Chloe Solace

Who am I?

The name I introduced myself with is actually a pen name that I use for fanfics only, all my properly published work is done so under another - yet still similar - name. Gothic fiction is my favorite, however I also enjoy fantasy, science-fiction, historical fiction, and a good old romance. I have a couple of pets, too! One dog, and five tarantulas. They're my entire pride and joy.

What do I write?

As far as original work goes, I prefer writing dark fantasy and gothic tales, however I am way more flexible with fanfiction. I mainly write fanfiction to practice, and I am proud of how far I have come as a writer. Without it, I doubt I would have ever managed to actually publish something, especially considering that English is my third language. And although so far I have only published two short stories, I believe it is a small step towards actually getting a novel out there! Fanfiction, however, is still the best practice for any writer, I believe.

You can find my fanfic masterlist linked above and here.

If you would like to request a one-shot you can find all the information you need here.

Post Schedule

I usually alternate between original one-shots and requests. So my general post pattern is request - original - request - original etc.

My thesis

My bachelor's thesis is a comparative analysis of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. It deals with the concept of the sublime as a metaphor for repressed homosexuality. Currently, I'm in my master's program.

Plot

As I said above, the plot is the book's strong suit for me. Despite the fact that, keeping faerie's hate for mortals in mind, it would have made more sense to me had Madoc killed Jude and Taryn then and there in the prologue. Why does Madoc take Jude and Taryn with him to raise them? It would only make sense to kill the children that blossomed out of a union such as their parents, without giving too much away. Is it fae customs not to? Is it some sort of personal ego problem he has? Is it empathy, despite the obvious “monster”-like personality? It is never fully explained to the extent where I could say “Ah, yes! That makes sense.” (Maybe it is explained in the sequels, I can’t say).

Another thing that made no sense to me was when the spies captured Cardan. I won't get into too many details to still keep this spoiler free, but there was this one occurrence I really had trouble finding realistic. In that scene, the spies, the ones with the actual experience and training, let Cardan go to have a drink with him. Because he is oh, so charming. Keep in mind, Cardan is the only one who can seal his brother’s reign, which would be bloody and cruel (I think the book’s title refers more to his brother than Cardan. I won't say which brother though). It seems like a completely illogical plot device to show how amazing Jude is and how she knows everything better than the others. You know, the actual spies. Even if they don’t care what happens to Faerie or its king, I find it very OOC for a spy to free one of their captives, especially to have a drink with him. They should be able to resist Cardan’s "charm".

Still, even with these inconsistencies, I thought the plot was engaging and interesting. The whole setting, a human girl growing up in the faerie lands who sort of has to navigate this world where even the food could kill her any moment, sounds very intriguing. I also loved how the faerie's around her manipulated her despite the fact she was the only one able to lie.

I do, however, want to state that this is not an enemies to lovers in my opinion. The romance is merely a sub plot anyway and did not really do it for me, but Cardan e.g. kicking dirt in Jude's food is bullying, nothing more. To me, this is a bullies to lovers if anything. Still, the main plot saved the book for me, but unfortunately it was not enough for me to continue the series.

Characters

This is where the story really begins to crumble for me. I barely liked any characters. Probably the only ones who did not annoy me where Vivienne and Cardan, but only in the second half of the book.

Let’s start with Jude, since she is the main character. It might be because I am in my 20s and she is still a child (16 or 17 I believe), but Jude annoyed me so much. The only thing that made sense about her was the fact that she wanted to prove to herself and the fae that she was worthy. Which, after living in a world that tells you you are dirt is understandable.  I will get more into the writing style later, but it was so dry and emotionless that it made her sound like some robot, programmed to do only one thing: prove to the pretty fae that she’s worthy. Not to mention, it also made her sound very immature. Jude gets praised by the book community for being this super strong heroine that is super relatable and people can look up to - but I just saw none of that. Instead, I saw an insecure child trying to be included in things that are too big for her. When I mentioned this to someone they asked me if I read a lot of YA because "this is what YA heroines are like". I do, in fact, read a lot of YA and I can still say that Jude felt way younger than she was supposed to be. Comparing her to other YA heroines who are roughly the same age only strengthens this for me.

Let’s move on to Cardan. In the first half of the book, I wished someone would just punch him. When he was actually being punished later on I honestly didn’t feel bad for him. He treated Jude like shit, which, yes, I know, was the whole point but again, he did it in a very immature way. I’m thinking about the time he kicked dirt into Jude’s food or wanted her to kiss his feet. However, I later saw that this made sense for the character. He is insecure because of the way he grew up; isolated, lonely and faced with punishment. And in the second half of the book he was actually likeable as well. Cardan feels like the only character with actual depth. Where Jude had potential, Cardan had execution. However, Cardan and Jude’s immaturity made me uncomfortable as a reader sometimes. Mixed with the dry writing style, I could not help but imagine them as way younger than they were, all while they were making out and killing people or running around with a sword. 

Madoc. Oh, Madoc. How I dislike this character. Nothing about him made sense to me. He is a huge hypocrite. What exactly is his motivation? Everything was justified by him being a "monster" by nature, but that just didn’t satisfy me. First of all, "monster" is a very subjective term. No one is ever truly evil, and I would have just wished that Madoc wasn’t so one-dimensional. It made reading the entire arc that involved him hard. And if he really is a monster, why was he so nice to Jude and Taryn? Maybe I missed it somewhere, but I am really not sure why he didn’t kill the twins on the spot when he saw them (it's not a spoiler, this is literally the prologue) and only took Vivienne, his actual daughter, back to Faerie. I suppose taking the twins was meant to show he actually has depth to him, but the repetitive "he’s a monster" with absolutely no evidence for that claim ruined it for me.

This is something which Black does quite often, by the way. She makes a claim about a character but then gives barely any or no evidence at all to support this claim and the reader is simply expected to believe her.

The Writing Style

For me, a book has to have a healthy combination of dry and lyrical writing, so it doesn't reach either purple prose or sahara territory. The Cruel Prince's writing style is very dry and straight to the point. This can work to increase tension during a dramatic scene, but using it throughout the entire book does exactly the opposite. Some people will still like that, which I can respect. However, for me it was just boring to read and, to repeat myself once more, it made Jude sound very immature. Why? I can’t say for sure. But what I know is that in writing, everything has an effect on the reader. The writing style, the scenery, hell, even the metre. The writing style in this book simply had this effect on me. 

Another thing that I didn’t like was the several occasions of telling and not showing. Black mentioned three times in just a few pages that Jude and Cardan were enemies and they hate each other. We got it, okay? There is no need to repeat it a million times. Perhaps she wanted to portray it as Jude telling herself they’re enemies and that she can’t pursue him, but it really did not seem that way to me and it unfortunately annoyed me.

Re-Readability

I think this a book you can definitely re-read if you liked it. It can be fun trying to look for clues within the narration that point to the big twists in the end. I personally just cannot put myself through this book again for all the reasons mentioned above.

Conclusion

Plot

The plot is a murder mystery. Bodies of supernatural beings turn up with two puncture wounds in their throats. Without getting into spoiler territory, I can say that the plot is very interesting and has some nice twists in there, too. You will definitely be entertained by it if you enjoy this sort of thing.

Celie being kidnapped and brought to the vampire castle is a scenario I also enjoyed reading. There was a bit of an enemies-to-lovers dynamic going on at times, since Celie, our MC, justifiably disliked Michal, the vampire king, in the beginning. Yes, I know that being kidnapped and then falling for your kidnapper is somewhat problematic but really, this is fiction and YA (not a dark romance). Celie was not actually treated like a real prisoner, and that only progressed further as the story went on; she was dressed in beautiful gowns, walked around the castle grounds and island, and even went on an undercover mission with Michal at a brothel *ahem*.

Also, if authors tried making every fictional scenario inherently healthy and unproblematic I'd die of boredom. I want that in real life, not my books x). But I digress.

Characters

I really disliked Celie in the beginning. Her actions and internal monologue felt juvenile, to the point where I seriously struggled to believe she was 19 and not, say, 15. I understand that she was supposed to be this soft, feminine and lady-like character and this is actually a character type I'd like to see more of, as feminity is often demonized and seen as weak by readers. However, it wasn't Celie's "lady-like" personality I had an issue with, but how she felt infantilized sometimes. The other characters kept her entirely separate from any plans they made, even if she was directly involved in one of the murders since she found the body. This is a good idea, but the execution made it feel like "go away, the adults are talking" instead of "she is too traumatized to take part in this", which is what I believe Mahurin was going for. It is also easier to believe the former due to Célie's often childish behavior and reactions. You can be soft and feminine but still behave a bit more maturely, which is what I would have hoped for her. Still, her character development was fairly satisfying. She still has a long way to go, I think, and I am looking forward to hopefully seeing that develop in book two.

Michal is a character I hope to see Mahurin elaborate on more. We don't know that much about him yet, so it is really hard to judge. He states at some point, and this is no way a spoiler (honestly, it felt kind of random for him to say it), that he is afraid of love. Why? What happened for him to develop that fear? So far I can say that I love how he has a very ruthless and violent side, but can also be extremely caring and sweet at the same time.

I also loved the side characters, at least the vampire ones, Odessa and Dimitri. Especially Odessa. I cannot say much for the Serpent & Dove characters because they mostly appear in the first section of the book, which is exactly the section I disliked.

In general, I enjoyed the characters. I'm giving four out of five stars, though, because as I said before, I think Célie's character could have handled a bit more maturely in the beginning, especially since she was supposed to be 19.

Writing Style

As always, this is entirely subjective but I include this part in my reviews since writing styles have made or broken books for me, and I would like to offer those interested in the books insights into the style before buying it, so you can decide for yourself if this is something you'd enjoy reading.

Oh boy. I didn't really like it, I fear. Firstly, the narrator is a first-person present tense which is already not my favorite combination, but it is easy to overlook really. The main issues I had were t-t-the c-c-onstant s-stuttering l-like this. It was wholly unnecessary in my opinion and widely overused. I also think we have been past this in publishing and established that there are better ways to write stuttering t-than t-t-this. There are stuttering writing guides online. I actually loved the fact Celie stuttered, since it showed her character development very well, I just wish the stuttering had been written differently.

Secondly, the constant italicization of words for emphasis got on my nerves, too. Using it sometimes is totally valid, but I swear there was not one page without at least four or five italicized words for emphasis, and that's not even counting the constant repetition of sentences that had already been said at some point before, just so the reader doesn't forget anything. Those were also in italics, of course.

Overall, this improved toward the end of the book, though. Celie's stuttering ceased and so did the italicization for emphasis (mostly). Still, this is something that annoyed me a tremendous amount and one of the reasons why it was so hard for me to get through the first part of the book, hence the two stars.

Re-Readability

I think this book can definitely be re-read. Especially if you enjoyed the romance scenes between Michal and Celie, like I did. However, keep in mind this book has about 620 pages so it is not short by any means. Also, I would probably skip the first part of the book if I ever re-read it and jump straight into Celie arriving in Requiem.

Conclusion

The music stopped when he raised his other hand, all eyes falling onto him when he stood from his seat. It was smaller than his throne, but not any less regal; made out of twirling wood, it looked like it had grown from the ground and shaped itself specifically for him to sit on it. His blue eyes were resting on the elven girl he had watched earlier, the air thick with anticipation from his people. 

“Do not let the festivities stop. I shall have a private word with the Rivendell ambassador inside. Please, continue,” he said, his deep voice loud and collected. It radiated authority and control, all while he never took his gaze off of her.

She gave her fiancé a short nod and left him alone on the clearing that had turned into a dance floor, just as the musicians to her right resumed playing their instruments. Some of the spectators around watched her as she approached the Elven King, others joined her fiancé in dancing, and the air was once again filled with laughter. 

Thranduil extended an arm for her to take, and she reluctantly wrapped her hand around his biceps, feeling the expensive fabric of his garment on her skin. His scent was clear and familiar; a mixture of musk and wood. 

Neither of them said a word until they found themselves on a terrace, far away from the festivities and the music, which could only be heard now if one concentrated very intently. She placed her hands on the railing, eyes drifting off to the forest in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Thranduil looking at her, his gaze making her feel naked, seen, though never uncomfortably exposed.

“Why did you want to speak with me?” she asked him, knuckles white from her tight grip around the railing. She hoped he didn’t notice her nervousness. He hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure himself. 

“You have proven to be a valuable asset in keeping an alliance between Rivendell and the Woodland Realm,” he began, his voice lacking emotion, his words sounding practiced and memorized. “I suspect now that you have found a suitable match, you plan to stay?” The words only reluctantly left his lips, and she could feel him tense further.

She clenched her teeth as she stared out into the forest, the sky darkening as dusk slowly began to blend into nightfall. There was a thickness in the air, indicating the imminent arrival of rain.

“Sharion and I have not decided yet,” she said hesitantly, the name of her fiancé now feeling strange on her tongue. She cursed herself for the momentary feeling of shame that spread through her chest. She had nothing to be ashamed of; Thranduil had turned her down. 

“I see,” replied the Elven King, and she saw him follow her gaze out of the corner of his eyes. He stood straight and tall next to her, silence resting between them. It was almost suffocating until she heard the roar of thunder above.

She opened her mouth to say something just as he did the same, and it was the first time that evening their eyes met. She stopped herself from speaking, gesturing for him to proceed instead. With flushed cheeks, she listened and averted her eyes again.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said softly, voice barely audible. His grip around the railing tightened just as the first raindrop fell onto it. “Please, meleth nín, look at me.” There was something else in his voice now; he was pleading. When she turned to him she saw the glassiness of his blue eyes, the way his thick brows furrowed and his arched lips pursed as if in agony. 

“I do not know what you want from me, Thranduil,” she whispered, his name on her lips familiar yet foreign all the same. She was one of the few who knew about his name, let alone addressed him with it so openly. “I gave you my heart. I wanted to become your wife.” Her eyes momentarily dropped to his lips before locking with his again, hand gently rising to touch his cheek where she knew he had glamored it. “No matter the scars you bear.”

Thranduil closed his eyes, leaning gently into her touch. She saw his own hand rising, only to fall again as if he was scared to touch her. As if he feared that if he did, she would pull away. 

When he opened his eyes, he inhaled deeply with the greed of someone who had been drowning only moments before. Underneath your touch, his skin began to fade, yielding to the deep scars she had often seen him stare at in the mirror with disdain in his eyes. 

“I need you,” he whispered, but she only dropped her hand. He let the scars disappear behind his glamor again.

“I cannot be with someone who hides himself behind thick curtains of shame, Thranduil.” Next to her, she heard the falling rain quicken in unison with herheartbeat. “Are you ready to draw the curtains back?”

He hesitated and looked away. Now it was her searching his gaze, but stubborn as he was he would not meet it. The silence that followed was answer enough, only disrupted when the heavy rain swallowed it and thunder roared again. She felt as if nature itself was urging him to open himself fully to you, though he ignored its pleas.

“I do not want to fight for a heart that would stay inside a cage when it could be free,” she continued, the words heavy. “A home should not be a battlefield.”

She saw him tense before she turned her back on him, leaving him standing with only the terrace’s roof to shield him from the rain. She began shivering, the feeling of her engagement ring cold against her finger. Tears streamed down her cheeks. It was painful breaking one’s own heart, but sometimes it was a necessary pain to bear. 

With a heavy heart, she entered the palace again as the rain swallowed him calling out her name. 

'Cause she was sunshine I was midnight rain She wanted it comfortable I wanted that pain

Plot

I like the plot, a lot. I gave it five stars because it is unique, it is thought-provoking, and it is controversial. I have never read anything like it before and most likely never will, and that alone is interesting and worth quite a few stars to me. It challenges the authority we have given ourselves over animals. I am not vegan, I am not even vegetarian, but that book almost turned me into one. It is not a book that you pick up and read while humming to yourself by the pool with the sun shining above you and birds chirping around you. Let's look at the blurb.

"Working at the local processing plant, Marcos is in the business of slaughtering humans—though no one calls them that anymore.

His wife has left him, his father is sinking into dementia, and Marcos tries not to think too hard about how he makes a living. After all, it happened so quickly. First, it was reported that an infectious virus has made all animal meat poisonous to humans. Then governments initiated the “Transition.” Now, eating human meat—“special meat”—is legal. Marcos tries to stick to numbers, consignments, processing.

Then one day he’s given a gift: a live specimen of the finest quality. Though he’s aware that any form of personal contact is forbidden on pain of death, little by little he starts to treat her like a human being. And soon, he becomes tortured by what has been lost—and what might still be saved."

Going into it, I knew it would be graphic from what I had already read about the book, but I never would have imagined just how graphic it would get. All the processing that is done is described in greatest detail, and the dehumanizing name - "heads" - used for the people that are being slaughtered makes it all the more uncomfortable. Marcos, our protagonist who works at one of these processing plants, is then gifted a female head, one born in one of the breeding centers. He does not kill her, though. Instead, he begins an affair with her, which is one of the worst crimes one could commit in this society. The narration treats 'Jasmine' - as he later calls her - like an animal, using verbs and adjectives one might not necessarily use to describe human action. It is Marcos who humanizes her, in a way, giving the novel hope for a happy ending despite the fact you can already guess how this story will conclude.

Marcos was married before to a woman named Cecilia, but after their child passed away as a baby they went their own ways. The death of his son weighs heavy on Marcos, and in Jasmine he sees a second chance at being a father; she becomes pregnant.

It is the ending that shocked me. This is a spoiler-free review, so I only aim to give you guys recommendations for books without taking away all the fun, so I won't get into it more. However, it is an ending that leaves the reader sitting in silence, staring at the pages and thinking to themselves "what the hell even happened here?"

Characters

Marcos is written to be quite human and realistic, with many flaws which made him both unlikeable and at times unbearable. Except that one time when he played with some puppies he found, because I would have done the same, to be honest. Dangerous virus be damned.

There is not a single character in this book I would consider good-natured on a moral scale, but perhaps it is exactly what makes it so engaging to read. The characters in the book serve as a substitute for animals not only in the meat industry; an animal's prime aim is to secure the preservation of its own species. Marcos is doing exactly that, both biologically and socially.

One of the most important settings in the novel is an abandoned zoo, yet it almost feels like the characters in the book are the zoo animals themselves, and the reader is observing them destroy each other. I did not like the characters, but I did not have to like them to enjoy the story for what it is.

Writing Style

Now, before I get into this, I would like to say that I acknowledge that every writer has a different writing style and that it is entirely subjective whether I like it or not. Personally, I like descriptive, sometimes even a bit flowery prose with long sentences. But this would have been out of place for this book.

The sentences are direct and straight to the point. There is nothing hidden behind metaphors, it is exactly like the processing farm portrayed: honest, raw, and uncensored.

It is not my favorite style of writing, hence the missing two stars, but for the type of novel this is, it is more than fitting.

Re-Readability

For this point, I simply have to say this is not a novel I will ever re-read. Reading it once has left enough of an impression to let it stay on my bookshelf and never touch it again. For me it is too uncomfortable and too disturbing to do so. Still, it has left a huge mark on me and I will most likely be thinking about this book for quite a while. The one star is by no means intended to be negative.

Conclusion

“What Mizora did is horrible, Wyll,” you agreed, letting your thumb run over the elevated lines on his cheek; a consequence of his new, devilish form. You wondered just how much his body had changed, your heart aching with the thought of him removing his clothes only to find a stranger hiding underneath them.

“I should have never entered this deal with her,” he said silently, and you shook your head, using the hand that was still on his cheek to make him look at you. Your grip was firmer now, nails gently grazing his temple and jaw.

“Look at me,” you said softly, eyes flickering between his. “There is no use reliving the past; all it does is torment you. And I hate seeing you tormented.”

He remained silent, but you saw the conflict in his mismatched eyes; the pain hiding behind them. “I am afraid,” he began, his voice low, “that torment is all I have left now.”

You shook your head quickly, almost violently, as you exhaled in frustration. “No, Wyll. Don’t you even dare think that, you hear me?”

He turned away, brushing your hands off of him before he stood. His eyes were locked on the puddle at his feet before he stepped into it, ruining the mirror image of himself in the process. His gaze now turned ahead, to the valley which the little mountain you stood on overlooked. There were a few trees, and a long, narrow river slithering through them like a snake hunting for prey.

“Every time I look at my reflection, I’m reminded of my mistakes,” he admitted, not even noticing how you rose to your feet, watching from behind as he spoke. “But it is not only that. When I lay down at night to sleep, I can’t lay on my side anymore because the horns get in the way. I used to be a side sleeper. Every time I touch my forehead, I feel them. When I fight, I am not used to having them in the way. I make mistakes, get clumsy.”

He balled his hands into fists at his sides and let out a frustrated sigh as he turned his head ever so slightly in your direction. You had crossed your arms in front of your chest, keeping your distance despite it being the last thing you wanted to do. You wanted to run to him, to hug him, but you did not move.

“They not only make me less human but less of a fighter, too,” Wyll continued, his voice lower, as if he was saying it more to himself than you.

“Wyll,” you said calmly, not taking your eyes off him as you approached him. “Mizora thinks she ruined you, punished you for disobeying her.” You saw him stiffen but continued anyway to make your point. “But she did none of that. Because what she doesn’t see is that it is your heart that is pure. It is a weapon your magic and swordsmanship are only fuel for.”

He turned to face you, and you used the chance to press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady beating of his heart against it. “And she cannot touch it. She cannot change your nature. Gold is still gold, even if painted over. What matters is not the reflection you see in puddles, but the good that you do. You do not need to hide behind names and appearances. I did not fall in love with them. To me, you are Wyll, just Wyll, and you always have been. You are the man I fell in love with, and that is what she cannot touch no matter how hard she tries. She cannot change your nature. You sold your soul so you could help people. It is the ultimate sacrifice.”

He stared at you with glassy eyes as he listened, lips slightly parted. His hand found yours, and he held it tightly. Your voice was now a little shaky since seeing the look on his face made it hard not to get emotional.

“What is inside of here,” you said, brushing his cheek gently with the back of your fingers. You caught a tear there and brushed it away softly with your thumb. “That is who I fell in love with, and that won’t ever change.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he replied, his words swallowed by a half-hearted chuckle. His eyes flickered between yours, but you simply smiled softly at him. 

“You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I will be by your side, no matter what happens. I will be here to remind you of who you are, until you learn to do so yourself. I love you.”

Wyll placed his hands on your cheeks, blinking away tears that would have fallen otherwise. “I love you, too, (y/n).” His demeanor changed then. His voice was serious as he added, “And I swear, if Mizora comes for you I will do everything in my power to protect you.” 

His face was darkened by shadow, his sharp features accentuated by the little light that shone on the audience as he turned his head towards you. He was clapping, his sole attention lying on you. Although a thousand faces were staring right at you, you met the man’s gaze only until the curtain closed before you, separating you from the audience.

“That was beautiful, (y/n),” Antonio, the director of the opera you had performed, said as he approached you, his face brightened by a toothy smile and his hands clasped in excitement. “Truly beautiful. A magnificent ending to a tragic story.”

You turned to him, handing your flowers to an assistant who passed by. “How many times do you want to say ‘beautiful’?” you chuckled. He always became very articulate after a successful show, which amused you.

“I believe your admirer will be waiting for you in your dressing room,” he said, shortly before turning his attention to a tech person behind you. “No! No! What are you doing? We need those lights for the encore!”

You watched as Antonio maneuvered around you, his eyes set on the man carrying a headlight in the wings. You sighed, trying to ignore how your stomach tingled at the thought of who was waiting for you behind the stage. You brushed it aside and left the stage, raising the skirt of your dress with your hands so you wouldn't trip and fall.

He stood in front of the room, its door slightly ajar. You could barely make out the large mirror of your dressing table behind it, the lights on it barely illuminating the otherwise darkened room. Dressed in a suit with his hair slicked back and a bouquet in his hands, Dr. Hannibal Lecter smiled at you, his gaze finding yours when you came to a halt in front of him. The gown suddenly seemed to weigh you down; it was somehow heavier than before.

“Miss (y/l/n),” he said, offering you the bouquet. It was made of white lilies and lots of green. You had told him weeks ago that they were your favorite when he first asked for you after the opera. Ever since Antonio had allowed him behind the stage to express his admiration for your singing, you had been keeping in touch here and there. Almost every evening you could count on seeing his face in one of the first rows. Usually, he would have sat in the rear seats, wanting a moment to simply enjoy the music— a private moment amongst a crowd. Ever since he had come into contact with you, though, he chose to sit as close to the stage as possible. It honored you.

“Dr. Lecter,” you nodded as you took the bouquet, a vase inside already prepared for it; he always brought you flowers when he had time to pay you a visit backstage. “They are lovely.” Smiling, you pushed the door open and left it so, allowing him to enter if he wanted. He only stood in the doorframe, watching as you placed the bouquet inside the vase on your dressing table.

“I would like to invite you to dinner, Miss (y/l/n),” he then said, causing you to stop in your tracks and turn to look at him. He had never properly invited you out before; his company had always been limited to his aftershow visits. Color rose to your cheeks.

After a pause, you replied, “Let me know when and where, and I shall be sure to clear my schedule.”

“Tomorrow at eight,” he said almost instantly. “My place. I would like to cook for you.”

You stood there, a bit taken aback by the abruptness of his invitation. However, you could not deny that you had dreamed about this at least once in the past weeks. There was something about the man that compelled you, that drew you in despite the fine hairs on your neck standing on end almost every time you laid eyes on him. He was quite a bit older than you. You had only finished musical school a few years ago while he was already an established doctor. His profession intrigued you too, as he had told you that he aids his psychological knowledge to the FBI at times.

Then, your lips curled into a smile, hands clasped together in front of your abdomen. “Send me the address, and I shall be there.”

—

You stood before the house with an umbrella in your hand, shielding yourself from the pouring November rain. The house almost resembled a small mansion, and you wondered just how wealthy he really was. You knew he used to be a surgeon, and his work in psychiatry was revolutionary for the field, but you had not considered the materialistic aspects that came with it.

Two pillars held a small roof above the front door, allowing you to step underneath and keep dry as you closed your umbrella, rustling the excess water from it. You pressed the doorbell, and did not have to wait long before Hannibal opened it for you, greeting you with a smile and stepping aside to let you in.

“Good evening,” he said, taking your coat and hanging it on the coat rack next to the door. “Please, do make yourself at home. I am only finishing up in the kitchen. Dinner will be served soon.”

You smiled in response, entering the room he gestured towards. It was the living room, you quickly realized, decorated with large bookshelves that stretched from the floor up to the ceiling and had almost no empty spots. Rows and rows of books had been placed inside it, together with curiosities and pictures.

You approached one of the shelves, your eyes drawn to the bird skull displayed on the right, before studying the titles engraved into leather spines. A few of them you recognized, but others rang no bell.

“I see you are a fan of classics,” you remarked when you felt him enter the room. A quick glance over your shoulder told you he was still wearing the white dress shirt and black vest, protected from oil by an apron which he was now taking off.

“No wonder then why you visit the opera so often. Although I must admit, I was beginning to wonder whether you enjoyed Tosca that much or my singing. You have been to almost every performance.”

“It is a favorite opera of mine,” he admitted. “But your performance was intriguing. I have never seen a production of Tosca quite like that before. Your vocals have such depth—it's riveting. I wanted to properly enjoy it before it is taken out of the theater’s repertoire.”

You half-smiled, running your hand along the bookshelf to your right. There was not a single hint of dust anywhere. It was clear this man took care of his books, which told you just how much he valued them.

“Well, I hope you thoroughly enjoyed the performances. Tonight was the last one.”

Hannibal turned his back toward you to take a bottle of wine and pour two glasses. You watched him approach you, one glass in each hand. You took one of them as he offered it.

"You're still relatively young," Hannibal said, raising his glass as he kept his eyes locked on you. "I find that as an opera singer approaches the peak of her career, the performance becomes more poignant; the voice becomes more seasoned and rounded. I imagine you have a long, flourishing career ahead of you."

“To flourishing careers,” you proposed a toast, raising your own glass to meet his, stopping mere millimeters before they could touch.

“To flourishing careers,” he repeated, clinking his glass with yours before taking a sip from the wine.

The taste of the bitter-sweet liquid filled your mouth, and you raised your brows in surprise at the quality. You were by no means an expert on wine, but you did not have to be to recognize how much finer this quality was compared to the wine you usually drank.

“Château Haut-Batailley. It is a French wine, one I keep for special occasions.”

“Well, in that case, I am honored, Dr. Lecter.”

“Please, no need for such formalities.” He chuckled a little, taking the apron from the chair he had hung it over. “I will finish up in the kitchen. In the meantime, please make use of my book collection if you wish.”

You watched him exit the room, leaving the door open behind him before you turned your attention back to the shelf, browsing the various titles one by one. You mainly looked at the fiction section and noticed that although he seemed to have a fondness for the classics, there was some modern literature as well, namely thrillers and historical fiction.

A while later, Hannibal entered the living room, his eyes finding you sitting in one of his leather armchairs, a copy of the Iliad in your hands. You had taken off your shoes a while ago to avoid getting dirt on his carpet, and they were standing behind you where the carpet did not cover the wooden tiles.

You had become so engrossed in your reading that you did not notice him at first. Your lips were slightly parted, and your breathing was even. You did not see it, but the faint hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. He cleared his throat to get your attention.

You looked up, the book still in your hands as you met his eyes. “I do enjoy Greek myths a lot. This is a beautiful copy at that,” you said, raising the book a little to underline your words before you closed it and set it aside on the glass table next to you.

“It is a rare copy. Dating back to the 18th century,” he mentioned, wiping his hands with a white paper towel before tossing it into a garbage can nearby. You swallowed, pulling your hand back from the book as if it had burned you.

“That is very fascinating,” you said, standing from your seat and rubbing your palms against each other. You left the empty wine glass and the precious book behind on the glass table, approaching him. “I hope you are not bothered by me touching it? I didn't mean to pick such a valuable one.”

Hannibal chuckled, his eyes watching you in an almost predatory way as you showed a sign of uncertainty. You flinched a little when you saw him reach out, his hand ghosting over your cheek as he observed you. “Not at all,” he said softly. “It is not as fragile as its nature might suggest. The book is meant to be read, not locked away.”

“As music is supposed to be heard,” you added, letting Hannibal lead you out of the living room and past the kitchen until you reached the dining hall. The table had been elegantly set, one plate at the very end of it, and one to its left. You looked at the plants hanging from the wall to your right, touching the leaves gently to see if they were real. A classical piece played, though you saw no speakers anywhere. Hannibal invited you to sit, holding the chair out for you.

You thanked him and lowered yourself into the chair, in awe of the beautiful floral decoration that had been placed in the center of the table. The plate, you realized, was decorative only; it was golden and large, framing the white one Hannibal brought from his kitchen like a halo.

You looked at the carefully placed meat and the salad that accompanied it, the smell enveloping your nose. He poured you a new glass of wine, and you thanked him, waiting to ask about the dish until he had taken his seat.

“Venison backstrap with blackberry sauce and Italian salad. I hope you enjoy,” he said, holding his knife and fork, waiting for you to take a bite before doing so himself. There was a satisfied smile on his lips when he watched your eyes widen. It tasted truly divine, unlike anything you had ever had. It was savory, sweetened by the blackberry sauce, and just the right amount of well-done to still keep a juicy softness to it.

“You are truly an exceptional cook,” you said, cutting another piece of the meat before tasting the salad. It, too, seemed to have been made with the freshest ingredients available. The salad was crunchy, and the tomatoes were too. 

He smiled as he cut off a piece of the meat himself. “I am glad you enjoy it. I can give you the recipe if you like.”

You only shook your head as you took a sip of your wine, laughing softly when you placed the glass down. “Oh, no need. I fear I would only butcher it. I have never been an exceptionally good cook.”

“Yet your singing would make Orpheus envious.” He met your eyes as he said the words, causing you to suddenly feel a bit warmer than before. Swallowing, you lowered your head for a moment, the comparison making you somewhat nervous. You were used to compliments, but you knew men like him did not give them lightly. They weighed more than what critics and other admirers had to say.

When you finished your meal, he put the dirty dishes in the kitchen, leaving you alone to wander around the dining hall. There was a painting on the other side which you had not noticed when you entered; an image of the sea in the background, and white sand in the foreground, framed by single branches that were scarcely adorned by any green.

You only noticed Hannibal behind you when you heard his voice. The deepness of it, the vibrations and warmth of his breath on your naked shoulder, revealed by your off-shoulder top.

“Windermere,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The largest lake in England. William Wordsworth wrote many of his poems overlooking it.”

You tried to ignore how your heartbeat increased when you heard his deep voice right in your ear, goosebumps appearing on your skin. He was so close you could smell his cologne, an earthy, musky scent.

“Do you always surround yourself with so much poetry?” you asked, your breath almost catching in your throat as you stared at the painting in front of you, not daring to move even the slightest bit. You could feel his chest against your back simply by doing as much as breathing.

“I like to surround myself with beautiful things,” he replied. A pause followed. “Momento Mori.” He read aloud, and you instinctively touched your shoulder blade, right where the words had been pierced into your skin by a needle. You tensed. He leaned even closer to look at it, and you felt his finger ghost over the delicate tattoo. “Remember you must die. Quite morbid, is it not?” 

"It serves as a reminder to live each day to the fullest," you explained, turning your head slightly to watch him from the corner of your eye.

"A certain reminder, yet so unnecessary." There was a subtle cruelty in his voice you barely picked up on as you furrowed your brows, sucking in a breath in response to his thumb brushing over your bare shoulder, just above where the tattoo started.

"Unnecessary, how?" you asked with a hint of edge to your voice, which quickly faded as you felt his thumb on your skin. A shiver ran through your body.

"Death is a constant, something you can never avoid. It seems senseless to remind yourself of something inevitable," he said softly, his thumb running in small circles on your skin. He knew his touch was making you shiver, and he was enjoying every second of it.

"Or perhaps it is a way to ensure one is never foolish enough to forget." You pressed your lips together to prevent a sigh of pleasure from escaping you. You did not know why you did it. Perhaps you were embarrassed by how little it took for him to make you produce such a sound. Nevertheless, you turned your head in his direction so that you could look into his eyes, your lips mere inches apart.

“I suppose that depends on whether one is afraid of death,” he whispered, his voice laced with a deep, sensuous tone. Briefly, you saw his eyes drop to your lips before meeting your gaze again. 

“Well, I am not,” you said, just before pressing your lips to his softly, your hand burying itself in his neatly brushed back hair. You felt him respond almost immediately, gently trapping your bottom lip between his teeth, which made you moan against his lips. 

Not breaking the kiss, you turned to face him, hand wandering down his face until you rested it on his shoulder. He had now taken the lead, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you in place as he deepened the kiss and you parted your lips in response. 

You could still taste the wine on his lips, the bitter-sweetness having an almost intoxicating effect on you as you pulled him closer to you by the shoulder. It was then that he dared to be a bit rougher, pushing you against the wall with the painting hanging just above your head. He had grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking it back, though with a certain gentleness as if you could break in his embrace any second. He pressed kisses on your now exposed neck. You gasped when he bit you, sure it would leave a mark tomorrow. 

“Perhaps, we should continue this elsewhere,” Hannibal whispered against your neck with a raspy voice. You searched his gaze, smiling once your eyes locked. 

“Lead the way.”

"I didn't want you to feel like you have to leave," he said, any hint of teasing playfulness from earlier vanishing from his voice. A firefly circled behind him, and you kept your eyes locked on it until it flew away, meeting his gaze only when it did.

"It's okay," you replied with a raspy, quiet voice and a dry throat. A shiver ran down your spine as a breeze enveloped you both, too cool for your simple garments. The nights were getting colder, a sign that you were moving further north.

"You do this a lot, you know," Astarion remarked as he lowered himself to a fallen-over tree trunk, sitting down and observing you. You furrowed your eyebrows as you studied him, arms crossed in front of your chest.

"Do what?" you asked.

He made a gesture in the air that pointed to you from head to toe, an elegant twirl of his fingers. Yet, his serious gaze remained fixed on you. "It's like you fall into this void sometimes. Your eyes become empty, and your face paler." He paused, seemingly trying to find ways to put it into words. "It seems as though you stop feeling for a moment."

You swallowed, blinking away the threatening tears as you noticed him pat the empty spot next to him. His eyes found yours again, pleading. Once, you had thought his red irises to be menacing and fearful, but now you realized that after spending all this time with him, having him save your life again and again, you found comfort in them. It calmed you to look at him, the way his gaze softened when his eyes landed on you, no matter what kind of enemy you were fighting. The way he had made you feel safe when you kissed first, and you had done the same for him.

Still, you hesitated, before you sat down next to him, resting your hands in your lap as you stared out at the water. You hadn’t shown him your vulnerable sides yet, and today was one of those nights where everything weighed heavily upon your shoulders. You watched as dragonflies created small waves when they touched the surface, distorting the image of the moon further. Pressing your lips together in a fine line, you dropped your head.

"I know what it's like to feel like you're not enough, you know," he whispered, his gaze settling on the faraway trees behind the river. Their crowns blended into a large, dark wall of leaves that occasionally rustled in the wind. You did not look up but listened intently.

"You try to fill these gaps by giving to others what you wish you could receive yourself," he said, not in an accusatory tone but a calm, observing one. There was resonance in his voice, too. You dug your fingers into the hard bark of the trunk you were sitting on, your breathing becoming more shallow as you continued fighting tears. A hand on your shoulder made you tense.

You turned to look at Astarion, his gaze soft as he observed you with empathy. It was a side of him you didn't see often. Your hand pressed against your chest, where your heart was located. It was as if it was physically aching, causing your upper body to cower in defeat.

"I sometimes feel like no matter what I do, it's never enough," you said through sobs, not caring about the tears falling from your cheeks anymore. "I can't make anyone happy, and everyone leaves me. It's like I'm cursed."

Raising your arm to wipe your tears, your sleeve fell, revealing several thin lines of elevated skin on your forearm. They differed in color from your regular skin tone. Some were old, almost faded, while others still had dry blood on them.

His jaw tensed as his eyes locked on the scars, his hand reaching for yours. "(y/n)," he said in a low voice, placing a hand on your cheek to turn your head towards him, capturing your eyes with his. 

"You are possibly the most remarkable person I have ever met. You have a kind heart, the kindest I know. Those who do not recognize your worth do not deserve to stay in your life. You give so much of yourself to others, but don't forget that you need some gentleness yourself. You—" His voice broke for a second, and he averted his gaze as he seemingly looked for the right words. Then, he looked at you again, his eyes determined. 

"You are the hero I always wished for. My only regret is that the Gods have kept you from me for so long."

You sniffled, cupping his cheek for a moment before pulling him into a tight hug, burying your face in his neck. You inhaled his scent and felt his protective arms around you. He was not ready to let you go.

"I will not leave you, (y/n)," he said, as if to underline your thoughts. "Loving others is always easier than loving oneself. Perhaps we can teach each other how to do the latter."

You hugged him more tightly, enjoying the moment for a second before pulling away to meet his eyes; they were filled with worry. Lips curling up into a soft smile, you stroked his cheek gently, nodding at him.

"Yes," you said finally, your voice hoarse from having cried and barely talked, yet your words were not any less significant. "Yes, I believe we can." Your hand brushed over his back, feeling his own scars beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. He had shown you them before, and opened up to you about their origin. You had been there for him then, much like he was there for you now.

She put the book back where it belonged and left the living area to climb the large staircase that dominated the foyer. Its railing had been decorated with lights that glowed in even intervals. 

“(y/n)!” She heard someone shout her name behind her , so she stopped in her tracks and turned around, tapping on her left earbud once to stop the music.

Stephen stood in front of her with his arms crossed and an annoyed expression on his face.

“Have you finished your paper on interdimensional threat elimination yet? Wong said he’s still waiting for your email.”

“Of course,” she replied, taking the earbuds out and dropping them into her pocket. “I wanted to send it to him just now.” She wanted to say how unnecessary it was to give her one last assignment that was due on Christmas, and a theory one at that, but she bit her tongue and swallowed the thought.

He hummed a response, cold gaze lingering on her while he seemed to think about her answer. Without another word, Stephen then turned on his heel and left for the kitchen, leaving her standing on the staircase. 

She sighed and continued towards her room. The way he spoke to her lately was getting on her nerves. She also noticed how he could sometimes not even look at her. It stung, wondering how his opinion of her could have dropped this much, especially in regards to the secret feelings she harbored for the sorcerer.

She closed the door behind her when she reached her room, trying to forget the encounter she had just had. Her room was moderately sized, with antique furniture and a large golden mirror next to her king-sized bed, neatly made with green velvet bedding. 

To get into the Christmas spirit, she had decorated your room a little with some lights and a wreath, whose four thick candles were each lit, enchanted so they wouldn't extinguish or transfer the flame to any flammable object. 

She approached her desk in front of your window, letting herself sink into the office chair in front of it. She had a good view of the business of Bleecker Street, so she observed for just a moment longer. There were many cars today, and people dressed in thick jackets that kept them safe from the falling snow, carrying presents in large bags or underneath their arms.

She smiled softly as she opened her laptop and quickly sent Wong and Stephen the PDF document. Normally, she would have gone over it again but today she really did not have the nerve or the motivation to do so. Besides, she had been done with it for almost a week already. 

After placing the earbuds back inside their case and leaving them on her nightstand, she exited your room, heading down the hall to Stephen's study. It was the first room next to the stairs, and its door was typically closed. Today was no exception. She knocked carefully and pushed it open a bit.

“Yes?” Stephen said without looking up, keeping his eyes firmly on the book he held in his hands.

She opened the door further and leaned against the doorframe, studying her mentor with a raised eyebrow. Sometimes, she wondered if he used his excessive research as a coping mechanism, as there was no way a single person could be so intertwined with their work.

“I sent you the email,” she informed him, eyes resting on the book in his hands. “And I was wondering when you would want to meet downstairs for the Christmas party at Kamar-Taj.”

Stephen sighed, placing the book back onto the shelf. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

"Right, the Christmas party," he said. "Wong mentioned it.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to read him, realizing that he had forgotten all about it until now. She sighed, averting her gaze for a moment.

“You don't plan to attend?”

“I do not. It would be irresponsible of me to leave the Sanctum unattended on Christmas.” He walked around his desk and let himself fall into his chair, turning his PC on with a click of his mouse.

“The last time you went to a party was the full moon one two years ago,” she reminded him, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

He was about to reply when he stopped for a second, looking at her perplexed. “You remember that?”

“Either way,” she continued, ignoring his question as she placed one hand on his mahogany desk, “Wong said he'd make sure someone would be there to take care of the Sanctum. So if you want to come along, he and I will meet in the foyer at seven.”

Stephen looked up at her while his fingers ghosted over the keyboard of his PC, but she didn't give him time to answer as she turned and left his study, closing the door behind her.

It took hersome time to get ready, and music could be heard coming from her room throughout it all. She had opted for a short red dress that sparkled in the light of her room. It was dark outside when she was done, and she was very thankful for the time spell put on Kamar-Taj today so that time zones did not matter. She couldn't imagine getting ready like this at eight in the morning.

She put on your heels, and grabbed her coat and a clutch before she left her room, locking it with your magic. The cold New York air caused goosebumps to appear on her legs; a window must have been opened somewhere. 

She descended the stairs, gripping the railing to steady herself in the heels she wore, careful not to trip. A smile appeared on her face as she spotted Wong standing at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed elegantly, yet not overly so for a simple Christmas party.

“Will Stephen not be joining us?” he asked, blinking at her while scanning the stairs behind her in search of the other man. She merely shrugged in response.

Before she could properly reply, Stephen emerged from the Sanctum library to her right and joined the two of them. He wore a white shirt and a tie, his hands hidden inside the pockets of his black trousers. A red scarf hung around his shoulders, and she immediately recognized the cloak of levitation’s pattern in the fabric.

“And here I thought you'd be spending most of the evening studying a tome,” she teased, looking up at him to meet his eye.

“Well, this party can also be seen as a celebration of you becoming a master of the mystic arts. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't celebrate that?”

Wong shook his head, extending his arms to create a portal in the middle of the Sanctum’s foyer. It came alive in a frame of sparks, glistening yellow and bright, reflecting in the gemstone she was wearing around your neck. It had no magic, yet it complemented her eyes.

“(y/n) is more of a friend than an apprentice, Stephen. To both of us. You should not see this as an obligation.”

She pursed her lips at the awkward silence that followed, but Wong had only said the words out loud that she had been thinking the entire past weeks.

Stephen did not reply and she could not bring yourself to meet his eye, so she only offered Wong a faint smile before stepping through the portal. 

All three of them exited the portal in the heart of Kamar-Taj, where ancient buildings adorned with mystical symbols rose against the darkening sky. A warm, magical glow enveloped the surroundings as they entered the main building, greeted by practitioners of the mystic arts who were adorned in elaborate robes, mingled beneath enchanted decorations that turned the air into a cascade of glittering snowflakes. The aroma of exotic spices drifted through the air, and she immediately felt her mouth water. 

They navigated through the lively crowd, and her face lit up when you spotted old friends and mentors from her time at the temple. She immediately engaged in conversation with them, Stephen and Wong joining her. Each of them took a drink from a nearby floating tray, clinking their glasses. Wong seemed to be feeling particularly sociable, but Stephen did not say much, his gaze occasionally landing on her or his wine glass.

“Please excuse me,” Stephen said after a while, leaning towards their little group so he could be heard better against the loud music and vibrant chatter around them.

When he turned to leave, he accidentally brushed his hand against hers in the process, causing her to freeze for a second and meet his gaze. His bright blue eyes held her captive, and she swore she could hear the music fade in the background. Before she could react in any way, however, Stephen had already cleared his throat and maneuvered around her, downing his drink.

She looked after him, lips slightly parted, before Amber, a girl who had started her magical studies around the same time as her, snapped her back into reality. “You good, (y/n)?”

“Um, yeah,” she replied, smiling a little awkwardly when she looked at Wong, who had a faint grin on his lips. “What?” she asked, almost snapped, but Wong only raised his arms in defense.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She cleared her throat again, offering the gathered a smile before excusing herself as well. She found her way to the buffet outside with flushed cheeks, set up in a place usually used for training. The air was cool but not cold enough to make her shiver. She smiled at the faces that were familiar to her and muttered a few greetings when people approached her .

The buffet was large, but her focus lay on a bowl with roasted almonds, which she had always loved since she was a little child. She took a smaller bowl and a spoon and put some almonds in hers before leaving the training area, popping one deliciously sweet almond into her mouth. As she was about to climb the flight of stairs leading back up to the main building, a drunk boy, who couldn't have been older than eighteen, bumped into her.

She tried to regain your balance, but she stepped onto the stone floor wrong, causing her ankle to twist at an awkward angle. Hissing, she held her ankle as a sharp pain shot through her leg. Her bowl of almonds had shattered on the ground next to her , and she stoically twirled her hand, using witchcraft to make the pieces disappear. The mystic arts required too much concentration and handwork at times, and her innate magic often came in handy.

“Watch where you’re going, dude!” she shouted, but the boy had already left. He probably did not even realize what happened.

She attempted to walk, but each step hurt more than the other, so she took her heels off and limped into the building. Shoes dangling from her right hand, she used the other to hold onto pillars and walls to stabilize herself, trying to find a quiet spot. At this time, the library would be empty, and it was not far either.

With the aid of magic, she opened the heavy library door and let it fall shut behind her, exhaling deeply as the loud noises were muffled by the door. Cursing, she slowly walked over to an armchair nearby and sat down on it. Her heels landed on the floor, hands both massaging the hurting ankle. She barely even registered the books that surrounded her, some of which were bound by chains. Back when she was studying in Kamar-Taj, she had always wondered about their contents, but now she could only focus on the pain.

“(y/n)?” She heard Stephen ask, lifting her head to see him appear from behind a bookshelf, brow raised. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Some drunkard ran into me, and I think I sprained my ankle.” She leaned back in her seat, sighing as she cursed herself for never having shown much interest in healing magic.

Stephen put the book in his hands aside and approached her. “Let me see,” he said calmly as he crouched down in front of her and lifted her ankle with his hands. She hissed at the sudden contact, the pain intensifying for a second. She sometimes forgot that he had been a surgeon before a sorcerer, so she watched as his skillful hands felt for any severe injury, occasionally causing her to wince in pain.

“It’s sprained,” he agreed, not waiting for a response. His hands began to glow in a faint yellow light, the healing warmth instantly relieving her stressed joint. As Stephen slowly worked on her ankle, their eyes locked. His hand traced gentle circles on her skin, and she wasn’t sure whether this was required for the spell, but she did not protest, even finding herself closing her eyes in response to his touch.

“You have a knack for finding trouble. I don’t think that’s ever going to change, is it?” He asked, a smile playing on his lips as she opened her eyes to meet his.

“A sprained ankle is hardly trouble, compared to the other things you had to keep up with these past two years,” she said, chuckling softly. He did not reply.

The pain ceased, and Stephen let go of her ankle. He rested his arm on his knee as she studied the injury, realizing that he had healed it completely.

“Thanks,” she said a little shyly, which even surprised her.

Not wanting the situation to turn into an awkward silence, she stood from your seat, causing him to do the same.

She were about to turn and leave, lips parted to say goodbye, when she noticed him staring at something above her. She followed his eyes and blushed deeply as she saw the mistletoe floating in the air between them, surrounded by a golden shimmer.

Swallowing, she looked back at him, blushing deeper as she asked, “Are you doing this?”

She felt stupid because of how hopeful her voice sounded; it was hard to deny she liked him, but he had always been rather cold towards her, which was why she was so glad that Wong had always been so nice to her. If he only knew the way she saw him, she was sure he’d never speak to her again.

Stephen looked from the mistletoe to her, shaking his head slowly. “No, I'm not.”

Realizing that this must be some joke one of the other sorcerers was playing on them, she quickly excused herself and apologized, turning to leave when his hand on her wrist stopped you.

She turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise.

“I didn't say you have to leave,” he whispered, his eyes briefly dropping to her lips. It was hard to breathe when she watched him inch closer towards you, giving her enough time to back away if she wanted to.

He raised his hand to touch her cheek gently, brushing some strands of hair out of her face before burying his fingers in her waves. Something had changed in the way he looked at her, and now that she thought about it, it had changed a while ago already. Precisely around the time he had started acting colder towards her.

Stephen was so close now that she could see the small dark speckle in his blue eyes, something she had never really noticed before. She held her breath as she saw him pull away, conflict written all over his face.

It was her turn to hold onto his wrist, making him look at her. She didn’t know what encouraged her to press her lips against his, but as it happened, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him close. She felt him tense against her; he had not anticipated her boldness, but soon he melted into the kiss, holding her by the small of her back.

As she pulled away, she smiled up at him, only to realize that the mistletoe had disappeared, but Stephen placed a hand on her cheek and directed her gaze back to him.

“Merry Christmas, (y/n),” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She saw how your red lipstick had stained his own lips. With a small smile, Stephen leaned in again, capturing her lips in another lingering kiss. The soft glow of her magic enveloped you both, creating an aura of enchantment in the quiet corner of the mystical library. It was in involuntary response to his touch; emotions guiding sorcery. As he pulled away, he met her gaze, and there was a newfound warmth in his eyes, a spark of something unspoken yet profound.

I can see you in your suit and your necktie Passed me a note saying, "Meet me tonight" Then we kissed and you know I won't ever tell

You turned to face him fully. The expression on his face was stern, yet the hand on your shoulder was almost soft to the touch.

“Are you avoiding me? Is it because of your cousin?”

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, jaw tightening. His gaze remained fixed on you, even when you dropped yours.

“You had him jailed and threatened him in front of my eyes.” Tears blurred your vision, and you brought some distance between you, trying to blink the blurriness away. 

“Did he not deserve it?” Aemond asked calmly, lowering his arm again. “He laid a hand on you.” His tone was angry, and you flinched. You wished you had had a choice. You wished you could thank him for jailing your cousin; the Gods knew you wanted to. But he was the only male heir of your family, as your parents had never had a boy themselves. The future of the shop was at risk. Justice was a luxury in a world as such, and there were very few things people like you could afford.

“He is my cousin, Aemond. You are a Targaryen. You should know the meaning of blood.” The words burned your tongue even as you said them, but you needed him to understand what he had essentially done to your family.

“He was a vermin,” the prince hissed, turning away for a moment to calm himself. He usually did not let this side of him show in front of you, but you knew he had it in him. That alone was enough. “How much is blood worth when it flows through unworthy veins?”

You met his eye again, seeing his own pain reflected in it. He had told you of his issues with his brother. Gods, you had seen it yourself. After all, it was you he had run into after escaping from the pleasure house his brother had brought him to when you had been younger. It was years ago, yet it felt closer than ever now.

You remembered the fear in his eyes and the shock marking his face. You had asked him what was wrong and who he was, too young to immediately recognize the weight his silver hair carried. Perhaps it was that which had determined your friendship in the following years.

Up until when you saw the darkness in him first. How the fear in his eyes was replaced with something mischievous and cruel whenever you passed the fisherman's shop as his gaze locked on the cleaver while it cut through the fish’s necks, dripping with blood.

It always sent shivers down your spine, and you worried that one day he would lose interest in mere fish.

“Aemond,” you said calmly, hand pressed against your stomach as you suddenly felt sick. “I wished to only tell you this after the theatre, but I believe it shouldn't wait. We cannot continue our meetings.” Your voice shook, but to your surprise, there were no tears in your eyes.

His gaze hardened, and you saw the muscles in his jaw tense. Though there was no aggression in his eye, not even protest.

“I have come with news too, (y/n). My sister requires a new lady's maid. The pay is way better than what your family's shop could ever offer you. And most of all,” he paused, taking a step towards you with his gaze fixed on you. You averted your own. “We could be closer. We'd still have to meet secretly but in the comfort of the palace’s walls.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked back at him, brows furrowed. “What comfort is there in knowing half of the palace would have my head if they knew-" Your voice broke. You couldn't bear to say it out loud. To even suggest that someone of your birth could capture his attention. The truth was there, readable for all who witnessed it, yet the only observers were the clashing waves, and only death was more certain than the silence of the sea.

“Aemond, I am engaged to be married,” you finally said, taking a step backward. You could no longer look at him; too big was the shame you had no explanation for why you were even feeling it.

The frigidity in his eye returned, and for a moment, you could not have told the difference between the sapphire hidden underneath his eye patch and his real iris.

“To whom?” he asked in a voice so cold, it rivaled the gemstone in his socket.

“I don't see how it is of interest to you.”

“To whom,” he repeated, not even allowing you to fully finish your sentence. You took a deep breath.

“Micah Roth. He is a good man, Aemond. And this marriage could offer me a good life. More than-" Your voice broke again, and you pressed your lips together as he came so close you could feel his breath on your cheeks. His voice dropped to a whisper when he looked down at you.

“More than what?” he asked in a way that indicated he knew the answer. His hands were raised slightly as if he wanted to touch you but couldn't risk it. As if you were slipping through his fingers like sand.

“More than being a prince’s whore.” 

He inhaled sharply, lips pursed as he studied you for a while, longer than you felt comfortable. Then, without warning, he brushed past you and left you standing at the rocky shore while the wind around you dried your tears. 

—

Days had passed since your last meeting with the prince, and he had not left your mind. Even as you baked bread with your father, you made mistakes you had long since learned to avoid. When your father asked what was wrong, you simply said the engagement was on your mind, and in a way, it was not even a lie.

You had never told your family about your friendship with the prince, and when you realized he had started to fall for you, and you for him, you knew it was something they would never find out. It was also for their protection, after all. The less they knew about your entanglement with the royal family, the better.

“Prince Aegon is celebrating his nameday today, (y/n),” said your father as he placed a tray of fresh pastries on the table in front of you. The baker's shop was empty at this time of day since it was still very early, so he felt comfortable speaking freely without having to worry about anyone eavesdropping. “I want you to deliver these pastries. They have been commissioned by Her Majesty The Queen.”

You stopped kneading the dough before you as you looked up at your father, perplexed.

“Me? To the palace?” you asked, wondering if you had heard correctly. To your dismay, your father nodded.

“This is a great honour. If the Queen and her son like our goods, it would mean a lot for your mother and me.”

You nodded slowly, staring at the tray in front of you. The pastries were fresh, and not even the cloth your father had placed over them could stop the steam from rising.

“Okay,” you replied silently, clearing your throat as you wiped the flour from your hands and grabbed the tray. The palace wall was not far from your family's shop; you would not even have to take a carriage.

Your father smiled at you, ruffling your hair. “Straight to the palace and back, (y/n), alright? Festivities always draw criminals to our city like moths to the flame.”

You assured your father you would be back soon and left the shop with the pastries in hand. They smelled sweet, and you already envied the royal taster who would have a bite of each one of them. Of course, it would have been easier to make a palace cook bake them, which was precisely why this situation made you suspicious.

When you reached the palace gate, a guard stopped you, inspecting the tray and listening as you explained that you were expected inside. It seemed to align with what he had been told, so he allowed you to step through.

The palace grounds were filled with servants hurrying across it, stress painted all over their faces. The eldest son’s nameday was a big event, of course, but you had never known just how big. It wasn't like you had ever been exposed to a festivity like this before anyway.

Balancing the tray, you walked through the courtyard, careful not to bump into anyone, which proved to be quite a challenge.

A kitchen boy stepped out of a door to your right and raised his hand towards you, barely visible in the sea of heads around you.

“Here!” he called out to you, and you smiled at him as you reached him, noticing his cheeks covered in flour.

“You're Miss (y/l/n), correct? With the pastries?”

“Yes, that's right,” you replied, ducking your head as the boy led you inside the kitchen; the door was quite low. Inside, a few cooks were preparing food and shouting at their helpers, but the boy paid no attention to them. He was just a boy, you were sure. His features were soft, and his eyes were young.

“Just put them over there, thank you.”

You looked at the table he pointed to and nodded slightly before placing the tray down on it. “Would that be all?” you asked, clasping your hands in front of your abdomen as you looked at the boy.

“No, actually. The prince wants to see you.” You blinked at him. “Prince Aemond,” he clarified.

“Oh,” you said, biting the inner cheek as you nodded again, this time more reluctantly. Of course, he did. “Thank you,” you said, not bothering to ask where he would meet you, as you were well aware of his favorite spot in the palace. He had mentioned it to you many times.

It was a secluded little balcony in the east wing, which barely anyone went to despite it being open even to servants. You tried to remember exactly how he described the way to it, recognizing the statues and pillars you walked by. It was your first time here, so it took you a while to find it, but you blended in well with the servants and the tumultuous hours before the celebration.

When you opened the door to the balcony, you indeed saw Aemond standing there, looking out onto the sea with his back turned towards you. The air had gotten colder now, and the sky was slowly darkening. You wrapped your arms around your body as you approached him, letting the door fall shut behind you.

“Aemond?” you asked carefully, keeping your distance. He tensed when he heard your voice, turning his head slightly to the side.

“You came,” he stated, not able to mask the surprise in his voice.

“I always have,” you said as you joined him at the railing, wrapping your hands around the cold stone. You followed his gaze to the sea, where the waves got larger by the second. There were almost no houses beneath you in this part of King’s Landing; only fields and barns. The dragon pit must have been close too. “Since the very first day after I saw you run from your brother.”

His own grip around the railing tightened and his knuckles turned white. Only when you looked up at him did he do the same, your eyes pleading. You did not know why he had asked you here, and you knew that you shouldn’t have come, but over the years your own heart had come to yearn for him. Perhaps a life in the palace with him would not be so bad after all? You could never marry, but you knew he’d settle it so your parents would be taken care of. You shook your head. No, these thoughts were reckless and dangerous, and so was he. 

“It is one of the reasons why I have come to care about you so dearly, (y/n).” He inched closer, placing himself just behind you as he took hold of the railing again, trapping you between his arms. You could feel his chest in your back, but you dared not turn around to look at him. His breath on the nape of your neck caused the fine hairs there to stand on end, and your breathing shallow. You smelled the mixture of dragon and wood; a scent unique to him which you sometimes smelled on yourself after your meetups. 

“I have found your Micah Roth, you know,” he whispered in your ear, his eyes fixed on the horizon in front of you. “Did you know that he had been married three times already?” 

You swallowed at the realization before you shook your head. It wouldn’t be unusual, Micah was older than you after all, but you believed it was information he should have shared with your family and you. You held on tighter to the balcony, Aemond’s arms so close they almost wrapped around you. 

“All of his former wives have new names now,” he continued, his voice shaking with contained anger. “And all of them ended up in the very pleasure house you met me in front of all those years ago.”

You gasped for air, not wanting to believe what you were hearing, but if it came from Aemond’s lips you knew it must have been true. He had done many things that froze the blood in your veins, but never once had he lied to you. And truth be told, you had wondered how a lowly-born man such as Micah was able to afford all the beautiful things he had gifted your family, or the horses he had taken you out for a ride with. Your parents believed he had been Gods sent because of it. 

When the first tear threatened to fall, Aemond gently touched your cheek, catching it with his fingers. “Don’t worry, (y/n),” he whispered, his gaze rising with expectation. “He will pay for his crimes.” 

As if on cue, his dragon, Vhagar, rose from the ground and past the balcony, nearly brushing her scales against your fingers. You had not noticed her before, and so you jumped back against Aemond, who wrapped one arm around you, holding you tightly. 

A man’s screams could be heard, swallowed by the wind the further away Vhagar flew; it was Micah, bound to Vhagar’s foot and dangling from the dragon’s monstrous body several hundred meters up in the air. Blood must have been rushing to his head, and when you looked closer, before Vhagar was too far away, you saw evidence of torture on his skin; cuts and bruises, and open wounds. 

The dragon kept looking at her master, flying around in circles, yet before the man could pass out, Aemond screamed, “Dracarys!” 

Vhagar raised her foot and spit a cloud of fire onto the man bound to it, whose screams would surely never leave your mind. He was burning alive while the dragon did not move from a fixed spot in the air, using only her wings to fly in place. 

With wide eyes, you looked at the burning figure until it stopped struggling and hung lifelessly from the dragon. Vhagar did not wait for any command as she cut the rope with her other clawed foot and caught the burned corpse in her mouth, swallowing Micah whole. 

You stared, eyes wide as the dragon was dismissed by her master. Aemond still held you, his expression one of hate as you looked at him, almost not daring to, but when he met your eyes, his gaze softened. 

I only write full stories at this moment in time

In a context other than headcanons, I am absolutely open to writing one shots for different characters inspired by the same prompt

I can write for female and gender-neutral readers and usually try to keep it somewhat ambiguous. However, I am most comfortable writing female readers (for the love interest, the identity does not matter. I am bi myself, so LGBT pairings are very welcome!)

You can request any character from Baldur's Gate 3 or any other fandom. But some characters might require research before I feel comfortable writing them

I am okay with most dark themes, but a clear line for me is rape. If the reader has experienced it and is dealing with the trauma from it, that is something I am open to writing. However, I will not write the rape itself. Other than that, it depends on the plot context

I am monogamous myself, and therefore, I don't write poly relationships. I may not understand or capture the dynamics properly, which means I cannot publish it comfortably as I wish to do every request justice

AUs are totally fine!

I do NSFW requests, please refer to my request info for more details

You can absolutely specify the race (e.g. elf, tiefling, etc for DnD or twi'lek, sith pureblood etc for Star Wars) of the reader for fantasy requests. You can also specify class, if you'd like!

Regarding kinks, it really depends. Since I am asexual, it is sometimes hard for me to write most kinks due to my lack of familiarity, similar to male readers and poly ships. Ask about a specific kink, and I will decide whether it's something I can write. If I do not feel comfortable with it, I can also write your one shot without the kink. Central to my writing are romance plots and not purely sex, so I tend to emphasize anticipation and desire rather than explicit details. And if I do write them, they often do not make up much of the total word count.

All in all, I hope this gives you an idea of what I write! If you have a topic you are unsure of, I always recommend sending me a request. The safest way for me to determine if I can write your story will always be after reading your exact idea. I hope this helps!