#Dance among swords

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Henryk Hektor Siemiradzki (Polish, 1843-1902) Dance among swords, Detail, 1881 Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

[gamesline]

Bulletin+: Nintendo Direct 6/18/24

Big and small reveals, mostly quite exciting, came from today's Nintendo Direct! Here's a Bulletin+ rundown of what was shown. Read the full article

[autumnoakes]

i'm lowkey excited for the next 3D zelda game because i want to see where they go AFTER botw. will they keep some elements of the open world? will they include aspects of environmental storytelling? what will they do? i'm excited to see it

[arolesbianism]

I need to make a new pmd story right now or I'll explode

[redsnerdden]

Every Announcement From June's Nintendo Direct

Every Announcement From June's Nintendo Direct #Nintendo #VideoGames #NintendoSwitch #NintendoDirect

There was a lot to take in at this month’s Nintendo Direct. Three monumental announcements were revealed today, and each one made fans lose their minds completely, Capcom finally giving fans that long-awaited Marvel vs Capcom collection, Rare’s Perfect Dark got that Nintendo Switch Online release, and Metroid Prime 4 finally has a release date window. Let’s take a look at the newest…

[s-lverwing]

DEATH KINK

pairing. emperor caracalla x empress!reader.

summary. Devotion between you and Caracalla is measured in blood.

word count. 1.5k (short one :3)

warnings. dark themes. blood. toxic relationships. slaves and concubines? weird relationship dynamics i guess. character death ? ig (not reader or caracalla dw). english isn’t my first language.

a/n. i don’t remember the scene very clearly so you have to bear with me. wrote this in like two hours so it’s not edited no nothing we die like the twins. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛.

It was no surprise that you, the recently crowned Empress, would draw every single gaze whenever you walked into a room; draped in the empire’s most expensive silks, your skin gleamed beneath the weight of Rome’s all gold—rings encircled your fingers, necklaces coiled around your throat and chest. Even when you entered the triclinium, side by side with the Emperors.

As always, you were seated close to Caracalla, always beside Caracalla, but never within his brother’s reach. There, you were often seen as a prize —though inaccessible— and a curse.

The scent of sweat and blood thickened the air as the clash of steel echoed through the hall. You weren’t even paying attention. Caracalla shifted in his throne, restless, predatory, his lips twitching with dark amusement. And maybe Geta did the same.

Then came the gladiators.

“Swords,” Caracalla groaned, his voice slurred. Childlike in its craving. His eyes, hazy with intoxication, shone with a dangerous hunger. “I want swords.”

He let out a mocking laugh, his ringed fingers caressing your leg with a pressure that could only mean he was far from consciousness; his touch heavy and unsteady. Like he was most likely trying not to slip away. The intoxication mixed with his own disease blurred his senses, yet his grip remained intense.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your lips curling into a mischievous smile. His need was so raw, so unrestrained. “A fight to the death! No quarter to be offered, or given” you raised your voice as a sadistic thrill dancing in your chest. You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body, the unpredictability of his madness seeping into your bones.

You loved him to death.

It was almost amusing to see how they all believed—how they fantasized—that you, a noble-born girl, now a woman, could ever hope to civilize a creature so deranged and unhinged as Caracalla. Kicked and left alone at such a young age, rotten to the core and probably to his mind too. Citizens whispered among themselves, imagining that love, care, tenderness, could redeem the blood-stained mind of Caracalla. How sweet was their foolishness. Their faces—so full of hope, of pity, such a beautiful lady trapped in such destiny—always crumbled in disbelief every time you spoke, every syllable that escaped your lips reminding them of your control over a man who could burn an empire with but a whim.

They fantasized about you being his tamer, as though you could tame what was never meant to be tamed, and cure what had long been beyond healing. The truth was bittersweet. For what they all failed to understand, or what they would never understand, is that you weren’t a healer of broken things. How could you explain that your heart warmed at the sight of him relishing in violence? His madness now belonged to you, woven into your very soul. And love? Love could never soften the edges of such brutal spirit—it could only feed the fire.

You adapted. You survived. You thrived in the shadows of his cruelty, and the power it gave you. You learned to enjoy and yearn for the taste of blood, the sound of a life taken with a mere word from your lips. You reveled in the control, the pleasure, the satisfaction. It almost wasn’t a mad thing under your eyes. It was an act of love. Even Macrinus, so quick to label you as bloodthirsty, so eager to brand you as a woman gone mad and turned dangerous, could never understand and always shows himself surprised.

The fight started and you had to roll your eyes at Hano’s words. It felt like an intrusion, a stain. It ruined everything for you.

While everyone was enjoying the fight, one of Caracalla’s discarded concubines—a slave you’d thought long forgotten—had dared to reach for the emperor’s knee, his delicate fingers grazing his upper leg with insolent familiarity. Caracalla did not pull away. Instead, his body softened, inviting the touch with ease, indulgent in a way that twisted something sharp and venomous inside your chest.

Jealousy came to you like a big black wave, something sharp and unyielding; carved from the same iron as the swords that painted Rome’s conquered territories red. It lodged itself beneath your skin, festering, until it became as familiar as brething—a constant ache you could neither purge nor embrace fully. It wasn’t simply desire or the hunger for possession. It was something wretched: the need to be the only one Caracalla turned to when the sickness in his mind became too loud to bear. To be the only one he desires and needs every single time. It often felt like a wound that never healed — and it never would.

He was pure chaos wrapped in imperial red—a creature of untamed anger, both cruel and relentless—but he was yours. Not because he loved you in the way poets sang of, nor in ways little girls dreamed of, but because you understood the shadows that devoured him, ones that fed on you both. Your bond was forged in the smothering heat of violence, in whispered commands that condemned lives, in glances exchanged over bloody arenas where human lives were torn apart for sport. It was a language you both spoke so effortlessly, the language of violence.

While Caracalla never promised fidelity, never whispered of devotion. He understood long ago he didn’t need to. Your understanding went beyond mortal vows, or words. You stills remember the first execution that had twisted your stomach, nausea clawing at your throat as the blade struck flesh, severing a life at your own whispered command. It was a slave; a gift from his twin brother Geta. The only thing she had done wrong was to stare for a second longer in Caracalla’s way. He’d found you later, hands still stained with blood, and kissed you like he was trying to consume your bare soul. And you had let him, because surrendering to him just felt right. Dreamy even.

By the second time it happened, for you it was a lot easier. By the third, you no longer turned away. And then Caracalla simply no longer lusted for carnal pleasure outside your marriage. You learned to savor it—the thrill of power, the satisfaction of everyone’s disapproving glances, the realization that you, too, could be merciless. Whispers said that bloodlust, it seemed, could be contagious.

And Caracalla needed you, as you seemed to be made from the same shattered pieces he was. You were forged in the same merciless burning fire, twin flames consuming everything in their path.

“Careful” You whispered as your hand shot out with precise cruelty, striking the boy’s wrist hard enough to sting, though he didn’t knew the true punishment would come later. Your lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile when you saw the concubine’s startled expression, quickly masked by a defiant laugh. Good, you thought. Let him believe he had won something. Let him feel safe.

Later, when the games were done, when the blood-soaked marbled floors had cooled, you went to Caracalla—not to beg, but to demand. You crawled into his lap, as you have done many times, let him bury his hands in your hair, and whisper what you wanted like it was a sacred invocation. Gods’ spoke through you. He easily obliged, giving it to you, not only because of love, but also because your voice was the only one which could still the storm in his head, the way you could channel his fury into something he deemed purposeful.

“Him.” Your voice cut through the cinnamon scent filled air. You didn’t even bother looking at the concubine—his fate was already sealed. Instead, your eyes remained fixed on the faces around you, enjoying the flickers of recognition and fear that bloomed like flowers. A sardonic smile tugged at your lips, as an unspoken reminder of who actually held their lives…

Caracalla was always watching you, always listening, always poised between affection and destruction. The small crowd of concubines and imperial guards, and maybe the citizens too, might have believed Rome’s fate rested in his hands, but you knew better. His power was tempered and magnified by your will.

Without a word, he reached for you, tracing the curve of your jaw as though in reverence—maybe to ask for forgiveness. His lips brushed your forehead. This was his acknowledgment, his devotion in the only way he knew how. You were bound by something the Gods themselves wouldn’t dare name.

He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto his guard. The command that followed was calm, almost indifferent—“His head.”

And when the concubine’s lifeless body was dragged through the dirt at her feet, Caracalla’s dark eyes gleamed with understanding. As he pulled you close, their breath mingled like a shared secret, and you knew you were his. But not because you had tamed him—as no one could. But because you had matched his cruelty with your own, answered his violence with your own form of devotion.

You would eternally consume each other—because love, in its purest yet darkest form, was conquest.

a/n 2: hi again i just love a reader who would match caracalla’s freak 🫦🫦🫦

[lunarsilver]

What are their sexual fantasies?

18+, minors do not interact

A reading regarding your partner - your current one (asking about their permission would be in good taste), or next one, or the most important one, or your future spouse... Whatever you prefer.

(Psst! I will be grateful for your answer to a simple question.)

REMEMBER

I’m not a doctor, a psychiatrist, a therapist nor a psychologist. Divination will never replace meetings with them.

It’s a general reading, so not everything will resonate.

If you can’t choose between two piles, probably both of them have some messages for you. You can also not identify with any of them, and that’s okay, too.

Readings can help you make a decision, but they shouldn’t be the main reason for making it.

1 ~ 2 ~ 3

PILE 1

Six of Swords - Strength (R) - Three of Wands (R) - Back of the Deck: Knight of Swords (R)

Six of Swords literally fell out as I was shuffling, which suggests to me this one is pretty important. Six of Swords is about change, leaving something behind and going on new endeavors. It looks like they’re really eager to try something new, maybe their earlier experience with intimacy wasn’t the best for them. Then we have Strength in reverse which seems to confirm that they felt or feel kind of trapped, and they fantasize about lashing out their raw emotions. The deck I use does not have a sexual theme, but this specific card has one of the most sensual imagery among all the cards in this deck: a woman, full of confidence, poses in just heels and lower underwear, a bra tossed aside. She’s very flexible and has a snake tattoo on her leg. I think your person wishes to be so flexible and confident in their body. The imagery brings a strip club or a sexy dance for a partner to my mind, and while there is a chance your person would like to see someone doing this kind of act (I guess going to a club like this would fit the theme of trying something new), for most this card is simply about having the courage to embrace one’s body and desires. Reversed Three of Wands says this person experiences some delays, some problems on their way to express themselves, and this leads to frustration. Knight of Swords in reverse confirms that. Your person is pretty frustrated sexually, and for some reason is unable to take action. As a side note, both Six of Swords and Knight of Swords in this deck show swords, so maybe some people here would like to try knife play? What’s interesting is that, in the way they lie now, all these swords point in the same direction, but what is exactly this direction? That’s unclear. Let’s pick up some more cards.

I asked for the reason why your person cannot fulfill themselves sexually and why they feel frustrated, and the cards are Seven of Swords (R), King of Cups, The Tower (R) and at the back there is Six of Cups. To put it short, it looks like they have this mental blockage. They may feel like they aren’t worthy of it, or it simply doesn’t fit them. For some, they grew up taught to think about sexuality as something shameful. I think the King of Cups represents them, and if so, they look really lovely and in tune with their emotions. They are at the start of their personal transformation and rediscovering what they like. No specific fantasies came here in this reading, other than the desire to have the courage to try to do what they are or may be into. It could be good to create a safe space for them, tell them that if they want to try something, you may always discuss it together. Whether you’ll actually do it is another matter, but letting them know having sexual desires isn’t shameful is pretty important here.

PILE 2

The Tower (R) - The Hierophant (R) - Two of Wands (R) - Three of Cups - Back of the Deck: Knight of Wands

Only after I realized I pulled four cards instead of three, I guess they have a lot to say lol. We’re starting with The Tower in reverse, so your person wants some inner change. The Hierophant in reverse is about questioning the rules, about freedom. Your person fantasizes about exploring, most likely about doing some kinky stuff. They’re excited about it, they want to do it, but they’re not ready and lack a proper plan or preparation (Two of Wands in reverse). However, it is clear they fantasize about celebrating their and their partner(s) bodies, treating sex as fun, as shown in Three of Cups. For some, Three of Cups suggests them fantasizing about threesomes. A side note, but a lot of cards show some pets, some on a leash, and I cannot help but wonder whether your person fantasizes about some kind of pet play. I think the reversed Knight of Wands at the back represents your person: impulsive, ready to action, fiery and with high libido, but probably they should do some research first. I felt like pulling some charms, asking what this person has to tell you, and the messages are “it will be better”, “I am with you”, “you are a master” (or maybe they want to say you are their master; whether “the master of their heart” or a master as in a BDSM dynamic - I feel like for quite a lot of you, pile 2, your person is a proud bottom, maybe a power bottom or a little a brat lol), “do what you love”, “you can count on me” and “fresh perspective”.

PILE 3

Ten of Cups - The Empress - Knight of Cups - Back of the Deck: The Magician

Okay, all upright, three out of four cards show people, two Major Arcana and two cards of Cups, plus three out of four cards are mainly pink and red. This person knows what they want and they like to be as clear as possible, they’re emotional and aren’t ashamed of it, that’s what I get right off the bat. Ten of Cups shows they’re pretty romantic, they fantasize about an ideal, fulfilling, committed relationship. The Empress and Knight of Cups represent you and this person - and I feel like for most of you, you are represented by the Empress and they are Knight of Cups, given how romantic and emotional Knight of Cups is, and how romantic is your person. The Empress and Knight of Cups look at each other from their respective cards. They look tenderly, smiling a little, and their eyes are on the same level. This person clearly fantasizes about an equal relationship, where at the same time they can adore you and spoil you. The Magician at the back suggests they manifest this relationship. Like, your person is so sweet, I asked about sexual fantasies and all that came out is that they want love. As an afterthought, the Empress is the only card having different colors than the rest, which only further proves the rest of cards is their energy and the Empress is you. I asked for some messages from your person to you and pulled out these charms: “I’ve been looking for you everywhere :*”, “I love your smile”, “something nice will happen to you”, “it makes me want to live”.

[harunayuuka2060]

*The audience, especially Vil's fans, are expressing concern and worry about how the NRC group will fare, since they are the last to perform.*

Maleficia: What is causing all this commotion among the people?

Baul: I believe it's because Their Highness's group is performing last, putting them at a significant disadvantage.

Maleficia: My grandchild's group? At a disadvantage, you say?

Lilia: There's no need to panic.

Malleus: Indeed. Being the final act can provide an opportunity to create a lasting impression.

Baul: You say that, but...

*Some audience members wish to leave early due to exhaustion from the earlier performances.*

Random person A: Can't we just vote already?

Random person B: But Vil hasn't performed yet.

Malleus, Maleficia, Baul, and Lilia: ...

The emcee: I appreciate your patience. Now, without further ado, it's time for the moment you've all been waiting for... the NRC group!

The audience: *cheers*

*MC, Vil, Rook, Epel, Ace, Deuce, Kalim, and Jamil entered the stage in their uniforms, taking their respective positions (with Vil, of course, at the center).*

*The stage lights dim, and the moment the music begins, the lights brighten again, revealing their historical ikemen outfits.*

The audience: !!!

*Fifteen minutes before the performance, MC spoke to them about their chances of winning the competition.*

MC: I admit I didn’t realize we would be the last to perform. Still, do I think our chances of winning are low? *smiles* Not at all.

MC: We will enchant the audience with our performance, almost akin to the feeling of falling in love.

Lyrics:

Kalim: Everything I know is the melodies and symphonies

Jamil: Everything I know is a life without light

Kalim: (I will always be alone)

Rook: There's a longing inside my soul

Vil: And in the deepest void where time is but a scenery

Vil: I'll be waiting for you!

All: Darling look into my eyes and tell me what's inside

Vil: Truth be told my dear, you don't know what it's like to leave it all behind

All: Take a step into the night,

All: hear the voices singing la la la la la""

Deuce: Dancing gracefully to the beat of your heart

Epel: Until the morning comes TO STEAL YOU AWAY!!!

Ace and Deuce: All I ever knew was that you and me were meant to be

MC and Vil: All I ever knew was the taste of your lips against mine

Rook: (You are mine forevermore)

MC: We were bound for eternity

Vil: Now I am lost inside this everlasting reverie

Vil: And I'm losing my mind

All: Darling look into my eyes and tell me what's inside

MC: Truth be told my dear, you don't know what it's like to leave it all behind

All: Take a step into the night,

All: hear the voices singing la la la la la

MC: Come away with me through the echoes of time

All: Until the morning comes to steal you away!

Vil: Darling look into my eyes and tell me what's inside

Vil: Truth be told my dear, you don't know what it's like...

All: Take a step into the night,

All: hear the voices singing la la la la la

All: Come away with me through the echoes of time

All: Until the morning comes to steal you away

All: So you looked into my eyes and brought me back to life

Vil: I still think of you in the dark of the night

Vil: A silent lullaby

Vil: I'll be waiting here 'til the end of all days

Vil: *a tear rolls down his cheek*

Vil: My nocturnal serenade...

The audience: ...

The audience: *all stood up and cheered*

Malleus, Maleficia, Lilia, and Baul: ...

Baul: *starts ugly crying*

Maleficia: It's beautiful...

Malleus: *proud dad smile*

Lilia: Their performance has just finished but the song is etched in my mind.

Ace: AHH! FINALLY!

Epel: *was actually scared earlier* I thought I would make a mistake!

Rook: *chuckles* You did well, Epel!

Vil: *feels restless*

Rook: Roi du Poison?

Vil: ...

Vil: Rook, do you think we've done enough to defeat Royal Sword Academy?

Rook: ...

Rook: *smiles*

Rook: Roi du Poison, while I’m uncertain about our chances of winning, it's clear that you are the fairest of them all, and everyone recognizes that.

Vil: ...

Vil: *smiles*

Kalim: Guys? Do you know where MC is?

Jamil: They went to greet their grandmother.

Maleficia: Congratulations, my dear. *pampers MC with light kisses on the face*

MC: *chuckles* Nana, the results haven't been announced yet.

Malleus: *clears throat* *waiting for his turn to congratulate his child*

Maleficia: You can wait.

Malleus: ...

Lilia: *laughs*

MC: *notices that Baul isn't with them*

MC: Where is Sir Baul?

Lilia: Maybe he got hungry and went to buy some food.

Baul: *looking sternly at Ruggie*

Ruggie: ...

Baul: You.

Ruggie: I don't know you, sir—

Baul: YOU WERE STARING ADMIRINGLY AT THEIR HIGHNESS!

Ruggie: NO! AS IF!

[nihilityuniverse]

𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do NOT Repost.

This story is also available on Wattpad: Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

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Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 0 - Prologue

[Lament of the Fallen]

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"I have lost everything."

The relentless battle against the Honkai beasts rages on, your katana slicing through their monstrous forms with a desperate fury. Explosions erupt around you, the searing heat mixing with the blood and sweat that drips down your temples. The ground is littered with the fallen, comrades who once fought beside you now lifeless amidst the swarming beasts summoned by the Herrschers.

"My family..."

The horrifying sight of humans, transformed into mindless Honkai zombies, fills you with dread. Your grip on the handle of your Divine Key falters as you witness your little sister and brother among them, feasting on the remains of fallen soldiers. Tears blur your vision as you dash towards them, the agony of what you must do tearing at your soul. With a heart-wrenching cry, you end their suffering, beheading the only family you had left. You had promised to protect them, to create a peaceful world for them.

"My dear comrades..."

A wall of flames engulfs the encroaching monsters, giving you a momentary respite. Kalpas, your grey-haired, masked comrade, stands before you, his power saving you once more. Exhaustion is etched on his face, but he urges you to keep moving. Before you can respond, a piercing laser beam shoots through his chest, and he crumples to the ground. One by one, your friends fall, their bodies lifeless on the battlefield. The bonds forged in blood and battle, severed in an instant.

"My world..."

The battlefield is a graveyard of Honkai beasts and fallen soldiers, their bodies buried beneath layers of ash. The sky above is a mournful grey, reflecting the lifeless desolation around you. You stand alone, the sole survivor amidst the ruins. Have you won the war, or merely survived its horrors? The answer eludes you.

"And..."

In your hand, you clutch your new Divine Key, forged from the shattered remains of 70,033 blades and the essence of twelve Herrschers. You gaze up at the bleak, grey sky, the weight of your existence pressing down on you.

"I realize now..." You unsheathe your Divine Key, Nihility, unleashing your Active Honkai Reaction. Golden cracks spread from your right hand, blossoming into ethereal flowers. Your hair turns snow-white, your skin pale as ivory. Golden horns sprout from your head, and your eye color turns into gold.

"I've lost myself."

"...That the ultimate fate of this world is nothingness, and therefore, worthless... or even the whole universe?"

With a final, devastating swing of your Divine Key, you begin to unravel the very fabric of this world, reducing it to void, to nothingness. The ground beneath you crumbles, the sky shatters, and everything you fought for dissolves into oblivion. As the world collapses around you, you raise your katana high.

"Yet... I still want to stay..."

With a heavy heart, you turn the blade upon yourself, splitting your soul in half, and embracing the void.

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Snowflakes drift gently from the dull, grey sky, their delicate forms hitting softly against your window. You stare blankly at the wintry landscape, your mind lost in the endless dance of the snow. Your right hand, adorned with claw-like metallic finger guards, rests against the cold glass. As you blink, the serene snowflakes transform into ashen rain, and the snowy ground becomes a graveyard, littered with swords and corpses.

Startled, you stumble back, your heart pounding in your chest. The haunting vision fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving you standing in the quiet room. A single tear escapes your eye, tracing a cold line down your cheek. You wipe it away, confusion mingling with the sorrow etched on your face.

"... A forgotten memory?" you whisper, your breath fogging the glass.

Before you can ponder the vision further, a knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. You turn away from the window, your expression hardening. "Come in," you command, your voice firm yet distant.

The door creaks open, and a Fatui Skirmisher steps in, bowing deeply. He holds a letter in his trembling hand, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "Lord Innamorati," he begins, his voice wavering with fear. "A letter from Her Royal Highness."

'Her Highness?' The title feels foreign, a distant echo in your mind. You frown, trying to grasp the fleeting memory.

"Can you remind me of her name?" you ask, your tone soft yet icy, sending a shiver through the skirmisher despite his thick winter coat.

"H-Her Royal Highness Tsaritsa, the Cryo Archon," he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod slowly, the name stirring something within you. A fleeting sense of purpose, lost in the haze of your fragmented memories. "Thank you," you say, your voice carrying a trace of melancholy. "My memory... it often fails me."

The skirmisher quickly hands you the letter and exits the room, his relief palpable. You turn to your desk, the weight of the message heavy in your hand. If the Cryo Archon herself has written to you, it must be of grave importance. Did something terrible happen? Or have you forgotten another mission?

You break the seal and unfold the letter, your eyes scanning the contents. With a sigh, you crumple it and toss it into the trash. Your hand instinctively moves to the scabbard where your Divine Key, Nihility, rests.

"A funeral..., huh?" The words hang in the air, heavy with sorrow and resignation.

You move to the window once more, the snowy landscape a stark contrast to the inner turmoil you feel. The snow outside is pure and untouched, but in your mind, the vision of the dead and the desolate ground lingers. You know that each snowflake, each fleeting memory, is a piece of the past that you can never fully grasp.

In the quiet of your room, you can't shake the feeling that you're losing more than just memories. You're losing yourself, piece by piece, like the snow melting away under the weight of the ashes.

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Reblog if you like this story

[flowerandblood]

The Downfall (Oneshot)

[ Hamlet • dark Aemond x Ophelia • female ]

[ warnings: dubcon, sex content, fingering, virgnity loss, violence, suicide, angst, smut, obsession, remorse ]

[ description: When she attracts the attention of Prince Aemond during the wedding feast of his brother and his sister, she knows that something terrible is going to happen. His figure lunges towards her like black storm clouds and she feels that, along with his desire, he will bring on her downfall. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

"Tis I who should receive this honour. I, second son, rider of the greatest dragon in the world, experienced in wielding the sword, educated in history and philosophy, 'tis I who should…" He didn't finish, pressing his lips into a thin line. He stopped in the middle of the chamber, not looking at her but at the floor, his eye wide open in rage, his nostrils twitching in accelerated breath.

She swallowed hard, clenching her fingers on the material of her gown, sitting in one of the chairs at the table, fearful of him as usual when he behaved in this way, making her unsure how to act.

To endorse his words would have meant betrayal, so she had to remain silent, though her heart was pounding like mad in her chest, a drop of cold sweat running down the back of her neck.

Their betrothal had come as a surprise to her; the prince had caught sight of her at a grand wedding feast held in honour of his brother and his sister, dancing among dozens of other couples.

She dared not look at him, knowing of the arrangements between the Red Keep and Storm's End, not wanting to ridicule herself by begging like some of the women for his attention.

Apparently that was what made his bright, cold, dangerous eye notice her figure and his sight did not leave her until the end of the evening. At first she thought she was just imagining it, then, however, glancing towards the table standing in front of the Iron Throne she met his gaze, his lips curving into a grin that was disturbing to say the least.

She was terrified.

The next day, her father was asked to extend their stay in the Red Keep and enjoy the King's hospitality, though it was not explained to them for what reason.

She was frightened because she understood what it meant – she never went anywhere alone, always taking a servant with her, having heard numerous stories of what Prince Aegon did to women who caught his eye.

She didn't want to see for herself if his younger brother was the same.

It seemed to her that black clouds had gathered over her, that it was a matter of time when something would happen, and indeed, when she came across him passing through the courtyard during one of his sparring sessions, though she turned her head away, his deep, mocking voice stopped her.

"My Lady."

She swallowed hard, knowing that if she didn't answer anything, if she didn't look at him, she would commit a great discourtesy and offend him.

She couldn't afford it.

Therefore, she turned towards him, looking at the ground, seeing only his legs and waist clad in black leather garment, bowing before him.

"Your Highness."

She felt for a moment that her heart stood in her throat – the only thing she could hear around her was the clinking of steel and the voices of servants discussing something with each other behind her back. She saw the legs she was looking at move towards her and she closed her eyes.

"What a scared little bird you are. Hm?" He hummed, his voice soft and teasing at the same time, amused, as if he were speaking to a small child.

She swallowed hard and looked up at him – he towered over her with a smirk that was mysterious and unsettling, his healthy eye bright and wide open, his gaze piercing to the core, his lips swollen and full.

She felt herself grow hot with shame.

What was she supposed to answer to such a question?

The prince cocked his head, apparently ignoring her silence, taking advantage of the fact that they were standing so close to each other, watching her as if she were some curious being he had never seen before.

"I watched you dance last night. Did you feel my gaze lingering on your figure?" He asked, and she swallowed heavily, lowering her gaze, involuntarily betraying herself. The Prince grinned under his breath, seeing her reaction.

"You did." He said and looked to the side, as if he wanted to make sure no one would hear what he was about to say, leaning over her ear. "I will marry you."

She drew in the air loudly, shocked and surprised, freezing for a moment, tense, looking at him with big eyes – she shook her head, not understanding how he could say such a thing. He, however, only grinned broadly in a way that made her shudder and stepped away from her, turning to Ser Criston Cole, letting him know that they could continue.

Ser Criston gave her one terrified look that told her everything.

She was doomed.

She didn't tell her father about the prince's words because she was convinced that he was mocking her, wishing for certain that she would succumb to him and spend the night with him, only to disappear from his life forever.

She knew she couldn't let that happen if she wanted to marry any self-respecting lord and decided she would just stay inside her quarters.

And then their betrothal was announced.

There was a feeling of emptiness in her mind as she looked at him, at the wide, mischievous grin stretched across his face as he sat at the table, while his mother, the Queen, spoke to her of the King's decision, apparently persuaded by his son, wondering how she was supposed to tame such a man, tame such a fiery, unpredictable nature.

She was scared.

To her despair, her father had been invited to take on the role of one of the treasurers under the direct authority of the Small Council, which he welcomed with joy. It meant that their family was to stay in the Red Keep, and her betrothed could slowly clamp his claws around her neck.

He followed her like a wraith, sinking her further and further into his darkness, making her slowly melt into one with him, not knowing where his soul ended and hers began.

On the day he was to see his nephews again years later, she locked herself in her chamber, unwilling to watch this theatre of malice and humiliation – she knew what her betrothed thought of them, how often he mused about slitting their throats or gouging out their eyes to later gift them to his mother.

She knew he was furious, wanting to show her off like a pretty object he had in his possession, but she offered him a passive resistance that drove him to the brink of madness.

She drew in a loud breath as he surprised her by silently sneaking up to her chamber at night – she heard the loud creak of the wood beneath his body as he lay down behind her.

His one hand took place on her womb, as if he was already imagining in the back of his mind as it swelled from his seed, the other went under her jaw, stroking her skin warningly, his lips against her ear.

"You're hiding from me. You're avoiding me. You move through the keep like a shadow." He whispered, however there was no threat or frustration in his words, which she felt instead in his hand that slowly clenched around her long neck. She swallowed quietly, looking ahead at the night, starry sky outside the window.

She did not answer him.

She rarely used words in his presence.

Unfortunately, this only deepened the state she aroused in him.

A curiosity bordering on obsession.

She tilted her head back and sighed involuntarily, feeling the tickling heat spilling over her lower abdomen as his moist, full lips ran over her cheek, the tip of his tongue leaving a wet, cool trail on her hot skin.

"– I needed you –" He hissed in a trembling voice, pressing his body against hers from behind – his hard, swollen manhood hidden under the material of his breeches pushed against her buttocks, pulsing steadily. Her nipples hardened at his words, a shiver of fear and excitement ran down her spine.

His hand from her womb slid lower, between her thighs, his fingers closed on her womanhood – she knew how he learned these tricks, knew that he had played with whores before he met her, but she couldn't convince herself that she particularly cared.

The delicacy and uncertainty of the movements of his fingers did not match how she perceived him: apparently it seemed to him that one too aggressive gesture on his part and she would fall apart in his hands.

Thus, he merely teased her through the material of her nightgown, waiting as usual for her breath to grow heavy and ragged, for her buttocks to begin to roll to the flicks of his wrist and rub against his throbbing erection.

They both moaned quietly as his hand impatiently lifted the material of her long robe, seeking the warmth between her thighs and finally found it, her pulsing, swollen slit leaking from her sticky wetness.

The fingers of his hand from her neck rose higher, to her cheeks, closing on it in a rough gesture, forcing her to turn her face in his direction – she didn't resist him as his slick tongue burst deep between her lips, as his mouth pressed against hers with a loud, lewd click in a greedy, ravenous kiss that took her breath away.

She let him do whatever he wanted with her lips – he was sucking, licking and biting them, as if he were some kind of animal that had grabbed its prey and wasn't going to let her go until he devoured her.

She didn't care, because her mind seemed to be muffled, as if she was underwater, focused only on the touch of his fingers as they dug into her puffy, delicate folds, teasing again and again her warm, pulsing opening.

Her body tensed like a string, knowing what he was about to do, and then at last the tips of his fingertips broke into her hot, throbbing interior with a quiet click of her moisture.

She moaned a tad too loudly into his mouth, making him sigh deeply into her throat, freezing for a moment, his hard erection slapping impatiently against her buttocks.

"– fuck –" He gasped, startling her completely – he let her go and turned her onto her back, laying on top of her, looking at her with his mouth parted wide, breathing heavily.

She had thought that, as was his custom, he would just simply take out his manhood and make her squeeze it with her hand, touching her at the same time to give her fulfillment.

He, however, after he untied the material of his breeches, grabbed her nightgown with his hands and lifted it above her thighs, making her voice froze in her throat, her hands clasped helplessly on his shoulders.

"– n-no – no, please –" She muttered, knowing that if he took her maidenhood, took what he desired, he would never marry her, would send her and her father back to where they came from humiliated and ridiculed.

"– I need this – I need to feel you –" He breathed out, as if he was in some kind of frenzy, heedless of her helpless attempts to stop him, forcing her to spread her thighs open. She cried out, tilting her head back, closing her eyes as she felt the head of his cock begin to push against her swollen slit.

"– no – please, Aemond, please –" She whimpered, raising her trembling hands to his cheeks, stroking his jaw, trying to give him what he wanted, what he was apparently dreaming of in his black, grim mind.

"– you don't understand –" He growled, in a sharp, impatient motion trying to slide deeper into her, opening her little cunt on his throbbing, long erection. "– I fucking needed you today –"

She whined as he forced his way deeper into her body, filling her so much that she felt like he was going to tear her apart from the inside – she clenched her fingers against the material of his leather tunic, shocked at how foreign, frightening, painful and exciting this sensation was.

"– I know – I know, just a little bit more – it's almost in – shhhh –" He hushed her, stroking her head with his broad hand as he thrusted his thick root all the way in into her, one last cry of effort left her lips.

She seemed to feel him with her whole being, breathing loudly through her mouth, feeling like she was suffocating – her heart pounded like mad, her whole body quivering in his arms, his lips placing warm, moist, reassuring kisses on her cheek.

"– that's it – there we go – I'm going to start moving now –" He hummed, in a slow, lazy manner beginning to rock his hips, sliding out of her a little and sliding back in with a quiet click, trying to force her body to adapt and receive him with greater ease.

He hugged her face to the hollow of his neck, without accelerating or making sudden movements, letting her fingers tighten vulnerably on his back.

"– good girl – calm down and let me fill you with my seed –" He whispered, as if he wanted to soothe her, to reassure her that he took no pleasure in her discomfort and suffering, even though he himself was the cause of it.

She nodded, not having the strength to stand up to him, breathing loudly to relax, to endure what he wanted to do to her. A low, loud groan of pleasure erupted from his lips when he felt it, and his thrusts became a little more sure, deep, loud.

"– g-gods –" She breathed out, feeling with horror that he was teasing a spot inside her from which shivers ran through her, waves of cold terror and hot pleasure surging through her body, causing a complete void in her mind – all she could focus on was the wooden canopy of the bed above her head.

"– yes – ah – so fucking wet for me – all warm and soft –" He breathed out into her ear, licking her hot cheek with his tongue, pounding into her with sharp, deep thrusts of his hips, making her feel the tickle in her lower abdomen, in her puffy lips and in her hard nipples, the bed beneath them began to creak loudly.

She felt the familiar hot tension building within her, the tension that he aroused in her when he touched her with his fingers, that, to her despair, she began to take pleasure from this animalistic, simple act of slapping their naked, sweaty bodies against each other.

She tilted her head back and sighed as she let her hips tentatively begin to roll to his thrusts, her hands slid from his back to his bare buttocks, stroking them. He shuddered all over and groaned, blindly seeking her mouth with his own, joining her in a sticky, messy, loud kisses, licking and sucking her lips.

"– yes – yes, just like that, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckkk –" He gasped, pressing his forehead to hers, slamming into her so quickly and aggressively that he was barely sliding out of her, his thighs slapping against her buttocks again and again, opening her wide on his throbbing, fat cock.

They both were moaning shamelessly, looking at each other wide-eyed with their mouths open, listening to the shameless, sticky sounds her slick cunt made with each of his thrusts.

"– just a little more – ah – f-fuck, yes –" He groaned in elation, his final, deep, messy slaps prolonging the inevitable – she heard and understood little as a wave of pleasure shook her and something hot spilled deep inside her, their mingled wetness ran down her buttocks.

"– such a good girl –" He gasped, pulsing inside her for a moment longer, filling her with the remains of his spend.

"– Aemond –" She mumbled, feeling her little cunt clamp down on his half-hard manhood, sucking it inside her again and again.

He fell on top of her without strength, panting heavily, and they both remained silent for long time. She finally heard him swallow hard, not even daring to look at her, his face sunk into the crook of her neck.

"– will you forigve me, little bird? –" He muttered in a weak, deep, trembling voice.

At his question a single tear of sadness, regret and emptiness ran from the corner of her eye down to the side of her face, falling onto his forehead.

He felt it and lifted himself on his arm, wanting to look at her, but what he saw apparently made something inside him break.

He clamped his eyelid shut, swallowed hard and pressed his body against hers, burying his face in the pillow.

She didn't know why her hand lifted and laid on his head, stroking his hair with gentle, calm movements, why she felt a squeeze in her heart, why she wanted to comfort him.

Why she let him stay with her that night, cuddled into to her as if he were a small child.

And then the King died.

Her betrothed walked into her chamber the next day, pale, not looking into her eyes, twitching all over, as if in shock.

"My father is dead…" he began, and her mouth opened wide, looking at him in horror, "… and my grandfather demands that I marry one of Lord Baratheon's daughters."

She stared at him dully, feeling her heart stop in her chest, her stomach twisting in pain as if she was about to vomit.

"I admitted to my grandfather what I did to you. I refused to let him send you away. You will become a Septa. You will be safe and retain your dignity I wrongfully took from you." He said and flinched hard as she grinned at his words, looking at her in disbelief.

"Do you think I'm surprised? I knew you wouldn't keep your word the day I saw you."

It seemed to her that something in her words broke him, for his lower lip began to tremble without the participation of his free will, his eye turned red, his nostrils twitched in heavy, accelerated breathing.

He was unable to get anything out of himself.

On the evening of the day before she was to leave the Red Keep, she demanded that a bath be prepared for her.

She knew he would come to her, she knew his conscience would not let her go without a farewell, she knew he would want to take her one more time before he abandoned her once and for all.

When she was left alone she slipped under the water, sinking her head into it as well, and closed her eyes, feeling strangely calm as the air stopped flowing into her lungs, a shudder shook her body indicating that some part of her still wanted to live.

It was said afterwards that the prince had found her and pulled her out of the water, that he had sobbed and wailed over her bare body, that he had locked her in his embrace, not allowing anyone to come near her, kneeling with her cuddled into his chest on the cold stone floor.

It was said that after that evening he stopped to speak and leave his chamber, staring dully into the fire for hours, playing between his fingers with a lock of her hair, the only memento he had left of her.

It was said that the prince's heart had died with her.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Henryk Hektor Siemiradzki (Polish, 1843-1902) Dance among swords, 1881 Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

[evandsolo]

𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Bang Chan

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Bang Chan x f!reader 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : royalcore!Bang Chan. Flirt. Smut (more suggestive than fully described but still.) MDNI 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.426 𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭 : Amid whispers of silk and shadows, a lady-in-waiting and the kingdom's fiercest general find themselves entangled in a dance of flirtation and unspoken promises. WARNING UNDER THE CUT ! UNDERAGED PEOPLE PLEASE DO NOT READ! 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : This was actually written for one of my friend whose a Stay ! But i thought it should not stay in my computer, so enjoy ! ✿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, unprotected sex, fingering, aftercare. Please let me know if i've forgotten any.

The room was packed. The orchestra had played non-stop for hours. The rustling of silk and taffeta had filled the room all evening. It was a magnificent reception. One that no one will forget. One of those evenings that celebrate love and union. The ballroom was decorated with flowers, from floor to ceiling, the buffets overflowing with food. I had never seen such beautiful decorations before. Everything was simply sublime. Generals, soldiers, highnesses from all the surrounding kingdoms, everyone breathed joy and jubilation.

I could never have dreamed of a more beautiful event for the princess I had accompanied my entire life. Alina deserved the union of love she had experienced today, so much did her heart overflow with love and kindness. Everyone knew it, she would be a wonderful sovereign.

The crowd had ended up scattering, dissipating, as the night wore on. The bride and groom had received many congratulations until the last minute. They too had ended up slipping away, to enjoy this new union together. Only a few people remained in the room, who were still accompanying the orchestra. Some were still waltzing and would surely do so until dawn.

“You’re not dancing?” A voice called out from behind me, over the flying notes of the violins. “You’ve been here all night, making merry for everyone, but you haven’t stepped on the dance floor once.”

I turned around to look at the person who had surprised me, tearing a heartbeat from my chest. I come face to face with broad shoulders, covered in a velvet soldier's jacket. My breath chokes in my throat. I would recognize these shoulders among many others. General Bahng, head of the kingdom's armies. 

“How do you know I did not dance, sir ?” I answered, catching his huge brown eyes. 

It wasn't the first time we met. He was always there, around, since Alina's engagement. Watching over her, over the kingdom. I was always lucky enough to be able to admire him. He wasn't very tall, but he knew perfectly how to handle swords, which didn't take away from the natural charisma he gave off. In the outfit he wore tonight, in the colors of the kingdom, he shone all the more. A few strands of rebellious hair fell over his forehead and his smile could have melted any of the ladies present tonight.

“I’ve been watching you. You’re glowing, how could I look away?” He said with an amused smile. The sparkle in his eyes had never seemed so bright to me as it did at that very moment.

“So you didn’t have an eye on the bride and groom? You’re failing in your duty, General.” My tone echoed his. I clasp my hands behind my back, looking completely innocent. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“Come dance with me. That way I can keep an eye on the apple of the kingdom.” He then extends his gloved hand towards me and I observe him for a few seconds before slipping my hand into his. “I hope you are a good dancer, General. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of this huge crowd.” I joked before following him a few steps further, onto the dance floor.

The last couple still present leaves the dance floor and we find ourselves alone, with just the orchestra. The violins begin to resonate, then all the sweetest notes of the wind instruments follow and finally, the piano rises in turn. 

I feel his hand come to close on my waist while the other one tangles around my fingers. We were so close that I could feel his breath, crashing on my face. I come to place my hand on his shoulder and in rhythm, we begin to waltz. His eyes catch mine and I think that at that precise moment, I forget reality. I dive into his gaze and there is nothing more than him and me. Everything disappears in the room, as if a bubble had formed around us. 

The music takes me somewhere else. I forget everything, I think of nothing more, except the warmth he diffuses in the hollow of my waist. The ease with which we understood each other in gestures. Everything seemed terribly natural. As if we had always danced together. Then, his hand leaves mine, to come and grab my waist, letting me gently go backwards, before coming back to hold me against him. His smile does not dissipate and in his gaze, I see only joy and a certain form of tenderness, which I had never seen in him. My smile became wider as my cheeks turned a little bit rosier. 

“Why're you blushing ?” He said. “Are you that surprised to see that I can dance ?” 

“Actually, I am ! I never thought you were so talented. I have to admit that the surprise is rather pleasant.” I admitted, with a slight smile. “Did you practiced for this evening?”

“Not for tonight in particular. But any self-respecting man must know how to turn his date’s head. And I was hoping one day to have the chance to make you twirl.” 

Those words took my breath away. For a few seconds, I found myself staring at him without really understanding. Our steps stopped abruptly and I almost fell, tripping over his feet. Have I heard correctly? Or even understood what he meant?

“Be careful my Lady.” He said, catching you. “ Never thought that admitting I've been thinking about you day and night, would have that effect on you.” I see the mischievous glow in her eyes and the small smile that adorned her lips. All signs that did not deceive. I had understood well the first time.

“ You can't say that, General.” I mumbled, blinking a few times trying to stop the rush in my chest. 

I could not deny the fact that the General was probably the most handsome man I had ever seen, nor even the attraction that might exist between him and me. It was not the first ball we shared, there had always been this particular feeling in the hollow of my belly when he was close. Like a cloud of butterflies, which suddenly fly away. My gaze was undeniably drawn to him. 8So hard that it was difficult to look away. There had always been this tension between him and me. That kind of invisible link, against which I could not go. 

“Why? I have said nothing...” he breathes with a smile of amusement, making me whirl again, before stopping on my wrist. His thumb traces the edge of the ribbon that was tied on it. A garnet red satin ribbon. A gift he made me at the last ball we attended. We had been talking until late at night, by the fountain in the winter garden of a neighboring kingdom’s castle. Around a huge bouquet, I found a ribbon, which he had untied, before coming to tie it around my wrist. He kept some in his jacket pocket. Since then, this piece of cloth has never left my skin. It was dear to me.

“You kept it...” he said in a whisper, the eyes shining with a new light. “It beautifully brings out your porcelain skin. Red suits you so well.”

“Why should I not keep it? You don’t throw away a present. I like it. It reminds me of that wonderful evening we shared.” Say I in a breath, while his thumb continues to electrify my skin, as he holds me so close, that I feel his breath on my cheek. In a graceful movement he makes me spin again on several turns, before abandoning me in the middle of the track, alone. His laughter echoes through the room as I look for him. I find him further away waving something red between his fingers. It is fine and above all, it reflects the light. I quickly understand what it is, when I look down on my wrist, now naked. 

“If you want it.... Come and get it, My Lady.” He said before running away into the halls of the castle in a playful laugh. 

“General ! Come back !” I shouted, before I set out to chase him. 

I do not know how many corridors or intersections I take, just by following the echo of his laughter. It sounded like a little bell, which pointed the way. I felt my breath burning in my chest as I walked across the open patio to look for him. Suddenly, his laughter fades and I stop, my chest rising at a frantic pace, as I try to catch my breath. 

“General, where are you hiding?” I throw, breathlessly. I hear noise on the stone behind me, but when I turn around there is no one. Frustration fills my entire being as I call again. "General? Give it back to me!” 

“Don’t you like to play, my Lady ?” I heard, as a distant voice that reached me like an echo. I turned again to move forward, but I had the impression of chasing a ghost, under the lights of the torches that adorned the walls and the moon, which entered through the openings. I knew how much he loved to play. It was his thing. Charm and play. But tonight it was getting cold and especially it was late. Yet I wanted to get back what was mine. 

As I turned into another corridor, wishing he was there on the other side waiting for me, a hand grabbed mine and I suddenly hit the cold wall. I found myself surrounded by his perfume, the scent of mint, mixed with apple, geranium and vanilla, intoxicating me. His breath is stranded in the hollow of my neck, all against my skin and it’s a huge shiver that runs through me. 

“Do you plan on giving me my ribbon back now?” I throw while trying to keep up. He runs my skin with light kisses for a simple answer before facing me. “Don’t be so hasty... Why not make the evening last a little longer?” He said, drawing a line of kisses along my jaw.

“We’re in the middle of a corridor.... That’s not right. Someone might see us.” I whisper, eyes half closed, while one of my hands comes to slide around his neck, to go caress his hairline. 

“Who cares ? Don’t you think we should finish what we started… that other night?” He stands up and looks into my eyes. I can read a lot of emotions in it. The glow that shines is no longer just playful. The flame that now inhabits his eyes, makes me shiver. 

“Here? Now?” I ask, in a small voice. I had no apprehension, I was perfectly confident. “General. Your impatience will lose you...” I breathe, letting my hands slide on his shoulders. 

“Here, now. I can no longer contain the envy that devours me. Is it worthwhile to wait? I want you.”

I want you. 

These words resonate in me like an echo. They trigger like a cataclysm. Suddenly, I feel dizzy again, as if some barriers had fallen. I watch him lean down, getting closer and closer to kiss my cheek, then the corner of my lips. I lose breath.

“I want every inch of you.” He whispered against my skin, before locking his words in a kiss. It is hot, desperate. I savor the depth of it. I give it back with much more aplomb. Nothing holds me back. It was as if, all the desire I tried to restrain, had escaped to take possession of every cell in my body. One of his hands leaves my waist to go up along my bust and run down on my chest. The contrast between the warmth of his skin against the fabric and the freshness of the marble against my back, gives me the feeling of consuming myself on the spot. 

I could feel this knot take possession of my belly, as our skins rub against each other, intertwine. I end by breaking the kiss, to let my lips run aground on his jaw. I feel his hands, on every inch of my skin, like a thirsty man looking for an oasis in the desert. Quickly I feel it in my back, come to grind the fabric of my corset. The latter is undone more quickly than it should be, piteously lying on the ground. 

“I wanted you for so long… You cannot imagine how long my soul has been calling to you.” He utters between two kisses laid down along my skin, pulling me almost a whimper. I feel it coming to mark my skin along my bust, on the curve of my chest, up to my belly, covered with lace. His hands, meanwhile, were already exploring my legs, under the silk of my skirt. “Let me love you as no man will ever love you.”

“Love me. Make me yours.” I whisper slightly tilting my head back as I feel the pulp of his fingers go up along my thigh. It’s so close and my whole body is burning to know it even closer as it goes up. It’s slow. Almost too slow. It gives birth to desire in me, it animates, and gives me the impression of burning from within, so much the envy seems to consume me. I had never felt anything so strong, but never had I wanted it so much. I was his, in the shadow of the moon, only spectator of what was happening. 

A moan escapes me as it makes its way under the fabric to seek what was most intimate in my core. I cling painfully to him, my hands seeking support where they found it to keep me in balance, while waves of pleasure are making their way into the hollow of my belly. His kisses rise up to come and run down my neck. His fingers were playing with me, as if he already knew me by heart. I could feel it everywhere and nowhere at once. On me, in me, it felt like it was in every inch of my core. 

I come to tighten my grip on it, as I feel this bubble growing in the bottom of my stomach. It is threatening like a wave that grows again and again as it comes to stoke the fire. I drop my head on his shoulder in a moan. It is omnipresent, I feel like I have only him, all around me. To be surrounded only by his being, his perfume, his skin. 

“Not so fast, my Lady.” he whispered in the hollow of my ear, coming to take off his hand, and I suddenly felt like an orphan. I wanted more. I whine in protest. I almost begged him with my gaze. I wanted it, without waiting. What was he playing at? 

In a burst of frustration at having been cut off in my flight, I reversed our positions, to come in turn steal countless desperate kisses. I come to mark his neck, while I am busy on his jacket, which falls to the ground in a deaf noise. Quickly and clumsily, I come to untie his shirt to infiltrate my hands under the fabric. I needed his warmth, his touch, to feel his skin under my fingers. I feel him tremble at my passage, as I leave a line of wet kisses on his skin. I savor the lines drawn of his musculature under my fingers, tracing it without forgetting a tiny patch. 

“Why make me wait if you wanted it so much?” I ask against his skin, as I now snatch up to the buckle of his belt. I trace it with my fingertips. “I don’t want to play anymore.” I mused as I now stared at his hungry look. “You knew I would die of envy. Why leave me there, consumed by desire?” 

“It will only be more delicious.” He says in turn, as I slide my hand under his belt to feel all his desire, marked by the lack of space and the stretching of the fabric under my fingers. “It’s better to reach the summits together, my sweet.”

I finally untied the buckle of his belt, then the opening of his pants and let my hands venture to the edge of his underwear and finally under the elastic. I grasp the full measure of his desire, trapping a little bit of my lip between my teeth, without ever ceasing to stare at him. I could almost see the flame dancing in his eyes. There is lust, love, passion in the way he looks at me, while my hand plays with him, surrounds him, tastes him. As a fair return, of the game his hands had played a few moments earlier. A moan escapes his throat, and it’s my turn to leave his skin. I take my hand back, with a slight smile on my face. “Not so fast, Christopher...” I threw, amused, teasing him with his name muttered. 

“I didn’t know you were such a player...” He said, as I came to prick my mouth with countless kisses, while I found myself again, cornered against the stone wall. His hands quickly come to grab the fabric of my dress to pull it up to my waist. The pulp of his fingers against my skin electrifies me and I gurgle with impatience against his lips. “P-Please…” I beg him with a breath, as his thumb touches me. I wanted it all. I wanted no more barriers between us. I’m busy sliding his pants down his thighs, while quickly, I feel the lace grounding at my feet. 

Then, finally, he comes to grab one of my thighs and lifts it up against his hip, so that our bodies can align perfectly, and in a passionate kiss, our bodies unite, with a slowness, but a passion that knows no equal. He waits a few moments, before I look at him and beg him to continue. I feel it everywhere, in the slightest movement. Each thrust takes me into a world where there is no more than us. 

I come to put my head in the hollow of his neck, to try to smother pitifully the moans that escape me, while he fills me with the most natural way. I feel it collides with the center of my pleasure and I cling not to lose my anchor with reality. But I feel the waves take possession of my lower abdomen. The knot is febrile, it threatens at any moment to explode and overwhelm me completely.��

“More.. please…” I groaned against his skin, I needed more. I wanted to touch the heavens under his touch. He tightens his grip on my hips, before coming to slide his hands under my buttocks to lift me completely and I close my trembling legs around his waist. I feel it further away at each thrust and none of us is able to hold the slightest sound that escapes our bodies while our eyes cross again.

“You’re perfect.” He said, while thrusting harder, deeper, until I felt the knot exploding. My vision fills with stars, and for a few moments nothing is clear around me. My breath is short, jerky. I feel my core clenching around him as he reaches his high. He then let his head fall back on my shoulder, while he moaned my name in a last stroke. 

Our bodies separate after a few seconds and I rest my feet on the ground, without really letting go. I still needed an anchor to make sure that I had not dreamt what had just happened.

“Are you okay, my Lady?” He blows, lifting the cloth up on his body to cover himself again. I nod my head, while taking a breath. “I am fine, marvellously fine.” I finally confirm without turning my eyes. “We should take care of you tonight.” He adds, while lifting me in his arms, making me laugh as I grab his neck. “ What a playful gentleman you are.” I chuckle, as my heart gently thumps in my chest. “Where are you taking me?” I finally ask, as he climbs the castle stairs. 

“Where my love for you has no limits,” he said, with a smile full of riddles. 

After making sure that everything was fine, the night ended between the delicate sheets of his apartments and I felt at last complete, surrounded by his tenderness, his laughter and his warmth. I felt more loved than ever.

I really hope you appreciated it, do not hesitate to reblog or to leave a note i’d love to read all about your thoughts. ✿ Evandsolo, 2025 ✿

[soulofapatrick]

Heal Me - Percy Jackson x Female reader 

Summary: Percy flirts with you while you heal him during a game of Capture the Flag

Words: 2.5K 

Warnings: injuries 

Y/N's POV

As the sun begins its descent, painting the sky with hues of gold and pink, the infirmary of Camp Half-Blood buzzes with activity. The day's Capture the Flag match has left its mark, both on the battlefield and in the infirmary. I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere, feeling a sense of camaraderie among my fellow children of Apollo.

The infirmary is a symphony of healing, with each of us Apollo offspring moving with grace and purpose. Our hands, guided by our father's divine gift, dance over the wounds of our fellow campers, weaving spells of restoration and comfort. The scent of medicinal herbs hangs in the air, mingling with the soft murmurs of our incantations.

As I finish tending to a particularly nasty wound on a camper's arm, I turn to see Clarisse La Rue hobbling in, her usually fierce demeanour marred by signs of fatigue. Despite her grumbling, there's a sense of resilience in her eyes as she recounts the day's events.

"It seems you've been through quite the ordeal," I remark, offering her a reassuring smile as I guide her to a vacant cot.

Clarisse snorts, but there's a flicker of appreciation in her expression as I begin my assessment of her injuries. The gash on her arm speaks of fierce battles, the bruise on her thigh a testament to her determination, and the burn mark on her shoulder a reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows of the forest.

"Those opposing demigods won't know what hit them," she grumbles, though her tone carries a hint of pride amidst the pain.

With practiced hands, I apply soothing salves and healing spells, easing her discomfort with each gentle touch. As the last of her wounds begins to mend, I can't help but feel a surge of admiration for her resilience in the face of adversity.

"There," I say, offering her a warm smile as I finish my work. "You'll be back on your feet in no time.”

Clarisse grunts in acknowledgment, but her eyes hold a glimmer of gratitude as she pushes herself upright, ready to face whatever challenges await her beyond the walls of the infirmary.

As I meticulously tend to Clarisse's injuries, I can't shake the relief coursing through me that I'm not out there on the battlefield today. While the thrill of Capture the Flag has always enticed me, there's a different kind of fulfilment found within the walls of the infirmary. Here, amidst the scent of herbs and the soft hum of incantations, I find solace in the quiet yet profound satisfaction of helping to mend my friends.

Across the room, my brother Will navigates the challenges of a compound fracture with his usual calm and skill. The young Hermes camper, fighting back tears of pain, finds comfort in Will's gentle touch and soothing words. Our eyes meet briefly, sharing a silent understanding of the importance of our roles here. In this sanctuary of healing, we wield our abilities to safeguard the well-being of our fellow demigods.

Just as I finish applying a healing balm to Clarisse's arm, the infirmary door creaks open once more, revealing Annabeth supporting a barely-conscious Malcolm. Without hesitation, I rush to their aid, joining Annabeth in guiding Malcolm to a vacant cot. His injuries are severe—a deep cut mars his forehead, likely inflicted by the sharp edge of an Ares child's sword, while his leg is twisted at an awkward angle.

Instinctively, I assess the extent of his injuries, my heart sinking at the sight of his pale complexion and laboured breathing. But there's no time for despair. With focused determination, I set to work, channeling the healing energies bestowed upon me by our divine parent to mend Malcolm's wounds and ease his pain.

As I work, a sense of urgency drives me forward, fuelled by the knowledge that every moment counts in our world of constant peril. Yet, amidst the chaos, there's a profound sense of purpose that anchors me—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is light to be found in the healing touch of a friend.

"Thanks," Annabeth says, her voice carrying a hint of weariness despite her determination, "They set a trap for us near the creek. I should have seen it coming.”

I offer her a sympathetic nod, understanding all too well the dangers lurking in the shadows of the forest. "It sounds like you had a close call. I'm glad you're okay.”

A silent exchange of gratitude passes between us as Annabeth squeezes my shoulder before slipping back into the fray outside. The battlefield awaits her, but here in the infirmary, we continue our quiet work of healing and care.

Turning my attention back to Malcolm, I apply a soothing poultice to his bruise and carefully tend to the cut on his forehead. Each action is imbued with a sense of urgency, a silent prayer for his swift recovery in the face of adversity.

As I finish wrapping Malcolm's injured leg, the infirmary door swings open once more, admitting Percy Jackson. His usual air of confidence is overshadowed by the weariness etched into his features, his body bearing the scars of battle. Deep claw marks mar his chest, a testament to the ferocity of his adversaries, while a vicious burn on his arm adds to the litany of injuries he carries. A pronounced limp accompanies him, signalling the presence of a serious sprain or break.

Despite the severity of his wounds, Percy's gaze remains steady as he meets mine, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. In this moment, words are unnecessary—our shared understanding of the dangers we face is enough.

"Hey," Percy says, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips despite the bruises marring his features. "I think I might need some help.”

I arch an eyebrow, unable to suppress a smile at his antics. "You do realise you can heal yourself with water, right? There's a perfectly good lake just outside.”

He shrugs, his grin turning sheepish. "Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have an excuse to see my favourite Apollo camper, would I?”

Percy's flirtatious banter washes over me, stirring a mix of amusement and warmth within. Despite the chaos and injuries, his easygoing nature never fails to lift my spirits. But beneath the teasing lies a subtle tension, a hint of something deeper that tugs at my heartstrings.

Suppressing a smile, I step closer to Percy, my concern for his injuries overriding the flutter of emotions stirring within me. "Well, lucky for you, I happen to be the best healer in camp," I reply, injecting a mock confidence into my tone. "Now, let's get you patched up before those wounds start attracting monsters.” 

Before I can even finish my sentence, Percy is already in motion, swiftly shedding his shirt and armour with practiced ease. As his shirt slips off his broad shoulders, revealing the intricate network of scars and the defined muscles beneath his skin, I can't help but notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere around us. 

The infirmary seems to hold its breath as Percy sits before me, his physique a testament to the trials he's faced and the battles he's won. His sea-green eyes, flecked with gold like sunlit waves, shimmer with determination and resilience, a reflection of the depths of his soul. His hair, as black as the depths of the ocean, falls in untamed waves around his face, framing his rugged features with an air of wildness and defiance. There's a hint of stubble along his jawline, a reminder of his journey from boyhood to manhood, marked by trials and triumphs.

But it's not just Percy's physical appearance that captivates those around him; it's the aura of strength and vulnerability that surrounds him, drawing others to him like moths to a flame. Despite the scars that mar his skin and the burdens he carries as the son of Poseidon, there's a warmth in his smile, a kindness in his gaze that speaks volumes about the goodness within him. 

As Percy moves with a grace that belies his injuries, the other girls in the infirmary can't help but steal glances in his direction, their eyes lingering on his chiseled features and the effortless confidence with which he carries himself. Some whisper among themselves, their voices hushed with awe and admiration, while others offer shy smiles or lingering looks of appreciation. 

But amidst the silent admiration, I remain focused on my task, to tend to Percy's wounds with precision and care. As my hands work to mend his injuries, I can't help but feel a sense of connection to him, a bond forged in the crucible of battle and tempered by the fires of friendship. 

As I continue to tend to Percy's wounds with precision and care, a sense of focus descends upon me, blocking out the whispers and stolen glances from the other girls in the infirmary. My hands move with practiced ease, guided by the healing energies of Apollo as I work to mend the gashes and bruises that mar his skin. 

Sensing the need for a better angle to properly treat the gash on his chest, I make a split-second decision and sink to my knees in front of him. The move catches Percy off guard, his sea-green eyes widening slightly in surprise before a mischievous grin spreads across his lips. 

"Well, well," he quips, his voice laced with playful amusement. "If you wanted to get between my legs, Sunshine, you only had to ask.” 

His words send a rush of heat to my cheeks, flushing them crimson as I glance up at him, momentarily lost for words. Despite the teasing tone, there's a warmth in Percy's gaze, a silent reassurance that eases the tension between us. 

Clearing my throat, I focus on the task at hand, my hands steady as I continue to tend to his wounds. Percy's thighs part slightly at my presence, a silent invitation that doesn't go unnoticed, sending a shiver down my spine.

Suddenly, Percy’s taking the cloth from my hand and tossing it aside, the action catching me off guard. Before I can react, he hooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. I can't help but be drawn in by the depth of his eyes, the silent communication passing between us palpable in the charged atmosphere of the infirmary. 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a seemingly innocent gesture that sends a jolt of electricity coursing through me. I can't tear my eyes away from the subtle movement, my breath catching in my throat as Percy smirks, the tension between us thickening with each passing moment. 

In that moment, it's as if the world falls away, leaving only Percy and me in our own private bubble of desire and longing. The air crackles with anticipation, every touch and glance laden with unspoken promises and hidden desires. 

As Percy's fingers linger against my skin, tracing the line of my jaw with a feather-light touch, I feel a surge of electricity surge through me. It's a sensation unlike anything I've ever experienced, a heady mix of fear and excitement that leaves me breathless and wanting more. But before I can fully process the intensity of the moment, Percy leans closer, his lips hovering just inches from mine. The air between us pulses with raw energy, the anticipation building to a fever pitch as we stand on the precipice of something unknown. 

And then, with a soft sigh, Percy closes the distance between us, his lips capturing mine in a searing kiss that ignites a fire within me. In that moment, all thoughts and doubts melt away, consumed by the overwhelming sensation of being wanted and desired. It's a kiss filled with passion and longing, igniting a fire within me that threatens to consume us both. In that moment, all thoughts and doubts fade into the background, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of being wanted and desired. 

As the kiss deepens, Percy's hands move with purpose, tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer to him. The touch of his fingers against my scalp sends shivers down my spine, the sensation both electrifying and comforting at the same time. With each caress, he draws me further into the depths of his embrace, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.  

Feeling emboldened by his touch, I let my own hands roam, tracing the contours of his chest and shoulders with trembling fingers. His skin is warm beneath my touch, a stark contrast to the cool air of the infirmary, and I revel in the sensation of being so close to him.

But it's not just the physical closeness that leaves me breathless; it's the intensity of our connection, the unspoken understanding that passes between us with each fleeting touch. In Percy's arms, I feel safe and cherished, as if nothing in the world could ever harm me.

As the kiss deepens, our breath mingles in a heated exchange of desire and longing. Percy's hands trail down my back, pulling me up from my knees and onto his solid lap in one fluid motion. The movement is effortless, as if we were always meant to be this close, this intimate.

For a moment, our lips remain locked in a passionate embrace, unwilling to break the connection that binds us together. But as the need for air becomes too pressing to ignore, we reluctantly part, gasping for breath as our chests heave with the intensity of our shared desire. 

Percy's grip on my hips tightens, his fingers digging into my skin as if afraid I'll slip away if he lets me move even a few centimetres away. There's a hunger in his gaze, a primal need that mirrors my own, as he looks up at me with eyes darkened by desire.

In that moment, with Percy's intense gaze fixed on me, I feel a rush of heat spread through my body, igniting every nerve ending in a blaze of sensation. It's a heady mix of desire and vulnerability, as if we're teetering on the edge of something vast and unknown, ready to leap into the abyss together.

As our eyes lock in silent understanding, I realise that this is more than just a fleeting moment of passion—it's a declaration of our shared connection, a bond forged in the crucible of battle and tempered by the fires of friendship.

And as Percy pulls me closer, his lips seeking mine with a newfound urgency, I know that in this moment, we are bound together by something greater than ourselves—a love that defies the odds and transcends the boundaries of time and space.

Riordanverse Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@papichulo120627 @guacam011y @alexxavicry @luuuciiia-mr @chan

[myownwholewildworld]

veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of ​​the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Burn with Me

Pairing: Viserys III Targaryen (Game of Thrones) x f!reader Warnings: Smut, imbalanced power dynamics, abuse of power. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Viserys shares a piece of his ancestry with his concubine.

Author's note: Day one of Smuffmas - candlelight and collaring. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She steps into the tent that has been erected to serve as Viserys’ personal bathhouse and is immediately enveloped in humidity that clings to her skin like a shroud, as the opening falls closed behind her. True to his Targaryen nature, he favours the heat and, as such, always demands that the water be scalding before it fills the wooden tub, with as many candles lit as the surrounding space will allow, to ensure that it retains its heat.

The atmosphere within the canvas walls is one of resplendence; the rounded tub that sits in the far corner wafts viscous steam up into the air. The water’s surface reflects the vibrant orange glow of more candles than she can possibly count, all casting flickering shadows that dance upon the ceiling. The heady fragrance of Myrish oils lingers in the air, a potent aroma of cinnamon and ginger. Viserys refuses the use of Dothraki spiceflower in his bathwater, despite it being in abundance, and far less costly than oils and spices from the Free Cities.

“It is insult enough that I must exist among these savages,” he had once told her, “I will not smell like them too. See that my command is heeded, or you shall wake the dragon.”

He stands beside the bathtub, spine rigid and eyes narrowed in annoyance. She had come to him the moment she was summoned, yet she can tell from the subtle flare of his nostrils that he is impatient already.

Despite the gossamer fabric of the dress that drapes over her body, she can feel sweat prickling the back of her neck, dampening the hairs that rest at the base of it. She knows this is due to the stifling heat of the bathing tent, but the fearful hammering of her heart as Viserys eyes her in displeasure only serves to exacerbate it.

“About time,” he snaps irritably, beckoning her closer with a restive click of his fingers.

“Your grace,” she greets courteously, before he has the chance to scold her further, “allow me to help you.”

She steps in front of him, deft fingers moving over the forest green wool of the tunic that covers his lithe frame. It is a wildly impractical choice of fabric, considering the climate of Vaes Dothrak, but Viserys shuns more traditional garb in favour of wool and silk. One by one she pulls open the clasps, revealing the creamy, white flesh beneath.

During her time in the pleasure houses of Lys, she had lain with many men and grown accustomed to the sight of skin marred by battle scars and hardened by the ravages of hard labour. Viserys bears no such afflictions. He is thin, an unfortunate consequence of a life lived in squalor, but he has never known battle, he is soft and smooth, unblemished by conflict. She has silently wondered on many occasions how he could possibly ever hope to rule as king of Westeros if he is not competent with a sword, a musing she will never give voice to, lest she pay with her life for it. She has no doubt he will take no issue in wetting his blade with her blood, if provoked into doing so.

Despite his rakish appearance and short temper, she cannot help the appreciative gaze she casts upon him as she strips him of the remnants of his clothing. For all his flaws, Viserys is a handsome man; soft, silver waves of hair frame the hard lines of his face, a strong nose and chin accentuate the pierce of his gaze. His eyes carry madness within them, enticing with dangerous allure.

“Careful with that,” he commands, nodding to the tunic which she has picked back up to fold, “what’s in the pocket is worth at least five times more than what I paid for you.”

“Of course, your grace,” she replies simply, noticing the subtle weight the garment has to it that isn’t usually there.

“Bring it here,” he says to her, stepping into the tub and sitting down. The motion causes steamy water to slop over the sides, soaking into the clay coloured earth of the ground below, as he leans back, resting his elbows behind him on the edge.

“Not the tunic, stupid girl,” he spits, scowling as she steps forward with it, “just what’s in the pocket.”

She blinks rapidly, bowing her head, a fruitless attempt to will away the humiliation that burns hotly at her skin. Reaching into the pocket, she wraps her fingers around something hard, that feels cold against her skin despite the heat that hangs heavy in the air.

Pulling it free, she can see that it is a steel choker. Thick silver plates inlaid with large rubies make up the bulk of it, with a dainty chain that fastens it at the back. She has never held anything so valuable in her hands before, the very weight of it feels representative of its significance.

“I don’t suppose you have ever seen such opulence before,” Viserys tells her, drawing her attention back to him, to where he reclines in the bath, a smug smirk upon his face as he regards her pridefully.

She places the choker in his upturned, waiting palm. “Won’t it rust if you get it wet?”

Viserys grins, the gesture lighting up his face in a way that seems almost unnatural, as the ever present madness dances within the lilac of his eyes. “It is Valyrian steel, forged in dragon fire, it won’t rust, it can’t. Now disrobe and join me.”

He plays idly with the choker, running the chain through his fingers and holding the rubies up to the candlelight as she undresses, though it does not take her long. The near translucent dress is the only item of clothing that he will allow her to wear when tending to him, and it is rare that it stays on for long.

She hisses quietly at the burn of the water against her flesh as she climbs into the tub, the all encompassing heat making her legs tingle. She does not understand how Viserys can stand it, but then there is blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, so she supposes he barely notices it.

“Turn around,” he instructs, and she does as she’s told, presenting her back to him as she faces away. She can hear the splash of the water as he advances upon her within the small space, feel the water moving with him.

Dampened hands scoop her hair away from her neck, before he places the choker around it, carefully fastening it. It chills her skin, a strange juxtaposition to the clamminess that their surroundings elicit. It feels heavy and tight around her throat, more like a collar than a necklace, and as Viserys turns her roughly to face him, sending yet more water cascading over the sides of the bath, she can see that that was precisely his intent.

His eyes are wild as he appraises her, lips slightly parted. “This is hundreds of years old, it would have been worn by a Targaryen princess from the days of Old Valyria,” he tells her, his voice lowering, taking on the seductive timbre that he affects only when aroused. He hooks two fingers beneath the centre ruby, giving it a tug. “How does it make you feel?”

She swallows thickly, considering her answer, wanting to offer words that will please him. “It makes me feel…fortunate…to have the opportunity to wear something of such significance.”

He hums, clearly satisfied with her answer, giving a slight nod as he grasps her hips beneath the water and manhandles her into his lap. She can feel his hardened cock prodding insistently at her most intimate area as she settles into the position of straddling him, winding her arms around his neck, as his hands keep a firm grip of her.

“Ser Jorah came by this on his travels,” he tells her, eyes fixated upon her throat, “he was going to give it as a gift to my sister, but I have taken it for myself. I do not see why she should lay claim to such a valuable piece of our shared ancestry, just for spreading her legs and siring a whelp for that savage, Drogo.”

The tone of his voice drips with jealousy, and it makes her uncomfortable to be faced with his arousal, not for the first time, while he speaks of Daenerys. She knows that the Targaryens existed on a foundation of bloodline purity, however, those customs are queer to her and to be faced with the reality of their incestuous nature makes her stomach churn.

All thoughts leave her mind, however, as he tugs her downwards to meet his upward thrust, spearing her open on his cock with a grunt elicited through gritted teeth. She moans at the exquisite stretch, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as she clings tightly to him, her breaths hot against his wet skin.

Viserys keeps his hands upon her hips, helping to guide her movements as she rolls her pelvis against his, bouncing herself upon his aching length. Though he is often cruel to her, when he holds her close like this, and it is just the sounds of their mingling pants for breath and the slap of their skin, it is easy for her to forget that she was purchased for his pleasure, a means to distract him from the want to defile his sister.

When he holds her close, his harsh features contorted in ecstasy, the madness that dances within his eyes conveying only lust, she can allow herself to believe that she is special, that he chose her alone to travel with him and warm his bed because he wanted only her, not because the Beggar King could not afford more than one concubine. 

In her own foolish heart, she has allowed gratitude to be misplaced for love. The fondness she feels towards him for him having taken her from the pleasure houses of Lys, and rescuing her from the life of a common whore, in her mind, is romantic. 

So when he takes one of the stiffened peaks of her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches harshly, she mewls wantonly as the sensation causes her sensitive walls to clench around him, wanting him to know just how good he makes her feel, how eager she is to please him.

If he did not return her affection, why else would he allow her to wear the choker that currently sits snug against her throat?

She speeds up her movements, the bathwater undulating around them with more intensity. The head of his cock bullies relentlessly at a spot inside of her that, coupled with the lightheadedness she feels from the heat of the water, makes her forget herself entirely. Before she can stop them, the words tumble carelessly from her lips.

“I love you.”

He halts all movements, and she freezes, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage as she realises what she has just said. She opens her mouth, wanting to apologise, to take it back, to beg for forgiveness, but before she can he’s grasping her jaw, forcing her to meet the intensity of his stare.

“Say it again,” he orders quietly, leaving no room for argument.

She is hesitant at first, but he tangles his fingers into the back of her hair, not allowing her to look away, so she relents. “I–I love you.”

He snarls, tugging harshly at her hair as he resumes his brutal thrusts up into her. “That’s right, you fucking do.”

For the briefest of moments, she had allowed herself to believe he might say it back, and is not even given the respite to experience disappointment, as he chases his release within her. Her confession of love having been enough to stroke his ego to the point of climax, evidenced by the insistent pulsating of his member as he pumps it in and out of her with renewed vigour.

He holds her tightly against himself, pushing himself as far up into her as he can go as he peaks, spilling inside of her with a shameless groan, before settling back down, her body pliant against his as they both catch their breath.

“I’m finished with you for tonight. Leave me,” he says despondently, as his rapidly softening cock slips free of her.

She offers a curt nod, disentangling herself from him and climbing on shaky legs from the tub, bathwater and Viserys’ seed both dripping down her thighs, as she reaches for her dress, clutching it to herself to protect what little remains of her modesty.

“Wait,” he snaps, and for a moment she believes he will tell her he has changed his mind, that he longs for her company. Instead he snaps his fingers, gesturing to her neck. “The necklace.”

Her heart sinks, but she forces her expression to remain stoic, unclasping it and depositing it back into his outstretched palm. Her neck feels immediately lighter, having been freed from the weight of it. However, as she walks from the tent, it is replaced with a heaviness upon her heart that reminds her irrevocably of her place - or lack thereof - in the world of Viserys Targaryen.

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[sinizade]

B'ella, the Pale Child (Dark Urges Redeemed)

Class: Warlock (Barbarian subclass)

Romance: Bae'Zel

Besties: Scratch / Owlbear / Wyll / Gale / Karlach

One extra egg among all those eggs wouldn't make a difference, nor would they complain about having two extra hands to fight for the "glory" of their queen. This way, the hatching of this egg surprised the elders of that Creche a little, a child as pale as the moon and with eyes as red as blood that possessed a fury worthy of a demon, certainly that child had something inside it, but the Githyanki wouldn't get rid of a healthy child just because of surpestitions based on one of the babies' appearance... But should they?

B'ella was obedient, precise, deadly, her teachers could see and feel the almost insane pleasure she felt every time she beat her opponents in training, every time she made them bleed and beg... Something so... Sadistic... Even for a Githyanki child, it was unusual to have such an appreciation for death and the ways of killing, but then again, they weren't going to get rid of such a dedicated and useful fighter like her just out of superstition.

Her adulthood was only accompanied by an insatiable hunger, B'ella could have had her uses in combat, an animal, a monster, but when her abilities began to affect other Githyanki they finally realized that having her there was no longer safe or suitable for Creche, so in a clear desperate act they tried to contain B'ella, they tried to tame the monster inside her... The Slayer, but that obviously didn't go as they expected and her sadistic, cruel and psychotic fury spread to everyone in that Creche. Every teacher, every warrior, doctor, student, child, egg, all murdered, torn apart in a bloody dance that spread throughout each hall and that was when she heard a voice, a small creature that praised her... A praise that she never found she was going to receive, told her that there was a place where she could be who she really was, where she could know what it was like to have a family that truly admired her for what she did...

That male human, that Enver Gortash, intelligent man. Tasting Gortash, subduing him to her whims was satisfying, but her devotion was only to her creator, to her god, to her father, Bhaal... But everything had been thrown into the trash with the betrayal of that insolent child, that damned and jealous changeling who took her rightful place.

Waking up on a ghaik ship with no memories left her disconcerted, but her focus now was to get out of there and return to her people and achieve purification. Having someone as adept in battle as Lae'Zel made it easier since the rest of her companions with the exception of Karlach left the pale gith with disgust in her mouth regarding combat.

It wasn't so bad being around that bunch of big noses, they entertained her, they seemed to care about her dark desires, not just for them, but also for her? This was new, not even she remembered the last time she received any kind of help (literally)

Lae'Zel... Zhak vo'n'fynh duj... B'ella could barely understand what she felt, she could barely know what she felt, she didn't know or remember that feeling, but with Lae'Zel everything was clear. .. She was her world, her sword, her flame, the source of her joy...

Finding out that she wasn't a child of Gith broke her, even if she managed to hide it well, it destroyed her completely inside, knowing that the years she spent in her Creche, that her "egg", that her life, was a fake life designed by her "father". That wasn't for her, even if it once had been, now it wasn't... B'ella would no longer be a Bhaalspawn, now she would be a child of Gith and follow Orpheus and her beloved Lae'zel into battle against Vlaakith's tyranny

Some extra information about B'ella

Her memory was "reset" to her times at Creche as soon as she lost her memories, before her dark impulses took over.

She has a strange habit of keeping a lock of her enemies' hair for no reason, she just likes to have a memory of good battles, but when the enemy wasn't good enough she just crushes its head (She has a lock of hair with her from the hair of Minthara/ Ketheric/ Raphael)

Even though she appears to be reserved and cold, B'ella is considered TOO romantic when she is with Lae'Zel and only Lae'Zel, only her source of joy can see B'ella that way