Vyx

From behind, late afternoon sunlight pooled through the tall windows, catching a swirl of dust particles near the old bookshelves. You break from his touch, eyes returning down to your lap, tracing a finger across the top edges of your book. Only a few hundred pages to go.

"Perhaps later," you replied airily. "Did the servants mention I wish not to be disturbed, either?"

Lyonel huffed out a laugh. "Not even sparing your lord husband?"

A quiet chuckle escaped your lips, but you didn't respond further, instead quickly picking up where you left off.

There was a beat of silence.

Lyonel shifted on his feet, drumming his fingers against the curve of your chair. He swept a glance around the library.

In all his years living in Storm's End, you'd think he'd have explored every nook and cranny of the castle, even just from scampering around in the days of his youth. He rarely came up to this part of the tower, and the library alone was a room he had never quite acknowledged its existence of—that was, until your marriage, and you had claimed the small space like it was a fortress of your own, practically barricading yourself with all these books when you had no other duties to fulfil.

He glanced back at you, still in a state of perfect serenity. Heaving a sigh, his patience fell through.

"Alright! Enough of that."

Lyonel snatched the book out of your hands.

You shot up from your seat. "Hey!"

The corners of his lips tugged upwards. "What's this you're reading anyway that's depriving me of your attention, hm?"

Horror flashed across your face. You sprang forward, but Lyonel sidestepped you almost effortlessly. He extended his arm so the book was out of your reach, eliciting a laugh as he watched you try multiple times to take it back—and fail.

"Lyonel, please—"

"Oh? Something I shouldn't know about?" he teased, a wicked grin spreading across his features. "Now you've got me truly curious."

You went so far as to clutch at his linen doublet, but Lyonel only seemed to be enjoying your desperate attempts, his arm stretching further behind as you pawed at his chest. Finally, he managed to catch a glimpse of the leather-bound cover, and his jaw went slack.

"A Caution for Young Girls?" he said, almost in wonder. "But darling, this is—" You both came to a standstill, and a spark of excitement suddenly shone in his eyes. "Oh, this is obscene. You mean to tell me you've been reading this filth all day?"

"Among other things!" you insisted, frowning, feeling a heat creep up your ears. You motioned your head to the few books stacked beside your chair—which were, of course, nowhere as lewd as the one your husband had seized.

Believing his guard was now lowered, you pounced once more. "Give it—" But Lyonel's reflexes were quick, and he took a sharp step backward, chuckling like a roguish child.

"I've only heard the smallfolk rave about such eroticism, no less written by a handmaid of Alysanne Targaryen," he said with a smirk, running a hand through his tousled curls. "You know, my love, if it is an outlet of release you're seeking, you could've just asked."

"Yes, I know, I know—" you replied, now defeated, and released an exasperated sigh. "Will you please just return me my book, Lyonel?"

Something brewed in his eyes then, the same fervent look when he was about to indulge in merrymaking.

"Hmm," he pondered innocently—or rather pretended to. "No."

Your brows scrunched in confusion.

"You'll have to catch me first."

You caught seconds of the most smug grin on Lyonel's face before he bolted for the door.

You groaned inwardly—as endearingly frivolous your husband was, that also meant you had no choice but to participate in his antics.

Cursing under your breath, you gave chase.

Storm's End had stood for centuries, but its thick grey walls had never witnessed such wayward amusement until the ruling of its current lord and lady. The castle itself was a symbol of strength, housing respect for all its inhabitants and casting a seriousness upon the stag—now it echoed with comical shouts and boisterous laughter, almost as if young love had never faded.

Footsteps striked against the ground, one set after another, as you dashed down the stairs and scurried through the cobble hallways. It was an endless blur of stone pillars and fresh torches burning in the sconces. You focused only on the salt-and-pepper curls in front, flying wild and untamed—oft a wonder how Lyonel was still so full of vim and vigour.

He made a sharp turn then, and you followed suit, whirling down another flight of steps. The faint sound of waves crashing against rocks at the cliff's base could be heard, and light now spilled through the open corridors. You rounded the last corner, but the sight of the Storm Lord running past must've left a servant dumbstruck and stationary, and you nearly knocked over the tray of hot food she was carrying.

"Sorry!"

You quickly uttered an apology, darting straight for the dining hall where Lyonel led you inside.

But just when you were about to gain on him, he suddenly came to a halt. Lyonel spun around, and his lower back hit the edge of the table.

"Oof!"

You crashed into his chest.

A hand immediately steadied your waist.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, adrenaline washing over as you both fought for your breaths. Your heart was hammering against your sternum, and though you wanted to scowl at the affectionately irritating man for causing you such unnecessary exertion, the corners of your mouth couldn't help but twitch upwards.

Lyonel was already smiling. Messy grey ringlets fell over his forehead. His chest was still heaving, and he only stared at you intensely, as if deep in thought.

His gaze dropped to your slightly parted lips.

"You know what the hunting party spoke of?" He met your eyes again, speaking coarsely between laboured breaths, "They say I'm trapped in a loveless marriage. Because you're more taken with your books than you are with me."

Lyonel's tone hinted at a jest, but you could tell he wasn't entirely unbothered by the remarks made.

Safe to say, they were a needless concern.

"That's not true," you replied, scoffing lightly. "Do you think I would've entertained you this long if it was?"

"Then—" His features softened. "You do love me?"

Your heart rate slowed to a steady rhythm. You tucked a stray lock behind his ear, pretending to sigh deeply. "Unfortunately, yes."

A grin tugged at his mouth. His other hand drew out your book from behind his back. "Promise me you'll have something to eat first," Lyonel said, voice warm and rough, gesturing to the rich spread of food now splayed on the long table.

You chuckled. "I promise."

"And—" His arm pulled back a little, just before you could reach for the book. "Give me a kiss."

You were well aware of the several pairs of eyes and ears present with you in the hall—servants streaming in from the kitchens, a cupbearer filling wine just across the room.

Regardless, you leaned in to take Lyonel's lips between yours, feeling his beard tickle your jaw. His shoulders immediately relaxed, and no sooner than two seconds later his mouth moved to slant against yours, kissing you deeper and more eagerly, as if his one-day trip into the nearby woods had deprived him of you for many moons.

at the way he let himself lose control, indulge in this. he blamed himself — for hurting you, for making you bear weight he didn’t know if you were ready for.

he distanced himself then. retrieving the manners of his realm that suddenly became oh so important. locking himself away in his study for countless nights. hiding himself from you.

and you couldn’t help but remember the long, lonely nights when you cradled your growing belly, the new soul that was starting to take shape and he was missing it. he was missing seeing his child grow, he was abandoning you and your child. Lucienne winced each time she had to walk past your chambers and listen to your quiet sniffling and then walk into his study to face the coldness of his gaze on her.

you were sure the growing depth between you was caused by his lack of desire to father another child and yet… the real reason was his own cowardice. to not hurt this one like he did with his son before. your pregnant form was a painful reminder of Orpheus and what he lost because of his own pride. he remembered each time he saw you how happy he was when Calliope announced expecting a child from him.

yet he couldn’t tell you this. he couldn’t say how scared he was, how hurting he was with the thoughts of him failing yet another child of his.

your daughter came early — startling you with the sudden pain in your abdomen. she came two and a half weeks too early. you called for the healers the very same minute before inhaling deeply.

it was a long night. your screams echoed through the palace and you remember how you clenched your hand on the sheets.

he barged into the chambers when you were already giving up. your head spinned and your breath was heavy — almost as if you hadn't had enough oxygen around you. his hand found yours in a second, the other brushing the hair that stuck into your forehead. you could remember how he whispered to your ear, even if you couldn’t remember what he said to you now. and when her first cry — high pitched wail — echoed through the chamber he pressed his lips to your wet temple.

the kiss was a silent beg for forgiveness, a plea. pathetic and weak as he knew that what he had done was too wrong to ask for it now.

when you felt the weight of your daughter you couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving gasp before closing your eyes tightly to hold back tears that spilled on your cheeks later anyway. it was when she was finally placed upon your chest after many months she had spent under your heart you finally leaned your temple against his cheek and exhaled quietly in a silent answer to his plea.

your daughter was born with a head full of black curls, grey eyes and pale skin. only her tiny nose was pinkish and lips always in a pout. now days later when the night fell upon the Dreaming you couldn’t help but watch her with fascination.

“eight months under my heart and you look exactly like your father.” you said before planting a kiss on the crown of her head.

a quiet huff left Morpheus’ lips before he shifted awkwardly against the pillows of your bed. he was still stiff, the guilt still lingered in his expression every time his eyes lingered upon her.

“she really is… exquisite.” he said before his knuckles hovered gently above her hair as if he was afraid to touch her.

she was a quiet baby, demanding only when she was in need of it, her skin soft just like her hair – they had this newborn softness in them and the smell that clung to her? you couldn’t get enough of it. she was here after months of struggle you finally had her in your arms.

“she’s… quite small.” he murmured as his finger finally hooked gently over her curl.

“fragile little thing.” you nodded, smiling only as she squirmed under his touch when his hand traveled to her rosy cheek.

“Quite… squishy.” his frown deepened and you had to and not burst into laughter because of the look on his face.

you couldn’t believe how domestic he got in those few days. how much he softened both to you and to your daughter. how he could hold her to his chest when you were dozing off, still exhausted from the birth. or how when you would wake up and stopping by her crib you could hear the last sounds of lullababies lingering by her crib – they were at his command, his whim and when he wanted his daughter to have a great night sleep where no nightmare would haunt her, they were there.

“she’s still… new to all this.” you said and sighed watching her with a soft gaze. “our Lyra.”

Lyra – a name chosen after a constellation that was now permanently hanging over the palace. the Dreaming will from now recognize its princess. you chose it carefully, after months of going through the books in the library under the watchful eye of Lucienne. Lyra – name associated with harmony, music and night sky. an unmistakable connection to her father. you thought about it sternly, you wanted to be selfish, to name her Luna instead. a name that would mean the moon, that would show everyone that she belonged to the goddess of the moon herself. but when you looked at her – all pale and with mop of black hair, you realize that you were not yours only. that despise his initial coldness, you would not have her if not for Morpheus. he planted her in your womb and you held her there like the most sacred thing in your life.

“she’s perfect.” he whispered cupping the small side of his face in his bigger hand

and you couldn’t help but melt at the sight – leaning your head on his shoulder and watch her cooing quietly at his touch.

“please forgive me.” you didn’t expect him to bring this subject again. “I was more than a fool for abandoning you in this trying time… both of you.” he pressed a kiss to the side of you head before closing his eyes as if to await your answer.

“I forgave you the moment you came to my chambers, when your hand sneaked into mine and your words lingered by my ear.” you inhaled before smoothing her hair as if to bring yourself comfort. “I know it is probably unwise of me… that I should be petty for a long time… but seeing you… so gentle with her, I just cannot help it but forget all your flaws.”

a long silence stretched between you after the words left your mouth, interrupted only by her childish cooing or a soft fuss for attention from her parents.

“I do not deserve this, I do not deserve you nor her.” he said leaning his forehead on the side of your head again with his expression almost pained. “not after what I let happen to my son.”

a sudden surge of realization came upon you. the reason for his departure was not the lack of love or the disappointment of creating life you never spoke of. but the fear of failing as a father once more. to be a father once more

“she is not Orpheus.” you said, turning your head to him. “she has a fate of her own… she is not her brother.”

Silence occurred in the chamber as you simply looked at him. The tiny, soft breaths of Lyra was the only sound that echoed through the room as her chest raised and fell slowly. She was dreaming, a sweet, sweet dream that her father secretly woven for her. A mystery that came from under his hands and into her mind. A gift from him to her — the only thing you were not capable of giving.

Dreams.

“No… no she is not my son.” He said quietly like the memories of Orpheus flooded his mind and brought sadness into his heart. “She is my daughter.” His voice was clearer, firmer and his finger finally slid down her forehead to the pointed nose. A gesture that you don’t know if it was supposed to calm him or Lyra. “And I shall cherish her like I did with Orpheus… cherish and protect.”

Your breath hitched before you looked back down at her… and you felt the warm, small body under your touch.

You settled her into his arms. Slowly, carefully as if not to startle both of them. Lyra’s face scrunched in displeasure before she wriggled her curled legs and looked almost like she had melted into him. You heard the unsure inhale from Morpheus, the way he stilled, his muscles tensed, holding her with this stiff caution.

“Are you certain?” His voice broke slightly before he cleared his throat and his gaze fell upon her.

It was like starring into into the same person. Same long and slightly pointed nose, the same unruly, black hair, the same pale skin.

And in the moment her eyes opened for the first time as she laid in his arms you lost your last hope that your daughter resembled you in any way.

She was looking up at Morpheus with this curious, wide-eyed stare like he was the most interesting creature alive — apparently and probably — he was. He gave you a side-long glance and you swore it screamed.

Help me, woman.

As if she was even doing anything besides staring at her father.

You wondered how soon she’ll spot the similarities she shared with her father. At two years old, perhaps five. The more you thought about her growing the more you couldn’t believe the bundle in your husband’s arms will change in anyway.

“She looks just like you.” You grumbled running you fingers gently through her curls as she yawned quietly, her gaze now turning to you.

“That is… a detail only.”

“Do not even try to joke.” You said firmly, your gaze on him, a warning. “It’s like you would stare into a mirror.” You added. “And I advise you to get used to hearing that, you will hear it to no end when your siblings will come to see her.”

Morpheus let out a painful sigh, already imagining the torment he will experience from Desire or the clueless questions from Delirium about what, how and why she was like that. When Despair would try to keep her twin at bay, Death wouldn’t even try to keep her hands away and Destiny… well… he had his own way of dealing with family gatherings.

“We don’t have to let them into the Dreaming…” he mumbled, relaxing slightly against the headboard.

“It’s your family and we will welcome them when the time comes.”

“If you say so, dear wife.”

Lyra shifted in his arms, wriggling as if to find a new, more comfortable position, her cheek rubbed against the fabric of his black shirt and she cooed quietly like she wanted to add something to the conversation. Make the attention shift back to her and make her father’s heart beat faster with anxiety at the any sudden jerk of her limbs.

“She will be smothered by their kisses and doting and… affection.” He said it like a slur, like a mere thought of Lyra being circled by their aunts and uncles was an unbelievable and ridiculous one.

“Spoiled princess.” You chuckled quietly looking at her and you couldn’t help but admire how the soft curls framed her face perfectly just like the dark lashes framed her eyes.

“Spoiled will be an understatement.” He grumbled tracing her nose again with his finger.

Lyra’s eyes followed his pale skin before her face scrunched into an unexpected sneeze. Morpheus’ face tightened slightly as he hadn't taken his eyes off of her.

“It’s way too cold here…” he mumbled quietly before a shiver run down your spine as the temperature in the room rose a bit.

“She’s not sick, my love.” you sighed watching his profile.

“And how do you know?”

“It was one sneeze.”

“A sneeze nonetheless.”

“… You’re ridiculous.” You sighed finally before running your fingers through her curls again “And overprotective already.”

“I am most certainly not.” He got defensive again as his eyes searched your, he fixed his grip on her unconsciously as if it was something instinctive… as if he had done this many times before. “I was also — in fact — slightly chilly.”

“Oh you posh—“

“Perhaps you can use your oh so colorful language when our daughter is not currently staring into our souls.” There was a warning in his voice, subtle but unmistakable as he cradled her carefully.

Your mouth shut as you stared at him with narrowing eyes. “Don’t bring ‘don’t swear in front of children’ card.”

“Well she is present already isn’t she?” For a moment you could swore the corner of his mouth lifted “she made a… grand entrance.”

You winced slightly at the memory of the fading pain.

“That I can’t argue.”

His hand ran through her hair carefully, tousling the already wild curls with his fingers. He looked almost mesmerized by her sleeping face, her hands that squeezed into small fists and the small yawn that Lyra let out.

“She has so much hair already.” He mumbled eyeing her almost suspiciously. “Should it be like that?” His question almost screamed with concern as he tried to came the black locks.

A quiet chuckle — to not disturb her peaceful state — left your lips as you looked at his furrowed eyebrows and confused stare.

“It’s fine… do not worry.”

“I don’t worry.” He scoffed and began to rock her slowly. “I simply… voice my concern.”

“Of course.” You said smiling teasingly before planting a kiss on the top of her head. “But we might make use of them.”

“… You’re not doing what I think you’re doing to my daughter.”

“She is also my daughter.”

“Fine.” He grumbled “But if she starts crying—“

“She won’t” you said quickly. “Do not worry.”

“I do not worry.”

You summoned a small hairbrush with a flick of your wrist. Morpheus looked almost offended as the thing appeared in your hand — as if taming Lyra’s hair was some kind of blasphemy.

“And what are you planning?”

“Pigtails.”

A grimace appeared on his face as he glanced at you — the cold void of his eyes meeting your determined expression.

“Pigtails?”

“Yes.”

He inhaled looking back at Lyra, sceptically — like he couldn’t imagine his daughter in any other hairstyle than she had now.

”Fine. But if she starts crying—“

”She won’t” you assured giving him a small smirk.

Your Lyra was a calm baby and you were sure that she wouldn’t mind much if you messed with her hair a bit, after all… why would she come out with a full head of them?

“Just get this over with…” he grumbled, holding her more secure in his arms.

You smiled at the sight of him — amused that something so harmless making him so moody.

Morpheus’ expression went from mildly annoyed to somewhat concerned as you started to brush through Lyra’s hair and only made them frizzy. The wild dark curls became more tousled every time you ran the brush through them. He watched you with a mix of disbelief and slight horror.

The usually composed and aloof Dream of the Endless looked almost like he was witnessing a crime.

“You’re only making it worse.” He grumbled again eyeing his daughter’s face and how ridiculous she looked right now before his face slightly yet visibly softened at her quiet babbles and unaware cooing.

“Just need to— do it while they’re wet.” You said and grimaced slightly at the frizz on Lyra’s head.

“No.”

”Yes!”

”Thousand times no.” he said looking at you. “You’re talking madness”

”Whose side are you on?” You huffed and brushed your hand over her head, making them slightly wet, before brushing them again.

The curls stocked to her scalp as Morpheus let out another exasperated sigh. “Definitely not yours.”

”So mean to me.” You said partying them in the middle under his unimpressed gaze. “Hold her still.” Your finger threaded through the black hair, managing to tie her hair into two sticking out pigtails with a smile.

One was higher than the other and placed on the completely other part of her head — still too thin and wet to make a proper hairstyle look… funny.

“She—“ you inhaled mid laugh. “She looks great.” Your voice was slightly strained as you tried not to laugh at the sight of the poorly made pigtails and your daughter’s unaware face, her big eyes only staring at you with a curious gaze before turning to her father.

He couldn’t believe that you were actually laughing at his poor daughter’s hairstyle. “You’re finding this funny?” He demanded, his voice filled with irritated grumble yet it was completely deprived of the real heat.

“We could add two little bows instead of ties and she’ll be a proper princess.” You tried to explain while a smile was pushing its way on your face.

His face turned comically annoyed at the suggestion. The mere thought of adding bows to the already disastrous hairstyle was almost too much to handle. “Absolutely not.” He exclaimed. “We’re not turning her into some over-the-top princess with bows and ruffles.”

”We can make then navy blue and they won’t stand out so much!”

Morpheus shot you a sharp glare and took a calming inhale before twisting one pigtail on his finger with judgmental eyes.

“We’ll try again.” You said and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head gently on what your husband’s gaze softened immediately.

”Just don’t make them worse this time.” He mumbled, his eyes narrowing slightly.

”It was my first time!”

”well yes, I can see that.”

True to your eldest brother’s words, he did sit before you and hid the view of the guests, but most importantly, Aemond. You fiddled with your fingers in anxiousness and prayed that the feast would pass quickly. “Do not fret, sister; you could retire after the second course,” The prince whispered beside you, and you could only give a small smile of gratitude. However, that smile was quick to wilt as you realized that before the feast could actually commence, those who sought your father’s blessing for their marriage were to approach the long table. As your brother saw the clear alarm in your eyes, he too realized what was to happen next. “I… I shall be fine, brother.” You managed to say, but the validity of your words was debatable.

You tried to keep your mind preoccupied as the lords and ladies who asked for your father’s blessing for marriage began to queue before the long table. Your eldest brother began to speak to you and your brother, offering any anecdote just so you would not let your mind wander towards your past knight, who stood with his betrothed at the end of the line. When he was drawing closer, your fingers nervously traced the embroidery of your dress, bracing yourself as you would once again be faced with the love you had lost. 

Luckily, your cousin Eliza suddenly appeared, in her arms was her babe, and she quickly excused you from the long table as she had been privy to the truth. “Come, cousin, my son has been desperate to spend time with his aunt,” Eliza smiled softly as her daughter coed in her arms, ushering you to stand and offering an escape from facing Aemond. 

Aemond, who stood at the end of the line, felt his breath fall short as he saw you stand, your gaze planted on the babe in Lady Eliza’s arms. This was the closest he had been to you for two years. He was finally ready to face you, to look into your enchanting eyes once more, but his chances were gone as you had left, just as he did. 

“Thank you,” You said quietly as you took Eliza’s son into your arms, the tot quickly settling into your hold. You need not utter why you gave thanks, as Eliza quickly understood and took your hand and gave it a loving squeeze. 

“Oh, by the way, cousin, I wish for you to meet Lord Andrew. He’s my dear husband’s cousin,” Eliza smiled, and as the words left her lips, the young lord stood. His stature towered over those who sat at the long table and over you as well. Eliza knowingly smiled as she caught the way your eyes slightly widened when you saw her husband’s cousin. With his tall frame, warm brown eyes, and sand blonde locks, he looked exactly like the man you had envisioned and told her you would marry when you were younger. Eliza would like to believe it was fate. Though she had once wished it was Aemond you would end up with, it would seem that was just a fantasy, as he was now lined up before your father to ask for his blessing with his betrothed on his arm. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, princess.” Lord Andrew smiled and took your hand to place a kiss on your knuckles. For the first time in two years, you feel the familiar heat on your cheeks and the slight flutter in your heart as your eyes meet those of warm brown eyes. 

Aemond, who was standing before your father, saw the scene, eye wide and confused. His mind was running with questions that no one could answer. For the past moons, he and the whole of the kingdom believed that their beloved princess was married. But you were still here, in your father’s house. No prince nor lord escorted you through the castle walls, nor did anyone see you with another man who was not related to you. Could it be true that your hand was not taken by another? That you had kept your promise to him that you would never take another that was not him? Aemond could not stew in his thoughts any longer as the king was now before him, and he and his betrothed were asking for his blessing, but all he wanted to do was run to you and leave all his misguided actions behind.

As the feast went on, Aemond could not help as his eye kept glancing in the direction of the princess. She forwent her proper place by the head table and instead occupied the seat next to a lord in a place that seems to be connected to Lady Eliza’s husband’s house. Aemond watched steely-eyed as the lord leaned forward and invaded the princess’s space, a smirk on his lips. Aemond had thought you would back away, put further space between you and the lord as you often did, but you only mirrored his smile, and he dared say he saw you mimic the lord’s movements and lean further as you two engaged in a conversation that was meant for you two alone. 

Aemond gripped his chalice tightly. Aemond had always resisted jealousy before, even if he often failed. But now? All he wanted was to stew in his jealousy. Nurse the pit in his heart as you laughed with a lord. And curse the day that he decided to leave you. However, Aemond could do no such thing, as all he felt was his own doing. 

You resisted turning towards the direction of your past knight. He was on the other side of the room, yet you could still feel the familiar burn of his lilac, icy stare. Questions infiltrated your mind— the same questions you had years before. Why did he leave? What have you done wrong? Why had he not returned your letters? All of these questions were never given an answer, and you would think that after years of silence, you would have given up and decided to move on. But who could truly move on from their first love? So instead of giving in to your wants to march over to the other side of the hall and demand Aemond’s answers, you preoccupied yourself with Lord Andrew. If Aemond had clearly moved on, so should I. You thought. You breathed in deeply and decided that it was truly better to forget about him because if you dwelled further, the hurt in your chest might never leave, and it only doubled each time as you thought of him and his soon-to-be lady wife. 

“Might be too forward of me to ask if we could break fast tomorrow, princess?” Lord Andrew questioned sheepishly, his eyes going downwards in shyness, and you bit your tongue. “But we had not even finished our supper, my lord,” You say, eyes glancing towards the plates before you two that were barely touched as you and the lord had been too preoccupied with speaking and getting to know one another. 

“Oh— I… apologies, princess, I did—“ You bit your lip to prevent the amused smile that wanted to come forth as the lord began to ramble on his apologies for being too forward, and his fear of offending and scaring you off was evident in his eyes. You licked your lips and took hold on his hand that reasted atop teh table as a signal for him to cease fretting and voiced out that you would very much like to break your fast with him on the morrow but what you liked most that for the first time in two years, you found someone who could bring your thoughts away from Aemond. 

When Aemond witnessed that you bestowed your touch upon another and how his stare could not persuade you to look upon him, he quickly stood and excused himself from the house’s table and left. Desperately wanting to erase the scene he had witnessed in his mind and expel the rage and hurt he had felt because he had to come to the truth of his actions— that his rash and ill-thought-out decision had led him to lose the love of his life. 

When morning approached, you woke earlier than you had thought as the incessant barking of your pets broke your slumber. You sat up on your feathered bed and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, all the while Theo used his mouth to pull at the sleeve of your nightgown and urged you to stand. When you did, you looked upon Sapphira in question, and the two of your eldest cats only nudged their furry faces upon your leg, and you stumbled upon them as you tried to dress in your robe. You stayed silent as your cats began to push and lead you outside your chambers. The castle was still fast asleep, and the sun barely broke through the horizon.

Through your tired stupor, you did not question the odd behavior of your beloved pets as you walked barefoot through your home and were led to the gardens. When Theodore and Shapphira’s whinnings finally ceased, you sighed and scooped them up in your arms, “Why must you wake me and lead me to gardens for nothing, my loves?” You asked softly as they rested calmly in your arms Ypu turned to return from whence yyou came from but your steps quickly ceased and you froze in your spot as you were greeted by Aemond who was only dressed in his night clothes and from the sweat on his face, you would wager he came from the tiltyard. He had a triad of cats in his arms, the kittens belonging to the felines in your arms that you quickly placed back on the ground as you feared that at any moment you might just run away, as you had never thought you should be confronted by him. 

“They stumbled into the tiltyard… I supposed they were yours because of their jeweled collars.” Those were the first words that Aemond had spoken to you. Even he himself was surprised that he did not stumble or stutter— he was certain that the words on his lips would be caught if he dared to speak to you now. You nodded meekly, watching as Theodore and Sapphira looked upon the man who had been your constant companion before. 

When Aemond looked upon the pets that he once helped raise, he felt another pit in his stomach. It was odd; he was never particularly fond of your cats, but deep inside, he still cared for them because he knew how much you adored them. Back in his home, Aemond had the habit of feeding the stray cats he saw on the grounds, a small voice in his head urging him to do such actions because he knew you’d approve of it. To this day, in House Targaryen, there were maids and squires instructed to feed any wandering or stray cat they found. 

You dared not look at Aemond, your eyes firmly planted on the ground, and as you saw him dip down and return the kittens to their parents, you took that as your turn to leave. “Good day, lord Aemond,” Was all you managed to say, and you tried to follow your cats, who returned inside the castle walls. When Aemond heard his name from your lips, he felt his knees weaken and his heart burn at the tone of dismissal in your voice.

He watched you try to hastily return inside the castle walls and perhaps hide from him once more, but he could not let it be so. He was brash as he took hold of your arm and pulled you closer to him. “Please,” Was all he could say, his being too consumed with the thought of you near, that you were once again in his grasp and that he was finally breathing in your scent and hearing your voice once more. 

“I command you to let go of me,” You ordered, voice harsh as you knew that each second spent near Aemond would undo all the stitches that his leaving had caused. You only felt him hold onto you tighter, trying to pull you closer. “I’m sorry, my heart,” You hear him whisper. He was standing behind you, his hold still upon your arm and his face thrading near your head, his breath fanning your hair. You feel the threat of tears quick to come. You shut your eyes tightly and shook your head. “Do… do not call me that— how dare you call me that?!” 

You seethed and forcefully removed his hold upon you so you could meet his eye. “You have no right to call me your heart after you had left mine broken for years!” You practically screamed, the hurt in you bubbling into rage. You watched as Ameond tried to speak— to try and say his peace but you could not let him do so— the questions you had that you desperately wnated the answers for could finally be known but you could not let it be so because you knew that whatever reason he offered, your heart would be too soft and understand him. Now, you felt as if you’d rather hate him and forgo closure rather than hear his side and mourn him for the rest of your life. 

“You had left—you left me after… after everything, and not only did you not give me a reason, you had as well ignored me! I do not wish for your apologies nor your explanations— I do not even wish to see you! But here you are, in my home once more… asking for my father’s blessing so you could marry another.” Aemond stood stiffly, he knew you were close to tears and all he wanted to do was take you into his arms and let you cry onto him once more, but he knew that the tears you wished to shed were not of sadness— it was of anger; anger towards him. 

“You have it— you have the king’s blessing.” You said. “And would you please do me this kindness?” You asked, Aemond’s lowered gaze finally placed itself upon yours once more. “Leave. You have gotten what you came for— you are free to do as you wish, but I beg of you, leave.” Aemond fisted his hands at your request, at the pleading tone in your voice. Is this truly what you wish? For him gone? Or were you only spurred by your anger? “I… I can’t, not again,” 

You scoffed at Aemond’s reply. “You had no trouble doing it the first time… what is the difference now?” You asked bitterly. You watched as the solemn sadness in Aemond’s eye faded, and in turn, fire took its place. “Do you honestly believe I wished to do that? Do you truly think I wanted to leave you?” 

You laughed humorlessly. “Aemond, not only did you leave, but you left me without a word! You could have explained your situation to me— you could have sent a letter— anything! And I would have understood! Yet you did not, I had to find out what had happened to you through whispers and gossip! So yes, I do believe you wished to leave— and you were only a coward to leave without telling me why.” 

“Do you wish to know why?” Aemond asked, stepping closer to you. “No.” You answered plainly. “I am done questioning why— I have thought of any possible reason as to why you had done what you did. I’ve had enough… So no, I do not wish to know why, Aemond.” You swallowed thickly as you met his eye, you stared into the lilac orb that you had deemed the most beautiful gaze you’ve ever held years before, and quietly mourned the fact that this may be the last time you looked upon them. 

You moved to walk away, to finally leave all of this be, but four words from Aemond made you freeze. “I only love you,” He said, staring upon your departing frame that ceased as the words left his lips. He took that as an opportunity to really tell you the words he wished to have said years before. “You are right, I was a coward— I have broken your heart and trust… but do not think for one moment that I have ceased loving you, my heart. I have promised you— laid out my oath that you shall be the only one that I will love and have 'til the end of my days… I still intend to keep my oath,” 

You breathed out a heavy breath, turning to him once more. His eye filled with hope by that small action, you dared to step closer and cup his cheek and stroke his scar with your thumb as you had often done before. That only put forth further hope in him, but it was quick to die at the words that left your lips. “You have already broken one of your oaths, Aemond. What is one more?” It placed further dread in your heart as you studied his eye filled with hurt, and at any moment it looked like a tear might fall from the lilac orb, but you could not help but say the following words that engraved in Aemond’s mind that he had truly lost you. “Marry Lady Cassandra, Aemond. You may not have kept your promises to me, but at least keep the word you’ve given her.” 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆

If there was one night Rafayel despised more than any other in the entire year, it was this one—the annual art exhibition. A night designed, in theory, to celebrate creativity and expression, but in reality, it felt more like a punishment. It was the one evening where every so-called renowned artist was herded into an elegant, echoing hall under the pretense of socializing. Forced mingling. Small talk. Pretentious compliments wrapped in passive-aggression. It was like an introvert’s version of hell, disguised in champagne flutes and overpriced canapés.

Rafayel had never understood the appeal. No one who spent their days locked in a studio with nothing but canvases, paint, and existential dread had the social skills for this kind of thing. It was like throwing a bunch of wild animals into a zoo and hoping they’d form a book club.

The first hour was always the worst. Like clockwork, Thomas—his ever-enthusiastic manager and eternal thorn in his side—would drag him from one circle of strangers to the next, tossing out names like Rafayel was supposed to recognize them. “You remember Elise? She did that installation with the melted clocks?” No, Rafayel didn’t. He barely remembered what day it was. But he’d smile, nod, and pretend the conversation wasn’t slowly killing him from the inside.

He tried to remember their names. He really did. But it was like trying to grab smoke. And honestly, he couldn’t decide which was more painful: pretending to care about their art or pretending to enjoy their company. His only salvation came in the form of his aunt Talia. She had been invited, as always, to open the night with a couple of songs—something elegant and haunting on the grand piano in the center of the gallery. He clung to the hope that she’d stay after her performance, giving him someone to hide behind. She had a way of making everything seem a little less insufferable. Maybe because she was the only one in the room who understood that art didn’t need to be dissected over finger foods and fake compliments.

He scanned the room now, hoping to catch sight of her—anything to distract from the sea of air kisses and pretentious laughter echoing off whitewashed walls.

Instead, his gaze landed on someone else. A woman.

She looked both familiar and entirely foreign to him. He didn’t remember most of the people in this room—faces blurred together over the years—but he was certain he would’ve remembered her. There was something about her that refused to be forgotten.

She was a paradox, wrapped in velvet and shadow. She moved through the room with a kind of effortless grace, like she belonged here—yet something about her stood out. She blended into the background like she’d been painted into the scene, and yet… your eyes kept finding her. As if the light bent around her just a little differently.

Composed. Relaxed. Poised. Unbothered.

And suddenly, she was right in front of him.

He blinked. When had he started walking?

Apparently, his legs had made the decision without consulting his brain. A bold move for someone who barely knew how to say “hello” without overthinking it. He had no plan, no words prepared, and no idea what he thought he was going to do when he got here.

He stopped a few feet away, heart knocking against his ribs like it was trying to escape. She hadn’t noticed him yet, which was both a relief and a tragedy. He was sure he looked like an absolute idiot—standing there, staring at her like he’d never seen another human being before. He should turn around. Right now.

“Good evening.”

The words slipped from his mouth before he had the chance to run. There was no going back now. He hoped she hadn’t heard him—that the soft music floating through the gallery had drowned out his voice, muffled it into nothing.

But then she turned.

And as their eyes met, Rafayel swore his heart stopped. She parted her lips to respond—but before a single sound could escape, another voice, unmistakably feminine and far too familiar, cut through the moment.

“Rafayel, darling! There you are.”

He turned, reluctantly, to see his aunt Talia approaching, her smile sharp with amusement.

“Ohh, I see you’ve met my friend (Y/N),” she said, stepping up beside them. “I hope you haven’t been bothering her too much… or making her uncomfortable.” The pointed look she gave him was playful, but no less effective. (Y/N) laughed softly, the sound effortless and warm. Rafayel was pretty sure he’d just died on the spot. “Don’t worry, Talia,” she said, her voice light as a breeze. “He only managed to get two words out before you came in and saved the day.”

Her voice was… something else. Like a siren’s song wrapped in velvet. Thank god the music was still playing—if he’d heard her clearly, without anything to soften the edges, he was certain he would’ve dropped to his knees and pledged his life to her. Talia chuckled, linking her arm with (Y/N)’s. “Well, then, I suppose I should properly introduce you. Rafayel, meet (Y/N). She’s a singer. I invited her to close out the exhibition tonight, since I—” she paused, dramatically gesturing to her neck, “—ruined my voice two days ago with something far less flattering than champagne. Now I can’t sing more than one song without feeling like my vocal cords are being shredded.” She winced, rubbing her throat and rolling her eyes as if the memory itself was painful. “And (Y/N), this is my nephew, Rafayel.” Talia smiled knowingly. “I’ve mentioned him before. A very talented artist, though not exactly fond of big crowds. He could probably learn a thing or two from you.” Before Rafayel could muster any response, Talia’s attention was grabbed by another artist. With a wink, she excused herself and moved off, leaving them alone once again. (Y/N)’s gaze met Rafayel’s once more. Her eyes were the most captivating shade he’d ever seen—piercing yet gentle. He could paint a thousand portraits and still never capture the full depth of her beauty. Her voice broke through his thoughts, light and teasing. “So, you’re the infamous Rafayel? I’m glad I can finally put a face to the name. And what a face!” She gave him a teasing grin, as if daring him to react, expecting him to fold under the weight of her playful attention. And he did. Of course, he did. But he straightened himself, put on the bravest smile he could muster, and decided to play along. “Well, if this is the first time you’ve seen my face,” Rafayel said with a smirk, “then I must not be so infamous after all.” (Y/N) laughed, throwing her head back—and for a moment, he forgot where he was. He’d never heard a sound so effortlessly beautiful. It wasn’t just a laugh—it was music, and it played straight through him.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a door leading out to a secluded balcony, dimly lit and—thankfully—empty. A small escape. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear. “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air. This music’s starting to mess with my head.” She raised an eyebrow, amused, but didn’t hesitate. With a soft nod, she followed him through the crowd and out onto the balcony, the noise of the gallery fading behind them.

The air outside was cool and quiet, the hum of the night city far more bearable than the chatter inside. For the first time all evening, Rafayel could breathe. He glanced over at her as she stepped beside him, the moonlight catching in her hair. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her—the way the city lights danced in her eyes, the way the wind tugged gently at her hair. Then, catching himself, he cleared his throat and looked away. “So… how do you know my aunt Talia?” (Y/N) leaned against the balcony railing, gaze drifting down toward the glowing city below. “Her manager reached out to mine a while ago—asked if we could do a duet at the opening of some gala. I was already a fan of hers, so I said yes. Since then, we’ve crossed paths at a few events here and there.” Rafayel smirked. “Well, clearly I need to have a word with my manager. He’s clearly not pulling the same kind of strings.”

She laughed softly, the sound barely louder than the breeze “He’s probably looking for me right now,” Rafayel added with a mock sigh. “But I take every opportunity I can to hide from him.” (Y/N) tilted her head, one brow raised. “Ah, I see. So I’m just your getaway plan.” She said it with a teasing glint in her eye, and he didn’t even try to deny it. “A very convincing one,” he replied, grinning. “And, might I add, the most charming excuse I’ve ever had.” (Y/N) gave him a mock-offended look, hand over her heart. “Charming and shameless. I see how it is. Rafayel leaned against the railing beside her, pretending to think. “I prefer the term resourceful, actually.” She smirked. “Right. ‘Resourceful.’ Is that what they’re calling social awkwardness these days?” He gasped—dramatically, of course. “Ouch. You wound me.” “Come on,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re not that awkward. Just… slightly uncomfortable. Like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Rafayel blinked at her. “Wow. That’s—okay, hold on. First of all, rude. Second of all, I hate cats.”Her eyes lit up with amusement. “Seriously? Who hates cats?”“People with survival instincts,” he shot back, looking genuinely offended. “They’re miniature chaos demons wrapped in fur. You never know what they’re planning. One minute they’re purring, the next they’re clawing your soul out through your skin.”

(Y/N) laughed, clearly delighted. “You’ve been personally victimized by a cat, haven’t you?” “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “More than once. I still have the emotional scars. I don’t trust anything with retractable knives for hands and no conscience.” She leaned against the railing, grinning. “So noted—no cat comparisons for you. You strike me more as a… grumpy old man who got dragged to a party he didn’t want to attend.” He pointed at her. “Much more accurate. Grumpy, corner-loving, people-dodging—I’ll own that.” “Well, you hide it well,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Or maybe I’m just distracting enough.” He gave her a sideways glance, lips twitching. “You’re definitely distracting. I was in the middle of a solid disappearing act before you showed up.” “And now?” He shrugged with a smile. “Now I’m kind of hoping no one finds me.”(Y/N) leaned casually against the railing, her shoulder just brushing his. “You know,” she said, glancing at him with a sly smile, “for someone who hates attention, you’re kind of hard to ignore.” Rafayel felt his brain short-circuit for half a second. Was that a compliment? A trap? Both? He blinked, then tried to play it cool.

“Uh—well, I… I try not to stand out,” he mumbled, immediately hating himself for how lame that sounded. She laughed softly, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on him. “You’re not doing a very good job of it.” He looked away, pretending to admire the city lights. In truth, he was trying very hard not to stare at her. “I think you like it out here,” she added, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Away from the crowd. Just you, me, and that nervous twitch in your eyebrow.” Rafayel instinctively raised a hand to his face. “I don’t have a twitch.” “You totally do,” she said, grinning like a cat with cream. “It’s cute.”

“I, uh… I don’t usually do this,” he admitted, instantly regretting it. Great. Very smooth. Just admit how out of your depth you are, genius. (Y/N) leaned in just a little closer, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a secret. “What, talk to mysterious strangers on balconies at pretentious art exhibitions?”

Rafayel gave a nervous chuckle. “Pretty much. Normally I just… blend in with the potted plants and hope for the best.” “Well, tonight’s your lucky night,” she said, flicking her gaze over him with deliberate mischief. “Because I happen to be into mysterious strangers with messy hair and zero social skills.” His mouth opened, but no words came out. “Are you always like this?” he asked, unsure if he meant it as a compliment or a desperate plea for mercy.

She gave him a sweet, innocent smile that did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. “Like what?”

“You know exactly like what.”She just laughed again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re fun, Rafayel.” Rafayel’s fingers trembled slightly where they rested on the railing. He couldn’t tell if it was from the cold seeping into his skin or the storm of nerves twisting in his chest. Maybe both. All he knew for sure was that this woman—this mesmerizing, maddening woman—was driving him out of his mind. Her eyes, impossibly deep, were like the kind of ocean sailors got lost in. And her voice? Sweet, effortless, dangerous—like a siren’s lullaby meant to lure him under. Without trusting himself to speak too long, he turned to her and offered his arm with a small, almost shy smile. “Come on,” he said, tone softer than he intended. “It’s cold out here.”

She didn’t hesitate. She slipped her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world, and the moment her skin brushed his, Rafayel swore he was struck by lightning. Not metaphorically. Literally. Every nerve in his body lit up like a fuse.

He swallowed hard and prayed his legs would remember how to walk properly as he guided her back toward the gallery doors. The music grew louder as they stepped inside, but all he could hear was the echo of her laughter and the silent scream of what is happening to me bouncing around in his head.

As they stepped back into the golden light of the gallery, the warmth did little to settle the storm in Rafayel’s chest. The chatter of guests floated around them like white noise, the clinking of glasses and soft jazz a distant hum. But all he could focus on was the way (Y/N)’s arm still rested in his, unhurried, like she wasn’t in any rush to let go. “I think,” she said slowly, like choosing her words for effect, “you’re more interesting than you let on.” “I think you enjoy making people uncomfortable,” he muttered, lips twitching.

“Only the cute ones.”

There it was again. That casual delivery of words that left him speechless. She made it sound so easy. Like flirting was her first language. Like he wasn’t currently trying to remember how functioning humans were supposed to respond to this level of charm. So, he did the only thing he could think of—he walked her toward one of the smaller displays, where his own paintings hung quietly on the wall, surrounded by a few guests murmuring in passing. “Here,” he said, almost shyly. “If you’re going to tease me all night, you might as well have some proper material.” (Y/N) let go of his arm—he missed the warmth immediately—and stepped closer to the canvas. She studied it for a moment, hands clasped behind her back. Rafayel waited, heart thudding. Please like it. Or don’t. Actually—no, definitely please like it.

“You painted this?”

He nodded.

It was a painting of the sea—soft light breaking over waves still heavy with memory. The morning after a storm. Sky cracked open with the first hints of warmth, the kind that comes only after everything has been washed clean.

(Y/N) stood in front of it, her gaze unusually quiet. She turned to him slowly, her voice more delicate now—less playful, more honest. “I have a copy of this in my home,” she said, her eyes flicking between him and the canvas. “Art never really interested me much. I mean, I appreciated it, I guess—but it never moved me. Not until I saw this.” Rafayel blinked, unsure he’d heard her right. “Wait… seriously?” She nodded, her lips curving into a softer smile. “I saw it a couple of years ago at some gallery and I couldn’t stop looking at it. There was something about it… something still. I hung it in my studio. On the wall right across from my piano.”

Her eyes found his again, and this time they weren’t teasing. They were sincere. Steady. “It’s calming. Like someone understood the chaos in my head and painted the moment right after it passed.”

Rafayel forgot how to breathe for a second.

That piece was personal—one of the rare ones he hadn’t made for show, hadn’t created with an audience in mind. It was something raw. Private. A moment he hadn’t expected anyone to connect with—let alone someone like her. “The ocean calms me,” he said softly, his voice almost lost under the music. “Makes me feel at peace. At home.” (Y/N) tilted her head, watching him. “I painted this after a bad storm,” he continued. “It’s simple, but… meaningful.”

She was silent for a second, as if the weight of those words deserved space to breathe.

“I can feel that,” she said eventually, her voice low.

He nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t usually talk about this stuff.” She smiled, warm and inviting. “That’s okay. I don’t usually care about paintings. Yet here we are,” she grinned, “I’m completely fascinated.” He turned his head slightly toward her. “By the art or the artist?” She raised a brow, pretending to think. “Hmm… still deciding.”

Unfortunately, their moment was abruptly interrupted when one of the staff members, clipboard in hand, approached them. Rafayel glanced at him, reluctantly pulled from the magnetic pull of (Y/N)’s presence. “Ms. (Y/N),” the staff member said, his voice firm but respectful. “It’s nearly time for your performance.” (Y/N) looked at him with a slight nod, but before she could reply, her gaze flicked back to Rafayel, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

“Well, mister painter,” she began, her tone playful, “you did your part. Now, miss singer needs to do hers.” She gestured toward herself with a flourish, the teasing smile never leaving her face. The lightness in her voice made Rafayel’s heart ache—he didn’t want this to end, not yet. With a quick glance back at him, she turned, taking a few steps toward the backstage area. But then, as if the universe had allowed for one last spark of connection, she called over her shoulder, her voice light and flirtatious. “I hope I’ll see you in the crowd,” she said, sending him a wink that felt like an electric jolt straight to his chest.

Rafayel’s breath caught, and for a moment, he was sure his heart had skipped a beat. He wanted to say something—anything—that could make her stay, or at least stretch this moment just a little longer. But the words failed him. Instead, he stood there, staring at her retreating figure, struck by the undeniable pull she had on him. As the staff member led her away, he watched her vanish behind the curtain, the moment hanging between them, leaving him both shaken and, for reasons he couldn’t explain, completely captivated.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he muttered to himself, almost as if trying to convince his own heart that everything would be fine. But deep down, he knew that after the night was over, it wouldn’t just be the art he was thinking about.

Rafayel knew that her performance meant the night was winding down—and with it, his time with (Y/N). He took another sip of champagne, emptying the glass as the music from the crowd began to grow louder, signaling the approaching end of the event. He set the glass down on a nearby table, pushing through the wave of people and making his way toward the main room where (Y/N) would soon be performing.

The atmosphere was buzzing with anticipation. As he entered, the lighting dimmed, and the chatter began to fade as all eyes turned to the stage. There she was, standing confidently under the spotlight, ready to take her place at the center of the room. Rafayel couldn’t help but watch her for a moment longer. Her presence seemed to fill the room, effortlessly commanding attention without even trying.

Rafayel stood at the back of the room, feeling a pull toward the stage that he couldn’t explain. The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted in anticipation as (Y/N) stepped up to the microphone. The moment she began to sing, it was as if the world around him fell away. Her voice. It was… mesmerizing. The kind of voice you would only hear in the heart of Lemuria—ancient, mysterious, like it belonged to some forgotten goddess whose songs could stir the seas themselves. Each note seemed to float effortlessly into the air, its warmth filling the room, wrapping itself around Rafayel like an invisible force. He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to look away. The richness in her voice, the effortless control, the way she carried every word—it was hypnotic. There was no denying it. Her talent wasn’t just a performance; it was something beyond that, something that resonated deeply within him. The raw emotion, the clarity, the way it made the air feel just a little more alive… it was enough to make him forget where he was.

As the music swelled and (Y/N) hit a particularly haunting note, Rafayel’s heart skipped. He didn’t even realize he had been holding his breath until the song shifted into a gentler melody, and he exhaled, his chest light, almost weightless. His mind still buzzed with the sound of her voice, which had settled somewhere between awe and disbelief. He chuckled to himself quietly, almost embarrassed by how taken he was. It’s just a voice, he thought. But damn, it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. She had a way of making it look easy—effortless. As if the entire room, the whole night, was being shaped around the sound of her singing. And for a brief moment, Rafayel wondered if this was what it felt like to be completely enchanted by someone’s presence.

During her performance, (Y/N)’s eyes subtly scanned the crowd, searching for one face in particular. She told herself it didn’t matter if he was there—but deep down, she hoped Rafayel had kept his promise. She couldn’t explain why she was so drawn to him. She’d met charming men before—handsome, confident, magnetic—but none of them had made her feel like this. None of them had disarmed her with awkward smiles and quiet intensity.

Then, she saw him.

He stood near the back of the room, partially hidden in the shadows, almost easy to miss. But somehow, her gaze found him effortlessly—like her heart had already memorized where he’d be. And when their eyes met across the crowd, something fluttered in her chest. Her breath caught, her voice faltered for just a split second—but the smile that tugged at her lips was unmistakable.

As the final note of her song lingered in the air, (Y/N) stepped off the stage with a spark in her eyes. The applause faded into background noise as she made her way straight toward him. Without hesitation, she reached for Rafayel’s arm and tugged gently, leaning in just close enough for only him to hear “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, a daring smile playing on her lips. Rafayel blinked, startled—then grinned. “You read my mind,” he said, and before she could say another word, he swept her up into his arms, earning a surprised laugh from her. Without looking back, he carried her toward the exit, ignoring the stunned silence that rippled through the crowd. Eyes followed them, murmurs stirred, but neither of them cared. In that moment, the rest of the world faded away.

(Y/N) couldn’t quite remember how they’d gotten here—how a look across the room turned into her being pinned against the wall of Rafayel’s hotel room, his lips claiming hers like he’d been holding back for far too long. All she knew was that it felt too good to stop and way too late to question it.

For someone who could barely meet her gaze earlier without tripping over his words, Rafayel now moved with a quiet, smoldering confidence that caught her off guard. There was something raw, urgent, and unspoken in the way he touched her—like he had been painting her in his mind long before tonight. Her fingers made quick work of his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and she was already tugging at the buttons of his shirt. But the moment her cool hands brushed his bare chest, Rafayel tensed and pulled back slightly, his breath catching. “We shouldn’t… I mean, we just met. It’s—” he began, voice rough, unsure. (Y/N) pressed a single finger to his lips, silencing him with a soft, teasing smile. “Do you want to stop?” Her voice was gentle, velvet-smooth, but laced with something that made his pulse race. There was no pressure—only the kind of invitation you don’t turn down. He looked into her eyes, and that was all it took. Rafayel shook his head slowly, then took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her palm, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, before tugging her flush against him again. And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t hesitant. It was everything he’d wanted to say but couldn’t. (Y/N) smirked into the kiss, a soft, surprised laugh escaping her lips when Rafayel suddenly swept her off her feet and laid her gently on the bed. Her dress clung stubbornly to her body, clearly not designed for spontaneity. Rafayel’s hands faltered at the fabric, his expression darkening with playful frustration. Sensing his struggle, (Y/N) arched an eyebrow, then slowly unzipped the dress herself, letting it fall away in one fluid motion. She tossed it aside without a second thought, reclining back on her elbows, watching him with a teasing glint in her eyes. Rafayel stood there, momentarily frozen. He couldn’t help it—she was mesmerising. Like a painting come to life, more vivid than anything he’d ever put on canvas. She dragged the tip of one of her heels lightly across his chest, deliberate and slow. “Are you going to stand there all night, Mr. Painter?” she asked, voice silky and amused. Rafayel chuckled, the tension in his jaw melting as he stepped closer. He caught her ankle gently and pressed a kiss to her calf, his eyes never leaving hers “I might pull out a canvas,” he murmured against her skin, “and capture the view forever.”

He continued his slow, deliberate trail of kisses up her leg, his teeth grazing teasingly against the inside of her thigh. (Y/N) sucked in a breath, her fingers tightening in the sheets as she felt the warmth of Rafayel’s breath dangerously close to her most sensitive spot. “You just love to stare, don’t you?” she muttered, her voice low and breathy. Rafayel looked up at her, a wicked glint in his eye as he chuckled. “So impatient,” he whispered, his voice rich with amusement and desire. The dim lamp cast a soft glow across her skin as his finger traced the delicate lace, a whisper of touch that made her shiver. He took his time, savoring the anticipation, before slowly, teasingly, tugging her underwear down her slender thighs. The fabric slid away, revealing her most intimate self, glistening with arousal. Rafayel leaned in, inhaling deeply, allowing her intoxicating scent to fill his lungs. Then, his mouth claimed her, hot and hungry, as his tongue began its sensual exploration. Slowly at first, he traced her folds, learning every dip and curve, committing her taste to memory. She gasped, back arching slightly, fingers fisting in the rumpled sheets as jolts of pleasure ricocheted through her. Soft moans and the lewd sounds of his appreciation echoed in the darkened room, a symphony of their shared desire. "You taste exquisite," Rafayel murmured against her slick flesh, voice roughened with want. She responded by wrapping one long leg around his neck, drawing him closer, urging him on. A low, approving chuckle rumbled in his chest before he dove back in, his tongue delving deep to lavish attention on her aching, throbbing core. Rafayel could tell she was approaching her release by how frantically she grinded against his face, her hips moving with a mind of their own. He matched her urgency, sucking her clit with intense focus as his tongue delved deep into her dripping center. A single finger joined the fray, pumping steadily in and out, stroking her inner walls. Her moans filled the air, growing louder and more desperate with each passing second. "God, Rafayel!" she cried, voice raw with need, and in that moment, he truly felt like a god, because a regular man wouldn’t be worthy of such moments, of hearing sounds so sweet just for him, of her. He knew he was lucky, blessed even, to be the one to bring her such overwhelming pleasure, to be the sole reason for those breathtaking sounds that were, in that moment, all for him. A strangled cry of pure ecstasy tore from her throat as the dam of her desire burst open. Her juices flooded his mouth and painted his face, marking him, claiming him as hers. Rafayel lapped at the sweet nectar like a man starved, relishing every drop, his hand gripping her thigh tightly as she quaked beneath him. Her fingers tangled almost painfully in his hair, holding him in place, keeping him close as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over her. After he was satisfied, he got up and kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips. She moaned softly before surprising him by pushing him onto his back on the bed. Straddling his hips, she smirked and leaned in close to his ear. "I'm not done with you yet," she whispered, before grazing her teeth along his earlobe. She kissed and nipped her way down his neck and chest, then quickly pulled off his shirt. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and desire as she looked at his bare torso. "I want to explore more of you," she said with a playful grin, her hands already roaming over his muscles. Rafayel's heart raced in anticipation, eager to see what she would do next as they continued their passionate encounter.

Rafayel chuckled, his eyes smoldering with renewed desire as he gazed up at her. "I'm all yours to explore," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble.

His words caught in his throat, transforming into a strangled groan as she began to grind her bare, slick heat against his clothed, hardening length. His hands flew to her hips, gripping them tightly as he arched into her touch, seeking more of that delicious friction. (Y/N)'s eyebrows shot up in surprise and delight at the needy sound that tore from Rafayel's throat. A mischievous grin spread across her face as she teased, "What was that sound?” She punctuated her words by grinding her hips against his once more, her core leaving a trail of her arousal on his pants. Rafayel blushed fiercely, his face flushing a deep shade of red. He tried to hide his burning cheeks behind his hand, but (Y/N) was having none of that. She simply smirked, amused and aroused by his sudden shyness. Another desperate moan, louder and more wanton than the last, spilled from Rafayel's lips before he could stifle it with his palm. (Y/N) grinned triumphantly, emboldened by the power she held over him, the way his body responded so eagerly to her slightest touch. She continued her sensual assault, determined to unravel him completely, to hear those beautiful, needy sounds fall from his lips over and over again. "Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "So desperate, hmm?" She kept up her maddeningly slow grind, her slick folds gliding along the rigid length straining against his pants. "There's no need to be shy, handsome. Come on, let me see that gorgeous face of yours." Her fingers crept up his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles appreciatively. She leaned in closer, her lips a hair's breadth from his ear. "Don't hold back, Rafayel. I want to hear you.” With those words, she captured his mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing the desperate noises spilling from his throat as she rocked her hips against his with sensual intent. Rafayel groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as (Y/N) continued her tortuous teasing. "Take those off," he whispered urgently against her lips, his patience wearing thin. She smirked, a wicked glint in her eye, before raising her hips to grant his plea. With deft fingers, she unbuttoned his pants and tugged them down his long legs, tossing them carelessly to the floor. Her hand moved to cup his straining erection through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him slowly, teasingly, her fingers tracing the hard length of him. Rafayel whimpered again, his hips jerking up into her touch, desperate for more friction. "Stop teasing," he begged, his voice hoarse with need, his body trembling with the force of his desire. (Y/N) just smiled, enjoying the power she held over him, before hooking her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly, tantalizingly, pulling them down to free his aching cock. It sprang up, long, hard and thick, the swollen head already glistening with desire. She licked her lips at the sight, her eyes darkening with hunger as she wrapped her hand around his throbbing shaft, stroking him properly now, reveling in the way he pulsed in her grip.

She positioned herself above him once more, straddling his hips with her thighs bracketing his waist. Rafayel's breath hitched in anticipation as she reached between them, gripping his hard length and aligning it with her slick entrance. Slowly, torturously so, she began to sink down onto him, her tight walls parting to take him inch by glorious inch. They moaned in unison, their voices mingling and rising in a symphony of shared pleasure. Rafayel's hands flew to her hips, gripping them tightly as he fought the urge to surge up and bury himself to the hilt in her welcoming heat. Instead, he let her set the pace, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, allowing her to adjust to his size. She kept sinking lower and lower, until finally, with a guttural moan, she took him to the base, her hips flush against his, his throbbing cock pulsing deep inside her.

They stayed like that for a moment, savoring the feeling of utter fullness, the incredible connection forged by their joining. Rafayel's hands slid up her sides, calloused fingers skimming over the soft skin of her stomach and ribcage until he reached the clasp of her bra. With a deft flick, he unhooked it, allowing the garment to fall away and reveal the tantalizing curves of her breasts. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and captured one rosy peak in his mouth, his lips wrapping around the sensitive bud as he suckled and swirled his tongue around it. A breathless moan spilled from (Y/N)'s lips as she arched into his touch, her fingers threading through his hair to hold him close. As Rafayel lavished attention on her breast, (Y/N) began to move, slowly grinding her hips against his. She rose up until just the tip of his cock remained inside her, before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt once more. She set a steady, sensual rhythm, her inner muscles clenching and unclenching around his hard length as she rode him. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, mingling with their increasingly loud moans and gasps of pleasure. Rafayel's hands slid down to grip her ass, guiding her movements as he matched her thrusts, his hips surging up to meet hers in a dance of pure, primal passion. Soft, desperate whimpers and needy moans tumbled from Rafayel's lips as (Y/N) kept her pace agonizingly slow, tormenting him with exquisite pleasure. He could feel her legs beginning to tire, her knees threatening to buckle as she ground against him with increasing effort. Seizing his chance, Rafayel flipped their positions in one swift, powerful move, pinning (Y/N) beneath him on the mattress. He settled himself between her thighs, his hard length still buried deep inside her, and began to move.

He started slamming into her with a fervor akin to a man possessed, his hips surging forward in a rapid, driving rhythm. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by their increasingly loud moans and cries of ecstasy. Rafayel dipped his head to rest between her breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping each soft mound as he took her with wild abandon. "So good," (Y/N) breathed out, her voice ragged with pleasure. "So good for me." Those praise-filled words spurred Rafayel on, determined to bring her to heights of rapture she had never known before. Feeling her legs tremble around him, Rafayel reached down and threw one of her thighs over his shoulder, changing the angle of their coupling. He plunged even deeper into her, striking that secret, hidden spot within her core that made her see stars explode behind her eyelids. (Y/N)'s moans escalated to a fever pitch, growing louder, more wanton, more devastatingly erotic. If Rafayel had loved the lyrical sound of her singing voice, he was utterly obsessed with the debauched symphony of her moans, each one a testament to the pleasure he brought her. He reveled in the way her body responded to his, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his pistoning length, drawing him ever deeper into her silken heat. Rafayel knew he would never tire of worshipping her like this, of reducing this beautiful, incredible woman to a writhing, mewling creature of pure sensation and desire - all because of him. "Fuck, I'm close," Rafayel groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his impending release. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her waist, gripping her tightly as he pistoned into her with wild abandon. (Y/N) wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him down into a searing, desperate kiss. She poured all her passion, all her desire, all her impending ecstasy into that kiss, her tongue dancing with his in a sensual battle for dominance. As she broke the kiss, she whispered against his lips, her voice hot and heavy with need. "Me too, Rafayel. Come on, come for me, Rafayel." The way she breathed out his name, like a prayer and a command intertwined, was his undoing. With a hoarse cry of her name, Rafayel surged forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside her as his release overtook him. His body shuddered and jerked above her as he spilled his hot seed deep within her clenching walls, each pulse of his cock sending bolts of electricity through her veins. (Y/N) let out a sharp cry, her back arching off the bed as her own climax crashed over her, her inner muscles rippling and grasping at Rafayel, milking him for every last drop of his essence. They stayed locked together, trembling and gasping, riding out the aftershocks of their shared bliss as the room spun around them in a haze of sated, euphoric pleasure.

Eventually, the intensity of the night faded, leaving them in a soft, lingering calm. Rafayel’s head rested against (Y/N)’s chest, his ear pressed gently to her heartbeat. The sound was steady, soothing—like a quiet lullaby that eased his racing thoughts. Her fingers absentmindedly ran through his hair, the warmth of her touch grounding him. Their bodies were still connected, but there was no urgency now. Just the peaceful rhythm of their breathing, shared in the quiet of the room. Rafayel could feel the rise and fall of her chest beneath him, the gentle pulse beneath his ear, and it made him feel more at ease than he ever thought possible. For a while, they just stayed like that, in silence, the world outside falling away. (Y/N)’s skin was soft, her presence comforting, and Rafayel couldn’t remember ever feeling so content. Eventually, sleep claimed them both. But before that, for a fleeting moment, Rafayel wondered if this—this quiet, intimate stillness—was exactly where he was meant to be.

In the depths of her sleep, (Y/N) sank into the familiar embrace of the ocean, the weightlessness of the water surrounding her like a protective shroud. She could feel the pull of the tides, the rhythm of the sea’s pulse guiding her deeper into its vast expanse. Her body was fluid, moving with grace as her tail flicked through the dark water, effortlessly gliding through the endless blue. The dream was always the same. She could feel it, even before she saw him—an unspoken connection, like a quiet calling from the depths. And then, just as the weight of the water seemed to press in around her, she saw him. A silhouette, his form cloaked in shadow, his features blurred and indistinct. He hummed a haunting melody, its soft notes carrying through the water, vibrating in her chest. His voice, distant yet unmistakable, echoed through her mind. “Hello, my beloved bride,” he whispered, his words like a soft lullaby, pulling at her heart. Every time, he took her hand, warm and firm, and without a word more, he dragged her down deeper, farther into the abyss of the ocean. The deeper they sank, the darker the waters became. The pressure built, the vast expanse of water closing in around them. But (Y/N) felt no fear, only an overwhelming sense of longing. As they descended, she could no longer breathe, the water filling her lungs, suffocating her, but it didn’t matter. This was always how the dream ended—her lungs burning for air, her chest tightening as she sank deeper into the darkness. And just as the world started to slip away, she would wake up in a jolt, gasping for breath, heart racing, the dream dissolving into the waking world.

But this time, as the merman’s hand gripped hers and he led her deeper into the abyss, she felt something different. His face, always a blur, was clearer than ever before. The edges of his features began to sharpen, the shadows pulling back. His violet eyes met hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. She could see him now, his features as distinct as her own reflection. And then, just before the suffocating darkness took her, she could have sworn she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Her heart pounded as she reached out for him, but just as she opened her mouth to speak, the world collapsed around her, and she was torn from the dream, gasping awake in the quiet of her room.

As (Y/N) slowly opened her eyes, the disorienting realization hit her like a wave. She was still in Rafayel’s hotel room. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the room, her mind still foggy from sleep. She was alone. Rafayel wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Panic crept in, and she rubbed her palms over her face, feeling the weight of her own confusion. What was I thinking? She thought, her heart sinking. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t the type of woman to give into reckless impulses, to have one-night stands. Yet here she was. A knot twisted in her stomach, and she cursed under her breath. Great. Just great. She pulled herself out of the bed, trying to steady her shaking hands. She needed to clear her head, to wash away the haze of the night. Without thinking further, she headed to the bathroom, the cool tiles feeling like a relief beneath her feet. The hot water of the shower cascaded over her, soothing her tense muscles, washing away the shame, the regret, and the confusion that clung to her like a second skin. The steam filled the room, clouding her mind just enough to let her forget—for a moment—about the storm of emotions whirling within her.

After a while, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, the scent of cheap body wash lingering faintly on her skin. Her mind was still clouded, the image of Rafayel’s face, the feel of his touch, still lingering in her thoughts like an echo she couldn’t shake.

As she entered the room again, her gaze immediately landed on Rafayel, who was just stepping through the door. He held a bag in his hand, clearly having just returned from somewhere. His eyes met hers, and there was an awkward pause—one where she wasn’t sure whether to smile or to apologize. His presence was a mixture of comfort and tension, and she couldn’t tell what it meant. “Hey,” Rafayel said, his voice low but warm. He seemed surprised to see her out of the shower, his eyes trailing briefly over her, but he quickly looked away, awkwardly adjusting the bag in his hand. “I, uh… I went to grab some things,” he said, holding up the bag, as if offering some kind of explanation. (Y/N) felt an inexplicable flutter in her chest at the sight of him, but she quickly pushed the feeling down. “Right,” she said, clearing her throat, trying to sound casual, even though the weight of the night was still hanging over her. “Well, I… I need to get dressed.” She glanced at him, feeling the tension rising. Rafayel smirked as he walked towards her, holding up the bag with a slight flourish. “Well, this should help,” he said, his voice low but teasing. (Y/N)’s brow furrowed in confusion as she took the bag from him. The moment she peeked inside, her eyes widened in surprise.

The dress inside was cute, casual, yet somehow elegant, the kind of thing she would wear for a nice, relaxed day out. It wasn’t something she’d expect to see in a hotel room after a night like the one they had. She glanced up at Rafayel, puzzled. “What’s this for?” He shrugged nonchalantly, sitting down on the couch, his gaze flicking over her before he looked at the clock on the wall. “Figured I could at least take you out for breakfast…” He paused, giving a small chuckle as he realized the time. “Well, lunch, I guess.” He shot her a half-grin, his eyes a little softer now. “Time got away from us, huh?” (Y/N) stood there for a moment, the weight of the dress in her hands pulling her attention back to the small surprise in front of her. Breakfast? Lunch? It didn’t matter, really. She had expected this morning to be awkward, yet Rafayel had somehow managed to make it seem… normal. She found herself smiling, despite the whirlwind of emotions she still hadn’t fully processed. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” she said, her tone playful as she moved toward the bed to slip into the dress. “I guess I’ll take you up on that offer, then.” She winked at him as she closed the door to the bathroom behind her, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Rafayel chuckled softly to himself, sinking further into the couch. “You know, I’m actually pretty good at this whole ‘making people feel at ease’ thing,” he called out, his voice muffled through the closed bathroom door. (Y/N) rolled her eyes with a soft laugh, her nerves already calming at his ease.

(Y/N) slipped into the dress, admiring how it fit her perfectly. It wasn’t too tight or too loose, the fabric hugging her in all the right places. As she checked herself out in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile. It was a simple dress, but there was something about it that made her feel both elegant and comfortable. She twirled in front of the mirror, her laughter light and carefree. Exiting the bathroom, she stepped into the room and gave Rafayel a playful spin, the dress flowing gracefully around her. He chuckled, his eyes lingering on her for a moment too long before he opened his mouth to say something.

But before he could get a word out, her phone rang, shattering the brief moment of calm. Rafayel handed it to her, his expression curious as he watched her face change. (Y/N) glanced at the screen and her expression immediately dropped. “Shit, Elliot is gonna kill me,” she muttered under her breath, irritation and a hint of panic creeping into her tone. Rafayel raised an eyebrow, his amusement from earlier slipping into mild confusion. “Boyfriend?” he asked, glancing at her with a teasing look. (Y/N) shot him an offended look, holding the phone to her ear but not yet answering. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she scoffed, a playful edge to her voice. “It’s my manager.” She took the call, trying to mask her growing frustration with a forced smile, knowing full well that Elliot was probably already fuming at her unprofessionalism. (Y/N) smiled innocently, making sure to keep her voice light as she ignored the fact that Elliot couldn’t see her.

“Heey, Elliot!” she chuckled awkwardly, trying to brush off the tension. Elliot, however, wasn’t having it. She could hear him let out a deep sigh on the other end. “(Y/N), where are you?” She narrowed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek, knowing the conversation wasn’t going to be pretty. “Funny story, actually—” But before she could get any further, Elliot cut her off. “Actually, scratch that. I know where you are. Everyone saw you leave with the artist last night. Come on, (Y/N), a one-night stand with a painter? When I told you to work on your public image, this is not what I meant!” (Y/N) sighed deeply, rolling her eyes as she stepped into the bathroom for more privacy. She shut the door, trying to mask the irritation in her voice. “Come on, Elli, he’s really cute. He’s taking me out to lunch.” Elliot huffed on the other end, the sarcasm in his voice thick. “Oh, isn’t he just a sweetheart! Taking you to lunch after sleeping with you so you don’t feel like chopped liver. Such a gentleman!” The girl’s patience was wearing thin. She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, the annoyance evident in her tone. “I’ll call you after my date. Bye! Love you!” she said, blowing him a kiss through the phone before hanging up. She stood in the silence for a moment, trying to shake off the uncomfortable conversation. With a deep breath, she exited the bathroom, her mood slightly lifted as she stepped back into the room with Rafayel. Rafayel raised an eyebrow at her, sensing a change in her demeanor after the phone call. (Y/N) offered him a smile, her eyes twinkling with an air of casualness. “All good. Ready to go?” she asked, as if nothing had happened. He chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. “You sure know how to keep things interesting,” he teased before getting up from the couch. Without a second thought, he linked his arm with hers, leading her out the door and into the sunlight.

You bind your time, and wait patiently.

You heard the Vees talking, arguing as Alastor had planned. You heard a breaking of a cocktail glass and Vox's pained groan.

Sheesh.

The door slammed open so hard the hinges rattled, and Vox stormed in mid-rant, voice spiking with electronic distortion. “—UGHH IT'S SO FUCKING ANNOYING you have any idea what Valentino just—”

The words crashed to a halt like someone yanked his power cord.

Because you turned and Vox saw the dress.

Midnight black, liquid-tight, hugging every curve like it had sworn a covenant to your body. The fabric shimmered with a pattern of dark crimson webbing — elegant, venomous, unmistakably you.

“…What,” he breathed, voice dropping several octaves, “the hell are you wearing?”

You pretended innocence, tilting your head. “You barged in screaming, Vox. I didn’t think you’d care about my outfit. Anyway, you know I've expensive tastes.”

“...A fucking problem,” he muttered.

His eyes dragged over you still — slowly, greedily, helpless despite himself. "Seriously,” he demanded, voice crackling, “why the hell are you planning?”

You only lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Before that,” you said, brushing past him, “we need to replace your screen cover.”

He blinked. “What—?”

But you were already scanning the room.

You murmured to yourself, just loud enough that he caught every syllable. “He always used to keep replacements in the same place…”

You reached out and tapped a specific compartment panel without hesitation. A soft click.

It opened.

Inside, the replacement screen cover gleamed — untouched.

You smiled. Of course it was there.

Behind you, Vox froze. "You remembered that?” he whispered.

You didn’t turn around immediately. You let the moment simmer, let him hear the faint shift of your fingers lifting the glass piece.

“Mm,” you hummed. “I remember lots of things.”

He stepped closer without realizing it, voice lower now. “You haven’t helped me fix this in… ages.”

You finally turned your head, meeting his eyes with a slow, deliberate glance over your shoulder.

You moved toward him with the new screen cover in hand. Your voice dropped. “Now hold still.”

He did. Immediately, as if still confused and on edge.

You lifted the damaged screen cover and leaned in to fit the new one.

Far too close for Vox’s liking — which was to say, close enough that he forgot how to breathe.

He hated that.

He cleared his throat, pulling his shoulders back, trying to salvage the authority he swore he still had over you. “You’re awfully cheerful today,” he muttered, forcing sarcasm into every syllable. “What are you scheming?Why’re you in such a good mood? Thinking about the past again?”

He smirked, but it was brittle.

You didn’t even look at him. You just kept working — slow, meticulous, brushing your fingers along the seam of his panel as if deliberately testing how hot you could make him run.

You finally lifted your gaze. “Yes,” you said, voice soft-spoken and lethal, “I am thinking about the past.”

Vox opened his mouth to retort—

“And how,” you added thoughtfully, “you used to stare at me when I performed with Lilith.”

Vox froze.

“She always took center stage. All lights on her. But you…”

Your eyes slid to his, sharp and knowing. “You didn’t look at her.”

“You only looked at me.”

His throat bobbed. “That—”

“What? Not true?” Your voice was a velvet blade. “Because I remember it perfectly.”

“There,” you murmured before he can retort. “All fixed.”

*

Backstage smelled of warm lights, dust, and roses crushed under too many footsteps. Your performance with Lilith had just ended, the applause still echoing through the curtains like distant thunder. Your body buzzed with adrenaline — the good kind, the kind that made your skin hum and your heart rush.

Well, well, well!” Alastor appeared, as theatrical and beaming as ever, bowing with a flourish. “If it isn’t my favorite singer!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Alastor! You actually came?”

He grinned, wide and sincere. “I wouldn’t miss your performance for the world.”

He pulled you into a quick, warm embrace. You returned it easily, happily.

When he pulled back, he gestured dramatically behind him. “I brought a friend!”

From behind him stepped a tall, awkward figure, A CRT television for a head. And in his hands—A bouquet.

The TV demon stiffened, then forced himself forward. He held out the bouquet with both hands, like it weighed something sacred.

“H-Hi,” he said. “I— uh— you were… great. Really great. You were my favorite, actually. I mean— Lilith was great too— she was amazing— but you— you were— uh—”

You took the flowers gently. Your voice softened. “Well aren’t you a gentleman.”

Blue light flared across his screen — a shy, startled blush in pixel form.

Alastor chuckled fondly. “This is Vox. A promising young Overlord.”

You stepped closer, sniffing the flowers with a smile. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He glanced at you, then quickly looked away, flustered.

*

After that first meeting, Vox became a regular presence backstage.

At first, he hovered behind Alastor like a skittish shadow—But day after day, he came earlier. Then he started to come alone, and you let him.

Sometimes to bring you little trinkets or scraps of tech he thought you’d like.

Sometimes with no excuse at all.

“Just checking the wiring,” he’d mumble, hands behind his back.

There was no wiring in your room.

One evening, you were in your dressing room, half-dressed and struggling with the ties on your back. The black silk costume refused to cooperate, slipping every time you tried to pull it tight enough.

You huffed, irritated. “This stupid thing—”

A gentle click sounded behind you. You froze. Vox stood in the doorway.

He must’ve knocked, but you hadn’t heard it — too busy fighting your outfit. His screen flickered once when he realized you were midway into your dress.

“S-Sorry!” Vox yelped, turning around fast. “I didn’t— I mean— I wasn’t— I just came to check— something— I should go—”

You sighed, half amused. “Vox. Relax.”

He peeked over his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes. “I can’t reach the ties. Just help me.”

Now that made him freeze. “H-Huh?”

“Help me tie it,” you said, turning your back to him.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Warm, nervous hands gently touching the fabric at your spine.

His fingers brushed your skin. Every muscle in your body tightened.

Vox didn’t tie it right away. He paused, taking in the moment like he needed to memorize it.

Then he pulled the silk ribbon slowly, carefully, his breath growing shaky as your dress tightened around your waist.

You felt your cheeks warm.

He leaned forward, like he was terrified of doing something wrong.

His lips touched your neck. A feather-light kiss.

You inhaled sharply, heat blooming under your skin. “Vox—”

He jolted back slightly. “S-Sorry—! I didn’t— I just—”

But you didn’t push him away, and that made him brave.

He leaned in again, slower this time—

The door swung open.

“Well! Are we ready for rehears—”

Alastor froze.

Vox froze.

You panicked.

And in pure survival instinct, you shoved Vox so hard he flew backward like a bowling pin, landed flat on the floor, and made a strangled electronic BRRRRT—! noise.

You cleared your throat, dress perfectly tied, face burning. “Alastor. You’re early.”

He raised a brow as Vox lay sprawled upside-down behind you, screen flickering in embarrassment.

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed, smile sharp. “Evidently so.”

Vox scrambled to his feet, mortified, smoothing his shirt as if nothing happened. “I— I tripped.”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Yes. I’m sure you did.”

You avoided both their eyes.

*

He needed distance. He needed control. So naturally, his first instinct was to be an asshole.

“Alright, enough,” Vox snapped, rising from the bed too quickly, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders. “What were you scheming? Hm? Because I’m not stupid enough to fall for whatever game you’re playing.”

You laughed softly, “Scheming?” you echoed as you headed toward the small bar by the window. “What could I possibly do, Vox…?” You gestured lazily around the room. “I’m stuck here.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Because you were right, and he hated that.

You uncorked a bottle of rich red wine, the scent flooding the air. You poured two glasses, slow enough that his eyes tracked every movement.

You brought his glass to him, offering it with a knowing tilt of your head.

His jaw clenched, but when you handed him the glass, he took it. You clinked your glass against his. A soft tink, sharp against the quiet.

He stared at you over the rim, trying to read you. You swirled the wine, letting your eyes half-lid.

You lowered your voice to a sly whisper. “I thought about what you said to me.”

He froze. You took another slow sip, letting the silence pull taut.“And I’ve decided…that I’m finally ready.”

“Ready… for what?” Vox asked.

“To pick a side,” you finished softly.

For a long moment, Vox just stared at you. Then he laughed, something sharp, incredulous, almost panicked.

“Hah— wow.” He dragged a hand down his face. “You think I’m going to fall for that? I’d believe you if I didn’t know you, sweetheart.”

You smiled. “Well, you do know me,” you murmured, swirling the wine in your glass. “Which means you should also know that I always…”

You lifted your eyes to him, gaze steady, slicing. “…join the winning team.”

Vox’s smirk wavered. The shift in his expression was almost microscopic– Uncertainty. 

You saw it. You took it. And you went in for the kill.

You stepped closer. “You know what disappoints me, Vox?”

“That your associates,” you said gently, tilting your head as though speaking of something tragic, “don’t appreciate you.”

You continued before he could recover.

You paced around him, slow and deliberate. “You come up with all the plans. You run the tech. You carry the entire operation. And what do they give you in return?” You scoffed. “Attitude. Demands. Entitlement.”

Vox tensed. You could feel the crack forming.

“You’re already the brains of the entire empire,” you whispered. “And you’ve been so… charitable, letting them be gods beside you. When we both know you could do it all alone.”

“And if I were in their place…” Your smile deepened. “…the only thing I’d be thinking about is how to worship my new god.”

Then Vox snapped.

His hand shot out, gripping your waist with a force that stole your breath. He yanked you forward, wine glasses forgotten, his other hand bracing the back of your neck.

He crushed his mouth to yours. It wasn’t gentle, or controlled, or calculated…This kiss was frantic. Starved and desperate. A man drowning finally grabbing the surface.

You gasped against his lips and he took advantage, pulling you closer, pressing you into him. His hands were everywhere—your jaw, your ribs, your hips—mapping you like he had been waiting years to reclaim this territory.

The kiss deepened, a broken, hungry sound escaping him like he couldn’t hold it back.

The wineglass slipped from your fingers. It never hit the floor. Vox caught it mid-fall without breaking the kiss—shoved it onto the counter behind you and kissed you harder, as if proving your point for you.

The kiss turned molten in seconds, the kind of heat that burned straight through patience and reason. Vox backed you against the nearest wall with a trapped growl thrumming in his chest, hands already dragging down the zipper of your dress with a roughness that made your knees weaken. The snakeskin fabric slid off your shoulders like it was eager to abandon you, the cool air kissing your bare skin just before his hands did.

His hands were everywhere at once—cold metal and hot desperation—gripping your waist, your hips, your thighs as if he needed proof you were real and not another fantasy conjured by sleepless nights and simmering resentment.

Your hands fumbled at the edges of his suit. You couldn’t tell whose hands were quicker, whose breathing hitched first, whose need broke through the surface harder—only that every second without him touching you felt unbearable.

The sharp edges of his claws skimmed along your thigh, trailing up, tracing the shape of you with indecent familiarity.

He grabbed your thigh, lifting it to his hip with a force that made you gasp. The tips traced slow, deliberate circles on your clit, making your breath hitch, making your pulse stutter. He watched every reaction, his jaw tightening as if restraining something unhinged.

You arched into him instinctively, a soft sound slipping from your mouth before you could stop it.

“Oh, you’re eager,” he murmured, voice low, metallic, dripping satisfaction. “I barely touched you.”

He kissed you again—harder, deeper, his body pinning you completely. Your breath stuttered against his mouth, your body responding to every slow, deliberate stroke he gave you.

He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to pull sounds from your throat, how to coax your body into arching into his, how to make you chase his hand like you were the one desperate.

You weren’t sure when you stopped manipulating him and when he started undoing you.

“Tell me,” Vox rasped, claws curling against your skin, “is this what you wanted?”

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders as heat spiraled through you in dizzying waves. “I wanted your attention,” you breathed, deliberately teasing, letting your lips brush his. “And I have it.”

His laugh was low, breathless and dangerous. “You have more than that.”

His mouth trailed down your jaw, your neck, lingering at the places that made your knees go weak. “Say it,” he murmured against your skin, voice sharp. “Say you chose me.”

“I chose you,” you whispered, letting the words drip like sin. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Vox’s pace on your body changed all at once—no more teasing, no more measured strokes meant to unravel you slowly. His movements grew sharp, desperate, almost frantic, working you with single-minded focus. You clung to him, breath breaking into soft, helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow down, your body tightening.

He knew exactly when he had you.

Your hips trembled, your breath hitched, and then everything spilled over—heat flooding through you in a wave that stole your voice and made your nails dig into his arms. Vox watched every second. 

Before you could steady your breath, he grabbed you and lifted you with a strength that sent a shock through your already trembling body. The world spun for half a second before you hit the mattress, bouncing once, breath knocked from your lungs in surprise.

Your knees sank into the sheets; he nudged your shoulders forward, guiding you onto your hands. Your spine curved instinctively, offering him the silhouette he’d always imagined but never dared reach for. 

You could feel him—hard, eager, barely contained—settling against you, his hands gripping your hips. He hovered there for a heartbeat, chest rising sharply, as if the sight of you like that had short-circuited him.

“Do you have any idea,” he rasped, leaning over you until his mouth brushed your shoulder, “how long I’ve wanted this?”

Your answer was a soft, breathless sound—half invitation, half challenge.

It was all he needed.

He pushed forward, the movement firm and hungry, drawing a ragged gasp from your throat as he finally claimed the closeness he’d denied himself for years. His grip tightened, pulling you back to meet him with a possessiveness that shook you to your core. His breath hit your neck, ragged and uneven, every exhale sounding like a man finally getting something he had convinced himself he’d never touch.

Vox’s rhythm became a relentless assault—no hesitation, no restraint.

His breath hit your back in ragged bursts, every exhale hot against your skin, syncing with the harsh, punishing thrusts of his hips. The mattress creaked under the force of him, your body pushed forward only for his grip to drag you right back, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His claws anchored into your hips, sharp enough to make you gasp, grounding you to him as if he was terrified you’d slip away.

“You feel—” Vox’s voice broke, static flickering through his words, “—you feel like you were made for me.”

Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white, your breath barely holding together as the pleasure mounted too fast, too fierce. Your legs trembled, fighting to hold you upright under the pressure, but Vox didn’t allow you to collapse. He held you up with his hands, his body, his will, forcing you to take everything he gave with no escape.

Your body tensed. He felt it instantly.

“Oh?” His laugh was low and hoarse, hips never slowing. “Already? You’re going to—”

You didn’t even manage a word. The climax hit you like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from your lungs, your vision blurring as your whole body convulsed with the intensity of it. You cried out and Vox swore under his breath, a jagged sound torn straight from the center of him.

His rhythm faltered for the first time as your tightening body pulled a raw, strangled noise from his throat. His grip on you tightened, claws digging into your hips as if grounding himself through you. Then he drove his cock into you one last time, sharp and deep, his whole body tensing against yours as he came. 

His fingers clamped around your waist, holding you flush against him, refusing any distance at all. 

He stayed inside you as he shifted to lay beside you, chest pressed to your back, forehead buried into your shoulder. “Don’t…ever choose anyone but me.”

“Of course, Vox,” you murmured, letting your voice drip with warmth that wasn’t quite honesty. “Why would I choose anyone else?”

He exhaled shakily, believing it. Poor thing. But your loyalty had never belonged to anyone but yourself.

Your touch soothed him, your voice softened, and the predator in you curled up under his chin like a tame little snake.

Vox wrapped an arm around your stomach, keeping you pressed to his chest like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he loosened his hold.

“Stay right here,” he murmured, voice low and dark and strangely soft. “I need… another minute.”

Aftercare was surprisingly gentle for him. Vox fetched a warm cloth and cleaned the sweat from your back. His claws lingered carefully, tracing lines down your spine. 

Once the adrenaline faded, the two of you ended up sprawled across the bed, sheet tangled, your legs resting over his as he leaned back against the headboard as he talked about trivial things. Silly things. Normal things.

You pretended to listen, humming at the right moments, laughing quietly when he made a dry joke until he fell asleep.

_____________________

You slipped out the door silently, the soft click barely audible over the heated shouting echoing down the corridor. Vox didn’t stir behind you—still dead asleep.

Perfect.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, your silk nightdress whispering around your thighs. The hickeys on your neck and chest stood out against the pale fabric.

Exactly what you wanted.

Velvette was pacing in furious loops, heels clicking like gunshots. Valentino lounged on the couch with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, fury simmering behind his sunglasses.

And Alastor was tied to a chair, still smug.

The moment the door shut behind you, all three heads snapped your way.

Velvette froze mid-tantrum, eyes widening. Valentino’s sunglasses slipped down his nose. Even Alastor’s grin faltered—only for a heartbeat—before returning with renewed amusement.

You walked in like you owned the entire floor.

You passed the three of them without a word, gliding to the bar. You poured yourself a glass of deep red wine, the silence in the room thick enough to cut with a claw.

Finally, you turned, leaning casually against the counter, glass in hand. “Why the long faces?” you asked sweetly. “Oh—right. I heard the argument.”

You sipped your wine, then smiled—slow, razor-sharp, and wicked. “Well, don’t be too pisssed. You know him…Vox only shares the spotlight with his…. equals.”

You lifted your glass in a mock toast, letting the words sink in.

Valentino snaps first. “Fucking him like a bitch won’t save you,” he spits, wings flaring behind him. “You’re still our prisoner.”

You tip your glass back, swallow, and sigh as though he’s boring you. “Sure, sure. I’m so scared.”

Velvette’s stilettos stop inches from you. She leans in, a saccharine-sweet smile stretched too sharp. “I could skin you alive if I wanted,” she purrs, reaching out a manicured hand toward your shoulder.

You smile, but it’s far from kind. “You could try,” you whisper. “Just one touch… and my poison will paralyze you. Permanently.”

She jerks her hand back immediately. Valentino bristles but doesn’t step closer. Alastor, tied to the chair, chuckles under his breath. 

Velvette storms out first—heels stabbing the floor with every furious step. Valentino follows after her, wings flaring dramatically as he mutters curses under his breath, the door slamming behind them with enough force to rattle the lamps.

Silence settles.

Alastor’s eyes track you as you move, silk nightdress brushing your thighs, bare feet whispering over the floor. You’re calm. Almost glowing in your satisfaction. You pour yourself another drink without looking at him.

Only when the glass is full does he speak. “You didn’t,” Alastor begins, voice tight and thinner than usual, “have to lay with him for our plan to work.”

You turn toward him slowly, lifting your glass to your lips. Then you give a small shrug. “I know.”

Alastor’s smile twitches—just a flicker, but enough to show the tension hiding behind it.

You lean your hip against the table. “It was…” you say lightly, almost bored, “ just for fun.”

A beat of silence stretches.

Then his jaw clenches, the ropes creaking as if he’s testing their strength. You lift your glass in a lazy toast. “Don’t get sentimental, Alastor.”

His smile returns—too wide, too stiff.

“Perish the thought,” he says, voice back to its smooth radio polish but not quite hiding the crack beneath. “I merely find your… curiosity… endlessly dangerous.”

You wink. “That’s why you like me.”

He laughs once—short, sharp, forced. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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