#↝The Beast Within X Muse

[okaygar]

>✘╌ ↱ »» did you hear that garfield (beast boy) logan from teen titans is a junior at tooniversity? they major in animal science and you can find them eating in the dining hall or working at the ink blot cafe on most days. i always hear you’re gonna go far kid by the offspring playing from their dorm! «« ↲ ╌✘ tw: death, illness

Hello! I’m Jax and this is Garfield -- Gar for short. A lot of his background is gonna come straight from comic/cartoon sources. If anyone is interested in plotting, starting a thread, whatever... please send me a message!

Gar spent the early years of his life growing up with his biologist parents in Africa (think Cady from Mean Girls lol)

During their time there Gar became very sick and ended up bedridden for some time

While trying to get medication for their son, his parents unfortunately lost their lives in a car accident

From there Gar ended up with some rather eccentric extended family; that he loves but doesn’t always feel like he fits in with

Gar is very passionate about animals and the environment. Very left leaning politically and passionate about everything he cares about.

Gar is a goofball, think class clown who masks what he’s actually feeling with jokes

Will try to befriend you, your dog, your aunt, etc. lmao

Frequent eater, video game lover, any exciting adventure you’ve got in mind, he’s coming 

I will extend this later on but here’s just a little short jist of everything

[insufferablelust]

The Prince Regent (Aemond Targaryen x F!Sister!Reader)

{Can be read as the sequel of Gevī}

There are rumors floating around after the march of the greens in Rook’s rest, you were shocked when you learned of what has happened, rushed to confront your brother— you were made to once again quell the madness within with rekindling the fire with him.

This work contains mature acts, Minors DNI. 18+ Only.

Words counted: 10.4k+

Content include: 18+ MDNI! Targcest (canon incest practice of the Targaryen house), Smut, Sex, Oral sex (F receiving), Heavy breeding kink, Slight exhibitionism (Sex at the council chamber), Choking, Rough sex, Dumbification, Manhandling, Slight degradation, Reader has the attributes of the Targaryens (silver hair, purple eyes etc), Mention of violence, Canon injuries and death, Mention of usurping the throne (half-canon), LOTS of pet names, Slightly Dark!Aemond (He is so obsessive and possessive and feral of you.)

Note: Hello! I am back with new fic yay! this is another Aemond fic, which can be read as the follow up of my last fic, Gevī which can be found here, or you can also read it as a standalone, up to you! This work is NOT beta’d (there will be revision) since once more I am still slammed with work so I have yet the time to refer to my beta reader, but hopefully there is nothing much amiss, if there is, I apologize and I hope it will not disturb your reading experience. ALSO AEMOND IS UNHINGED IN THIS ONE YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Remember that english is not my native language so bear with me. My request is always open for HOTD characters. Enjoy and let me know what you think! thank you my loves.

Masterlist

The day has been moving rather slowly today, you mused, the sun looks as though it is shining but overshadowed by gloomy clouds at the same time— horizon darkens as the end of the day is fast approaching. It has been a strange day, oddly quiet even in the hustle and bustle of a dreaded war-coming, you had heard of your brothers whereabouts, both the King and the Prince as your mother was panicking earlier when they both were absent from the small council meeting.

You ignored the ever so loud chattering of the lords and ladies around the hall, as you sat below the Weirwood tree to read your book, the only place where you ought to sought comfort and refuge from the looming darkness that follows ahead, you had always been more receptive— taking in your surroundings and only use your sharp wit when necessary, you are like your brother, Aemond, in that sense, where you do not find pleasure in talking much if it does not have any meaning to it.

Though, you had not been silent since the days following Aegon’s crowning, your expertise in knowing Westerosi territories and politics are often seen be used by the small council as Aemond would come to you in any instance he needed help. You also always tried to interpret Helaena’s cryptic messages— having realized of your older sister’s ancient-like gift since you were little, it was you that had warned them to move the crowning ceremony anywhere but the Dragonpit when she had said “Beware of the beast beneath the boards.” Yet when they do not paid attention to you nor your sister, tis’ true that your family was one second away from being engulfed in Meleys’s fire if not for the Princess Rhaenys’s last minute compassion.

But alas, you had not been of useful as of late, ever since the passing of your nephew, Jaehaerys, you scolded yourself often on why you were not with Helaena that night, or why you did not have the time to interpret what she had said about the rats, though, Aemond had repeatedly assured you that there was no way that one can know such cruel thing would happen, and that there was nothing you could have done— moreover if you had stayed with Helaena that night, all your lives might be even more in danger due to the fact that you’re a young maiden.

You still feel guilty though, for you had been spending your night in the arms of your husband that night— comforting each other in warm embraces inside your chambers.

You and Aemond had always been inseparable since the day you were born, his little sister— someone he had always come to whenever he was faced with a hard time finding solace due to the constant torment and taunts your eldest brother and nephews has caused upon him. You can scarcely remember the times where Aemond is happy in his childhood, but the memories that stood the tallest in your memory are ones akin to when he would read to you about the Aegon’s conquest or Rhaenys’s journey to Sunspear, or Visenya’s tales with Vhagar.

Another one is when he had ventured through Maegor tunnels to get to your room and would ask timidly to sleep in your room because he was plagued by nightmares, or that time when he had come to your defense as Aegon broke one of your crystal jar, one that housed the famed rose from the North, or that time after he claimed Vhagar, eye sewn shut in Driftmark, you had visited him in his chambers despite your mother’s warning to let him rest when you know better that he would feel better accompanied by you. Tis’ unbreakable this bond of yours, strongly linked, and undoubtedly passionate.

Aemond finds all the thing he is not, in you, you are gentle, soft spoken, soothing in nature— even as your hair is as silver pale as he, your jaws are as sharp he, your wit are as bright as he— Aemond adored the part that truly empowers you, your compassionate self, your jaw-dropping smile, your unmasked confidence, your unapologetic self is what makes him honored to have you by his side.

Your presence calms his raging stormy minds and hot tempered self, your sweet saccharine voice, your angel like touches, your supple smooth skin— always seems to be flustered in heat when near him, your soft lilac eyes that gives him assurances, your slightly curlier locks— something you get from your mother, always half braided with half fanned to your side— the necklace you wore, given by him, a Valyrian ruby that always adorned your enthralling being, you are the epitome of a Valyrian goddess, graced with the beauty that people would go to war for, solicited by your intelligence that makes you powerful altogether. The word ‘infatuated’ does not even cover his love for you.

Speaking of your brother, the days following his return from Storms end had caused many distraught upon learning of what befell your nephew, in the flurry of it all, Aemond had taken your maidenhead, which he swore to wed you then— and that he did, asked his mother to betroth him to you once and for all as you had always meant to be— insisting after the death of Jaehaerys that it is crucial to have more heirs so that if the time comes, your bloodline will not perish so easily— Alicent, of course, had been furious at his son for, “How dare you corrupt your little sister!” but when you came to Aemond’s defense, she let her guard down and at last grant you both what you wished.

The deal with the Baratheons has been annulled… for now.

You both were wed in the sept just a few days after the tragedy, and were happily consummating your marriage if not for the news of Ser Cole and Gwayne Hightower’s success of house Darklyn in Duskendale, and is set to march to Rook’s rest once more, where Aemond is to to join him, he had told you once after an intense rounds of fucking.

You were finally pulled out of your reverie when the chatter around you gets louder, feeling irked by it you look up from you book only to have your frown wiped out by the sight in front of you. You saw few of Aegon’s knighted guards bringing a huge wooden box covered with your house’s sigil— Gods be good. You have thought of the worst then, what if it is Aemond? what if they are carrying his de—

“Princess, Her Grace the Queen Dowager has requested your presence in King Aegon’s chamber.”

Aegon?

“Thank you, Ser Harrold.” You replied, clutching the book tightly as you stand up, and walk towards where the other knights and seemingly hurdles of Maesters rushing to, your throat dried at the possibilities of what might await you once you reach Aegon’s chamber.

Is he alright?

Is Aemond alright?

Did they defeat the Blacks? What happened in Rook’s rest?

“Mother.” You muttered as you halt your steps upon reaching the now packed room, your eyes does not yet know where to land it’s sight on, the frantically moving figure of Maester Orwyle tending to a charred body on the bed, or the hisses that came from the servants who brought fresh linens, cloths, and water, or at your mother who stood with panic written all over her face, eyes glassy with tears.

“What has happened?” You asked, still unable to figure out exactly who is it that laid there, due to the hurdling of bodies taking pieces of armors off. The smell of burning and dragon fire is so evident, that the ladies around you scrunched their nose— you thought none of it considering you are no stranger to the smell of dragons— but what caught your line of sight next shocked and silenced you quickly.

There laid the King, your eldest brother, Aegon, with half of his face badly charred, his body littered in wounds from fire— the sight of him like that makes you choke and sob as you lean against Alicent who also watches with terrified eyes, “Is my son going to die, Maester?” Her shaky voice only enhanced the amount of tears you let out, lips trembling in confused emotions.

How did— who did— why did—

“I will do whatever I can to help him, your grace, but now I must get back because this is the most important step.” Came Orwyle’s response. You may despise Aegon for his lack of respect towards anyone— women in particular, but he is still your brother, your king.

“Why isn’t Heleana here?” You asked, turning your head to look at your mother, “and… Aemond?” came the question that have plagued your mind since you were fetched by Ser Harrold earlier in the Godswood, is he alright? did he suffer the same fate? did the blacks charred him too? I can not live without him, he— I cannot—

“Come.” Your mother beckoned you out of the chamber to sit by the bench near the Weirwood tree you sat earlier, your eyes are frantic, trying desperately to understand what is going on, what happened, and most importantly if your brother— Aemond is alright, “I can not call for Helaena… she—“ Alicent’s voice came with a choked sob, it breaks your heart seeing her like this, after seeing what befell Aegon, you understood that this is hard for her regardless the way how anyone feels about him, your brother, her son.

“I can not put more burden on your grieving sister, you must understand that only you can do this.” Her irises stabs right through yours as you ponder her words, digesting on what she could mean by ‘do this’— you understood why Helaena wasn’t called first thing to Aegon’s chamber despite her being his Queen, his wife, the reigning monarch in his absence, due to her still sullen with grief, but then it all clicks for you.

Ah.

This is about Aemond, if Helaena is your mother’s pawn to strengthen Aegon’s claim, then anything linked to you have always been, will, and must be about Aemond.

Only you,

You’re the only one that can soothe Aemond, calm him, hear him, understand him, discipline him when needed, tame him when necessary.

Only you that can release the ever glooming glorious tension that has risen and finally reached its peak between the heirs— one who was born first as a male heir, and the other one who is actually deserving of it by power and knowledge.

It’s you, his soulmate, his other half— it has only been you and everyone knows it, even your sister whom have said you are meant to fill the socket of the eye that Aemond has lost, you’re the missing piece in his tormented soul, the very needle that threads his wound, heal his anger, and cool down his temper.

But before you can open your mouth to respond, the sound of clanking armor once again reached the both of you and a voice boomed through the otherwise serene peace of the Godswood, “Pardon me, Your Grace, Your Highness, but the small council has gathered, and has asked for the presence of the Dowager Queen.” the Knight spoke, causing you to sigh and drown the words you had meant to speak of.

“Very well, I must return but please,” She looked at you feverishly, “My love, you need to talk to him, reason with him, because he will not do so with me.” Your heart once again breaks at that, yes you may have not had the fondest of love for your mother solely because she was too busy preparing Aegon, being queen in your father’s sickness, and feuding with your half-sister to care for you but alas, just like Aegon, she is of your blood, she is your mother— knowing she feels powerless to aid her own children, so much so, she asked for her youngest daughter’s help is a sorrowful thing to witness.

“I will, mother, now go.” You said, pulling your best smile to soothe her, the tresses of your silver locks blowing in the wind as she cup your face to kiss your forehead before fleeing to the small council chamber— leaving you with your thoughts once more, deserting you to quell over your confusion, with no comfort of assurance or security— you need Aemond, and he needs you, but how can you both reason with him when he is not within your reach, you just seek to know his safety and shield him, Helaena, and your niece of all this— but alas,

Did he do it?

Did he burn Aegon?

Is his desire for power so great that it quenches whatever left of affection you all had as siblings?

What will you do?

You love Aemond, you love him more than anything in the realm, your bond with him as strong as the bond you share with your dragon, Valyx, you do not and will never betray him— you had remembered his promise of making you his Queen, that the realm will bow to both of you, that his love for you is so great that it will be more than enough for him to fight and relinquish in victory— but at what cost? You had half the mind to seek Helaena, to ask for her guidance but that thought is quickly diminished by knowing the fragile state of your sister after Jaehaerys’s passing.

No, you will have to speak to Aemond, whatever result it may produce, whatever madness awaits you, whatever turn of story that may arise— you have to be ready for it, willing to face it, conquer it— for you do not wish for harm to ever come to those you love, to Helaena, your niece, your mother— and most importantly Aemond.

You just hope the Gods will grant you their blessings and forgiveness to what you will do or don’t do.

—

You had waited hours outside the small council chamber, pacing in front of the huge grant door, thinking and pondering on what you must say to Aemond, what you will do to reason with him. Your thoughts are plagued with the memories of your last encounter with Aemond, not that you can help it, it practical branded itself to you— He had always branded himself to your memory with everything he said and does.

It was the night after his small council meeting had gone awry, well according to his recollection— Aegon had once again undermined his knowledge and acted foolishly, not trusting his brother’s judgement, Aemond laid down on your lap, as you caresses his hair, his patch is off now that he is alone with you, in your chambers, with you only wearing your lilac shift and he, a tunic pants.

“Zȳhon mition yne amīvindis.” He had said that night as the flame dances through his iris and shappire— there is that unquenchable anger in him, you felt it miles away even before he laid on your bed, you knew that he was furious by the way he stormed to your room at the hour of the wolf, you had been sleeping when he entered, but quickly made way for him beside you. His stupidity infuriates me.

“Aegon?” You asked as your fingers cards through his hair in a soothing manner, you wish you can take away his pain, his worries, his fear— but Aemond is a hot tempered man, who will not be denied of his desires, who will not back down from a fight, who will never cower in silence, “Hm.” He hummed to you, “He is your king.” You humored him, passing a chuckle to the wind.

“Not for long.” Your fingers halted as he looked at you, trying to process what he just said, you knew your brother is hungry for power— for his throne, but it has always been a blur to you just how he was going to win— especially with Rhaenyra’s looming threat of war now, “Aemond…” You whispered, a distraught look is evident on your face, your rosy lips pout like it is begging for him to kiss you feverishly— to claim you once again.

“Do nor fret, sister,” He said, eyes sharp through yours while he bring his thumb up to your lip to press down on your ever so cute and tempting pout, what a tempting little tart, he thinks, “I do not wish to bring upon the ruin of the realm,” He pushes his thumb slightly in, you gladly open your lips to take the tip of his thumb inside and suckle on it as it is your lifeline. Your eyes closed for a second from a comforting gesture it brings you, he knows this calms you, content you— “Unlike Aegon.” He whispered the last part before completed parting your lips with his thumb so you can suck on it with little mewls of contentment.

He cooed at your subdued state, gods, he does not care of anything but to serve you— give you the realm as you fully deserve, his queen. Beautiful, untainted, pure, and the very image of both the Mother and Maiden bestowed upon a figure— you, you and your flustered self, you and your cherry lips, fluttering eyes, smooth silver locks, body of a goddess, a personality of Eve, charm of Rhaenys, dream of Daenys, fierce of Visenya, and soul that is unique to just you. He worships you more than you know, but he will show you— he will always show you.

“There you go, sweet girl.” His voice both soothe and heat up your core, and it catches you by no surprise when the night ended with you both tangling atop of the bed, with you on your hands and knees, his hand against the back of your neck— as he fucked your cunt with a varying pace of both a feral madman, and a devout husband— yours. You had been naught but a whimpering mess, a shaky shivering little girl overwhelmed with pleasure.

He had worshipped you then, kisses you softly on your skin as he brings you to your peak over and over and over again with his fingers, mouth, cock— every inch of him is solely to make you feel heavenly, so much so, that you are sure that your vision had gone blurry and you slumped onto the bed as he took care of you.

Your mind was quickly pulled once more from your thoughts when you heard the door of the small council chamber had finally been opened, you stood diligently to the side, waiting for your husband so that you may speak to him. You watched the lords move outside one by one, bowing to you when they catch you, which you had curtly but politely nod, until Lord Larys Strong came to your line of sight.

“Princess, how nice it is to see you.” Now you have never hold much disdain towards those who does not deserve it, and though Larys had never done anything to you personally, you are but know how much a rat he truly is. Indeed, he is an intelligent cunning man, known for his whisperings and cruel deeds that, even you, do not wish to know—but for the sake of the crown, you begrudgingly smiled, “Likewise, Lord Larys.” The fingers behind your back is picking at your cuticle in stress, Gods where is Aemond.

“The Prince Regent will certainly be delighted with your presence, regency is not an ea—“

“Regent?” Your brow furrowed at the mention, head spinning and running by a thousand miles— “Aemond… regency?” You asked, desperately trying to figure out what in the Seven hells happened and what has been done by it, “Yes, your highness, he—“

“Larys, may I speak with my wife in private now?” His voice came from inside the room, and you can scarcely see his figure emerging from inside, he is wearing his usual black attire, adorned with a green coat as a sign that he had been riding Vhagar prior, your eyes slipped to see the now two dagger on his side, one each, and your lips twitch with shock as you spot Blackfyre on the scabbard, you can not mistaken it, for it is one of the only two mighty Valyrian sword left that belongs to your family. Aemond had watched you gawking at him with an aura of eerie calmness to him, the sight making your spine curled and skin shivering.

This is all for you, sister, all I do is for you, he wants to say.

Your stare fled from his dagger up to his calm form, the way he holds so much power even when he is just standing there, with his arms behind his back, legs parted, head tilted, and lips pressed into a thin line—your violet eyes went up up up until his own gleams into yours, heating what feels like a suffocating heat around you. You continued staring into his eyes as your heart thundered inside your chest, you do not even notice that Larys had said his farewell and had left you both alone, at the entry of the council chamber— or at least you thought you were alone, before your mother’s voice spoke from behind the door— caught your peripheral vision.

“What are you doing here so late, sweet girl? have you had supper yet?” She asked, hands coming up to cupped your cheek in her otherwise cold hand, she’d been furious, you mused, eyes fleeting to the red marks on your mother’s finger, it seems that old habits die hard, “I wish to speak to Aemond, mother.” You bit the inside of your cheek at the way you almost whimpered his name— yes you are confused and possibly angry at him right at this very moment but he is your husband, the love of your life, your other half— you are also drowned by worries and fears of his safety, especially after seeing the state Aegon is in.

“I need to know he is well.” and safe and I just want to run away with him where no one can find us, I wish this madness can stop and be in peace with him— but you do not say that, no, you just smiled softly at your mother upon hearing Aemond hummed at you intriguingly, almost like he is both amused and mocking your sense of worry.

He knows that you know he did what he did.

Good, he thinks, let you see that he would burn the realm down for you, he would sooner die than to give you any less than what his wife, his precious sweet sister deserves.

“Very well then, I shall check on how Helaena is doing.” You do not miss the way Aemond’s lips twitches at the mention of either your sister or your eldest brother, his stoic self is evermore transparent yet foggy all the same for you to read, “Tell her we send our well wishes…” It’s his turn to speak now, eyes never leaving your figure with his voice ever so so alluringly gentle, “and to Aegon’s recovery, of course.”

Your spine curled at that, the invisible hair on your skin risen at the chill and smugness of his voice— Gods, Aemond… what have you done.. that’s all you can think but moreover, what will I do with you.

Your mother left you both at that, yet you can’t find it in you to move or speak to him, the slit on your dress passes the breeze seeping through your skin, the neckline that came above your breasts seems so tight now as you take desperate breaths to calm yourself down— you both just stared at each other, his, with longing, love, affection, you you you.

Yours are filled with the same longing, same love, same subject of desire yet there is a glint of confusion, uncertainty, and doubt swimming in your eyes— not to spite him or put distrust in him, he knows that, he knows you best— He knows you are just confused, a darling little pet you are, even when thrusted with so many responsibilities at the time of war, you still have that innocent childlike self in you that cowers in his gaze, that is desperate to seek good in the midst of destruction, that is curious, always seeking his approval, his assurances. It warmed him, for he knows that, only he, can assuage that building turmoil inside of you, only he can ease your pain, assure your worry.

“Come.” He said, Aemond beckoned you inside the council chamber with two flicks of his fingers, you followed suit, hands cold in front of you— blood of the dragon yet cold hands, he always muses to you often time he warmed you up, ah you do always love his warmth, engulfing you with security and love, comforting you the only way Aemond can, you longed for that, and you know he longs for it too.

“Aemond..” Your lips trailed as the door closes behind you, there Aemond stopped in his tracks, leaning against the table with his hand perched back against it, lips turned in an amused smirk with his head tilted.

Fuck fuck fuck, you need to focus.

“Aemond…” You said once more, walking closer to him but stopping just few feet away, keeping a respectful distance— not that it mattered much, if he wanted to— and he does— he could have you so easily, manhandles you right here right now, bending you over the very table he now commands and pound you to oblivion, releasing his pent up rage and frustration in that sweet sweet cunt of yours, “Hm?” Aemond merely hummed at you even when his mind conjured up the most obscene things, he has to have you, he needs— “Speak, little one, I am listening.” He grinned with mockery, which made you huff and stomp your feet like you used to do when you were a little girl, yet he finds you so sweet as you do it, only making his heart soar with love and desire for you.

What are you doing to him, little girl?

“What has happened?” What he would do to wipe that pout from your face, why are you testing him so far today, his little nymph, “It was a successful operation at Rook’s rest.” He replied calmly, making your blood boil as you scoffed and shake your head disdainfully at his remark, “It was foolish, reckless even—“

“Did we not took out the largest looming threat?” He pressed on, edging you to be angry with him, “It was a worthy effort, a worthy price.” His eyes twinkle when he see your heating face— such an angry little dove, you are, what a temperament that has long been subdued by your years of princesses duties, causing you to retract back to a shell— though he knows better, that you and him share the blood of dragon and fire in you.

Let it burn, sweet sister, let it burn and we shall emerge from the ashes.

“A worthy effort? your king is at the teetering edge of death.” You bit your lip to suppress your anger, let it simmer but do not let it boil to overheat, “What of Helaena, Aemond? she has just lost her son, and now you’ll take away her husband too?” You tried to reason with him, eyes fleeting from his yes to his puffing red lips back to his eyes.

Focus, fuck, why can’t you focus.

“What do you take me for, sister?” His tone is accusatory, eyes sharply glared at you, if he was annoyed before, he is furious now, “You accused me of treason, is that it? deem me a kinslayer?” You tap your feet below you, a sign that you’re either nervous or irritated— maybe both at this point.

“You said it, not me, Aemond.” It was a pitiful attempt at trying to not think of him that way— even in your anger, you still want to find the good in him, but dearest sister, alas your soulmate is one paradox only you can understand, one cursed being you can love, a match to your own fixation, “Tell me you did not do it.” Your eyes held so much hope in them, pleading and begging for his assurances. He truly would do anything to destroy anyone that make you this worrisome, but if it is him, then he shall do what he always did, to declare his love for you, so immense that he can do naught, but serve the realm on a golden plateau for you.

He closes the gap between the two of you, standing tall over you, leaning his head forward to press his forehead against yours— breathing with rage with his warm palm coming up to cup your jaw, a possessive gesture, served only for you, there is so much passion between the two of you that your mind gets hazy and fuzzy with it, “Sweetling,” He breathes, once, twice, three times, “What have I told you over and over, hm? what did I promise to you?” His words thrum against your skin, with your bones stilling itself in the desire to melt into him— become one with him.

I will never leave you, dōnus ñuhys, you are destined to be my queen, for all the Seven, nor the Old Gods can never deny us.

“There will be nothing left for us if this madness do not cease, Aemond…” You whispered his name, eyes prickling with sharp heat beneath your eyelids— forcing you to close them shut even when you do not want to, “I am terrified.” You muttered it out of desperation and pure fear and that troubles Aemond, oh no no, his little girl, how has he been so blind to your cries.

He can feel his heart tugs with pain, his stubborn self is telling him to soothe you, calm you down, relieve you of your misery that is looming fear, oh little dragon— he hadn’t mean to scare you, only to show you his dedication, for who will he show it else to if not for the most important person of his life? he would not have find it in him to even claimed Vhagar, if it were not for you, you’re his source of life.

“Look at me.” That was not a request from him, but a demand, one you so eagerly followed, “You have me, what are you so terrified of when you have me?” He punctuates each of his words with pressing against you harder, your body jolted lightly as your rear hit the edge of the table after being spun by him.

“The war—“

“If we march together, our power will not easily be subdued— tis’ what needs to be done, and I will be ready to do it, risk my life so we will prevail. Would you not have done the same?”

“I would, you know I would.” Your eyes remained close throughout his declaration, eyes trying to frantically stop your tears but alas, it is a useless pursuit, tears flows down your cheeks at a faster rate than you’d like, at this Aemond cooed, wiping your tears, “You and I, we can have what is ours, sweetling, what has been ours since they took our eye.”

Our eye, he says, not mine— “You’re the missing eye that fills his socket.” Helaena once told you.

“What of Aegon?” You opened your eyes at him, holding his stare as best as you could even when he took a sharp breath and press his thumb on your pouty parted lips, “Aegon rushed to Rook’s Rest to proof his worth despite the better judgement offered by the council,” He paused, nose nudging into yours where you can feel every single allure that drips off your husband like its second skin, “He challenged Meleys, got overpowered, and I had to come in to save the armies… as I have intended to do before he so recklessly join in with Sunfyre.” His lips are touching his thumb now, the only thing shielding your petal bloomed parted lips with his.

You should be concerned by his statement, for you know Aegon would not ended the way he is now if Aemond had actually meant to ‘save him’, there is something else, you know he would not kill out of spite even with the years of insults and torments that Aegon himself, had bestowed upon your brother, he would not deliberately kill him, yet the intention to hurt is not lost on you.

Meleys is a strong dragon of your house, a battle trained one at that, but still not enough against the mighty Vhagar, that fought alongside Visenya on Dornish war and conquer it, let alone two dragons— but perhaps, you have naught but pressing longing now, your impulses seems to control you— your innate desires taking over and you can only do what your heart and body wants, never mind what your mind says, it matters not, you’re his, he’s yours.

You leaned impossibly closer to him, urging him to take away his thumb against your lips by tugging on his wrist as your glistening eyes look up at him with desperation in them, his humming is slightly cold, but you know better that its full of mirth— he is teasing you.

“I suppose now that I am in charge…” He tilted his head menacingly, pressing his lips upon the gap of your brow, hold you tight to him as he took in your rose oil scented skin, how heavenly, he thinks, “You ought to call me, your grace, isn’t that true, princess?” His thumb slipped inside your rosy lips then, the force is too heavy to bear as you sigh and suckle on the tip of his lips— eyes fluttered shut, “Uh huh.” Your lips parted from his thumb with a lewd pop!

“Your grace.”

Your eyes flit open, droopy with want, heat on the apex of your thigh is ever so persistent against the now soaked fabric of your silk smallclothes, Aemond eyes are sharp— ravenous as he stared at you, “Syz riña.” He purred. Good girl.

Having no more self control over him, Aemond use his free hand to hold the side of your neck— lightly pressing on the pulse point, enough to make your head dizzy, and presses his lips on yours with so much want, need, pressure of claim-claim-claim and mine-mine-mine.

If there is one thing about Aemond is that he’d never be denied, not when he was destined to claim the greatest dragon in the realm, not when he is supposed to sit on the Iron throne, and certainly not when he’s going to have you— no, you’re his, since you were bare as a babe, to now, his beautiful sweet girl of a wife.

Fuck, he’s achingly hard just at the feeling of your lips, body heat, and thought of your sweet flushed face. Gods be damned.

You gasped at the feeling of his teeth grazing your bottom lip, asking— no, demanding you to part your lips by biting at it— not too hard, yet enough to make you squirm on the ledge of the table, as your pretty pink raw lips parted in obedience, he wasted no time to push his tongue inside passionately— exploring your oh so delectable wet cavern like a madman, whilst you mewl with the lightheaded feeling of his grasp on your throat and his tongue battling, or more like conquering yours.

Your body is now dangerous low to the tabletop behind you as your nails fisting weakly at his leather tunic, a silent plea for him to give you time to breathe, its pure instinct he knows, but how can he deprive himself of you. Your melodic whines, the way your pink lips parted and indulge him so so sinfully, the way your chest heave with each gulping breath you try to take, and the way you clench your thigh, oh yes he knows all about it, little girl.

After you slap at his chest for a few times, Aemond finally relent, parting his lips from your now cherry bitten lips— you take big gulps of breath, gasping for what seems to be minutes after he released you, your head spins and you’re sure your knee would not been able to hold your figure even against the table if not for his strong grip on both your neck and waist.

“Come back to me.” He whispered, temple pressed against yours as you let out soft whimpers at the heightened pleasure of fuzziness in your head— just him him him, just Aemond Aemond Aemond, “I— please.” You can do naught but to plead with him, eyes watery as you stared at him—lips trembling, wanting to say so much more, please claim me, fuck me senseless, please make me forget that this realm exist, make me only yours, make me your queen just as you promised— but he knows, Gods he knows you, he knows what you want, he always does.

“Please what, sweetling?” But does it thrill him to no end seeing you so desperate, so needy for his touch that you’d beg and beg—Seven hells, not only is his heart thundered against his ribcage, but his cock is painfully aching at your dewey flushed face, “Use your words, zaldrītsos.” His words might be encouraging, yet his tone is anything but— its mockery, he is taunting you and it makes you drip down your legs. Little dragon.

“Touch me… please.”

You gathered all the voice you have left, even if it is just a mere whisper that sounded more like a meek mewl, “I am touching you.” He said, his fingers trails up and down the sleeve of your gown, making you shudder with want— tiny wantons of needy whines escaped you as his fingers trail upon the material of your silk covered breasts— nipples pert with peaking desires.

“Not— you know where I want your touch…” The frustration embedded within you forced this snappy remark of yours, one he clicked his tongue at, just like he always did when you were little— when you had eaten all your lemon cakes in a single sitting, when you would hide beneath the grassy slope atop of Rhaenys’s hill, when you would constantly fuss to keep his wound clean, so much so that you had stayed whenever the maester came in to change his dressings albeit the warning from your mother. It’s the click of the tongue that signifies not only to remind you of disobedience, but it holds a stronger purpose to know that he so affectionately loves and ardor whatever it is you do, even when you are being a fussy bratty little thing that you are.

“Being an impudent girl for me will not serve you well, I had thought you know this by now.” He shakes his head at you, fingers trailing backwards to slowly unlace the neat tying of your ladies’s work on the bodice of your gown— all the while brushing your half braided silver locks to the side and lean forward to nip at your neck causing you to gasp.

Oh he wishes to bend you to him, but moreover to protect you, all the same, as he did when he would wipe the lemon frosting from your lips, or give you his last candied sweets, or grip your wrist to lead you back to Maegor’s tunnels to not incurs the wrath of your mother, or clasp a hand to your lips to keep you from squeaking as to not alert Aegon of where your whereabouts— it is all meant as a testament of his often unspoken devotion to you, and you know it.

“Aemond—“ You are unable to mutter anything let alone an apology as you feel your gown slides off from your body down as it pooled on the ledge of the table— only held by how your body is pressed against the stone table, now only clad in your thin silk shift and smallclothes, you felt so exposed, your neck snapped sideways as you looked at the door behind you, it dawns in on you that you are in fact in a room where someone could just walk in, and found you both in the state of lewdness, “Aemond, not here.”

“I am the Prince regent, I shall do what I please, where I wish.” Came his reply, you can do naught but shudder at the deep rumble that is his voice, at your small gasp, Aemond continued to press soft almost gentle feather kisses on the exposed skin of your pulse point, down your jugular, to the base of your neck, behind your ear—“Ah!” You can feel him chuckling at your voiced pleasure, he knows you like the back of his hand, which spot makes you tick and jolt— you arch your back when he suck and nip at the sensitive skin, ever so reactive to his touch, you are.

You always are, little dove, like you are made to respond to him— his voice, touch, kisses, pleasure, demands— each and every single one of his decrees.

Aemond palm comes up to cusp your flowery breasts next, fondling the soft skin with your buds firmly against the calloused skin of his palm. He then rolled the blossoming darkening buds of pleasure between his index and thumb, causing you to grip onto his biceps, “Mm Seven—.” You tried your best to remain sane but alas, you never were to begin with, nothing is ever normal nor sane but you could not care less, not when it is him.

He chuckled at your oversensitivity, mouth slide down from the crook of your neck to your stern collarbone, before reaching the valley of your breasts. He looked up at you menacingly as he takes one of your pert bud into his mouth to suckle on it as you yelp— hand clutching his doublet in desperation, you are sure by now that your smallclothes is not only drenched but soaked from the way your cunt pulse with each second going by.

“Doñus riñus.” He murmured as he littered marks all over your now flushed skin, moving to the other neglected nipple, applying the same treatment of pull-tug-suckle on the poor overstimulated bundle of nerves. Sweet girl.

Aemond released your now reddened bitten tender buds with a loud pop! causing blush to once more darken on your flushed skin, he smirks up at you then,“Lay down, ābrazȳrys.” wife. He lightly push you downward against the stone table, you shuddered lightly when your heated skin met the cold surface, your eyes are glistened— wide yet droopy with needy innocence as you stared up at him, eyeing him as he removes his breeches slowly.

“Aemond…” You whined and pressed your thighs together when he keeps on teasing you by undoing his laces way too fucking slow, he knows it will drive you mad especially since your drenched tight cunt is inviting him oh so warmly— fuck, he thinks, you looked like the Maiden and Mother has painted, created the perfect goddess of the realm, silver locks wildly splayed on the table, with your braids almost undone, and your body glistened with thin layer of sweat and some of his spit, skin flushed with his markings on you, “Fucking temptress little slut.” He groaned as he stared at you panting.

Your puffy cheeks are heated with lust and neediness, your eyes stared at him like you always did when you sought comfort or wisdom from him— the same way little you had looked up at him whenever you beg for his remaining sweet treats, or when that first time in your reading chambers, oh how you had asked him so so sweetly to touch you— open and take your maidenhead like a good obedient little girl you are, how your bitten raw lips is murmuring pleads to him as if he wouldn’t give you what you want— oh his poor little darling, always wanting more more more.

Then his gaze fall down the swell of your breasts, the way it rises up and down with each breath you take, inviting him to suck and nip at the tender buds once more, and when he dropped his sight to your fluttering folds— he bit his lip, hard, for the view is both the most sinful obscene yet heavenly thing he could ever have witnessed in his lifetime, there you lay, ready for him, ripe for the taking, and the center of your pleasure is weeping for him to take care of you— to take you.

“Gevie.” He whispered as he drank his fill of you— you, the embodiment of a Princess, a Queen— all in name, nature, body, spirit, and soul, everyone should worship you, for he can swear to the Seven that you are holier than any deity common folk would pray to, you are not just the core of his being, but the essence of his vitality— his his his. Beautiful.

Aemond wastes no time to drop to fold your legs so he can enjoy his treat, he grunted before leaning down to kiss the inside of your mound— hand holding to your hips and one on your thighs to keep them there, his hold is stern enough to let you know that if you were to move them, oh little one, there will be consequences. You tried your best to keep them there as he press sweet lingering kisses all over the very surface of your folds, all wet and begging for him.

You gasped at the sudden sensation of his fingers parting your warm heat gently, making way for his tongue to spread the wetness from your opening up up up through the soft muscle then to your pearl, focusing on the now reddened and hardened nub with teasing licks and not yet a suckle on the oversensitive gem for he knows you would crumble and reach your peak oh so suddenly— no he wants to keep you on edge for a little longer, having you on that teetering insanity, controlling your pleasure as he pleases.

But when he does let up and suckle on the raw pulsing nub— you let out a sound akin to that of a scream, somewhere between a loud needy whine and strained moan— causing him to grunt, sending vibrations through your core, you jolted at the feeling, arching your back to pull away from him but causing a grinding effect instead— you clasped a hand on your lips to stifle the wanton sounds you let out.

“Ah-ah, do not hide from me now, little one.” He rasps against your cunt, you had half the mind to be bratty and yank his hair for causing you to be so so messy, but you only bit your tongue to halt yourself from getting yet another bruises from the last time you were bent over his knee— which was not that long ago, having been ridiculed on yet another Aegon’s quest, combined with your snappy attitude had him seeing red.

“Enough.”

“No.” You raised your eyebrow at the fuming man standing tall over you, having you crane your neck just to look up at his sharp eye and the mean clench of his jaw, “Thread carefully, sister.” He warned you, tilting his head that should’ve been an indication for you to stop— but alas you wanted to push him, to see the limit that is Aemond Targaryen, if only there is one— you rolled your eyes then, biting the inside of your cheek in an act of defiance. Oh now you have done it, little girl.

You barely seen him coming for the next you knew, you yelped as he manhandled you over his knee on the bed, both of your wrists are behind you, tightly gripped by his much larger ones— “Let me go.” You whined, trying to tug free of his grip only for him to chuckle darkly, “You wanted to test me, push me, and now you shall see the consequence of your misbehavior.”

“Aemond—“

“Ah-ah, if you wanted me to treat you like a whore, all you gotta do is ask, darling.” You clenched at that, letting out a squeaky gasp at the way his voice resonates through the room, “Hm, lets see if we can put that mouth to a better use than running your tongue like a tart.” With that he pushed two of his free digit to the inside of your bitten lips— down down down until it rests against your throat.

You looked up at him with teary eyes, heated cheeks, and lips wide open with his fingers stuffed inside of you— both preventing you to speak and constrict your air intake, causing your head to get fuzzy— not dangerous just flying on that mind space of him him him, Aemond notices your now cloudy lilac orbs and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead— all the gentleness short lived, however, when he freed your wrist from his grip to press a loud impactful swat to your cheeks causing you to yelp against his fingers.

“Now lets see if your dumb little head can count for me.”

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you feel the stinging white noise of his slap against your folds— yelping as you feel your peak closing in, “I’m close— please please.” You writhed underneath him before he gently shushes you, taking one of his hand and intertwining it with yours, whilst he enters your wet warm opening with the other— a finger slides in, before a second joining the pleasurable stretch.

“Tight little thing, you are.” He shakes his head between your thighs but your ears are ringing too loudly to register anything right now, mind so so hazy with cunt so so overstimulated, meanwhile, Aemond continues his ministration on your pearl, suckling on the poor nub with vigorous attention, “Mmnh, I—“ You can feel the height of your pleasure come crashing down on you, stomach tightening with heat, too hard, too much, so quickly.

“Let go for me, sweetling.”

You obeyed at his command, as you always do, a good girl you are always do as he wishes— your peak was a long one with you letting out a silent scream followed by plethoras of his name and chanting ‘ah’s’ and ‘oh Gods!’ as he savor your release.

The man above you grinned as your body shake beneath him, having one of the hardest peak of your life, he pulled his fingers out of you with a satisfied smile— a proud one at that, having to see your essence coating not only the tabletop where all the lords that serve him now would sit to discuss the runs about the realm, about his reign but also covering his fingers. You’re a delectable delight, perfect molded whore, carefully shaped nymph for him. His.

Aemond stands up, intertwining both your fingers together to guide you to sit up— having been near insensate from your heightened senses, he had to support your spine as you shakily face him again— and his sight of you is one he can only describe of all Seven heavens in itself. You, a mess you are, silver hair mused and wild as if you had been on Valyx back, it cascades down the plane of your shoulder and back, your face is flustered, eyes droopy, unfocused, and lips, your lips pulled into a drunken kind of smile.

Oh, he has gotten you in a place where all you can do is take what he gives you. Fuck.

You, sweet pliant you, in the daze of your peak welcomes him gleefully when he presses a passionate kiss on your lips, feverishly moving your lips with his, you gasp as he bit your bottom lip, tongue entering to enter your wet cavern once more, before parting with a lewd pop! sound, “Syz riña.” good girl.

The gentleness of his actions are short lived though, Aemond smirks before you feel him manhandled you around, and bend you over the cold stone table, causing you to gasp in both surprise as well as feeling the chilling sensation on your tummy and up your overstimulated chest area, “Shh, no fussing.” He scolded you as if you’re a child, but his stern tone alone made your knee goes weaker.

You can hear the sound of his breeches being untied behind you, the sound alone has your neck craning to the side, your head pressed against the table and drags one of your leg upwards to graze against his legs, smiling to yourself in a post peak-haze state, “Hurry.”— that soft giggly voice of your demand surprises Aemond as he chuckled behind you, shaking his head at the gentle brattiness you let out.

“Aemond!” You yelped when you feel his hand coming down on your bottom, not once but three times in loud harsh succession— you lift your legs once more not out of teasing nature but to quell the pain and the oh so good feeling that comes from it, your cunt clenching around nothing as you arch, “Little girls who ran their mouth will not get anything but this, you hear me?” He said, palming your now reddened tender skin roughly, though the sensation makes you whimper.

“Of course you’d love that too, filthy girl.” He gives you no time to process his words before he tap the now hard leaking length against your opening, which makes you whine lewdly, he is pushing just slightly in, but not enough to even get half of his tip in, making you cry out in frustration, “Kostilus, lēkia.” Please, brother.

“Hm, I do love seeing you beg for it.” He hummed, pressing a kiss on the skin of your back, before breaching the tight opening of your cunt inch by inch, “Fuck, missed this tight cunt.” He grunts, feeling the way your walls sucking him in inside your warm heat.

The stretch caused you to wail and mewl “Tis too much—“ and, “too big!” if anything, the sound of your protests and the contradicting clench of your cunt around his cock is making him more feral— almost animalistic in how he thrusts harder inside you, before burying himself deep deep deep, head nudging the opening of your cervix with just the right amount of pain from the pleasure of being opened by his length, and pleasure from the way the curved tip hit your spongey spot with ease.

Aemond does not let you breathe much it seems, as he begin his fulfilling assault on your battered cunny, thrusting his length oh so deep before pulling, then slam it back in with vigorous pace, hitting all the right places even when his width alone made you shudder near your peak, “So good— oh!” You moaned, closing your eyes and arching your back, to which he responded with a hand yanking your silver locks tightly, the impossibly deep arch of your back has you both drunk on the feeling.

“Take it, take me.” He moaned in your ear, not once does he relent in his pace, always fucking into you harder, pounding you into oblivion, so much so that your cannot care anymore of who might heard what the of you are doing in the very same table he now commanded, he now holds the highest marble rank, the thought would exhilarate you further if you had not been so consumed by the way his cock reach your sweetest spot over and over again.

“Let them hear you, sweetling— fuck, let them know who you belong to, who is in fucking charge.” His words have double the meaning, that you can interpret perfectly, for he relinquish in the knowledge of claiming you, owning you, which you happily obliged, but he also needs to hear it from you that he has deserved this place, as the Prince Regent, that he has fully earned it, and shall lead the realm as his own.

“I belong to- Ah! you, My Prince…” Your voice is shaky in the wake of your nearing release, your velvety walls involuntarily clenched around him when his hips stuttered at the revelation that is you words, it seeped into his skin, thrumming along his veins— his grip on your hair and waist is tightening, for you are sure that your skin would be covered by his love marks by the morrow, but you did not care, let them see, let them know who rules the Seven Kingdoms, and who is steadfastly stood by his side, his Queen.

“Ao nykē perzōñi iksi, ābrazȳrys. Hen prānot hae mērȳ zālagon indīliks.” You and I are made of fire, wife. We have always been meant to burn together.

“Issa! zaldrīzo ānogar, Īlvon qumblī iāris.” Yes! blood of the dragon, ours runs thick. You replied in the midst of your clouded mind, his declaration has made you seen the stars that for a moment you thought you had been flying through the sky with Valyx, yet make no mistake, for his hips driving into you, and the way he snaked one of his arms down around you to rub at your pearl, instantly ground you back to earth, “Va sȳndroti vāedroma.” Joined as one. He whispered deeply, “Avy jorrālean, zaldrītsos.” I love you, little dragon.

“Come for me.” He rasped deep in your ear, that was the last restraint you have on you, as the combination of the never ending pounding of his cock inside your now oversensitive cunt has you curling your toes, the feeling of his fingers rubbing quick circle over your now engorged reddened nub has tears running down your face so prettily, so messily, painting the perfect picture of a ruined slut just for him.

You came with sobs escaping your lips, the plethora of whimpers of his name heightened the pressure inside the now sex smelling room, the sound of steps are loud from the grounds outside the keep, so does the sound of the occasional knight’s armors clanking, but all of that escaped your mind— too dumb speared on his length to give a fuck, your eyes closed as his hips faltered, feeling him shake above you at the telltale sign of his own impending release, you smiled drunkenly at the knowledge of your effect on him, “Give it to me, please, fill me up,” You mewled softly, finding every bit of your strength left to urge him, “Give me a babe, Aemond— mmh! let me give you an heir.”

Aemond groaned loudly at your words, “Fuck— fucking shit.” You have no idea what you have said to him, sweet girl, you have no idea how the thought of him marking you, both bound by blood, vow, and his seed inside you, does to him. You have no idea how much he wishes to always keep you full of his come, so you may be swelled with babes, because then nobody would ever question his claim over you, nor claim over the true line of Targaryen blood that is deserving of the Iron Throne.

He thrusted inside you one more time before stilling himself deep— so fucking deep inside you with his tip nudging your womb, and releases his seed inside of you with words of lewd affirmations spilling out of his lips, “Good girl, gonna watch you swell with my babe.” and, “Take it, little one, I’m yours— fuck!”

Your neck craned to the side as warmth filled your insides, smiling and biting your lips at the overwhelming sensation of both searing pain as well as being completely full of him, claimed and mark by him, undoubtedly his, “Avy jorrāelan, valzȳrys.” I love you, husband. You muttered, his eye still closed and his lips peppering small kisses along the plane of your back and your spine.

After some moment of calming down basked in silence, with only each other’s deep breathing, and him humming high Valyrian to your ears, he then slipped out of you, before turning you around and carry you to the where the chair for the King, or in this instance, the Prince Regent is located.

He sat down on it, with you laying on top of his lap in a fetal position, the crown of your head is tucked safely under his chin whilst his palm caresses the skin across your back and arms softly, “I hope I was not too rough.” He murmured against your hair, kissing at the messy silver strands lovingly.

“You were…” You mumbled, looking at him mischievously, he raised an eyebrow at you- biting the inside of his cheek awaiting your response, “But I like it.” Came your reply, cheeks flushed once more at the way he muttered something akin to “Fucking hell” under his breath.

“Aemond—“

“I will never put you in danger.” He said, eyes boring into yours, full of hope, full of promises, “Do you trust me?” His voice came out with a hint of vulnerability to you, almost like he bares his neck for you to bite if you so please.

You frown at this, “Of course,” You put your palm on his jaw, “Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo, rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.” Vow spoken through time, of darkness and light. He smiled at your words, have long he had dreamed of binding your blood in the tradition of Old Valyria, he is perhaps the perfect devout son that worships the Seven, yet he is also very much connected to the blood of the dragon as you are with yours. Tis’ something he have vowed to do with you once the realm’s stability comes back.

“Do not be afraid.”

“With you? never again.”

It is true that you longed for nothing more than to be with him in a world of your own, in a world where there is no more bloodshed, in a realm where peace is known, no green— no black, just you and him— but you also know that it is wishful thinking, for you all have a part to play, you included, as Helaena has said before, if your part is to be the eye he had lost, if your part is to be his anchor, his devoted wife, his sweet sister, his lover, his destiny, then by his side is where you shall be.

For it is better to go to Seven hells and back with him, then to live in agony without him.

You’re bound by vow, by blood, by wounds, by heart, and most importantly by that invisible string of everlasting fire. You are meant to burn together.

[yuomizuu]

♡ | open arms ── kinich x reader !

synopsis: a bit of kindness can go a long way. at least, that was what the elders in kinich’s clans would often say. though in a land where war with the abyss is at a constant, he finds it difficult to truly believe such a notion. perhaps meeting you simply had the sole purpose of erasing those doubts that shrouded his mind.

additional: w.c 899 ⸝⸝⸝ content includes . . .gn reader, implied friends to lovers, character study www

( 💌 ) yuomi’s note: slowly but surely reverting back to my musical kid phase ty mr. jorge for creating epic and what better way to commend that than doing some kinich brainrot ^w^

natlan — a nation of eternal oaths and converging fires. where the sacred flame burns brighter with each chant of the epic hymn that echoes from land to sea, bringing back valiant warriors, now deemed heroes, anew.

yet beyond those blazing flames of ardent also lies a resplendent nation full of color and life. made up of magnificent gorges and valleys that stretch as far as the eye can see, vibrant fields where the saurians roam free, and rejuvenating springs that ease the weary, you'll find a unique beauty reflected within it all.

for most of his life, kinich had often found it difficult to view his homeland through the lens of the latter. since a young age, misfortune has always seemed to follow him wherever he goes, like a relentless beast chasing down its prey that's slowly becoming more and more exhausted. where no matter how far he soars, the shackles of a brutal reality always drag him back down. eventually, such experiences would sometimes render the lone saurian hunter an austere individual, whether intended or not. in his eyes, the world was but a tapestry of unbridled battles.

it was only after meeting you that, slowly but surely, kinich would gradually learn to appreciate the more charming aspects of life and even gain a sense of tenderness towards it. however, that still doesn't cause him to lower his guard completely.

"kinich, you're doing it again," you mused, the lush grass below softening your footsteps as you and your companion tread through the forest. the occasional murmur of wild animals hidden within the trees or nestled away in burrows echoes throughout.

hearing this, the male ahead of you briefly stops in his tracks to glance back at you with a puzzled look. "doing.. what exactly?"

stopping beside him, you motion at the weapon held in his hand. "gripping onto your sword so tightly that the tips of your knuckles are turning white. i swear… it's like you're expecting us to get ambushed out here any minute."

in response to your sigh though, he simply shrugs. "perhaps we will be."

"kinich, we barely took on this commission not that long ago, and we aren't even at our intended destination yet. i doubt we'll find ourselves walking into trouble so soon."

"better to be prepared for catastrophe before it strikes when you least expect it."

an air of laughter escapes from you then. "catastrophe," you repeat to yourself, head shaking in slight amusement. "we aren't exactly tackling the abyss here you know."

"no, but if we were, your lack of attentiveness would surely lead us to such." in between his pause, you catch sight of the subtle curl of his lips. "not even ajaw would be so heedless, and that certainly says something."

"you little…!"

balling your hand up into a fist, you immediately go to throw a punch on his arm that ultimately does not land when the now chuckling male catches it effortlessly. not that such a punch would've hurt him in the first place, but kinich is all for finding the humor in evading your poor attempts at attacking him. plus, you've managed to land a good punch or two on him before, although he blames ajaw for distracting him during those moments.

before you can pull your hand away from his grasp and unwillingly accept defeat this time, kinich intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand firmly. without saying another word, he turns to continue walking along with you at his side now.

due to your good-natured sense of self, it's often left kinich to be roped up in more conflicts than he'd usually expect: said conflicts are getting you out of trouble.

but even in the face of danger, you never cease to look for the good in others. while many have considered this trait of yours to be a display of naive foolishness, it felt like a breath of fresh air for kinich. while he was also considered to be different from those of his tribe concerning certain viewpoints and beliefs, you were an oddity that transcended beyond his own novel ideals. if you had not been born and raised in natlan, kinich would've surely mistaken you for being an outlander. even you had once jokingly said that perhaps you were actually a child of the anemo god, barbatos, that the wind had accidentally blown too far from home.

because, unlike the fierce fires that dwelt within the spirit of every warrior in natlan, your flame was akin to that of a candle: a gentle yet comforting light that simply wished to share its warmth with the world around them and kinich would do anything to keep that light of yours burning for evermore.

he'll never admit to you aloud, but he secretly thanks the anemo archon every day for sending him a beautiful soul such as yourself. your presence alone was as calming as a gentle breeze, and his love for you a sweet, sweet melody.

"speaking of ajaw, where is the little rascal anyways?" you ask, breaking the silence as you look around to find the creature that has strangely gone quiet.

"i sent him to scout ahead for a bit. he'll be back soon enough."

a soft smile creeps onto your face. you spare the male one more glance before giving his hand a light squeeze.

"of course you did."

[lushaletta]

love and its lethal consequences / tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x fem!reader

content: muggleborn!reader, dark!tom, mild swearing, violence

summary: tom grapples between his dark desires and his unlikely affection for you. it’s deadly.

a/n: part 3 to this lil series :> pls lmk if u guys r enjoying so far!! idk how long i want this to be but we shall see where it goes

read the previous parts: one two

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

Tom has decided. And once Tom decides something, nothing will get in his way.

You are to be his.

The murder would be the easiest part of all. Twice, now, he’s done it. First with that disgusting, grumbling Myrtle and second with his nasty father he can’t even be bothered to think about.

Third time is always the charm. He has it all figured out.

“Tommy!” you beam, following the daily routine. You slide over a treacle tart. “You liked these ones last time.”

He accepts the dessert wordlessly. He’s too deep in thought. You grin.

A few more moments of silence pass and you begin to be irritated by the lack of noise. You have to fill the air up somehow. “Have I told you about Murph yet?”

He’s almost sickened by the name itself. So much so that he can’t stomach the lovely tart your mother has made for him. You’re on a nickname basis now? “You have not.”

You haven’t told him anything about this boy, but he already knows everything. He won’t have to worry about this foul beast for much longer, so he’ll tolerate the giddiness in your eyes for now.

“We’ve just gone on a date. I think it went well, you know? He’s sweet. Opens the door for me, matches pace. That type of thing.”

Tom could do that too if that’s what you really wanted. “How wonderful,” he deadpans.

You’d be a fool not to notice the way his eye twitched when you said the word “date” or the poorly hidden sarcasm he laced in his speech.

“I think our next one is this Wednesday,” you continue.

He’s absolutely fucking repulsed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d march on over to that moron’s room and take care of it himself. But there’s a plan, procedure to be followed. And Tom is nothing if not methodical.

“I can’t believe it! The both of us have dates this week. What even are our lives now?” Camilla cheers, leaning back in her seat.

“I don’t think Tom is very happy about mine.”

She raises a brow. “That’s because Murphy isn’t pure. I’m telling you, Riddle’s lot is psychotic.”

“Okay, I’m not a fan of them either, but Tom knows I’m not pure. He’s been perfectly pleasant.”

“He hardly speaks!” she retorts.

You roll your eyes and urge her to continue reading her book. She complies. Camilla’s never been very argumentative.

As she settles in the pages, all entranced by the words, you lean back in your chair. It is a strange twist of fate that you’re now friends with Tom, but despite Camilla’s warnings, you can’t get yourself to leave. It’s a comfortable trap.

“Hello,” Tom says from behind you as you swing your feet on the railings.

You don’t skip a beat. “Hi!”

Tom knows by now that he can’t surprise you.

The echoing chambers of Hogwarts are bathed in soft moonlight, and no one else is around. Tom is usually by himself at this time. You only steal each other’s afternoons.

“You know,” you muse, breaking the comfortable quiet that settled between you. “You’re very important to me.”

Tom clears his throat. He’s never really been important to anyone. He swallows. “Likewise.”

He’s avoiding your gaze. You think it’s cute. His lips quirk into a faint smile, a rare glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it comes.

Suddenly, you study his face, trying to unravel the mysteries hidden within. He’s more withdrawn recently. Even quieter, if that’s possible. You suppose it has something to do with Murph but you never can be too sure when it comes to him.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I like the view.” He sighs.

Tom is not a good person. Far from it. Your friend realises it but you don’t. You’re a glimmer of hope in the darkness that threatens to consume him, that’s already consumed him. You’re both refuge from his despair and a constant reminder. He finds solace in your company and he hates it but now he has no choice. He can’t bring himself to kill you. He knows he never will and so it has to be this way.

It will hurt you, undoubtedly. It will make him more terrible than he already is.

Time is creeping up on him. You’re growing closer with that wretched Ravenclaw and the longer he waits, the more you will be affected.

“Murphy Atthill.”

He turns around at the call of his name and can’t help but feel uneasy. Tom’s presence tends to do that. “Riddle? What can I do for you?” he asks politely. He isn’t very good at masking his anxiety.

Tom casts the Killing Curse and he feels the unmistakable split of his soul as he recites haunting Latin incantations. He knows there’s no going back.

A chilling sense of finality looms over him and yet it weighs light on his conscience. All for the better, this is. In fact, it’s a twisted sense of satisfaction that he feels knowing that the deed is done. He knows he’s crossed a line with you from which there is no return,

But Murphy’s eyes lifeless are much prettier that way.

taglist for this series!! @mariamyousef702 @enidths @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @girlogies @unwrittenletter @helalokithor @lisv1n

[gingernut1314]

Face Your Fears

Luffy x GN!Reader

Summary: Deep in the jungle, you are faced with your biggest fear and your captain is more than happy to help you.

Warnings: fluff, arachnophobia, very mild spoilers for the anime (Alabasta arc to Post-Enies Lobby arc mentioned), use of Y/N

Word Count: 1.4K

A/N: This is my first "full-fledged" Luffy fic soooo I hope it turned out okay lol. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy!! 🩷🩷🩷

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You stood deathly still in the middle of the thick, dense jungle. Sweat ran down your skin in pools, the muggy heat doing nothing to help calm you down. Your muscles had grown so taut you feared they might snap under the pressure. Your limbs were frozen in place as you fought against the rising panic in your chest. 

This was a nightmare. Your worst nightmare.

The one thing you feared above everything else. 

And you were stuck--unable to move to free yourself from the situation. 

You whimpered pitifully as your captain came hopping back down from the tree he had climbed, bouncing like some ball as he called your name, arm extended to show off the stick he had found for you to admire.

“This one is so much cooler then the one you found. Usopp is going to be so jealo--why are you all pale?” Luffy asked, titling his strawhat adorned head and blinking his long eyelashes slowly at you as he tried to figure out what was wrong.

Everything was wrong. So, so wrong. 

“H-Help.” Your tightened throat croaked out. “Help me. Please.” Luffy’s easy going nature shifted instantly, steady seriousness filling his dark brown eyes as they scanned the small amount of cleared space you both stood in.

“What’s wrong? Someone here?” 

“Luffy.” You stressed, that nightmare growing closer and closer. He snapped back to you and you found the strength within you to shakily lift your hand to point to your other, already outstretched arm. “Please--get it off.” 

His eyes followed your guidance to find the big, furry spider crawling its way slowly up your arm. One that had some how, thanks your horrible luck, had found its way to land on you. 

But, instead of instantly coming to your rescue, that signature grin of his stretched across his face, bringing attention to the thin scar just under his left eye. 

“Cooool! Where did you find that tarantula?” Luffy asked, coming into your orbit. He took your wrist in his strong, warm hand only so he could observe the creature more closely.

“Get it off!” You panicked, your heart feeling as if it might burst out of your chest. “Please, please, please get it off!” Your panic turned into a near sob of fear, your eyes beginning to sting with it.

“‘Kay.” Luffy shurgged, happily scooping the too-many legged monster off your skin. 

The frozen spell the vile beast had put you under fell away and you scrambled from Luffy, bumping into a nearby tree in your rush. You frantically swiped and scrubbed at your skin to try and get rid of the icky feel of all those furry legs. 

“He’s not bad, Y/N. He’s friendly, see.” Luffy said, bounding back over to you, spider in hand, to show you just how ‘firendly’ it was. 

“NO! Luffy!” You screamed, sprinting away from your captain who continued to happily chase you with it like this was a game, that cackling, mischievous laugh of his never ceasing.

“He’s so tiny and fluffy! He’s not gonna hurt you.” 

“Tiny? Look at it’s fangs!” You screeched as Luffy hopped infront of you again. You were quick to freeze in your place before you could run head first into Luffy and the horrid demon he held. Luffy smiled brightly at you as he raised the spider up all too close to his eyes.  

“You know it would be the coolest if we could have fangs too.” He mused, lightly petting the tarantula who seemed too at ease within Luffy’s hold. “Like….this!” Luffy snapped his head back towards you, both his canine teeth stretched, thanks to his Devil Fruit powers, to resemble that of long, sharp fangs. You huffed in annoyance at him.

“Can you please just--throw it away or something? It’s--I don’t like it.” Luffy gave a loud whine in protest, teeth snapping back to normal.

“But--Y/N, just come look at him. He’s super cute. And you like super cute animals. He’s like Chopper--well…expect he’s not a reindeer and can’t talk.” Luffy said, starting towards you once more. You took a step back with every step he took forward. 

“It sure as hell is nowhere near as cute as Chopper. I don’t want to look at it.” You snapped. 

“He’s more scared of you then you are of him, I swear.” You yelped when your back hit another tree, blocking you from moving any further. Your heart began to race as you spied the demon still resting in Luffy’s plam. 

“Luffy--I’m serious.” 

“And I’m serious too. Can you just look at him? Please? I’ll hold him the whole time.” Luffy begged, thankfully stopping in his journey towards you. You watched him and the monster for a very, very long moment. A moment you took to try and calm your heaving breath. 

“Will it make you quit bugging me with that--thing, if I do?” Luffy nodded rapidly, his smiling growing ever the more wide. “Don’t you dare more or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Still as a statue.” Luffy said, making a show of freezing up his body. You approached him as slow as a snail, your breath becoming heavy and short all over again. 

“It’s okay. You know I won’t let anything happen to you.” Luffy smoothed as you came to a stop a few inches before him. His words helped steady your breathing, but made your heart pitter-patter in a different rhythm then that of fear or panic. 

A rhythm your heart had been beating for your captain for a long, long time now. Ever since he had dragged you from your little back water home and took you on all the adventures you had ever dreamed of. 

From wicked, hook-wielding Warlords, islands in the sky full of angels, strange games amongst enemy pirates, to islands flooded with water, and the start of new friendships--that rhythm had been there, sounding only for him. For the man who was making your dreams become a reality and whose kind and warm, yet strong nature pushed you to grow more then you could have ever thought possible.

And here he was again, pushing you to over come this seemingly silly fear of yours in such a--loving and caring way that just made that rhythm beat all the more fast.

“Its…” It was ugly. It was just as horrible to look at in Luffy hand as it was on your arm…but it was fluffy…and you did enjoy a good fluffy animal. “It looks like he’s wearing orange socks.” You observed, glancing up at Luffy whose smile was brighter then the sun beating down on you.

“He does! That’s what we should call him then. Socks!” Luffy broke his statued state to pet the spider again. “Hi, Socks. You’re gonna love it on the Sunny. We’ll even have Franky build you a tank--Oo! Right next to the aquarium!” You snapped away from the spider with a shake of your head. 

“No. That thing--”

“Socks.” Luffy reminded you chipperly. You only huffed. 

“Socks is not coming with us back to the Sunny.” Luffy whined again as you started for your dropped supply pack. 

“But--he’ll be lonely here.” You felt your skin prick in more fear when Luffy’s voice was much closer to you then it had been before. You hesitantly looked to the side to find a thousand beady little eyes staring back at you. You gave a throaty scream that you tried to keep as muffled as you physically could, all but throwing yourself backward.

“He--he has family here, I’m sure.” You said as calmly as you could, pulling your pack onto your shoulder. Luffy groaned, but agreed with you. 

“Yeah.” You watched him place Socks on a moss covered log, saying a quick goodbye to the furry beast. Luffy’s sad face made you feel just the tiniest bit sorry for him…for him and Socks. 

“Luffy…” You said as he grabbed up his stick again and you both started back through the jungle. “I’m sorry we couldn’t keep Socks.” Luffy shrugged.

“Eh. You’re right. He has a family here. A life. I couldn’t take him from that.” Luffy said, that lovely smile of his pulling to his face. “Besides,” He continued, throwing an arm over your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You felt your skin heat and heart start up its pitter-pattering all over again at his closeness. “I wouldn’t want Socks to keep scaring you like that.” He said, nuzzling his face into your cheek. You leaned into his affectionate touch, savoring anything he would give you. 

“Thank you…maybe we can find a less--leggy animal to keep as a pet.” Luffy lit up like one of Usopp’s fireworks. 

“Really?” You nodded, spurring Luffy’s hold on you to fall away despite your want to keep him close. “Awesome! I’m gonna go look!” He stated before bouncing off deeper into the jungle, leaving you to try and calm your racing heart all over again.

Taglist: @fanaticsnail

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye Ch.1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"There are teeth marks on everything you have ever loved."

Summary: In the span of a single harrowing week, Daenys Velaryon’s dream of a love-filled marriage to Aemond Targaryen crumbles into ashes. What was meant to be the dawn of a new life is marred by the swift death of her grandsire, King Viserys, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and her own imprisonment within the marital chambers that were to be her sanctuary. As the walls close in, her despair deepens when the man she hoped to love, delivers the most devastating blow of all: the news of her brother’s death.

Word Count: 4.7k

Daenys Velaryon had been awake long before they came to get her.

Sleep eluded her these days, and she had stayed curled up by the open window all night, eyes wide open in the silent communion with the stars and storm outside. The room—her husband's room and her prison—remained draped in shadows, and she relished in the chill that wrapped around her like a phantom, seeping into her very bones. She welcomed its frigid breath and the thousand piercing needles of the rain's relentless assault. 

She used to be afraid of storms, afraid of the flash of lightning that momentarily lit up the dark world, chased by the peal of thunder that sounded as if a great beast had taken up residence in the sky. She used to be afraid until her father taught her not to be. 

She never even had to go to him. He would simply be there, a candle in one hand, and a book in another, slipping into her chambers when the sky began to darken in the slightest. He would tell her all about his voyages at sea then, and teach her to count the moments between the streak of lightning and the crack of thunder, for they always came at an interval. He always knew when the storms came, he always knew when he would be needed. 

Perhaps not always though, for how was Laenor Velaryon to know that he was so desperately needed by her now, dead and gone that he was, forever swallowed by the waves at Driftmark. 

The night was almost over, and along with it the downpour, when she spotted a familiar shadow, a hulking silhouette flying into King's Landing. She could not make out the beast's rider of course, but she imagined him all the same, silver hair streaking across the sky like a falling star. She wondered what errand could have possibly had him out at such an hour, during a tempest where the gods wept and raged in the heavens above. 

She was awake when the first tendrils of dawn crept into the room, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls, and in the timeless space between night and day, she wondered what troubles the encroaching day would bring.

She was awake when moments later, the heavy wooden doors to Daenys Velaryon's chamber burst open with a resounding crash, breaking the fragile tranquility of the damp morning. Two knights stormed in, clad in armour that clinked with every step, and the first, his eyes betraying a hint of regret, offered a shallow bow and spoke with a tone of reluctant apology.

"Princess, forgive the intrusion-"

The second knight, however, exuded none of the first's courtesy. His eyes, cold and unyielding, narrowed as he impatiently interrupted, "Enough with pleasantries. Your presence is demanded in the Dowager Queen's chambers. Now."

Daenys remained seated by the window, her gaze fixed on some faraway point. She felt the energy shift in the room, the air thickening with tension as the knights awaited her compliance, but her resolve remained unbroken, and she did not stir. A gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet earth and uncertainty, swept through the open window, rustling the tendrils of her dishevelled hair.

"Princess, please understand. It is not our desire to disturb you, but the orders are explicit."

Daenys finally turned her gaze toward the knights, her eyes reflecting a weariness that went beyond the physical. "Orders," she mused, her voice a quiet whisper carried away by the storm. "Whose orders?"

"The King's orders!"

The impetuous knight scowled at her apparent defiance. With a brusque motion, he advanced toward her, his gauntleted hands reaching for her drenched shoulders to haul her to her feet. Daenys resisted the urge to flinch at his touch, her eyes closing in silent protest. 

She knew she should resist, and fight back, but her malnourished body betrayed her weakened state. She doubted the outcome of a real chase, and her chamber held no weapons to aid her escape. Still, she refused to grant them the satisfaction of obedience. She allowed her body to remain uncooperative, forcing her captor to exert more effort in dragging her from her perch.

"On your feet! The king does not appreciate delay."

"Tell your precious king he can take his orders and shove them where-"

She did not even have the time to fully unleash her volley of disdain, before the force of his hand shot forward with alarming speed, striking across the face. The metallic gauntlet caught on her lip, splitting it open, a crimson bead forming at the corner of her mouth.

The other knight, his eyes wide with horror, rushed forward to intervene. "By the Seven, what have you done?" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and rebuke.

"Nothing she did not deserve for insulting the king."

Daenys wiped the back of her hand across her bleeding lip, a scarlet smear left in its wake. "A bit heavy-handed, aren't we?" she quipped, her defiant grin widening. "Seems manners and chivalry are quite scarce in the Red Keep."

"Mind your tongue, princess, or you might have it removed. We won't tolerate insolence."

Her captor's companion frowned at him. "She's still the prince's bride, and more importantly, the granddaughter of King Viserys. Show some respect," he chided, his tone firm.

"Respect? Oh, what a novel concept," Daenys mused. "Yet another scarcity."

"Princess, please," the kinder man pleaded, taking her arm from his partner. "Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Daenys, a portrait of silent rebellion, allowed herself to be pulled unceremoniously across the chamber's stone floor, and as they crossed the threshold into the corridor, she maintained her stoic demeanour, stumbling along only because she didn't fancy another strike to the face. 

Reaching Alicent's chambers, they heard a commotion. There was yelling, a frustrated sigh, and then furious whispering as someone paced back on forth inside. Daenys could barely make out the words but she could swear her name had been said, along with her brother Lucerys's. 

He was here then. 

A burst of hope, wild and untamed, bloomed in her heart. 

Her mother had not forgotten about her. She had sent Lucerys, and he was here to take her home. He had promised her that he would visit on her name-day and she would forgive him for being a day late. She would forgive him if it meant she could finally go home. 

The traitors couldn't very well keep her in King's Landing if her mother sent an envoy to bring her back. 

The knights accompanying her knocked on the door, earning them a cheerful response from Aegon as he bade them to enter. His voice was an upbeat contrast to the disgruntled sounds emanating from the chamber earlier, but Daenys did not let that dissuade her. 

She was going to see her most beloved brother again, and she was going home, where she could pretend that this farce of a marriage had all been a terrible nightmare. 

With significantly less resistance, she allowed them to drag her into the room, where everyone fell silent at the sight of her. Her brother was nowhere to be seen and she was greeted by a strange scene. 

Alicent was pale, pacing the room with tears streaking down her face. Her nailbeds were a bloodied mess as she picked at them incessantly, peeling away at the skin until fresh blood seeped to join the scarlet crusts of the old. 

"Mother have mercy on us all," she muttered repeatedly.

Otto Hightower was there too, his hands gripping his grandson's shoulders with a grip that might have shattered bone. 

"You only lost one eye at Driftmark. How could you be so blind-" he was saying, just before he cut himself off at Daenys's entrance. 

Aegon, however, shared none of their concerns. He was sprawled across his mother's chaise, legs thrown over the arm as he lounged with carefree approval. 

"What is she doing here?" Otto snapped, being the first to notice. 

The knights at her side balked at his sharp tone, their fingers still digging into the flesh of her arm. 

"The...king requested the princess's presence, my Lord," one of them stammered. 

"Well, she is here now, isn't she? You may leave us," Aegon waved a hand to dismiss them. 

The Hand sighed, releasing his grandson to massage his temples. It was only then that Daenys finally managed to bring her eyes to her husband. 

Aemond Targaryen looked lost. His eyepatch was missing, his eyes were wide in what looked like equal parts of disbelief and horror. His hair was mussed like he had just been riding, and she imagined something must have disturbed him while he was out, though she couldn't think of a single thing that would possibly scare the mighty one-eyed prince. 

Despite herself, she found worry gnawing at her, and she resisted the urge to rush to his side and take his trembling hands in her own. 

He was no one to her now. She did not owe him the kindness. 

When the queen's eyes landed on her, they softened immediately.

"You should not be here, my dear," she whispered. "Oh, you should not be here."

"No, here is exactly where she must be, Mother," Aegon responded with a mischievous grin. 

Daenys swallowed, finally finding her voice, "What is going on? What has happened?"

At the sound of her voice, Aemond flinched. 

Aegon smirked.

"Tell her, dear brother. Tell her how you've secured Storm's End for me. Go ahead. It is the most interesting news I've heard in a long time," he crowed with pleasure.

He was clearly drunk, and Otto's lip curled in disgust at the display, which only added to the young king's amusement. 

"Daenys my dear, pay him no mind. The King simply has too much on his mind," Alicent said gently, coming over to put her hand comfortingly on Daenys's shoulder.

The princess scoffed, already steeling herself to be struck again.

"Aegon is no King."

No one moved to say anything, and when she did not receive even the slightest admonish, she knew something was deeply wrong. 

"Oh for Seven's sake, stop being such cowards. Tell her the truth. Tell her about her brother, Aemond?" Aegon turned to him. "Tell your beloved how you earned your new title! "

Daenys stilled. His new title? Her brother? 

Is that why they were talking about Luke earlier? Had something happened to him? Her heart stuttered, a sparrow thrashing against the cage of her ribs, aching to be freed. She tried once again to meet her husband's gaze, even as his remained glued to the floor.

"Daenys, there's been an accident, I'm afraid..." Alicent tried again before Aegon interrupted.

"Why let Mother fight your battles, Aemond? You seemed perfectly capable of fighting for yourself against that Strong Bastard. An eye for an eye was it then?"

An eye for an eye. 

My brother should have taken out both your eyes.

The sparrow in her chest thrashed harder, laden with dread.

Slowly, she approached the one-eyed prince, her eyes brimming with questions and her jaw clenched so tight she might have ground her teeth to dust. 

"You fought with my brother?" her voice was barely above a whisper. "Was that the accident then? Did you...did you hurt him? Where is he now?"

"At the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay..." the false king stopped with a scowl as his brother glared daggers at him. 

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead," Otto Hightower finally grunted, impatient with the proceedings. "A regrettable accident, no doubt, but there is no point in beating around the bush when the truth of the matter remains. Lucerys Velaryon is dead."

"Mother have mercy on us all," Alicent whispered again, a hand clamped against her lips, both to hold in the sob building in her chest, and to stop her fingers from trembling. 

Lucerys Velaryon was dead. 

Lucerys Velaryon was dead. 

No. 

No, he could not be dead. He was just a boy. He was coming to visit her on her name-day. He could not be dead before he fulfilled his promise to her. She would not let him. 

"I don't believe you."

Her voice was quiet, but filled with steely determination. 

Otto's expression remained unchanged, his features stoic, "I wish it were not so, but the news is unfortunately true. He perished in the storm last night."

"I. Do not. Believe you."

"Oh, but it is the truth, dear niece," Aegon sneered. "A name-day present from your husband. The true blood of the dragon he is, for he has made us a good beginning."

Silence hung in the chamber like a shroud. 

Aemond Targaryen stood like a shadow in the dimly lit room. His eyes, usually a source of comfort, now bore the weight of a terrible secret. As Daenys turned to him, desperation etched on her face, he averted his gaze, unable to meet her pleading eyes.

"Aemond," she implored, her voice cracking. "Tell me this is not true. Tell me they are lying. Tell me that Lucerys is still alive."

She searched his eyes for reassurance, for a glimmer of hope that would dispel the nightmare unfolding around her. Tears, unbidden, traced a path down her cheeks, mingling with the blood from the cut on her lip. She clutched at the fabric of her gown, her knuckles turning white with the intensity of her emotions.

Her husband remained silent, his countenance grim, and his shoulders hunched. 

"I am sorry, please, I am sorry." 

She sank to her knees before him, the cold stone floor beneath her unforgiving as she looked up at him, her voice reduced to a soft, hoarse whisper.

"I am sorry...for what I said. I did not-I did not mean it. I swear, I meant none of it...so please, please, say it is not true. Be done with this cruel jest, and tell me it was not your doing."

"He cannot do that."

She ignored Aegon's comments, hands reaching out to clasp Aemond's fingers in hers. She held his hand like she held his gaze, with a desperation that bordered on manic. She begged as one begged the divine — for forgiveness, for relief, for respite. She'd stay there until he told her what she needed to hear, which meant she'd stay there for all eternity, she'd stay there until her knees bled and her bones melded into the ground. 

Or until Lucerys Velaryon rose from the dead to greet her. 

Whatever came first. 

Aemond's gaze slipped to some distant point, a void that mirrored the emptiness in his wife's heart. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, to witness the pain he had wrought upon the woman he had once promised to protect. He noticed the carmine cut marring her lips, and he yearned to wipe away the blood, just as he yearned to take her into his arms and comfort her. 

It did not suit her, the kneeling and the begging, and guilt flooded the one-eyed prince in torrents. He had reduced her to this. To this crumbling, snivelling creature who clutched at him like he was her lifeline, like he was the only thing who could give her what she wanted. 

And perhaps he was, but he could not give it to her. He had nothing in him but the truth and the truth was far too ugly to push past his lips again. Already he had struggled to form the words the first time around, when his mother eyed him in horror, when his grandsire branded him a Kinslayer with scorn, when his brother celebrated. 

Kinslayer. 

Monster. 

Murderer. 

Was there a more hateful creature to the gods? 

He could not do it again. He could not bear the inevitable look of disappointment, disapproval, and loathing that would fill his beloved's eyes once she learned the truth. 

It was wishful thinking on his part, for she would learn it anyway, but it would not be through him. He would do her this minuscule kindness. Or maybe the act was for himself more than it was for her. 

Perhaps Aemond Targaryen was a bigger coward than he thought.  

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead, and my brother has returned home a victor, so let us not curse the occasion with this ceaseless crying," Aegon sighed. "Perhaps we might hold a feast."

"Be silent!" Otto admonished icily. 

"No," Daenys mumbled breathlessly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. I am so sorry. I know we had our quarrels and I said things I didn't mean but please...I just...need to hear you say it, Aemond. Please, tell me you did not kill my brother. Tell me you did not take him from me."

"I cannot."

His words were barely audible, but they crashed down upon her with all the fury of the tempest she had been watching earlier. His face was a picture of torment, of guilt, of shame, and his sapphire eye glittered in the flickering candlelight of the room. 

Daenys felt sick. 

"Please."

"I am sorry, Daenys."

"Ple-"

"I cannot."

Oh.

Her hands fell to her side, all the fire inside of her going out. 

The sparrow ceased its thrashing. 

Silent. Still. 

Like the dead. 

Like her brother. 

Oh.

Alicent reached for her, but she flinched away from her touch, her tears still tracking well-worn paths down her cheeks. It still hadn't quite sunk in yet, the reality of it. It felt unreal. 

"You should rest, dearest."

"Daenys, listen..." Aemond's voice made her flinch again. 

"Don't," she let out a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a plea.

"Daenys, please."

Aegon, the only occupant of the room who was vehemently enjoying the scene, stretched out his arms and grinned at his brother. A grin no one returned, but that did not matter. For once in his miserable life, he was not the object of everyone's ire— of their disappointment and their contempt. For the first time in his life, it was his brother, his paragon of perfection brother, who held that position. 

Helaena would be furious too. She would now disdain Aemond as much as she disdained him, and the thought brought a miserable sort of satisfaction to Aegon. 

This is what they were now. 

Brother, brother, sister. 

Kinslayer, king, kook. 

What a miserable group of children their mother had birthed. 

"You have finally rid us of that bastard, brother, and secured us Lord Boros's support no less."

Aemond's single eye remained rooted to Daenys as she slowly lifted her head to look at him.

"Why...how..." she could barely get the words out, stilted and choked.

"It was an accident, I swear it. I would never...you know I would never..." 

His words trailed off. It was the truth—or most of it was anyway. 

"Oh quit being modest brother. You finally went after the bastard who took your eye. You were even kind enough to offer him a choice. It was only after he so rudely denied you your repayment that you went after him. As king, I declare it to be a fair game to be sure," Aegon winked at Daenys, regurgitating the tale of Aemond's chase that the one-eyed prince had himself spilled to their mother. 

The false king's grin grew wider as his niece's expression grew more horrified.

"If you are too upset with my brother to warm his bed, you know where to find me, don't you? After all, it was his dragon that took a bite out of your brother."

A strangled sob of horror and disbelief escaped Daenys's lips.

"How could you-"

"Your brother did steal his eye first."

"You are still on about that?" she hissed, whirling to face her reluctant husband. "After all these years, you still haven't let it go?"

"He took my eye!" he finally protested.

"He was five! A child!"

A new feeling reared its head inside Aemond Targaryen's chest. Hot and self-righteous amidst the guilt. 

"And what of me? I was a child too. A child who lost his eye and had to live with this hideous disfigurement for the rest of his life!"

He resisted the urge to cover it then, as Daenys's gaze trailed over it in scrutiny. He had thrown out his eyepatch in his hubris and it had been swallowed by the storm, the same way Lucerys had been. 

"He was a child..." she hiccuped—he still was...he still was a child— "he was a child and didn't know better. That still didn't give you the right to take his life."

"I... I'm telling you it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen like that. I just...I just got so angry and wanted to teach him a lesson. I gave chase only as a prank, to scare him a little. I didn't mean for him to get hurt. He was not supposed to get hurt."

Another half-truth. 

"You chased my little brother and his baby dragon in a storm on that monstrosity you ride, and you tell me that he wasn't supposed to get hurt?" Daenys was finding it hard to breathe now, her breath catching in the cavities of her lungs, refusing to let go. "What did you expect? What did you expect? What did you expect?" 

It didn't feel real. 

"You killed him? You...you and your stupid giant brute of a dragon killed my baby brother."

It still didn't feel real, her voice a forlorn whisper, as if the mere act of speaking the words pained her with the unbearable truth.

"Daenys, please. I'm sorry. I swear I didn't mean for this to happen." 

Liar. Liar. Liar. 

More half-truths. 

Aemond knelt next to her then, unable to keep his distance any longer. It was a foolish act—he knew it even before he touched her shoulder and tried to take her into his arms as her entire body vibrated with grief and rage.

She was damp, her dress sodden. She'd catch her death of cold, he found himself thinking absentmindedly. 

She was so quiet. 

It hurt him to see her this way, coming apart at the seams, and still so quiet. He expected her to scream, to hit him, to throw something. The gods knew he deserved it. But she was so quiet.

Just shaking. 

Trembling. Shuddering. Quivering. 

So utterly quiet. 

She pulled away from him violently, trying to catch her breath, but the sparrow in her chest remained motionless and her lungs would not pull in the air they needed.

He reached for her again, and she recoiled from his touch as if his hands were searing brands.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" she shrieked—or so she wanted to. In reality, the sound that pushed itself past her frozen vocal cords was more of a wheeze, a mere puff of air. 

Aemond lowered his hands, heart aching, eye throbbing. She looked beseechingly at his mother, and Alicent, attempting to provide solace, knelt too. 

"Shhhh, my darling, you're going to be alright," she whispered, her voice gentle, reminiscent of the occasional lullaby she would grace her with, back when Daenys was still a child, and none of her brothers had been born yet. The memory was sharp and bitter. 

The room felt claustrophobic, the walls closing in on her like a vice. Daenys, now on her hands and knees, scrambled away from the encroaching figures. They surrounded her, each face a mask of deceit. Aegon leered at her with malicious satisfaction and Otto eyed her warily, as if she were a time bomb about to go off.

Perhaps she was. 

In her desperate attempt to escape, Daenys pushed herself to the edge of the room. The carpet beneath her palms felt rough against her skin, and another burst of nostalgia threatened to drown her in its memory. This was where she and Aemond spent hours playing with Daeron when he was just a babe. Crouched on the floor, just as she was now, her knees stinging. 

She chewed on her lips and tasted blood. 

Oh, how the times had changed.

She was now a dragon trapped in a pit of snakes.  

She closed her eyes and doubled over, her body convulsing with the weight of her grief. It felt as though her insides were burning, a relentless fire consuming everything in its path. She pressed her forehead against the warm carpet, willing the ground to swallow her whole, to escape the reality that now seemed a cruel nightmare.

It was not real. None of it was real. 

If she could just go back to sleep, she'd be able to wake up in a reality where none of this had happened. 

Her chest tightened, each breath becoming a laborious effort. When the sobs threatened to escape, she clamped down on her grief, choking back the sounds that sought release. 

She would not make a single sound. 

The threads beneath her blurred as her vision clouded with tears, and as her strength waned, Daenys allowed herself to slip into the darkness that hovered at the edge of her consciousness. The pain became a distant echo as the shadows claimed her, offering a temporary respite she hoped she would never wake up from. 

Alicent Hightower looked at the girl who lay slumped on the floor in pity, her own tears having long dried. First, by crowning Aegon as King and now by killing her son, her family had officially earned the undying enmityof Rhaenyra Targaryen.

War was sure to come. 

She didn't want to believe it, not when her father returned from Dragonstone with the self-proclaimed Queen's threats and warnings, but now the truth was plain to see. 

There was no coming back from this. 

She did pity her son though, and by extension, his poor young wife. She had hoped, in some foolish naive way, that at least one of her children would have what she never did—a pleasant marriage. 

Perhaps she'd try again with Daeron when the time came. Perhaps he might be granted a chance at happiness. 

She doubted it. Unhappy mothers carried unhappy children, and she was almost certain that she had passed on some of her loneliness to them. Blood was inherited after all, and if all a woman felt was resentment and loathing, how could some of it not flow into her children, when they were so deeply connected? 

Viserys Targaryen did this to her, and to her children. He made them what they were, and she would never forgive him for it. She hoped that he would only rot further wherever he was now. 

The words, once so traitorous that she could scarcely even think them without feeling guilty, now came with ease. 

It was easy being hateful. 

It was easier than grieving. Grieving the girl she should have been, the woman she could have been. 

It was agony being fully conscious of the injustices she had been dealt, and expected to swallow with all the patience and penance of a Queen. 

Alicen needed to pray. The gods were all she had now. They were all she had ever had. 

"Take your wife up to your room, Aemond. She needs to rest," she sighed. 

Her son nodded, gathering the girl into his arms as carefully as he could to take her back to his chambers. He was wound too tight, like a coil waiting to spring, and Alicent wondered what new havoc he'd wreak when he finally did. 

"And make sure her room is secured," Otto called out after them. "A wounded dragon is a dragon nonetheless."

Aemond did not dignify his grandsire with a response, but he wondered all the same. 

A wounded dragon was a dragon nonetheless. 

Who would this dragon destroy first?

He looked at his wife with eyes full of remorse. He never meant to hurt her like this. He supposed the cruel part of him wanted to hurt Lucerys, but never her. 

He wondered if they could ever come back from this, if she would ever forgive him for this crime. He wondered if he even deserved her forgiveness.

He couldn't resist placing a gentle kiss upon her troubled brow, and she whimpered at the contact.

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist

[tadpolesonalgae]

Vampire!Poly-batboys x reader: Mercy, Devil - Part 2

A/N: The poly part two to the vampire fic is here! Hope you enjoy!!

Warning: Vampirism, poly!batboys, blood, biting

Word Count: 4,154

-Part 1-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Thunder rolls across the perpetually stormy sky, his castle seemingly gifted with its own unique weather system. Rain lashes at the windows, criss-crossed with diamond-shaped indentations upon the glass, streaked with icy water. Lightning cracks across the dark, heavy clouds, flashing with startling light, briefly illuminating the chambers you’ve been returned to.

You swallow heavily, rousing from an empty sleep, fatigue weighing on bone marrow as you push up from the bed. The pearls have gone, replaced by a pale blue nightgown and memories of the evening you stumbled into the castle return. Right into the beast’s jaws.

Fingers trace over your throat, pockmarked with tiny puncture wounds, skin aching around the slightly swollen marks. Memories of the fear and alarm upon feeling those gleaming incisors skating across your neck rush in, the overpowering strength of his hands on your body, shoving your head to the side so he could drink deeper. The hot spill of blood as it dripped down over collar bones, the mad frenzy in previously sharp and clear eyes. He’d seemed utterly undone, at the mercy of his own hunger as he’d fed.

Your pulse spikes in your chest, fear diluting in your lifestream, breathing deepening as you hastily peer around the room. Searching for something that could possibly help keep the beast off of you. It’s a stupid thought, you know that—why would he have the means to his demise so readily available? In his own home, no less. That would be idiotic.

“Sleep well?” A low, silken voice asks, making you scream, flinching back as you snap your head to the doorway. He’d entered on completely silent feet—the door hadn’t even made a sound. “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he chides soothingly, “you’re alive and well. No need for theatrics.” But your nails are practically tearing at the sheets with how tight you’re gripping them. Something like him—something that drinks the blood of women, relishing in draining away their youth—can be nothing but pure evil. Hell incarnate.

“Stay away from me,” you grit out lowly, back pressed against the plush cushioning of the headboard. “You have no power over me. Let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you intently, before lowering his head, a mix between a sigh and a laugh huffing from his lips. Raises gleaming violet to pierce into you, as if able to pin you to the bed with a glance alone. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he says amicably, still in that velvety voice of his, like satin brushing teasingly across your skin. “You see, little devil, I have lived centuries in this world. Travelled far and wide, sampled a number of women and men alike, and yet I’ve never once come across a taste quite as exquisite as yours.” Protectively, you raise your palm to your throat, as if blocking the skin from his view may serve a chance for freedom—or undo what he’s already found.

“Because of that,” he continues leisurely, as if he hasn’t turned your life upside down within the span of a breath. “I will be keeping you for myself, here, in my castle. Is everything clear?” You blink, dread sluicing through your veins.

“I’m not— You can’t do that.” You splutter quietly, incredulity and fear drenching your tone in horror. “I’m a living person. You can’t just lock me up. That’s— That’s wrong.” You manage to whisper, too shocked to bellow.

“You don’t have a choice here. Well, not one you’d like,” he muses idly, hands sliding into the pockets of his dark, tailored trousers. “What is it?” You grit out anyway, attempting to conceal your trembling fingers.

The charming smile fades from his elegant mouth, slipping into something blank and unreadable. “Either, you can agree to my generous offer and remain mine in this castle,” he says, voice turning to freezing silk, prowling toward you in the low thunderous light. “Or, I can take my final drink now, and let you pass on into the next world—or rather, into the next half world.” He reaches the edge of the bed, but you’re too terrified to move.

Even as he pulls his hand from the neatly stitched pocket of his dark trousers, you remain still. Petrified, until his icy hand settles on your throat, thumb and index finger pressing to the soft sides beneath your jaw, tilting your head to him. “You should know: I would not be kind if you forced me to turn you,” he murmurs tenderly, leaning over the bed, bracing his forearm against the headboard. “You are quite to my tastes,” he says softly, lowly, “I would hate to see you become a servant, instead of what you could be.”

“And what is that?” You manage to ask shakily, forcefully pushing yourself as deep into the headboard as you can.

Glittering violet briefly scans your features, then the edges of his mouth are curving, dipping down to nose at your throat. Sharp, piercing teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cared for,” he answers, cold lips brushing the erogenous skin, fingers flexing around your neck. “Desired,” he murmurs softly, dipping lower, skimming the erratic pulse of your life force. “Cherished.”

Incisors scrape, and you flinch, muscles contracting with fear.

He pulls back, staring down at you from not even a breath away.

“So, my dear,” he muses, “what will it be?”

You stare at him, eyes widened, pupils no-doubt dilated with fear. You swallow thickly, overwhelmed by the intensity of him, the heaviness of his presence, the dominating sense of self rolling from his powerful figure. Pulse spikes with the thought him ending your life—would the rightness of thwarting him be worth an eternity of obeying his word? At the mercy of his absolute power?

“You wouldn’t ever taste my blood again if you turned me,” you rasp, trying to force the tremors from your voice. “You’d lose the exact thing you’re trying to gain.” Sharp eyes flash, his jaw working at your brazen answer. “Are you sure you want to test that, little devil?” He asks, voice rougher than before, anger and hunger kindling in his eyes. “I’m offering you a life of comfort and care in exchange for your compliance. Anyone can see you’re gaining much more than I am out of this agreement.”

“Which is exactly why I know you won’t turn me,” you return shakily. “Why give so much for something so unimportant, right?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, then he’s pushing away from you roughly. “You’re being foolish,” he warns, eyes glittering with hunger. “Maybe I won’t turn you, but I believe you’re somehow forgetting I don’t need your permission to take what I want.” His fingers flex at his sides, shoulders rolling subtly before he’s sliding hands into his pockets. As if to calm the urge to pin you down and drink.

You stiffen in your place. Reconsidering his offer. If you refuse, but he decides to take anyway, where will you be kept? In some subterranean dungeon, left to lie and rot on a damp pallet of hay? Locked in some long-forgotten room, only allowed out when he wants to feed?

Rhysand senses your doubt, honing in on it like the beast he is, able to smell the indecision. “Think about it,” he says calmly, earlier hunger banished, not a trace to be found. “I have some visitors to see to, but will be back this evening for your answer,” he smiles politely, turning for the door but pausing at the threshold. “If you need a reminder of what it feels like…” You could swear his eyes darken with glee at the way your muscles contract, legs pressing together as you remain huddled to the head of the bed.

“Until tonight, then,” he grins, gleaming white teeth glittering in the low light. The door sweeps to a close behind him, leaving you alone with a choice to make. A sense of impending doom weighing in your blood.

————

You have to get out. It’s the only viable solution.

You don’t want to be stuck as a glorified chicken for the rest of your life—used until you’ve grown too old, then devoured entirely. You have no preferable choice, so you’ll have to make your own, and escaping seems like a pretty good idea.

Easing down a breath, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the pale blue cotton of your nightgown swishing softly at bare ankles. Peering around the room, you search for anything that could be used as a weapon against a…whatever he is. Some blood-sucking devil.

The neatly preserved figure of gleaming armour catches your gaze—if a weapon is to be lying about somewhere, surely it would be here? With a spark of hope in your chest, you creep forward on what you hope are quiet feet. Not that you should be too concerned. Despite how silently he can move, the castle seemed intimidating in size, and you doubt he’d be able to pick up footsteps from so much as a corridor away.

Your pulse spikes as you eye the short scabbard wrapped over the waist of the armour, slightly shaky fingers pulling on the string to move it around. There’s a handle poking from it’s top, and your heart stumbles in your chest. With trembling hands, you pull the string loose, tying it instead around your own waist, thumbing the blade free experimentally. It’s so clear you can make out the gleaming wetness to wide, frightened eyes.

Breathing deeply, you return the blade to its new home at your hip, tip-toeing for the door, hoping he will have left it unlocked. Underestimating your drive to keep your own pathing. You will not have choice taken away from you.

The handle turns, and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A cool wave of relief sweeps over you, pulling it open to peer down the long, stretching hallways either side. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary to be found. Except maybe the blood-red carpeting. You should have realised how strange it was, how macabre the whole setup is. Maybe it’s a lovely colour, but not one you slather your entire house in, let alone a whole castle.

Shaking your head, you slip out over the threshold, silently bringing the door to a close at your back, before making your way down the stretching hallway. You move silently, keeping to the edges of the carpeted floor—as if you’d be able to hide from him. In the pale gown, you stick out like freezing blue lips in a rose garden.

Following the path he had taken you to dinner, you manage to relocate the entrance hall, heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes darting left and right frenetically, searching for movement. It’s an open stretch. Once you’re out there, you’ll have to go straight for the door. There’s nowhere to hide yourself once you step out into the hallway.

You take in a steady breath, then step out into the open.

Silently, you make your way as swiftly as possible down the curving case, feet padding softly along the well-polished boards, trying to keep sound to a minimum. The heavy-looking door looms before you, menacingly staring as you approach. Hairs raise at the nape of your neck, but you push away the apprehension, hands shaking as you reach for the knob.

It doesn’t shift.

You try pulling, but nothing.

You twist it harder, using both your hands, but to no avail.

Mentally you curse—you’d hoped it would be unlocked like last time. He’s seemingly taken some precautions, then. You’ll need to find another way out, or maybe the keys… Where would keys be?

They could be anywhere, you realise despairingly, and in a castle this large, you don’t have the time to spend painstakingly searching for them. You’ll have to find another exit. Every home has a backdoor, there must at least be one for the servants he mentioned—there’s no way they’d be allowed entrance through this hall.

“Who are you?”

You scream, jolting away from the voice, turning to find a man at your side—he’d been completely silent, just like Rhysand. You stumble back, hands shaking at your sides as you take in his towering figure. Wearing dark leather, surrounded by the glowing red of the castle, he cuts a terrifying silhouette. With black hair that come to his shoulders, and the eyes that feel like they can pierce straight through bone, you can feel in your blood he’s the same creature as the Lord.

The blade at your hip weighs heavily, but you know from a single look there’s no way you’d be able to do anything with it. You’re more likely to end up slicing yourself open, dripping over the blood-red carpet.

His lips part in an almost wolfish grin as he takes you in properly. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’re one of Rhys’, aren’t you?”

“Please…” you breathe, heat building behind your eyes. “I don’t—…I just want to leave…” Lungs spasm with fear, and his nostrils flare delicately, before taking a step back. The man raises his arms placatingly, exposing his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not stopping you,” he says lowly, still baring his teeth in a smile.

Your tongue swipes out to wet your lips, staggering a step back hesitantly, then another. Never taking your eyes from his hulking figure.

Your muscles involuntarily contract with soul-deep fear as a blood-curdling snarl rips through the castle’s interiors. A wave of bone-crushing terror smacks into you, like a flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder as something dark pulses through the building. The man’s smile widens at the sound, turning a little feral. “Better be on your way,” he warns roughly, voice like gravel. “Before the beast catches you.”

Heart pounding, you spin on your feet and run.

You could swear his low chuckle follows on your heels as you sprint from the room, nearly stumbling over your own toes as you pass over carpets and rugs, running through doorways and dodging around rich, plush armchairs and large, heavy instruments. Fire crackles in one room but you have no time for pause, feeling that power closing in no matter how far you run.

Feet slam on the polished wood of floorboards, and you spot an open door down the stretching corridor. Without care for noise, you dart inside, snapping the door to a close, hurriedly taking in your surroundings—it’s a frighteningly large library. Cases of books tower on wide-set shelves, neatly stacked but tightly packed, perfect to hide within.

Not giving it a second thought, you make for the towering furniture, darting between the aisles as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping your eyes wide for any sign of movement. If you can just wait until you feel this cloying power pass, you can try venturing out again.

You think back over the conversation which must have been in the morning if he said he would return at night. He’d said he’d had guests to see to—that man must have been one of them, but how many are there? Are they all like him? They must be. Unless they bring humans along with them? What if there are more beasts prowling the halls for you now that signal has practically shot lightening into anything capable of breathing within the castle?

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Muscles go taut, stomach tightening as cold dread ices your skin.

You turn rigidly on your heel, coming to face another man, wreathed in darkness. Silky hair gleamed in the low library light, his sharp hazel eyes pinning you to the spot with a single look. You shake your head, managing a single wobbly steps back, before he’s slowly prowling forward, gaze trained on you like he’s finally locked in on his prey.

Turning, you stumble away, running back through the tall cases, now understanding their disadvantage. He can’t see you, but you also can’t see him. Fighting your growing terror, you break from the shelves, running toward a door that will no doubt only lead you deeper into the castle, separate from the one you came in from. But he appears before you in a blur of shadow, and you smack into the stone-like muscle of his chest—utterly freezing, utterly lifeless. Death wreathed in darkness.

You still in your spot, staring up into sharp, predatory eyes with visible terror, vaguely remembering the blade at your hip.

“What are you doing here?” He asks lowly, hands kept casually at his sides, but you don’t doubt he could strike at any moment should the desire take him. “I— Please,” you beg, internally screaming for your body to move, to turn and run from the beast before you clad in the skin of an angel. “Just let me go,” you breathe shakily, stumbling back.

The man watches you silently, coldly. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he says shortly, “either you can obey and I’ll escort you back to your room, or you can make this painful.” Your eyes widen, pressure building quickly, the blade practically searing into your skin. If you comply, you’ll probably be locked up. You’ll never escape, and choice will have been taken from you. But if you fight… Even against something as terrifying as him… It will be on your own terms.

But you’re not a fighter—at least, not in the face of this particular beast. The best you can do it run.

You spin on your heel, turning for the door, but a stone-cold hand has already gripped your shoulder and you cry out in pain. His hold is like ice, stern and unforgiving. “Fine,” he mutters, making to—

“Hold on, Az,” that voice drawls, pure terror slicing through your stomach.

One was impossible enough, but two? There’s no way. You’re going to die.

The man—Az, he’d said—stops, his grip lightening by a fraction. “She’s Rhys’, Cass. We should return her.” Muscle trembles beneath his grip, neck craning to turn to spot the other man at your back, having come in through the hallway. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the warning gleam in the shadowy one’s eyes doesn’t bother him. “That’s his fault for letting her out,” he drawls, coming to stand closer behind you. Too close.

His hazel eyes drop to yours, that wolfish smile breaking across his lips. “Besides,” he says lowly, “you know he only keeps the good ones around for more than one meal.” The man—Cass—steps closer, hands going to your waist as he lowers to your throat, pulse spiking as he noses along the smooth expanse. “This is it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “This is what I picked up, Az. She smells so good.” He pulls away, pulling your hair to the side, exposing the bare top of your shoulder and you tense, remembering how little clothing you’re wearing. How unprotective it is. “Go on,” he urges quietly, “give her a try.”

Az narrows his eyes, but relents, curiosity getting the better of him. Spine turns rigid as he dips down, nosing along the column of your throat, feeling the trembling pulse of your life-force beneath his mouth. You hear the sound of him inhaling, scenting your skin, before pulling away. “See?” The man at your back drawls. “I’ve got a good nose for these things. I told you I smelled something delicious.”

“Rhys has good taste,” the other answers flatly, “unlike some people, Cassian.” Still, his eyes remain on your throat for a little too long for your comfort.

Cassian doesn’t seem bothered by the jab, instead raising one of his hands from your hip to trace along the stuttering pulse of your heart, grazing down your neck. “I bet she tastes good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the weight of his gaze alone, hairs prickling beneath its intensity. “Cass,” the man at your front warns, voice low and cold. “She’s Rhys’. He won’t like it if you decide to put your grubby teeth all over her.”

Cassian pays him no mind, and Az’s grip on you tightens, pulling you toward him, aiming to distract the other. “When was the last time you drank?” He asks distastefully. Cassian shrugs again, “I assumed Rhys would provide a meal, and since he has such good taste,” he says pointedly, “I thought I’d enjoy myself.”

Another beastly snarl rips through the halls of the castle, and Cassian muffles a low chuckle. The man before doesn’t seem to find it as funny, the shadows at his back darkening. “What did you do this time, Az?” The man asks, lips curved with mirth.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to slip away,” Az hisses in a flash of canines. That deadly thrum of power intensifies, and you realise it must mean Rhysand is approaching. Whatever Az had done, the illusion’s over. It feels like he’s already right outside the door.

“Are you going to drink, or not?” Cassian asks, rough fingers slipping beneath the neckline of your gown, thumbing at the soft buttons at your front, slowly un-popping them in order to move the fabric out of the way of his teeth. “I don’t want to share Rhys’ meal,” Az says, a note of distaste to his words.

“Why not? It wasn’t a problem a couple of centuries ago,” Cassian drawls, challenge in his tone. “What happened? Spend a few decades fawning over a woman and suddenly all taste for adventure’s gone?” He scoffs, the taunt clear in his deep voice. “You’ve lost your touch, brother. You’re getting soft.”

A warning snarl drags from the other man’s throat, hazel eyes flicking to the door.

But Cassian sees his chance, head dipping down, incisors piercing your throat, biting down and spilling blood. Your lips part in a scream, paralysed as his venom enters your body, making your limbs feel heavy and clunky.

“Cassian,” Az hisses roughly, forcefully ripping him from you. Pain stings through your shoulder and collar bones, the only thing keeping you up being the hand at your hip and the chest at your front. Pressure wells behind your eyes at the ache, blood trickling down your skin. “What’s gotten into you? One scent catches your attention and suddenly centuries of discipline dissolves?” He snarls lowly, aware of the pulsing power that’s filling the room.

Cassian’s silent, but you can feel his body begin to tremble at your back. Fear drenches your skin as his grip tightens on you with the same display of inhumane strength Rhys had shown after his initial bite. Weakly you try to press closer to the man before you, but his attention is now trained on the blood beading at your throat, the puncture wounds already sealing over.

Terrifying hunger fills the dark hazel of his eyes, and you want to shrink away.

“You’ve got to try her, Az,” Cassian rasps at your back, voice low and strained. “Fuck, that’s the best I’ve ever had.” Wide eyes lock with hazel, silent and pleading. You’d take being returned to that room over this easily, no doubt in your mind.

The dark, raging power grows closer, reaching it’s peak. He’s right there.

Az’s lip curls back for a moment, but then he’s forcing the neckline of your gown over your shoulder, tearing at the lovely cotton in favour of piercing his canines into the softness of your neck. Your head tips back, falling into Cassian as your lips part in a soundless scream, rounding into a pained shape as he drinks, his own venom sinking into you.

Already dizziness is taking over you, but then Cassian is curving over you again, mouth parting, incisors sliding back into your skin with a now pleasurable pain. Arms go limp at your sides as their bloodlust wraps around you, completely overpowered by their hunger as hands grip and grope at your skin.

Tears push from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as the ecstasy spins your mind, wickedly turning the pain into something soft and blissful. Making you want them to drink deeper, wanting to have their teeth in you, to put their hands across your body.

Darkness explodes through the room, rage blasting through the soft warmth of lust, pulling you from the jaws of vampiric seduction.

The world tilts a little as they pull away, but without the adrenaline of their venom you feel weak. Like you’re unable to go on.

The last thing you remember is the fierce grip on your hips, the possessive touch over your back and shoulders as icy violet brings the night to its crescendo.

Then everything explodes in glittering black.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01

[hocuspocusbabyy]

Together: Eloise x Cressida. 🦢🕊️

Warnings: None? Just mad fluff?

Description: Cressida and Eloise share a private moment at home.

Paring: Eloise Bridgerton x Cressida Cowper

"Sweetheart?" Eloise called as she ascended the stairwell. Her shoes removed and in hand, the navy silk of her skirts creased and displaced beneath her loose corset. "Cressida?" The brunette tried again gracing her hand along the bannister at the bottom of the stairs.

Cressida's house was always so quiet compared to her own, there were no siblings, nieces, nephews causing fuss or throwing tantrums, no annoying cheery music musing from within the drawing room nor her sister's bashful interpretation of said music ; just pure unadulterated peace.

Edging further down the familiar hall Eloise entered the master bedroom, classical music faded towards her from the en-suite bathroom; smirking slightly she removed her shirt placing it carelessly on the bed aside a pile of another's previously discarded clothes.

Her bare feet graced the bathroom tile as the sight of the blonde came into view, arms spread to either side of the bathtub, hair tied on top of her head and water just meeting her collar bone. Eloise stared silently for longer than she'd like to admit, longer than 5 years of dating would suggest; but sometimes she found it hard to believe her own luck.

"Are you just going to stand there and watch me all night?" The other woman rasped, eyes still closed as she faced away from the brunette, there was no way for her to have known that Eloise was there other than blind presence.

Smiling Eloise bent beside the tub, stroking Cressida's hair. "How was your day?"

"Tedious, not as remotely interesting as my morning with you" she mused, shifting slightly to press her face against the palm of Eloise's hand.

"I see" the brunette murmured back as Cressida kissed her hand. Following across the lines of her cheek with the backs of her fingers, the bone smooth, sharp and sturdy beneath her touch.

"How's your mother?"

"As boastful as ever, ranting on and on about the impending arrival of Colin and Penelope’s third child.”

“I was sorry to have missed them.” Cressida mused basking in the joy of her lover's nose grazing against her own. A hand reaching round to support the other woman’s head, teasing gently at the hair at the back of her neck.

“They understood, you had work. Mother did however send me away with some of those apple tarts you love.” the brunette replied idly, pacing her hand down Cressida's arm in a soothing manner. Her mouth finds purchase upon her flesh, not moving yet, merely speaking against her. Breathing in the familiar scent of gardenia, which always did wonders to sooth her heart after a long day.

"Ah and you wonder why she is my favourite Bridgerton" Eloise rolled her eyes and pinched the other woman’s arm "Ouch stop that you beast" Cressida moaned withdrawing her arm into the water. Ripples of soap foaming around her, Eloise refusing to allow the space, her lips now pressed a path of kisses from temple to the corner of her mouth.

"Enough of that ''Eloise ordered resting on her heels and drawing Cressida to turn towards her, "I seem to recall you telling me I was your favourite Bridgerton" pouting slightly as Cressida sat sideways within the bath to face her lover.

"You're my favourite person, there's a difference" Eloise smiled slightly as Cressida's wet hand touched her cheek, "now are you getting in or are you going to just sit there sulking?"

Eloise scoffed, rising from the floor to remove her clothing, familiar wet hands raising to idly untie her corset, "I don't sulk" she argued before climbing into the bath beside Cressida. Resting against the blondes chest as they hummed along to the music that for a time had been forgotten, Eloise became at ease. Cressida's finger tangled within her hair and the heat of the water consumed her body.

"You know I don't have to be a Bridgerton" The brunette whispered, sinking further into the water in fear of her own words, wanting nothing more than to forget them the moment they left her mouth. However the blonde wouldn't allow it as the grip on her waist tightened and raised Eloise from the water and onto her chest.

"But I want to be," the blonde whispered, pressing her face against the other woman’s neck "so that is what we will be together, do you understand?"

"Bridgertons?" Eloise quizzed slightly as Cressida's lips feathered against the shell of her ear.

"I think Mrs Cressida Bridgerton, has quite a ring to it; don't you?"

Eloise turned to face Cressida and smiled brightly "I think it sounds perfect" kissing Cressida gently, their tongues seeking refuge together. The most precious movement and expression of their affection for one another. Eloise could no longer count how many times they had done that, nor predict how many times they would. Though neither of them could imagine a moment where they’d stop.

Cressida would never grow tired of having Eloise so close. Each freckle, indentation and expression etched into her face perfectly transparent as Cressida kissed her chin. The small groove of a scar, aged and delicious beneath her lips.

Eloise meticulously worked at mapping the palms of Cressida’s hands as the blonde menstruations continued across her neck.

“I love you.” The brunette whispered gently against the flesh, her tongue sticking out to swipe at the skin between Cressida’s ring and index finger. Her lips finally settled to suck at the place a ring would soon be placed.

They may not be married in the eyes of the church, accepted by the ton nor openly within society. However they’d wear the rings as a commitment to one another, just as any man and woman would. They’d know, their chosen family would know and they’d be together.

Cressida smiled gently, it wasn’t often Eloise uttered such things even in private moments between them. The brunette had voiced on many occasions that she found the sentiment tedious. How could such words ever hold meaning if people insisted on using them as frequently as possible? The blonde however knew, there was no moment of her day, or plaques in memory which Cressida Cowper had ever felt anything less than enamoured, consumed, seen and beloved by Miss Eloise Bridgerton.

“I cannot wait to be your wife.” Cressida grinned, her hold suddenly tightened as if to savour the moment a second longer.

The blondes hand soon reached to guide her future wife from the the increasingly cold bath water, each taking turns drying the other in admiration as their content smiles continued to grow; they failed to find an issue in that moment as they fell asleep in each other's arms with the peaceful reminder that one day they would be Bridgertons together.

[dollwritesarchive]

For the kinkoctober may I, please and thank you, ask Sesshomaru in rut/under sex pollenlike influence?

yes!! i hope you like it my dear

𝓊𝓃𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒 ⎹ 𝓢.

❝ ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ⤻ inuyasha / kinktober 2022 / @dollsanime-library

❝ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ⤻ sesshomaru x human!reader ( f )

❝ ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⤻ nsfw! none of my writings are meant for anyone under the age of 18, and any minors interacting will be blocked on site.

❝ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ⤻ this is a dark fic. noncon, knotting, rut, sesshomaru is unhinged, forced breeding, virgin!reader, degradation and objectification

❝ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⤻ 2.7k / mini musing

❝ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ⤻ i do not consent to having my work reposted / translated / stolen in any capacity for any reason. please reblog and leave a comment to support content creators! my work is very rarely proof read so mistakes may be present. all characters / pairings i write for are 18+ with no exceptions.

your family served the Dog Daiyokai long before you were born; you remembered your great grandparents reminiscing about how kind a ruler the beast king Toga had been, how he’d graciously accepted their offerings and protected your family’s village from danger— always there when they called. he cared deeply about the humans he ruled over.

his son was another tale entirely.

Sesshomaru was cold and hateful, especially to your family. you’d only seen him a handful of times as you grew up, and you’d become the one to carry the offerings to the forest once your parents were too weak to do so, his helpful minion usually snatched up the offerings that were left at the tree line. “Lord Sesshomaru has better things to do than mingle with the likes of you.” he’d told you once when you’d tried to approach the young beast king. you can still remember the gilded glare Sesshomaru rewarded you for taking even half a step towards him. he truly hated you. a hate so deep that it’d frozen you in place. you thought if you ever saw him again, he’d kill you without a moment’s hesitation.

which is why you ran from him tonight.

it hadn’t been your fault; he could smell you from a mile away. he was drinking in every pheromone you exude as he got closer and closer. his hormones as sharp as the blade on his hip in this moment, he followed your scent like a predator tracking wounded prey. every muscle in his body pulled taut when he saw you, crouched down, arranging his offerings. he recognized you immediately— the audacious girl that had the nerve to try and approach him before, and he wanted to be angry. he wanted to feel that vile repulsion rising from his stomach to his throat that he usually experienced when he was within a swing of his sword’s distance from a mortal, but right now he couldn’t force himself to feel disgusted. he couldn’t force that hatred because his instincts had taken hold of him, and your scent was driving him mad with need.

the innocence that clung to your aroma had his claws clenching into flustered fists at his side, a crimson hue seeping into the whites of his eyes. the overwhelming, primal desire to breed only deepened, reaching the very core of his body as he took a silent step closer, and then another, and then another. with each step, the air became thicker, more intoxicating, he inhaled, deep, and sucked in the saccharine traces of your sex that hangs in the atmosphere around him. his cock twitches against his thigh. now drunk on the smell of your fertile, uncharted cunt, it hardens in his trousers and he lets out a breathy snarl.

he needed to take you now.

and that’s when you noticed his presence.

he must’ve looked frightening— blood red eyes with teeth bared, snorting in the air, a true depiction of the beast king title he wore, because you hardly let out a startled gasp before you were scrambling to your feet and sprinting towards the village. “Stupid girl.” he grimaced. even if you tried until your legs were about to give out, you’d never outrun him. he made that apparently clear when, within a blink of an eye, he bounds after and grasps you by one wrist, sweeping your feet off the ground and hauling you into the air by the hold on your arm alone. “Do not run from me.”

you wince, legs kicking wildly, and cry out, “Don’t kill me, Lord Sesshomaru!”

did he look so feral?

as rabid as he felt?

“Kill you.” he repeats as if considering the words carefully, tilting his head to one side. his sharpened nails scrape against your delicate skin, breaking a small section, and you whimper, so he releases your arm and you crumble to the dirt with a huff. “You’re no use to me if you’re dead.” pulling yourself on to your knees, you take a deep, shaky breath and turn back towards the village, crawling slow, sniffling. you can see the gate from where you’re laying, just a short run away. his words hadn’t fully registered within you until you feel a foot press between your shoulder blades, pinning your chest to the ground.

“Your family serves me, doesn’t it?” with a soft whine, you nod, rubbing your cheek against the dirt. “Then spread your legs.” he barked, using his other foot to kick at your knees until they widened, the split in your skirt more pronounced as it reveals the flesh of your thigh. “And serve me.” with what seemed like one swipe of his powerful claw, your garments split with screams of threads coming unraveled. you flinch, closing your eyes tight, expecting to be shredded right along with your clothes, but once they’re wrenched free of your body and you’re left completely bare, your face forced into the dirt, you don’t feel the sting of a fresh wound, or see any blood trickling down.

“Lord Sesshomaru,” it was hard to choke the words out, the lump in your throat massive as you try to look over your shoulder to see what he’s done. “What are you—?”

you catch a glimpse; a fraction of a second you watch the beast king undress. heavy fur and weapons in a puddle of alabaster and ruby fabric on the ground. your eyes trail along the red markings on his arms and over his toned abdomen, your face on fire with a blush when your gaze reaches his manhood. thick and veined, with a plump, pink tip and almost too girthy for you to be able to wrap your hands around, your lips part in awe, and your eyeline traces the impressive length. ceasing only near the base, where a bulbous knot was already swelling. the visage sends a swirling in your tummy, and causes a pooling between your thighs, whether you want it to or not. his eyes narrow when he catches you staring, and brings his foot down against the back of your head this time, hissing, “I never said that you could ogle me. Arch your back.”

you didn’t.

you hesitated.

until he ground his foot into your head and you whimper in submission, pushing your ass into the air, even as your legs tremble.

“L—Lord Sesshomaru…” staring down at the ground, you’re frightened, so much so that hot tears start to well up in your eyes and your nails dig into the dirt. you already know what he’s planning to do to you, and the thought alone makes you dizzy. “I can’t— I’ve never—“ the words were too humiliating to actually say, so you simply stammered until he cut your babbling short.

“The scent of your innocence is overwhelming.” he spoke matter of factly, but there’s a rough edge to his baritone, as if he’s on the cusp of losing all restraint. “But I can smell how fertile you are, too. And your body is begging to be bred.” your eyes widened, and you shake your head incessantly, attempting to use what little strength in your arms you had in order to crawl away, but with his weight pressing down on the sole of his foot against your skull, you weren’t going to be able to go anywhere. with his head tilting to one side, he examines your exposed sex. “You’re already wet.”

another shake of your head. “I— I’m not— I don’t want—“ you tense the moment you feel his tip split your folds, but he doesn’t delve right in. instead, he holds himself at his base, and drags the swollen tip between your netherlips from your maiden hole to your sensitive clitoris, gathering all of your unwilling desire to coat his cock in a layer of shine. your legs threaten to snap closed, if his foot wasn’t planted against one of your knees. your heart pounds hard against your chest. “N—no… Don’t…”

Sesshomaru ignores your winging and guides the head back to your entrance, which squeezes the air as your muscles clench when he pushes against you. you wished that you were strong enough to keep him from invading you, but with a grunt and an abrupt buck of his hips, the engorged tip stretches your previously unclaimed sex open and forces its way inside. you yip in protest, but he moans. “Tight…” he mutters, planting both, strong hands on your hips as you try to wiggle forward. his claws dig into the supple flesh as he pulls you back to meet another might thrust, pushing another couple of inches into you. your canal spasms, and you grit your teeth, forcing a strangled cry through them as the beast king severs your innocence. “I can barely fit in your little, human cunt.” he almost sounded disgusted, as if you should be more equipped to take him properly.

it hurts, a lot.

tears have careened over your cheeks and soak the ground under your face, turning it to mud that glues itself to your countenance, and you try to squirm away from him, but the more you move your hips, the harder he slams his own towards you, and the deeper you’re filled with demon cock.

“H—hurts…!” you’re panting, your little heart beating ferociously in your chest, and your entire body feels tight and defensive, “Please… stop…please, it’s too much… it hurts…!”

Sesshomaru growls, sinking his claws into your skin, pushing himself flush to your ass just to hear you squeal, “Ungrateful, little thing. What do you think you were meant to exist for, if not breeding?” his nails prick at you, breaking through to leave faint, searing scratches, “Are you so fragile that you can’t even take me without sobbing and begging? You’re absolutely pathetic, aren’t you?”

you don’t want to agree with him, but in this moment, pathetic is the best word to describe you. humiliated, you don’t answer him, and choke on your tears and the lump in your throat, instead.

“I need this,” he continues, pushing you forward only to pull you back against him, “your Lord needs it. Stop your hopeless sniveling and take my cock. Fulfill your duty as my servant. Take it until your weak, little body breaks.”

the rhythm he falls into is hard and deep, erratic thrusting as he snorts through his nose, his vulgar moans muffled and guttural. each time, he jerks you back into his rutting, and furious ripples erupt through the flesh of your ass as he reaches your limit, quick.

it’s the knot.

it’s much too swollen to fit into you while you tighten around him, and it slaps against your core instead, as if demanding to be let inside.

you claw, helplessly, at the ground, trying to find some way to relieve the pressure he’s forced on to you, each time he slams his length home in your depths, you elicit a raspy yelp. your throat is raw from screaming. the dust kicked up around you has found its way into your lungs and burns them, and Sesshomaru has been pushing your head down harder and harder, whether he meant to or not.

“More, more, more.” Sesshomaru was snarling, snapping his hips harder and harder into you, much more beast than king. he had to be following primal instinct alone. each time he pounds against you, the knot acting as a buffer, squishes against you. you can feel the power behind his rutting; he was twitching inside you, thrusts stuttering and uneven. he’s close, and he’s trying to force the bulb inside of you to cum. “Deeper. Deeper.” your toes curl tight, and you clench whenever he pushes the lump against you, trying your damndest to keep it from opening you up anymore. he was already incredibly deep, his thick tip prodding nerves he shouldn’t reach, battering a depth that you didn’t think was possible, but you were certain if he managed to shove that knot into you, that he would burst right through your belly.

“Fight me all you want.” he must’ve realized how you fought against him, because the foot on your head slides to press into your cheek, smearing you against the ground. “I’m going to breed you whether you want me to or not, cocksheath.” he grunts, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. you could feel the tickle of his soft, silvery tendrils as they drape over your back, and you would’ve wriggled if you weren’t so tightly pinned. he was no longer pushing you back and forth, but nestled as deep as he could go, slamming the knot against your cunt relentlessly. with his breath ragged, his hands slide up to your waist to find a better grip, and he drags you back against him just as hard, refusing to let the force of his pounding ricochet you even an inch forward. “Open up, and take my knot deep.”

“I can’t!” you cry, overwhelmed, “I can’t take it!” your belly was churning, all of your muscles pulled so tight you thought that they might snap at any moment, and drool leaked out of the corners of your mouth, mixing with tears and dirt against your face.

however, much to your surprise, he grunts again and pushes it against you until the lump worms its way inside. your eyes widen and you croak, helpless to stop it, and you feel the pop as it nests him fully inside of you. Sesshomaru swoons with depraved delight, rocking his hips a few more times to acclimate to the new depth he reaches. you can feel the knot swelling even fatter inside your canal, forcing an unbelievable stretch. now, you knew that he couldn’t pull out, even if he wanted to. “There it is, right there…” he whispers, harsh, as he finds a sweet spot. you clench, tight, and mewl hopelessly. Sesshomaru assaults the nerves over and over, until he catches his elusive orgasm.

even as his composure shatters, and he moans, loud, he doesn’t stop. his hips grind into yours, and you can feel spurt after spurt of warm release filling your belly. there’s nothing to be done but to accept it; you know that your body’s too exhausted to try and fight anymore, so you allow yourself to go limp and let him fill you until it starts to ooze down your thighs.

twitching, panting, Sesshomaru only starts to come down from his high as the knot begins to deflate. once it shrank enough, he removes his foot from your face and uses his heel to shove you off of his cock, instead. you lay on ground, legs shaking and limbs all too heavy to move, his cum leaving a sticky puddle on the ground between your thighs as it leaks from your freshly fucked hole.

he felt better. lighter. like he wasn’t being dragged on a leash towards you anymore, but that didn’t mean that the sight of you fucked out and trembling didn’t arouse him. he wanted to flip you over, push your legs behind your head, and shove himself back into you, hollow you out. he thought, briefly, about how many times he would have to cum inside you before your belly started to swell from it. the image alone should’ve made him sick, but his cock twitched, instead. it wasn’t fair, he decided, it wasn’t fair that you had this power over him.

“Don’t lie there too long feeling sorry for yourself.” he was back to his gruff, authoritative bark once he dressed and armed himself again. he took another look at you. he could scoop you up into his arms and carry you to the village, lay you on your bed, cover you with blankets. but he doesn’t. “I’m not the only monster in this forest that’s in rut.”

[everglow-synth]

I've got this burning like my veins are filled with nothing but gasoline

An urban sci-fi/fantasy world based on the Synthwave aesthetic, D&D, and many different movies, TV shows and video games. Main characters include: Matthew Blake - Bartender turned vigilante superhero Polybius - An amnesiac android trying to keep himself alive Pockets - Friendly arcade owner and robot skeleton Jonathan Whitman - Cult detective with an elder god deep within Verox - A dragon that gifted the world of Polycus with magic

18+ Only!

Crossover, OC and AU friendly!

NSFW friendly!

Will RP with fandoms I'm not familiar with!

Multiple sideblogs, listed below the cut!

And with a spark it's gonna be the biggest fire they've ever seen

Carrd + Rules and About | Spotify Playlist

Doom Slayer / @slayers-testament A strange, time/space scattered warrior fighting against (most of) demonkind. Compatible with Hellzbin or Helltaker muses! (I keep a leash on him, I swear.)

Multifandom Multimuse / @the-devils-toybox A place for me to drop my silly little obsessions without having to make them all new blogs. Crossover and AU friendly!

Miles "Tails" Prower / @powered-by-prower An older, more mature take on the fox, mixing headcanon, game lore, comic lore and Sonic X lore to make something new. Features Gemerl as a secondary muse, and E-102γ/Gamma as a tertiary muse!

Andros, The Last Golden Lynel / @golden-lynel The last Golden Lynel left in Hyrule after the Great Upheaval, Andras commands Ganondorf's minions with an iron fist. He is a beast on the battlefield with a deep, unending hatred of the Master Sword and its handler.

[icrypop]

Konig Blurb Idea

Asylum Patient! Konig x GN!Doctor! Reader

Slightly sad fluff

I genuinely love the idea of asylum patient that's understood by their doctor through stories- Anyway! Enjoyyy!

-Writer Icy<3

They opened the well-worn pages of Beauty and the Beast, their words painting a vivid tapestry of enchantment. Konig's eyes followed the characters' journey with rapt attention, his head resting in Y/n's lap. His slender fingers traced the soft contours of their jawline, seeking a connection beyond the spoken words.

'Why is the Beast so lonely, Dr. L/n?' Konig asked, his voice a mere whisper.

'Perhaps,' Y/n mused, 'because he feels like an outsider, like his true self is hidden beneath a harsh exterior.'

'And the Beauty?' Konig inquired. 'Why does she love him?'

'Because she sees past his outward appearance,' Y/n explained, 'and recognizes the goodness within his heart. She teaches him the power of love and compassion.'

As the story unfolded, Konig's questions grew more introspective. 'I am like the Beast, am I not? Trapped in a body that frightens others away.'

A dull ache welled up in y/n's heart as they realized the extent of Konig's pain. 'That is not true, Konig,' they protested softly. 'You have a kind and gentle soul, a soul worthy of love.'

Konig raised his head and met y/n's gaze. 'Do you mean it, Dr. L/n?' he asked, his voice trembling with hope. 'Could someone ever love me for who I truly am?'

Y/n leaned forward and gently caressed Konig's cheek. 'I love you, Konig,' they whispered, their words echoing the transformative power of Beauty and the Beast.

A radiant smile spread across Konig's face, illuminating the shadows in his eyes. 'I love you too, Dr. L/N,' he replied, his voice filled with the newfound light of acceptance.

In that shared moment, the walls of Winchester Asylum seemed to dissolve, replaced by a timeless realm where love triumphed over adversity. As Y/n continued to read, Konig's breathing grew steady, his fears subsiding like the fading moonlight. Amidst the gentle rhythm of their voice and the tender touch of his fingers, they found solace and redemption in the pages of an enchanted tale.

[jokeringcutio]

Abijah Fowler x Reader – Finding out R is pregnant

Fandom: Blue Eye Samurai | Mature | Abijah Fowler x (f) Reader

Warnings: Angst, Drama, language, mature themes, Abijah is referred to as European Monster, Reader is referred to as half-breed, Reader is a maid at Abijah’s castle. Abijah might have feelings in this.

The drafty castle’s air brushed past your arms as you were on your hands and knees, the rough stone floor cold and unyielding beneath you as you scrubbed diligently. Despite the harsh task, you were grateful you were just scrubbing the floor today. Far too often had you been in a similar pose, but performing a different task.

Your movements were mechanical, a practiced ritual to keep your mind numb and your presence unnoticed. But today, Abijah Fowler's looming figure broke through your practiced invisibility. He materialized silently in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the polished stones like an ominous stain.

"Working hard, are we?" His voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper, yet it echoed off the walls with the authority of a war drum. In the past, you had thought his accent to be cute. Most women here had laughed at that, called you naïve, and warned you for the European beast.

They hadn’t been wrong.

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. You didn't dare look up, focusing instead on the gray water turning murkier with each pass of your rag. The silence stretched taut between you, heavy with his unspoken scrutiny.

“Always wondered why they let me hire these delicate young women. Suppose they’d let me do anything I want.”

You bit your tongue to keep silent and focused on the rag in your hand and the stones that were already polished until they glinted. You feared to feel his presence behind you, how he would flip your kimono and push himself inside whilst laughing about causing you distress. You tiny women couldn’t take a man his size, he’d say. But he’d make you anyway. He’d done so to you and nearly every pleasant-looking maid in his service. He was famous for that. A brute.

But instead of coming to stand behind you, he remained where he was. Merely watched you in silence, probably aware of your attempt to avoid him, probably suspecting why that was.

"Stand up," he commanded suddenly, and you rose to your feet, the bucket and rag forgotten.

His green eyes roamed over you, slow and deliberate—a predator assessing its prey. A shiver ran down your spine. You knew that gaze, knew the violence it cloaked.

His fingers curled around your arm, grip iron-tight, and he pulled you aside roughly. How many times have you seen him do similar things to former friends? Too often. Their names were no longer mentioned but the memories of them were not forgotten.

Not a word escaped his lips as he pulled you close so he could have a proper look at you. Just a chilling smile appeared on his lips, a smile that betrayed his intent more than any threat could.

"Something's different about you," he mused, his touch on your skin making you flinch.

The muscles in your stomach clenched, not from his roaming gaze but from the life stirring within you—a secret you had hoped to keep buried. Panic clawed at the edges of your composure, threatening to unravel you thread by thread.

"My Lord, I assure you, nothing's changed," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

"Is that so?" he chuckled darkly, his fingers roaming past the bulge hidden beneath the layers of clothes. “Funny. I can’t remember you bleeding the past few months. Should have noticed, what with being inside of you so darn often.”

His roaming hands came to rest on your waist, fingers tightening.

With a sudden shove, he pushed you away. Instinctively, you stumbled forward, struggling to maintain your balance. His laughter followed you, a sound that carried the weight of a death sentence.

"Watch your step," he taunted, eyes glinting with malice. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to you…or our babe."

You caught yourself before you hit the ground, the fear inside you now a live wire, sparking with the urgency of danger. You knew the stories, the whispered fates of women who found themselves in your position under Abijah Fowler's roof. None had ended well.

"Ah, there you are. On your knees, at my feet, Just where you are supposed to be. Now,” he drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a short moment as if he relished in this. “Let me have a good look at you.”

He ran a hand through his long oddly colored hair – the grey taking root and fading whatever bright color it had been before. Like the fading sunlight, you thought. Not a color any Japanese man or woman had ever shown. Something unique to him that you could have found attractive if he had treated you and the others better.

“You’ve done a pretty good job fooling me,” his words sounded firm, but his voice was softer than usual.

Every instinct screamed at you to run, to hide, but where could you go? This castle was a cage. Carrying his bastard child. If he wouldn’t kill you, the others in the castle surely would. As you crawled backward, away from your Lord and Master, you realized that even if you could get across these walls, his men were everywhere. Abijah’s influence reached far and wide.

And he had guns.

He didn’t need to stand next to you to end your life.

"I suppose you were going to keep this a secret?" The man who was your master whispered. His accent sent another shiver down your spine, the words sounded so delicate. Such a contrast to how the man really was.

"Of course, Master," you managed to say, your voice steadier than you felt.

"Good girl," he said, the two words slicing through you sharper than any blade.

Your heartbeat hammered in your ears. The cool stone walls pressed against your back as you tried to melt into the darkness, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. But the heavy footfalls echoed ominously, drawing nearer. Abijah's voice cut through the silence like a knife through silk.

"Stand up," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

The command left no room for defiance. With trembling legs, you complied, rising to face him.

This is it, you thought, fear filling your entire being. This is where I die.

His hands found your midsection, rough and unyielding, pressing against the subtle swell that betrayed your secret. You flinched at the contact, his touch igniting a firestorm of revulsion within you.

"Ah," he said, a smile curling his lips. "I enjoyed you. Every time we joined together. Should have known my seed would take as it did with so many others.” Then, a deep sigh. “A shame I'll have to miss our little rendezvous."

His words were a dark promise, chilling your blood. You stood there, frozen, unable to speak or move away from the invasive hands that claimed ownership over both your body and the life it carried. Even if he did let you live, he would only wait for the child to be born and tear its young life away from you. The babe would end up in the sewers, just like all your friends and their children had.

"Look at me," Abijah growled.

You lifted your gaze to meet his, But what you saw in them confused you. It wasn’t the expected malice, but something else. A mixture of something you couldn’t quite name.

Among the emotions you recognized pride. It glinted in his green eyes, a perverse satisfaction that he had been the one to start a new life within you. That his seed had caught not just in any of his maids, but in you specifically.

"You're a peculiar creature, aren't you?" he mused, his fingers tracing circles over your stomach. "You made it this far... A half-breed yourself… always so fascinating."

The words were murmured, his touch surprisingly gentle. His words hung between you, a twisted compliment that only served to deepen your confusion. Then, without another word, he broke away.

His hand disappeared beneath the layers of his robes, and the instant fear that he was going to draw a gun or knife to kill you took hold of you. But when his hand was revealed again he held a pouch in it.

Without a word, he stood, waiting, until you finally raised both your hands. Then he dropped the pouch, the softness of the silk and the weight against your palms surprising you.

Something in the man’s eyes glistened. But it wasn’t something bad. Just, something you had never really seen before. Unless it was in the eyes of the cook when he looked at his wife. Or the guard who recently married and had looked at his bride.

But surely, you must be mistaken.

In silence, Abijah turned on his heels and strode away, leaving you standing there, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your unborn child. Your heart pounded against your ribcage.

You waited until his footsteps faded before allowing yourself to collapse against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor. Your eyes slid to the pouch in your hands. Trembling, you pulled the strings to gasp at the sight inside.

Glistening and glinting. Enough money to last you and your child a lifetime. Enough money to bribe your way out and get away.

He's proud, you realized with a shudder. Proud of giving me this baby?

Had he done this to other women before? Was it just a trick? You didn’t know, but one thing was clear. He’d given you a small reprieve from death, and in your hands, you carried the promise for better times. A chance to keep you alive, whilst at the same time a death sentence if he wanted to get rid of you.

He could just say you had stolen the purse.

I need to leave, you resolved, the idea taking root deep within you. Before he changes his mind. For our child... I have to run.

~

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Taglist: @queenofcringe @samicte

[warm-concrete]

Weapon & Wound.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader

Summary: Struggling with her own identity, constantly fighting her impulsive nature and running from the many regrets of her past, Tav had given up on most parts of her life, until she was abducted. 

Now, Tav feels this strange instinctive responsibility to help this growing group of weirdos she’s amassing. People she’s never felt more at home around. And, maybe, she’s started to hope that if she’s able to get them all out of this mess, she’ll be relieved of the shame. The guilt she hasn’t been able to escape.

Although, whenever she finds herself with a certain pale elf, Tav can’t help but feel, even if everything went to shit and she fucked everything up again, that she might just be content to lay in his arms. 

What a dangerous feeling.

Word Count: 4.7k

Link - - - - - > Ao3

Earlier than he would usually slip into the forest, driven by the hunger of his failed hunt the night before, Astarion had left the campsite. Treading lightly along his usual path, Astarion only just succeeded in controlling his breath at the sight of a panther purring quietly in a opening beside him. 

It’s pelt shined as it bathed in the orange light of dusk. He noted that it’s coat wasn’t interrupted with any scarring, despite it obviously being an adult, and briefly mused that it might be a lost pet.

Astarion distracted himself briefly with a thought of the beast attentively sitting by his feet, guarding him as his sat on some ornate throne. He smiled. Then registered the seat and surrounding room he’d imagined was just memories of Cazador’s palace. What a ridiculous thing, to be back there in every thought, every hope. 

He almost pitied the thought of disturbing its regal bliss. He’d been turned long enough to know better than to entertain any thoughts of refusing his nature. This was the hand fate had dealt him, forced to go from temptation to temptation: a rat, a beast, a boar. Whatever would satiate. He had some liberty now: my hunger is my own. He told himself, hoping to find some meaning in the phrase as he whispered it.

In the precious minutes he’d slide by, the creature’s slowly pumping heart overtook every other sound. Astarion attempted focus, though his desire throbbed, reacting different to the other things he’d hunted. The smell of its blood silenced any coherent thoughts as he drifted behind it. The aroma filled his mouth, now wet with want, it tasted somehow familiar like a favourite childhood dinner that he’d long forgotten. His body begged him to take it in his teeth. 

Astarion loomed over muscle and the flesh; its fur was a tar pit trap. He was nothing but a blind fool, drawn into a void.

⭐︎

Fawn yowled awake at the piercing puncture of a dagger between her ribs, followed by a weight over her back legs of some creature that had latched itself into her neck. She thrashed around and clawed at anything she could reach; an arm. Struggling to free herself from its grip, Fawn shifted back to her normal body, her pain instantly dissipating, and finally turned to face her assailant.

“Ff- What?” Escapes Astarion’s mouth as he finds himself biting around air and halfway on top of a semi-naked Fawn, her stoney-blue skin was untainted and only covered by a white-lace, sheer bra and these matching ruffled undershorts.

She knocked the dagger away from where it fell beside her. “Gods. Get the fuck off of me!” She finally spits as she shoves him hard, on his chest. 

The rest is posted on Ao3 !!

⭐︎

Sneaky Jump Ahead: (spoilers)

Her quick agreement left Astarion wide-eyed, but only for a moment. A devilish smirk replaced his shock: “I’ll be, uh- more gentle this time. Shall we get comfortable?” Fawn plopped down in the dry grass and crossed her legs, it was still warm beneath her but the last of the sun had quickly disappeared. ‘Make your mark.’ Another warped murmur escaped from somewhere deep within. Astarion cleared his throat as he knelt down next to her- the fabric of his trousers resting against her exposed thigh. “I was hoping you would…” He mimed a straight line with his hands. “Might make things easier.”  Fawn considered his request for a beat and then dutifully laid back for him. Staring at him as he leaned over and placed his hands on the ground above her shoulders. Just as she started to wonder what she would do with her own hands, Astarion leant in and pierced her neck. The shock of his cold fangs made Fawn gasp and involuntarily reach for his waist.  Trying to steady herself, Fawn grabbed a handful of his shirt with one hand and a tuft of grass with the other, and the warmth of his lips sucked at the fresh wound in her neck. She noticed the quickened beating of her pulse and lifted her body just slightly off the ground; she leant into his bite, she leant into him. A breath she had been holding in escaped her. As if in response, she felt Astarion’s lips hover over her neck as he heaved before reattaching himself, like a mage hand had pulled him forward. He was feverishly trying to gulp down her blood. Fawn didn’t need the tadpole to know the only word on his mind was ‘More’. Attempting to get a better grip or angle into her taste, Astarion’s fingers mindlessly found themselves against her jaw and turned her head. In chorus with this frustration he hitched his knee over and straddled her lower-half for the second time that evening. 

Fawn could begin to feel her blood flowing through him, her heartbeat was in his chest. She let out another short breath as she could unmistakably feel his erection pressed against her midriff. His grip had slipped from her jaw to the side of her neck bereft of his mouth and tightened, but she didn’t realise. A creeping numbing sensation washed through each artery. Every limb of hers started to buzz. She hadn’t felt it in years, the distinct tingling when your body is desperately trying to stay alive with less and less blood to do so. With the feeling, of course, came his face. His thin but prominent lips. The sharp pointed teeth that rested beneath them, well, sharp for a human. She wanted to retch. If it had been possible to recoil more into the ground, she would have.  “‘starion…” Fawn tried to mumble against his shoulder, fighting a lump in her throat. He was pressing all but her head into the grass now, lost in his hunger for this new essence. With each separate gulp Astarion had started to move back then slightly forwards, he was unknowingly grinding himself against her. Fawn fought against the memories pricking against her skin, the memories of her mistakes, her past, her lover. It was like Astarion was draining the secrets from her veins. “Salvatore.” Shit. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. She hadn’t meant to say anything at all. As if she didn’t have enough festering in her skull. Luckily, Astarion was far too enamoured by her wet, hot blood to have heard her. She silently thanked the sky; no time for confessions, she resolved.

With her slip, came an urgency. She didn’t want him to know of her gift, as Salvatore had called it. It might make turning him down in the future… difficult. So, with the last of her strength she put a hand to his neck and pushed: “Stop.” she managed less of a mumble than before. She squeezed her eyes shut.

[houseofhyde]

Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs  the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches. 

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder. 

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between. 

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

[starrylothcat]

Welcome to my unhinged musings! You can call me Starry or Star, and I'm a life-long Star Wars fan. This blog is mostly dedicated to everything Star Wars, but especially The Clone Wars, The Bad Batch, and our dear clone boys.

I write clone x reader fanfics, and you will find those in my masterlist below. 🌟 I write and share explicit content so this blog is 18+. No minors, please. 🌟 Writing Request Guidelines Found Here

Writing Taglist

Masterlist Below the Cut

AO3 Link

Key: 🔥=NSFW. 18+, please.

🌼=SFW

The Bad Batch

Hunter:

Sparks - Hunter x Fem!JediReader 🌼

Not Alone - Hunter x Reader 🌼

(No) Vacancy - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

Eyes on Me - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Dangerous Game 🔥

Craving - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

Essence - Hunter x Fem!JediReader 🔥

Conquest of Spaces - Hunter x Fem!JediReader 🔥

Tease - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

The Beast Within - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

Beautiful Meal - Hunter x Fem!Reader 🔥

Crosshair:

Unspoken - Crosshair x Fem!Reader 🔥

Handful - Crosshair x Fem!Reader 🔥

Quiet Love - Crosshair x Reader 🌼

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Tease 🔥

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Marked 🔥

Crosshair Drabble 🌼

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Wrapped Up 🔥

Restrained - Crosshair x GN!Reader 🔥

Happily Ever After - Crosshair x GN!Reader 🌼

Dawn of Us - Crosshair x GN!Reader 🌼

Wrecker

Sweet Thing - Wrecker x Fem!Reader 🌼

Tech

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Offering a Hand 🔥

Taken - Tech x Fem!Reader 🔥

Mayday

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Mayday 🔥

TBB Headcanons

You Give The Bad Batch (+Rex) Flowers 🌼

TBB Ask You to Live With Them 🌼

Morning Sex with Hunter and Crosshair 🔥

The Clone Wars

Wolffe:

Release - Wolffe x Fem!JediReader 🔥

You Give Wolffe Flowers Drabble 🌼

Look After You - Wolffe x Fem!Reader 🔥

Rex:

Oh, Captain - Rex x Fem!Reader 🔥

Third Time’s the Charm - Rex x Reader 🌼

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Rex 🔥

With You - Rex x Reader 🌼

Echo:

Promise Kept - Echo x Reader 🌼

Spicy Prompts Drabble: Echo 🔥

Fives:

Bon Appétit - Fives x Fem!Reader 🔥

Kix

Rise & Shine - Kix x Fem!Reader 🔥

Cody

A Little Trust - Cody x Fem!Reader 🔥

TCW Headcanons

Clone Commander NSFW Headcanons 🔥

Distractions: NSFW Headcanons with Cody, Wolffe, & Rex 🔥

[kipsels]

Sweet Torture

Diluc x Lumine

ft. Vampire Diluc

Diluc almost regrets his decision to seek her out the moment he spots her in the distance. Like a fallen star that had settled on the bank of Cider Lake, Lumine sits by the sandy shoreline, her knees tucked up to her chest.

Her pale blonde hair shines in the moonlight, and if she were to turn her head he knows her golden eyes would gleam just as brightly too.

The winds turn, carrying her decadent scent in his direction and setting his hunger anew. His fangs ache for flesh, to sate the thirst that has nearly driven him to madness since the day he first met her.

Just one look, that’s all he gives himself. One look to sooth his foolish heart.

He closes his eyes and wills himself to turn away, to save himself the sweet torture of her company for one night.

“Master Diluc?”

He nearly bites back a groan as her voice calls out to him, a siren’s song he cannot fight.

He turns back to her with a cordial smile, slow measured steps bridging the distance between them.

“Miss Lumine, you’re out late tonight.”

“The moon’s full tonight,” She points out, “It’s said that a full moon can summon a mystical lunar fish, so I figured I’d give it a go.”

He notices then the fishing pole she has anchored beside her, the line nearly invisible in the dark. Lumine pats the ground beside her, and Diluc finds himself obeying her request.

“You know those stories are merely folktales,” He chuckles as she rolls her eyes. “The fish you catch at night are surely the same as the ones you catch in the day.”

“Only you could say something so boring,” She huffs, her eyes watching the lure bop across the water’s surface.

“And what would you do with this special fish?” Diluc humours her for a moment, if only to memorise the sound of her voice for the long daylight hours that were to come.

“Cook it, of course.”

“A tragic end.”

“Tragic? I think you mean tasty.”

Diluc can barely recall the last time his meals had not consisted of draining the blood from a hapless beast, but the old memories of hearty meals dull in comparison to the sweet scent of the woman beside him.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Lumine raises a brow at him, though she does not comment. Silence settles between them, only broken by the gentle sound of water lapping against the shoreline, the rustle of the breeze catching in the reeds.

All the while, Diluc suffers.

Saliva pools in his mouth from her proximity alone, the pale expanse of her neck just within striking distance. Inviting him to taste, to devour–

“You must be a very busy man, Master Diluc,” Lumine muses lightly, her golden eyes twinkling with mischief.

He blinks, bats away the instincts clamouring for him to feed.

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“I never seem to catch you during daylight hours. I bet you’re holed up in meetings all day, dealing with stuffy old men and their stuffy old opinions, am I right?”

“It’s… something like that.”

She grins in that moment, radiating joy. He wants to capture that joy, bottle it up and keep it with him for all eternity, but he knows that is not how things work.

Diluc knows that a life by his side would only sap her of her beauty, her joy.

He could not bear to be the reason she no longer shone like the stars in the night sky. It was only cruel for creatures of the night to covet those who dance in the sun.

The desire to taste her blood turns to ash on his tongue.

“Keep your secrets then,” She laughs, her shoulder butting up against his own, “Though you can’t hide from me forever. I’m quite the detective, you know.”

The fish do not bite, but that does not seem to deter her. Neither can Diluc find it in himself to pull himself away.

Lumine yawns, her eyes drooping with exhaustion.

“Tell me when I hook something?”

Diluc closes his eyes as she nestles her head onto his shoulder, the scent of her lifeblood calling to him. She sags into him, her weight heavy as sleep takes her.

The lure bobs in the distance, and Diluc can only pray for a fish to bite. To save him from this prison of his own making.

This sweet, sweet torture.

- Fin -