speak to your rippling anxiety at the thought of leaving the place you had come to know as home or the women who you had come to call family.

The High Lord catches your eyes first; he’s swathed in shadow as he steps out and then the light cast through the windows wreaths him in a halo of topaz light and when his violet eyes find yours in the empty aisle he smiles at you. A carefully curated thing that glitters with false charm and behind the violet of his irises you see the darkness that lurks within them. Something kindred to you.

Made of the same darkness.

“There she is!” The High Lord of Night muses, his well-sculpted arms branching out towards you as if in prayer, “my favorite acolyte.” The High Lord's voice is tempered and light, with an air of arrogance about him that makes you smile shyly as he makes three long strides towards you.

There it is again; night-blooming jasmine and mandarin.

Clotho waits a few paces behind him in wordless silence but the silver lined eyes and sad smile she offers you is an indicator of her true feelings at your leaving. And though you don’t broach the subject at that moment you offer her the promise to find her soon. So that you might say goodbye to your dearest friend in the privacy of her office. She only nods and quietly retreats into her office with a few books.

“I’ve sworn my vows,” You offer gently, surrendering yourself to the enigmatic male that stands before you.

Rhysand leans casually against the desk in the forum, his violet eyes trailing lazily over the elaborate cursive on the parchment left by another Priestess, one of his hands is buried in the pocket of his suit pants and the other flexing around the lip of the lectern. In this light, as the sun bleeds through the stained glass windows, he looks like an old God from one of the tapestries hung along the slate walls.

Cut from the same holy cloth.

At once The High Lord meets your eyes and you resist the urge to avert that arresting violet gaze. Instead you offer him the ghost of a smirk as you address him again.

“So, I believe it is Priestess to you, High Lord.” The High Lord’s laugh is a wondrous thing as it permeates the air, rich and deep, and shaded with that same dark magnetism you had witnessed that first night.

“Well then, Priestess, I believe we made a bargain,” Rhysand pushes himself from his perch on the armoire and closes the space between you. He’s so close that you swear he will hear the flutter of your heart as he meets your eyes, “and I’ve come to collect.” His voice drops an octave and the words are tainted with an air of seduction that makes you feel anxious even if you’re certain he doesn’t mean it. Even if you see the morose darkness behind those violet eyes.

Rhysand studies you carefully and you feel his eyes on you even as you turn to shelve the book that you had cradled in your arms. Your silence does little to calm the air around you as you turn swiftly from him. “You still want to come, yes?” Rhysand sounds hesitant and quiet as he broaches the subject. You swallow thickly and cast your eyes along the long aisle of the library you had called home for the last few years.

“Would it matter if I didn’t?” You laugh lightheartedly, gesturing to the tattoo brandished into your skin, still unable to meet his gaze. The High Lord doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t so much as smile half-heartedly. Rather, the High Lord draws dark, thick brows together as the swell of his bottom lip moves into a deep frown. So mournful and aching that you’re sure you feel your heart ache for him in response.

“Of course it would matter,” The High Lord’s voice wavers once more as he addresses you with a sad smile. He’s so beautiful in this light and you regard him as you do all holy things, with equal parts reverence and anxiety.

“You know that, don’t you?” There’s an uncertain quality to his demeanor that disarms you. He’s always struck you as this enigmatic and confident male, with an almost louche quality to him that seemed to exude and air of rehearsed arrogance. But now. Now you see him for what he is; something dark and beautiful and fragile. There is a hesitancy about him as he steps away from you as though the mere distance between you is enough for him to feel untethered to this plane. Left to drift amidst a vast, starless sky

It is you, who closes that gap once more in a bold display of trust and despite the tremor of your own hand when the heat of the High Lord’s golden skin melts into yours, you smile at him as one might smile at something lovely and full of sorrow.

And he smiles back-- as though you and he are not both broken, fragile things.

“Yes,” You admit truthfully.

There is so little that you are certain of now but you know this: that you and he are made of the same darkness -- born from the same star perhaps -- and that with him, you will always have a choice.

“Yes, I do, High Lord.”

______________________________________________________________

“This will be your bedroom,” Rhysand offers with a wave of his hand before it wraps around the burnished gold doorknob to reveal the room nestled between the nursery and his own chambers “I hope it is to your liking?”

The guest room in the High Lords townhouse is just as beautiful as the rest of the house; sunlight, golden and ephemeral, cuts through the drawn linen curtains and cascades along the dark mahogany floors. Through the open window you can hear melodious birdsong from the garden below and as you step into it’s heart, the view of the dark marble fountain at its center that looks as though it is carved from the same mountains that flank the city. The garden itself is coloured with the climbing ivy and moonflowers that arch up the trellis and is shaded by a thick canopy of cypress and bergamot trees, whose citrus scent seems to bleed into the room itself.

“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” You say, smiling so brightly that you’re sure it must rival the midday sun as it bathes you in its radiant light. The rooms' furnishings are made of rich rose wood and the walls are painted a muted sage blue color that reminds you so much of the robes you wear and the bed nestled into the alcove is adorned with many quilts and duvets of cream and pewter and mauve. You don’t think you’d ever seen anything quite as inviting.

The High Lord crosses the threshold and instead of joining you in the center of the room to admire the view of the gardens in the sunlight he opens the door to the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom itself is almost as big as the guest room, with a beautiful claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and both the walls and floors are made of a champagne marble with decadent flecks of gold. You take a few steps towards the washroom and perch by the door frame to admire the craftsmanship. Rhysand does the same and makes no effort to put any space between you as the quiet settles over you both as the shadowed sunlight illuminates the gold accents in the marble.

“There’s a writing desk over there,” Rhys says, retreating back into the main room, pointing towards a matching rose wood desk and chair with a mirror hung above it so that it doubles as a dressing table. “And an armoire there.” he points at the ornately carved chest of drawers by the desk.

“Though if you find you need more room for your clothes there’s plenty of space for another.”

“I think I’ll be alright with just the one,” You say lightly, eyes traveling to the small, worn leather bag at your feet that contains all of your worldly possessions; a few sets of nightclothes, two dresses that are half as old as you are, four well worn books that you had sequestered from the Library and a small collection of trinkets you’d collected over the last half a century. Hardly an extravagant amount of personal belongings but they were yours.

The High Lord hums thoughtfully at you and for a moment you think that he won’t think anything of it but then violet eyes drift to the worn leather satchel and though he doesn’t speak you see the look in his eyes as it morphs from neutral to something akin to pity.

You don’t want pity, you think, and you feel something dark and ravenous nip at the back of your throat. It’s an ugly thing that you bite your lip and swallow down lest you bite the hand that feeds you.

It had been so long since that anger and pride made itself known in your heart.

“If you need anything you just have to ask,” Rhysand says, offering you a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he looks somewhere far off and you catch the scent of lilacs and pears when the breeze shifts, “whatever it is you want, you just have to ask.”

“Really Rhys, I don’t need anything else,” You make a move to haul your bag onto the plush velvet armchair by the window but in a flurry of movement Rhy takes it from you and places it on the small end table near the bed for you. “it’s beautiful, thank you.”

The High Lord does not respond, only smiles slyly at you from the end table, turning one of the straps of the brown leather bag in his deft fingers.

“What?” You ask with an accusatory tone, narrowing your eyes at the beautiful male beside you.

“Nothing,” The High Lord holds his hands up in surrender to you, his voice is velvet and lilting with his mirth as he looks at you again, “it’s just the first time you’ve called me my actual name.”

“I wonder what it would sound like in other situations.” He all but purrs and neither you nor he can manage to keep a straight face when you roll your eyes dramatically at him and elbow him sharply in the ribs.

The lull in the conversation comes with the passing of the afternoon clouds. They come in hordes of flowering grey and ivory, undercut with a darkness that spells a coming storm. In those quiet moments you watch as the confident facade that the High Lord wears so well melts away and he reverts back to the male you know him to be, tender and morose as the darkness in his eyes melts into a neutral expression that speaks to how truly tired he is.

“Get settled in and then come and find me later, Love.” Rhys voice is quiet and smooth and he offers you a gentle touch on your shoulder as he slips out into the hallway.

“Yes, High Lord.”

The High Lord’s eyes, iridescent and violet, meet yours and for a few moments while he is looking at you, you and he exist somewhere in the darkness between the stars.

TAGLIST: @awkardnerdd @ladybirdbeetle7 @lalaluch @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @coisas-da-dani @justdreamstars

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand x you #rhysand fanfic #singledad!rhys x reader

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h4arts · 10 months

Note

Hi! I saw that you've opened your requests for s&b sooo can I request a Nikolai x reader where they're in an arranged marriage and they're distant with each other but one day they get ambushed and she's the one who saves Nikolai (like she can fight and she's good at it) and Nikolai is surprised and he starts seeing her differently and they start spending time together and confess? Angst to fluff kind of thing 👉🏻👈🏻

pearls to opals, nikolai lantsov -synopsis: your new husband takes a liking to make small aspects of your new life miserable. it isn't until a close call in an ambush that he truly sees you for who you are, not as your parents painted you to appear. -warnings: injuries, fighting, me not knowing a thing about boats, def not proofread and a bit rushed (i'm so sorry)

Pearls glinted in the dim lighting, reflecting off your mirror as you stare at your reflection. You didn't want pearls, you hated them actually, yet you had to suffer through an entire wedding and celebration with their weight setting into your collarbones. That wasn't even the worst of it.

This wedding was yours, to a man you knew nothing about besides his name. Everything felt wrong, like you were in someone else's skin, taking someone else's place. And in a way, you supposed you were. A soft knock on the door breaks your mind from wandering too far, and at your permission, your mother enters the room, glittering from head to toe in blue velvets and shimmering sapphires. You wondered how she managed to pull off so much blue.

"Feeling alright?" She asks, sitting on the open end of the stool you sat upon.

"Just fine." No, not at all. This whole thing had been arranged, for the better future of Ravka. That's what your father had told you the day you found out of this predicament. A few choice words had slipped past your lips that evening, angering your father, but you didn't care, this was your life, not his. Your anger had been brushed off though, and this was where it led you, a dim room in the palace you were to be married in in mere minutes.

"Good. You look wonderful, the pearls look wonderful on you. Excellent choice on my behalf." The words made your stomach churn with sickness. The pearls didn't belong to you, and even if they had, you would have thrown them into the depths of the sea before ever wearing them. "Come, it's time."

───☆───

That had been months ago, and you had been living comfortably yet miserably since then. Your new husband, Nikolai, had been relentless in his remarks against you during the first weeks of the marriage, but in the last two months, he'd hardly spoken a word to you. You'd sleep in the same bed but on opposite ends, never touching in between. You'd sit beside each other at meals, but only spoke when asking for something closer to the other.

It was constant working around each other, you were hardly in the same room during the waking hours of the day. Keeping this in mind, you weren't sure why your feet carried you towards the harbor Nikolai's returning ship would soon be docked on. He hadn't been there for you, why are you going for him?

The question plagued your mind as you sat on a bench, watching as part of the ship's crew jumped onto the dock, securing the boat to ensure it wouldn't drift away with the tide. Finally, the ramp was set in place and the crew on the docks rushed aboard the ship while others carried crates of various sizes off, a few nodding to you in acknowledgement, which you returned.

A boy slightly younger than you came running off the ship, weaving between the people surrounding him, the unmistakable shout of Nikolai's voice sounding after the boy. He ran right at you, dropping something into the palm of your hand as he passed. You squint after him in confusion, his broad shoulders crashing into the people lining the streets as his long legs carried him away from the docks at a quick pace. Looking back towards the ship, you stifle a laugh and the glare Nikolai sent to the back of the boy's head from over the railing. You quickly turn your head when his gaze turns to you, but you didn't miss the frown that turned almost deeper at the sight of you.

The feel of something in your hand became apparent as you remembered it, but at the sight of it, you wished you hadn't looked. A pearl bracelet with a golden clasp rested in your palm, suddenly feeling heavier that it was. Pushing through the wave of the crew with crates adorning the tops of their shoulders, you climbed the ramp to the boat, weaving your way to Nikolai, who stood surrounded by three other men and women. With a sigh, he waved them away, promising to meet them later, and you took that as a sign to approach the man.

"These wouldn't be of any importance to you, would they?" You hold your hand out, revealing the set of pearls that was currently weighing down your hand with vicious yet imaginary weight.

"Are they not to you? I was under the impression that a girl like you would swoon over such a thing." Nikolai responded dryly, taking the bracelet from your hold.

"Well you're wrong. I prefer diamonds. Pearls are for women like my mother." Nikolai let out a laugh at that, though he was anything but amused by the comment.

"Of course you would prefer the expensive alternative." He was wrong, though. You didn't hate diamonds, but they were better than pearls in your eyes. Anything was, really. Pearls were not yours, they never had been and never would be, but Nikolai couldn't have been more oblivious to the fact as he wrapped them in a soft cloth and returned them to an open crate nearby, presumably where the running boy had taken them from to begin with.

Before you could question why the boy had taken them to begin with, a loud noise echoed through the harbor, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

"What is going on?" Nikolai didn't get an answer, as you had shoved him aside. One of the attackers swung himself onto the ship, rifle firing at where the two of you had just been standing.

"What does it look like." you frown, breaking off a stick of wood from a barrel that had been broken by the gunfire.

"What are you-" Once again, Nikolai receives no answer his mouth being covered by your free hand, eyes peering around the crates the two of you were hid behind. A creak in the boards sounds from behind, making Nikolai turn to look, but when his eyes returned to your spot, you were gone. Though he had no time to wonder where you had gone before the barrel of a pistol was pointed right at him. Slowly, Nikolai raised his hands, uncurling his legs from beneath him even slower as to not alarm the raider.

"Where are those pearls? I know you've got 'em." Nikolai chooses not to respond as he tries to form a plan of attack. You however, seemed to have beat him to it. With a loud crack, the attacker is sent falling forwards, Nikolai quickly scrambling to the side to avoid being crushed under the other man's weight. You stood before Nikolai now, the stick from the crate held tightly in your hand.

"Well, I guess we both have a reason to hate pearls now." With a disinterested glare, you turn your back to him and race off the boat to the docks where the rest of Nikolai's crew was fending off the others who attempted to attack the ship. He quickly regains a hold of the situation, running behind you to fight as well.

Half distracted, Nikolai fights alongside his crew, still sparing a few too many glances at you. Maybe, he thought, he'd been wrong about you. Or he had just overlooked the obvious. You had held yourself as more of a fighter than a diplomat, someone who was shoved into a role they did not want to play, he knew that feeling too well and wondered if it was too late to fix what shouldn't have happened to begin with.

───☆───

Returning home was not something you looked forward to, anticipating a lecture of some sort. Accompanied by more silence and a continuance of glances that were gone before you could tell if they were real or not. The thought of being ignored by your own husband in a home that was not yours was terrifying, and you hated every moment of it. However, Nikolai spent the journey planning how to change that, how to start over all the things he should have done sooner.

The dirt path came in to view just outside the harbor town. It was a view you'd seen only a few times since your arrival in Ravka, but you'd always wondered what the path looked like from the road travelling through it rather than around it.

"What's caught your eye out there?" Nikolai had been observing your tense posture since the carriage doors opened and he'd sat across from you.

"Nothing. Just looking." You respond. Maybe one day you could come back and travel it yourself. Then, you'd have all the time in the world. He nodded, dropping the subject though he knew it wasn't true.

Once you'd arrived back, you were quick to make a move back to your room, but a hand on your wrist gently pulled you back. Nikolai's hand.

"I need to say something before you go running off again," He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes staring deep into your own, like he was just seeing you for the first time. "I want to start over."

"What?" You were nothing but confused and tired and there was probably an injury somewhere that you needed to take care of.

"This marriage is not what it should be, I know that. And, I apologize it's taken me so long to realize that it was not your fault, but mine." The tension in your shoulders seemed to match his now, this wasn't the conversation you'd imagined would take place. "I've misjudged you, and I've not even given you the time you deserve. If you'd like to leave this place, me, I couldn't rightfully stop you. But if you stayed, this time I'd give you more than just a crown or a spared glance, I can promise that fully to you right now."

This was the promise you'd been waiting for, but it didn't feel right. Not after everything you'd been put through this far.

"I won't leave." The tension in Nikolai's face slowly loosened up. "But it will take time to fix what was broken to begin with."

"Of course. I wouldn't expect anything else."

───☆───

Two months later, your relationship with Nikolai had mended. You were closer than ever, and even the air around the two of you seemed lighter than after the marriage.

One morning when you had been awoken and told to meet Nikolai in the garden, you hadn't been expecting him to take you on the path you'd stared at on the night of the ambush. It was even better than you'd imagined. It was lush and green and the sunlight cast an ethereal glow through the leaved and branches hanging above your heads.

"It's beautiful out here."

"Not as beautiful as you." Nikolai grinned, that stupid grin that made your heart flutter.

"Oh, please." You turn away from him, instead kneeling by a bush blooming with pink and yellow flowers.

"I'm serious," He starts, kneeling beside you and picking a pink one, tucking it gently behind your ear. "Before I forget, I've got something for you." You watch as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to you. It was a thinly wired gold ring with an opal stone. It was simple, but it was the prettiest ring you'd ever seen.

"I know you could care less for diamonds, truly. I thought it might suit you." He takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger. It glinted in the sunlight, reflecting sparkles in your eyes as you admired it.

"I love it, thank you." Lifting your eyes to meet his, he's already looking at you, a soft look like he'd give you everything, and he would.

"Anything for you."

#nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x you #shadow and bone x reader

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riseofamoonycake · 1 year

Note

May i request for Qin Shi Huang x Reader but the reader's personality is like a black cat and would sometimes be a little cold and annoying from time to time

And here we go! Thank you so much for your patience!

Lovely Thorn

✨ Pairing: Qin Shi Huang x Gn reader

✨ Warnings: mention of sex, nudity

✨

When you slowly walk along the corridors, everyone can’t help but contemplate you, even if they don’t always notice your arrival and you appear behind them like a supernatural presence: your feet make no noise on the floors, not even the slightest rustle, because you know how to walk with the same silence of the felines and without forgetting their elegance, and like them you observe reality with the profound and timeless gaze of someone who knows so much, practically everything, about life.

It is the first thing the Lord of China, the celestial Qin Shi Huang, noticed about you when he met you many nights ago: away from the imperial palace, away from the people who surround you every day, on the river where you met he only saw your opal eyes; the water itself took refuge inside them, it flowed together with the words you sang with the same sweetness of the moon that danced among the trees, and in the ancient poetry that blossomed in the night there was all the grace and wisdom of a millennial entity. Beauty and elegance are important in the world you live in, but foresight and wisdom are equally fundamental: and no mind can doubt the abilities you possess when your honeyed voice begins to narrate and explain, weaving past and present, revealing the future.

There could be no other soul capable of capturing and binding the colorful and strong one of the emperor to itself: and even if the sacred marriage has not yet united you in front of everyone, the proud smile with which it walks by your side is undeniable, more than sufficient proof of how much he deems you worthy of him and of his time ― in fact, you rarely detach yourself from the young sovereign or leave him alone.

Today, on the occasion of an important event for the whole nation, the eyes of the court, of the illustrious guests, of the foreign delegations and of the population are glued on the figure of Qin Shi Huang and on the words and actions with which he will start the celebrations, but you you are not far from him: at the right distance so as not to take up space for him, but not even to go unnoticed, you observe him with a kind and bright smile, almost more like a parent than a lover; and sometimes, when you are sure no one will notice, your long fingers reach out to softly meet his or brush the bottom of his back with a light move, as if you were to give strength or inspiration to his speech, and energy to his body.

It is a game that began as soon as the emperor allowed you to participate in sittings, and in any celebration and occasion, by his side: a barely perceptible movement on the palm of your hand and a slight contact with Qin’s bare skin, and a flicker runs over it like a light wave, forcing the young man to stiffen and stop for an instant, while you only hint at an amused smile and nobody notices anything strange. You like watching the emperor lead his people, at least as much as you love to delicately torment him and keep his attention high: you are unpredictable and playful, and you never fail to get the effect you want, even if it is just to liven up for a few moments a long and almost always boring hour of reports and requests.

Today is a different day from the others and the time you can share will be less, but this won’t be a problem: you will know how to find it, thanks to the innumerable rooms of the imperial palace and the large curtains and drapes that populate them. A stolen kiss and all the caresses in the world breathe wrapped in silk and behind wooden doors, just waiting to be picked up by hands capable of caring for them, even if it could be hours before they are able to do so: so, in the end, after all the commitments of the day, respite and rest arrive together with the colors of the evening, when thousands and thousands of lamps begin to shine in the houses as if to imitate the stars in the sky, the voices become sweeter and calmer and, amidst the lights and shadows they chase each other from room to room, the emperor can slip into the most secret and protected chambers, where you are already waiting for him.

«Ahooo⁓», Qin exclaims as soon as he sees you, dragging himself, rather than walking, towards the huge sofa where you have reclined, to then sink without any delay into your arms and lean his head against your shoulder. The deepest tiredness is painted on his face like a thick veil, and even if the dark blindfold protects his gaze, you clearly know that his eyes are about to close under the pressure of sleep. There, in close contact with your inviting and soft body, he finally feels able to lower his defenses and relax completely, to abandon himself to your care: he knows he will find in you a refuge that will never betray him, because you will have the your secrets, but among these will never harbor the idea of hurting him. He is learning well, the little boy…

However, tonight the simple cuddles are not to your liking. «My lord, what a busy day you have had and how you have faced it with energy, like the best of rulers! But, I wonder… now don’t you have a shred of strength left for me? I’ve waited so long for your attention…»

He replies with a smile to the question full of false concern and made to test him, as well as to the languid touch with which you brushed his nape, then he moves away the blindfold just to look you in the eyes and the smile becomes a grin while a hand rises to slowly, sensually caressing one arm along its entire length, to finally move on to the upper part of the chest and neck. «I could quickly regain my strength… especially if you talk to me in this tone», he whispers, adapting his voice to yours, wave with wave. As if to confirm his words, he turns abruptly and traps you against the back of the sofa pressing with his whole body, one knee already between your thighs and his hands around your cheeks, the lips ready to take from you the kiss that he have long awaited and begin a secret dance to the rest of the world; giggling and squeezing the emperor tighter, you do not reject any of his requests and let him be satisfied with what you offer, without ever making a move to let him go ― as if he could ever escape from your arms.

Even the moon is kept away from this meeting, its light barely filtering into the soon boiling and bustling chamber; your light is enough to illuminate it, there is no need for other clarity to see and meet you.

Qin knows your body perfectly, even if he can’t get enough of the taste of your skin, its softness and the shivers that flow through it at the slightest touch; perhaps you are pampering him excessively, cuddling him and holding him even when it is not necessary… and when, after a long love session, instead of settling down and quieting down, he still demands attention and another round, inside you recognize your faults and give a funny smile in apology. «I think my lord enjoyed himself enough tonight. A peaceful rest awaits you now», you say however, taking his wrists and gently pulling his hands away from you as you blow a kiss on the tip of his nose.

Qin snorts slowly, and instead of listening to you he comes closer, almost rubbing his chest against yours. «Rest is for later, now I have other plans in mind», he murmurs with a lascivious smile, his intimacy knocking against your clasped legs and begging to be welcomed back, his fingers ready to work wonders with you.

«But not me», you reply curtly, taking the young man by the shoulders and pushing him back slightly, «tomorrow. At the break of dawn, when you will be at your full strength, I’ll come to you.»

«It is your lord who asks you, Y/N…»

«And to my lord I answer that now is not the time. I wish you a good night! Look for me in your dreams… I don’t even know if I’ll be able to reach my rooms, how tired I’ve been...»

Qin’s expression quickly changes from confused to annoyed as you free yourself from his grip and leap up nimbly, leaving the sofa and its now sole occupant behind you.

«Y/N! Y/N, come back here… I command you! Don’t you dare leave this room!»

You stop at the inlaid door and give him a quick glance, then throw your head back and toss your hair, a grin painted on your face. There are many promises in your eyes, but not for tonight. «Tomorrow you can give me all the orders you want, my eager love. I’ll come tomorrow so… I won’t be late.»

«But… but you didn’t seem so cold to me before!»

The emperor’s shrill tone elicits a laugh that you struggle to contain, but that doesn’t mean you obey him: by now he should know that, although you would never dare to disobey a command from Qin, in love you act with the utmost freedom and don’t listen to anyone voice other than yours. Be that as it may, it never hurts to remind him once in a while, this will also help him learn.

The shadows of the palace sneak between you and Qin, taking up more and more space: on one side there is you, free from all thoughts, and on the other your lord, who continues to stare at the empty door now not so angry anymore, but very confused and unsure how to act. Why do you keep behaving this way, giving and withdrawing, giving a lot and suddenly depriving? Sometimes he just can’t understand… what happens to you in these moments? Is it his fault, is it something he does involuntarily? But it can’t be, no, it’s not like that…

Who knows where the truth is.

Pressured by the questions, the young man can only resign himself to slipping into the imperial bed alone, where doubts and physical urges torment him for hours and until the dawn of the new day: then, as in a pitiful comfort, dawn arrives and it repeatedly strokes his hair and cheeks, closing his eyelids and accompanying him towards sleep.

It is not long since the emperor fell asleep that the door opens and you silently enter the room, immediately locking yourself inside it. You just glance at the bed, then smile a little and shake your head: it was to be expected, Qin is sleeping. Didn’t you tell him you’d come with dawn? Yet he didn’t listen to you, and now you need to wake him up…

Approaching the bed, you jump on it and crawl towards him, careful not to move even a blanket and with your gaze fixed on his face: he looks like a god from how beautiful he is. He is certainly as demanding as a deity, but he must be such: it is his right, then whether you want to play with him is another matter.

Crouching next to him, you let whole minutes flow while you observe his relaxed features, his broad chest that rises and falls regularly, his hands with open fingers, stretched out towards a possible caress. He looks so helpless now, even if he isn’t and at the slightest movement his trained muscles would snap to save his life: but you are not a danger to him, and you never will be. A torment, a little thorn in the back, but never someone who will bring him death.

He can come along, the Reaper: he’ll have to deal with you first, and you sure as hell won’t come away empty-handed. Oh no, that wouldn’t really be like you. «Rest for a little longer», you whisper to him as you brush these thoughts away with one hand and arrange the covers better, «I’ll stay here.»

Soon you’ll wake him up by jumping on him and, now is your turn, asking for everything he has to offer, not giving in until he gives it to you; but for the moment, this silence and this peace are enough.

For the rest there is all the time you want.

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