#I’M NOT GOING TO POISON MY OWN SERVANT… | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

houserautha · 6 months

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These Destined Ends

Part 6

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: (I’m kind of rusty about appropriate warnings so let me know if there’s something I need to add or correct) You dose yourself with poison, he cuts his arm with a knife, you drink his blood, knife play, oral sex female receiving, dirty talk, p in v, some light praise, dubious consent, inappropriate use of a dagger/anal, he fucks you and the dagger essentially fucks him, breeding/pregnancy kink, unprotected sex, creampie, black cum ofc, no aftercare

A/N: Alright this chapter is…a lot. The knife scenario I read a few years ago in “Den of Vipers” by K.A Knight and it completely changed my brain chemistry. It inspired me to include a similar situation because it’s so Feyd coded😂😭

Also credits to @sansaorgana for mentioning how Harkonnen blood would be thick and effected by Giedi Prime’s environment and pollution. I love discussing Feyd’s body fluids

Weeks pass before Feyd-Rautha corners you in one of the Baron’s sparse gardens. Garden being a slight exaggeration — really, it’s more of a barren courtyard with a bench. Until your fearsome betrothed strode in, your only company was a few scraggly bushes and the fledgling pilingtam tree keeping you in the shade.

Feyd-Rautha hooks his finger in your book and pulls it away. “Come with me.”

You glare balefully at him. “I was reading that.” It’s the only Harkonnen novel you’ve found that you can stomach. “You can’t just beckon me whenever. Or — and this is blasphemy, I know — you could just ask me if I want to go with you.”

Feyd-Rautha closes the book. “No.”

“You lost my page,” you say with a pout. You debate teaching manners to him again, briefly, before sensing that you’re fighting a losing battle. So instead you snatch the book from his hands.

“Two hundred and thirty eight. Now,” he fixes you with a stern look, “let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

Frankly, you don’t care where he’s taking you. Since the Crucible, you’ve been anxiously waiting for something to do besides answering questions about your upcoming nuptials. Your body aches for purpose. Movement. You also realize, with mixed feelings, that you would probably follow Feyd-Rautha wherever he asked you.

What did that say about your state of mind?

“It’s time for training,” he says.

You trail after him, vaguely disappointed that you weren’t going to finish your book. You tuck it under your arm. How bad could poison training be? Maybe you’d have time to flip through a few pages. Feyd-Rautha eyes you as if he can tell what you’re thinking, but doesn’t comment on it.

The fortress is in full swing for the wedding, which looms only a month and a half away. You would think that’s plenty of time to prepare. But servants are hanging decorations, comparing tasks, and cleaning everything in sight. They quiet as you and Feyd-Rautha stroll past them, and you search their faces for Asha.

She’s been just as busy as everyone else. Everyone but you, of course, who, despite your prominent involvement in the wedding, has been left to your own devices. You weren’t exactly thrilled to dose yourself with poison, but at least it gave you something to look forward to.

“How did you first go about this?” You ask the na-Baron. It’s a strange comfort to be in the presence of someone so unperturbed, confident and assured to a fault, sure, but you knew what to expect from him. He was an asshole, but he would be one regardless.

“Poison tolerance?” He asks.

“No, long walks through the fortress.”

Feyd-Rautha ignores you. “It’s a precaution, mostly. Poison-snoopers can be faulty or influenced. It also gives me an…edge…over others.”

“The others being…?”

“Political allies. Enemies.” You catch the hint of a grin on his lips. “It cuts a formidable image when your guest has no concern for poison.”

“As if you don’t already,” you retort.

“You flatter me.”

“Oh, like you’re not aware.” You roll your eyes. “Where are we even going?”

“Somewhere private,” he says.

You raise your brows. Feyd-Rautha pushes his shoulder suddenly against what you thought until that point was a wall, but it swings open on an invisible seam. “Not like that,” he says, amusement coloring his tone. “Although I could never refuse you, wife.”

The room he leads you into is mostly bare except for a few maps on the walls and a table in the center. You recognize the surface of the table as the topography of Giedi Prime, the vast plains and tiny boxes representing the plethora of factories. You ghost your fingers over it. “What is this place?”

“My strategy room.” When you glance at him imploringly, he sighs and adds in a resigned tone, “Sometimes I find working with the other nobles tedious. I spend my time alone if possible.”

“Hm.” You sit down at the table and try to imagine Feyd-Rautha presiding over it, testing out battle strategies and war maneuvers.

You must sink too far into your own thoughts because it startles you when he sets down a small glass in front of you, nestled in the space between two miniature factories. “We need to start small,” he tells you.

“What is this?”

“Poison.”

You shoot him an annoyed look. “It would just be nice to know what poison I’m ingesting, is all.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He plants his hands on the table and assumes a position that you have a hard time believing he doesn’t know stirs something dark within you. “I’m going to be giving you small doses of poisons most typically used throughout the Known Universe.”

“You’re so kind,” you mutter.

He nudges the glass closer to you. “This is the weakest one of them all. We can work our way up, gauge their effects on you.”

“Like what?” You think back to the day in the arena with Ze’ev, how the flip-dart hidden in his clothing quickly incapacitated you, turning your thoughts to sludge.

“Fatigue. Nausea. Potential fevers, chills, heart palpitations.”

“Oh,” you say miserably, “is that all?”

“No, actually,” he replies, oblivious to your fear, “but sometimes it’s better not to know. Drink.”

Your stomach twists with nerves. But he’s watching you in that anxiety-inducing way he tends to, so you tip the contents of the glass down your throat. He smiles.

Poison training is hell.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it’s not this — constantly being gripped by fatigue and nausea, your body battling persistently against the poisons.

The beginning was the worst. You had never thrown up so much in your life. Feyd-Rautha assured you that you were tolerating the poison better than most, but you highly doubted that. You were couch-ridden for days on end, too weak to move or do much more than eat the food he forced you to. But, slowly, you adjusted to the poison, and Feyd-Rautha gave you higher doses, stronger strains.

A week away from your wedding, he declares that he won’t give you anything new. “But you must continue to take the poisons from before,” he tells you. “Or your body will lose the tolerance and also go through withdrawals.”

Today, however, is one of the worst days you’ve had. You did everything right, but for some reason you were rendered completely helpless, body racked by intense shivers. You are huddled in the corner of the couch in the antechamber when Feyd-Rautha finds you, stopping him in his tracks.

“H-H-Hi,” you sputter.

He crosses the room in a single stride, ripping off your blanket and assessing your shuddering form. “You used too much,” he says accusingly.

“I-I-I did what you-you told me,” you protest, albeit weakly.

His frown pierces you. You’re afraid he’s going to reprimand you, but instead he takes a step backward. “Go to the bed.”

“I-I’m f-f-fine. I can s-stay here.”

He looses a sigh then, effortlessly, sweeps you off the couch and over his shoulder. You want to fight against him but it’s taking all of your strength not to shiver and let him know just how poorly you are.

“Put me d-down,” you try your best to say, but with your face buried in his back, it comes out muffled.

Feyd-Rautha resists your pitiful attempts of subterfuge, and carries you into the bedroom like you weigh nothing. It’s your first time actually being on the bed, and his faintly medicinal scent pervades your senses. Had you ever even seen him sleep in here before? How did it smell so strongly of him?

He props you up against the pillows. You attempt to pull up the bedding to ward off your chill, but he stops you, which requires little effort on his part. You blink. In reply, he reaches into the top drawer of his bedside table and takes out a blunt-looking dagger.

“W-What are y-you doing?”

Feyd-Rautha presses the blade of the dagger against his forearm, cuts a thin line that weeps with a thick, dark liquid that you realize is his blood. You feel dizzy.

“Wh-What —”

“Just stop talking,” Feyd-Rautha growls. “We clot quickly. Drink.”

Drink? You're not entirely sure how well your emotions are coming across in your current state, but he must know how insane he sounds. Well, more insane than usual.

"I-I'm not —" Before your eyes, his dark-colored blood ceases. He utters something under his breath and then puts the dagger to his skin again, cutting it back open like slotting an envelope.

He captures a drop of it on his thumb and pushes it between your lips.

It doesn’t taste quite as bitterly sweet as his cum, you decide, but possesses the same sharp bite. It sears slightly as it dances on your tongue, down your throat.

“More,” he says. He sits down at the edge of the bed and raises his forearm to your mouth.

With no other choices, you obey.

The blood is thicker here, his skin warm beneath your mouth as you lick at the shallow wound. Any strangeness you felt at his request vanishes as the potency of his blood hits you. You hungrily take your fill, and by the time the wound closes again, it’s chased away your chills and the murkiness evading your mind.

“There,” he rasps. He sets the dagger down on the bed, still sporting a trace of his blood.

“Why…why?”

Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch. “Harkonnen blood is its own sort of poison, courtesy of our planet’s pollution and smog. I suspected it would be enough to counterbalance the poison already in your system.”

You fixate on the wound, how the blood has already congealed. “It stopped,” you say stupidly. But how could you be expected to think properly — you had just drank from his arm, from his blood, to stave off poison that you’d willing ingested.

Feyd-Rautha nods. “Another benefit.”

“Anywhere on your body? It does that?”

He indicates the dagger. “See for yourself.”

A chill runs through you, but now for an entirely different reason. You inch closer to him, tucking your legs under you. He’s agonizingly close, his dark gaze flickering across your face as you take the dagger and touch the tip of the blade to his chin.

“Is that just a ploy so that I’ll cut you?” You ask, heart pounding furiously. You discover with a sickening twist that you do want to cut him, want to slide the blade across his smooth skin and watch the way the blood rises to greet you.

Feyd-Rautha breathes, “Perhaps.”

You’ve never seen him so transfixed, so compliant. Eager. And with his very blood in your veins, emboldening you, issuing a high like you’ve never felt before — you press the blade into his skin. Blood trickles out, and you use your tongue to lick it up, the metallic taste of the blade mingling with the sharpness of his blood.

Next you take the dagger across his jaw, down the column of his throat to the divot that flutters with his pulse. And then down down down to his chest, shearing his shirt with a single slice.

Feyd-Rautha has an infuriatingly perfect chest — muscled, small, tight nipples that you tease with the edge of the blade. He inhales sharply.

“You’re disgusting,” you say without conviction, your free hand gliding down his toned stomach.

He tilts his face up to you. The gesture is so vulnerable, his expression so devastatingly beautiful, that you climb into his lap. His cock, straining against his pants, nudges your center.

“I hate you,” you tell him.

He whispers, “I know.”

There’s no telling who kisses who first — an impasse to your game of trading punishments. His hands are on you in an instant, over your body and in your hair, clamoring to touch you as if you might disappear at any moment. You’re equally as fervent, notching your thumbs by his jaw on either side and holding him to you, mouths open and hungry. His tongue dances over your lips, behind your teeth.

Feyd-Rautha is his own kind of poison, infiltrating you slowly and feasting on your insides. And you take him in like his kisses are the anecdote, the touch of his hands soothing the ache that his particular brand of poison causes.

Though, if he is poison, you can never imagine adapting to this — his passionate, consuming touch, the whine of his desperation, how he embraces you like it’s everything he’s ever wanted. No, if he is poison, you never want to learn to tolerate him.

His fingers work deftly at your clothes. The air rushes to caress your breast, hardening your nipples. Feyd-Rautha closes his lips on one as he palms his hand over the other, and the wet warmth of his mouth sends you to the edge. Your back bows in response, urging him closer. He bites down at your nipple, tugs on it, swipes his tongue over it like a soothing balm, then repeats the process on the other side.

As soon as your mind clears enough to form a rational thought, you fumble to unbuckle his pants. He helps you — one hand on your ass for support as he lifts up his hips and you wriggle his pants down over them.

His cock, liberated from his pants, slaps against his stomach. He fists the base and indulges in a series of lazy strokes.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” you say aloud.

Feyd-Rautha, returning his mouth to yours, smirks against you. “Your turn.”

He flips you over onto your back in a seamless maneuver, securing your legs around his waist. Feyd-Rautha lingers above you. His dark gaze roams your form as you shimmy out of your dress, leaving you only in your panties. Sometime before he grabbed the dagger, and now uses it to trace a line from between your breasts to your navel.

You gasp. Pain radiates from the thin cut he made, a terrible, delicious heat.

It’s his turn to tend to you now, hands coasting your body as he licks a stripe up your wound and back down, your blood blanketing his tongue. He pauses at your panties, uses both hands to seize you by the hips and drag you to the very edge of the bed, then kneels before you.

You’re already slick with desire and you want to be ashamed but you can’t, not when he ghosts his mouth over your center and you cry out in need.

“So wet for me, wife,” Feyd-Rautha growls. “You want this cock inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. You claw at the bedding, pulling it taunt around you.

“Oh, but I’ve been waiting for this. To taste you. God, you don’t know how hard it’s been knowing that you’re always just on the other side of that door.” Feyd-Rautha replaces his mouth with the dagger’s blade and you clench in anticipation. The tip of it traces the edges of your panties, your lips, nudges against your entrance. “You infuriate me. I cannot stop thinking of you.”

You’re too overwhelmed to make sense of his admission, but it sends a ripple of delight through you nonetheless. You buck your hips, desperate for the friction that only his mouth can provide.

“Please,” you beg.

The blade of the dagger stills. “Please what?”

“Please.”

You can’t think of anything else to say.

He urges, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I want your mouth on my —”

Feyd-Rautha impatiently cuts away your panties, effectively silencing you. His mouth encloses on your clit. Your words turn into a wail of surprise, of pleasure when he applies pressure with his tongue and then sucks.

Ecstasy spirals through you.

It shouldn’t be a shock that he’s skillful at pleasuring you, at lapping between your lungs like your cunt is the sweetest dessert, yet it still resonates — how he knows exactly when and where to lick, to suckle, to coax more pleading moans from you with his tongue.

And when you come you unravel completely.

“So greedy,” he murmurs as you rise your hips back up to him, beckoning him to continue. “You try to rebel against the idea but you want this cock buried deep inside you, coating you with my cum. Is that right?”

“Yes —”

He slams himself up to the hilt inside you. You cry out in equal parts agony and desire, back bowing, walls stretching to accommodate him. Feyd-Rautha doesn’t wait for you to adjust, drawing out and back in with feverish vigor. His hands pin you to the bed to keep you from arching away, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

“You feel incredible,” he says, your name falling from your lips like a prayer. “So nice and tight.”

You clench around him. Feyd-Rautha mumbles his appreciation, slows his movements. “I won’t be able to last if you keep doing that,” he tells you, “you feel so good. So fucking good.”

You put up a protest as he withdraws, leaving you feeling horribly empty. Feyd-Rautha turns you onto your belly, ensures that your knees are at the edge of the bed, ass up. A mortifying heat surges through you — completely exposed, vulnerable to his wandering gaze. He runs his hand over your ass, drifts to your soaked cunt.

“I want to possess you wholly.”

You whimper in response. You hear movement from behind, and, in the absence of his attention, dip your hand down to your cunt to alleviate the mounting pressure, but you’re declined the pleasure.

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself.”

He lines himself with your entrance. This time when he seats himself inside you it’s painfully slow, deliberate, every inch driving you closer to another orgasm. Feyd-Rautha starts a slow pace, pulling his cock out till his swollen head brushes past your lips, then back in. Eventually he increases his speed until he’s snapping his hips against you, penetrating you deeply, fully, invoking breathless sounds from both of you.

Feyd-Rautha pursues his pleasure the same way he fights — violent, ruthless in its execution. You’re aware, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, that you’re going to be a quivering mess tomorrow. But in the moment you can only immerse yourself in this man: Feyd-Rautha, the na-Baron, a monster in his own right.

In a burst of bright light, an orgasm cleaves you in half, Feyd-Rautha pumping into you until it surrenders to his darkness. Before you can even recover, you feel the familiar coldness of the dagger’s blade biting into your back, down your spine, circling your ass.

He brushes his thumb over your ass. “Have you ever been taken here before?”

Your breath hitches. “Once.”

Feyd-Rautha emits a satisfied hum. From your peripheral you watch him reach into the bedside table again, this time to fish out a cloth to wipe down the dagger. Your walls clench.

“I want to see this dagger in that pretty ass of yours.”

Feyd-Rautha traces your cunt, gathering your wetness on his fingers to coat the handle of the dagger. He spits on your ass, rubs it over you. “You have to relax,” he rasps. The handle of the dagger pushes against you and you instinctively flex as the first ridge enters you. “Relax, wife.“

You oblige, and he’s able to ease the rest of it inside. It’s tight, full, uncomfortable, but not unbearable. When you feel Feyd-Rautha notch himself at your entrance, alarm seizes you. “What are you —?”

He plunges himself inside you.

And as he does, the blade of the knife punctures his skin with a soft squelch.

You gasp. A growl rumbles through his chest. You can’t see, but you can hear the blade pierce him with each ministration of his hips. You can’t believe him, what he’s doing, but the sounds he makes as he enters you and the dagger enters him at the same time are inescapable, intoxicating. And with the added fullness of his cock and the handle of the dagger, you build towards your orgasm, toes curling.

Feyd-Rautha sinks into you again and again, dagger piercing his side. It prompts a steady stream of his blood that joins with your slickness. His breath quickens. “You take my cock so well. Look at you, so full, so beautiful.”

He slows to remove the dagger from you, taking his time as not to harm you. You shudder. The dagger is tossed to the side still covered in his blood.

“I get to fuck this pretty pussy as much as I want,” he rasps, more to himself than you. “Fill you with my seed, over and over until it takes, then fuck you when you’re pregnant and round with my child. Fuck. I want to see you. I want to see your face as I cum inside you for the first time.”

The image he paints has you gasping for breath. Eager to please, you turn onto your back and present yourself to him. Feyd-Rautha is a god of war, of wrath, wreathed in shadows, and he buries himself into you like he’s seeking redemption. You cry out as he nears his own orgasm, tears blurring your eyes — he sheathes himself fully one final time then spills his seed in your cunt.

Your walls pulse, clamping down around him. He holds you close as he finishes, warm breath fanning your skin, jolting slightly. It’s only when he removes himself, bites playfully at your breast, that you realize the wetness you feel dripping onto your belly is his blood.

“Feyd — what, what were you thinking?” You shove him off you.

He stands, naked form on display, blood dribbling down from the wound in his stomach. It’s distracting, frankly, and it just reminds you of how it had gotten there.

“I wasn’t,” he says simply.

You open your mouth to say something else, reprimand him, maybe, but then he runs his fingers along your thigh and scoops up the cum that’s escaped from inside you. He pushes it back into your cunt, which is still beating with the memory of his cock, blissfully sore.

Feyd-Rautha says, “Don’t worry about me, wife. I will heal. You worry about keeping me inside you.”

He stands to walk away and as he does, you mutter to no one, “I wasn’t worried” although you were. You tilt your hips up. Getting pregnant isn’t exactly your top priority right now, but the alternative is having his cum dribble down your thighs, and the black fluid is a little concerning to see smeared across your skin.

What child could be born from such a substance?

You angle your head to see Feyd-Rautha. He stands at the threshold of the bathroom, back turned to you. You admire his physique. For all of his misgivings — his psychotic tendencies, the murder, the way he plays his games with you — he’s irritatingly attractive. You close your eyes and let your head thump onto the bed.

You open them again when you hear the bedroom door swing open. “Are you leaving?” You ask, exasperated.

“Yes,” Feyd-Rautha says. He’s dressed, sadly. “I have other business to tend to.”

You scowl at the implication of being business.

“I’ll be back before the wedding. Keep up with your tolerance. Just know that I won’t fuck you every time you over dose,” he tells you. A million questions jump to mind — and quite a few curses — but he’s gone before you can say any of them.

Spent and still reeling from your recent fucking, you collapse back onto the bed and throw your arm over your eyes. What were you doing?

You were going to marry him.

Part 7

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@beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @kpopnstarwars @m-indkiller

#dune #feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #writers on tumblr #writing #fanfic #feyd smut #i am feral for him #FERAL

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coralinnii · 3 months

Note

Hello! If u dont remember me I'm the person that requested the villainess au Trey x reader from a long time ago, just wanna drop in and say I really look forward to your works and hope you have a great day/night/time! Sorry for bothering you if this message ends up being a bother

‧₊˚✧ Being Reincarnated into a New World as the Bad Guy‧₊˚✧

feat: Trey

genre: slow burn, coworkers-to-something more

note: no pronouns were used for reader, reader is implied to be old enough to work, mentions of poisoning and assassination attempts, reader is somewhat emotionally constipated.

extra note: While Trey is not quite in-character as I would like, he is supposed to be younger than his canon version, so I wanted him to be more unsure and inexperienced than his future self.

I did it, I finally got this done. Praise me (don't)

Being Reincarnated as the Bad Guy aka Villain/ess AU masterlist

You don’t get paid enough for this nonsense. No, you seriously don’t.

One minute you were finally getting off a particularly bad shift at work, only to be in this strange world you don’t recognize…as a low-ranking servant to the bloody royal family!

The rules, the standards, the pretentious nobles you have to smile in fear of having your neck sliced…where’s OSHA when you need them?

At least your coworkers were decent and you’re not in charge of anything too major like waiting on the Queen or her son, unlike that young aide-in-training you see running up and down the palace…poor Sir Clover.

Not your problem, though

…Until a couple of greedy noblemen forced a vial of poison into your hands, promising you a grand reward of money and status for your compliance. They wanted you to spike the drink of the crown prince’s closest aide-in-training so they could plant their own men by his side.

With your best service smile on, you handed back the vial back.

“No ❤️”

When they try to threaten you, you kindly remind them that if they plan to drag you in the mud, you’re not above pulling them along with you.

“If I’m going down, I’m dragging everyone with me.”

Once that was over, you wanted to cleanse yourself from this ugly conspiracy. You were way too busy worrying about your own neck, and you assumed that Sir Clover was cautious over his own safety that you, a mere worker bee, have nothing to contribute.

However, you do notice that the young green-haired man seems to prioritize others over himself, and the lights to his room are often still lit until late into the night. An honest young man burdened with responsibilities; his defenses may not always be on guard…

Ugghh, what a pain in the-

“Um, excuse me?” You looked to the tall nobleman trying to capture your attention.

“Yes, Sir Clover?”

“Were you originally scheduled to work today?”

You held your urge to click your tongue. Of course, Trey would be aware of at least who was scheduled to wait on Prince Riddle and him. What an annoyingly conscientious man.

“My colleague was feeling unwell so I offered to take her place for today. I apologize for not informing you beforehand.” You bowed politely which made the bespectacled man a little flustered.

“No, I’m grateful she could take a rest. Thank you for taking up the role but please let us know next time so we can offer some medical help if needed.”

That wouldn’t be necessary, you thought as you nodded regardless. Your coworker wasn’t really sick in any way but she was more than happy to switch schedules with you.

Many of the servants are under the impression that you harbored a crush on the admittedly cute aide-in-training since you were caught glancing at his direction more often than usual. It wouldn't be surprising if your “crush” in question is also aware of the gossip, which leads to his tenseness around you. Be it kindness or hesitance, Sir Clover chose not to reprimand you for doing as you please.

“What a pain, but I guess it works in my favor anyway.”

A knock rang through the room and with Riddle’s permission, an anxious maid came in with a tray carrying a tea set, confusing everyone in the room.

It’s not time for afternoon tea yet.

“What is the meaning of this?” For someone so young, Riddle’s sharp tone ran a deadly chill down everyone’s back. “Afternoon tea is not for another 13 minutes.”

The maid stuttered in fear, the tea set clattering slightly in her hands. “T-The servants thought that His Highness and Sir C-Clover have been working tirelessly today and perhaps some tea could help.”

You had too much of a survival instinct to dare look at the prince but the silence and building heat in the air was evidence enough that the thought was not appreciative.

Trey was quick to clear the tension with an awkward cough and a smile. “Thank you, I could use some.”

At his words, you dutifully proceeded to reach for the set when the maid hastily pulled it away from you.

Strange

“I-I can do it. Please excuse me” Without sparing a glance towards you, the maid quickly set the tray down on a nearby table and worked to pour a cup.

You’ve seen this maid only a few times. She was a new addition to the roster, too new to approach the royal family but here she was. She hadn't even learned how to properly hold the pot which was noticeable to everyone but was ignored (at the behest of Trey’s wordless plea) due to assumed inexperience.

“She’s so nervous but here she is, so adamant about serving some damn tea…”

A suffocating feeling rising in your throat, you watched with trepidation as the maid walked towards Trey while holding the teacup almost too preciously.

“Eek!” The maid shrieked when your hand squeezed her wrist in an unforgiving grip. She turned to question you but your glare kept her silent.

Trey looked at you with confusion, but your attention kept on the shaking maid and the teacup. With your other hand, you reach for your silver brooch given as part of your uniform to symbolize you as a person of the royal family.

The confusion in Trey’s eyes turned to disbelief when he watched your silver brooch become a damning color as you dipped the silver into the tea.

The broken maid would have crumbled completely onto the pristine floor if not for your hand still on her wrist. While she seemed to be a bumbling mess begging for her life, you couldn’t risk her making a run for it.

You don’t get paid enough for this nonsense.

”So, it was a plan to replace me…permanently.”

You stood silently in front of the solemn man in his office. After arresting her, it was easy to extract information from the maid and prince Riddle is gathering evidence for their act of treason, including your own interrogation.

“You are the trusted aide-to-be of the prince that cannot be bribed. You’re considered an obstacle.” You bowed your head. “I apologize for not speaking out sooner but if it were just my words without evidence, I could have my tongue removed for accusing nobility.”

If it was just you, then you wouldn’t be as confident. But to think that those corrupted nobles managed to convince someone else to do their dirty work. They were desperate and now that there was an attempt, the higher authorities have to take action.

“I shouldn’t feel bad for that maid…why should I for the choice she made…” you could still feel the sensation of that woman’s shaking body in the hand that held her. You don’t like it.

“Ha, you really don’t sugarcoat your words.” Trey’s voice pulled you back as he tried to laugh but his young body felt too heavy to put his whole heart into it.

But it’s finally over. The poisoning failed and those stupid noble scums were on Prince Riddle’s hit-list. That feeling of guilt that ate at your heart could finally rest in peace…right?

Even when he was the victim of all this, Trey was still sitting in his office in charge of investigating his own assassination attempt, on top of his usual duties in assisting the Royal family.

“Thank you for your time,” he even dares to smile kindly at you with dark circles under his warm eyes. “If you could, please call over the head staff to plan on interrogating the rest of the servants.”

“No.”

“N-No?”

“I won’t be doing that. I could ask the head staff to leave his schedule open if needed or if he could handle it with the guards since that’s his f*cking job,” You stared right into Trey’s eyes which widened in surprise. “For now, I humbly suggest Sir Clover to take a rest in his room or to work on something other than your assassination case.”

You didn’t wait for your stunned employer to reply as you bowed politely once more. “If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave.”

You moved away, making your way to the door before pausing. You glanced back at the young man in such a large office and your consciousness felt heavy. Your body was physically no older than Trey or Riddle but the weight on their shoulders was immeasurable, too much for either of them to handle on their own.

“Sir Clover,” you refused to look him in the eyes, “if you ever need anything…I’m willing to assist however I can.”

Immediately regretting your embarrassing words, you quickly added “but during work hours only!” before hastily leaving the office.

A shame really, since you missed the way Trey let out a genuine laugh after so long.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #villainess au #trey clover #twst trey x reader

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bindeds · 6 months

Note

bite me part two? 🥺👉👈

BITE ME ( PART 2. ) ALASTOR (HEAVILY FT. LUCIFER) X READER. — you arrive back from your outing with charlie and find a familiar face at the bar. it was unusual to find him there, and when he asks you what's wrong, it's hard to turn him away even if you are looking for someone else.

tags. explicit consent, but you don't actually fuck alastor, acknowledging his asexuality, jealousy. plot contains. ballroom dancing and flirting with lucifer! <3 wc. 3.3k

a/n. so sorry this took weeks! i hope you enjoy this anyhow <3

related links . . . part 1. bite me : lucifer’s ver.

masterlist. requests as of 0324 : open.

“You smell delicious, mon cher.”

Your eyes widened at the mirror blurring right in front of you. The dull bathrooms of the hotel hadn’t gone through any paint jobs yet, so in this light, it was the palest, dullest blue that almost glorified the blaring red that your companion possessed. There was no running water and yet the edges fogged up, puffs of greedy heat threatening to reach the very center. You stared right back at your own puzzled complexion, a mix between restraint and twisted bewilderment.

Your hands were limp in Alastor’s slender ones as he held them by your sides, your right hand a little more extended than the other.

He lowered his chin and rested snugly on your shoulder. His eyes shut. His smile was persistent, mocking and as bright as ever.

“Is it truly what you desire?” Alastor asked, and like the moisture that infected the mirror, his bloodied velvet voice rang like a snake’s hiss in your head. “To be … undone by his frivolous charms.”

He spat the words out like it was venom threatening to poison the very tongue he used to keep you right where you were, conflicted with the thrill of your wrestling heart over what this man had been doing to you.

“Alastor …”

“Or would you prefer it to be by my own hand?”

Alastor’s left hand left yours in a quick motion as it went flush against your upper abdomen.

You bit your lip as his hand traveled further down the smooth fabric of your clothing, almost mirroring the movement of sweat rolling down your forehead and cheek.

“Well?” He refrained himself from laughing, but of course it was a very poor attempt.

You were slowly but surely crumpling in his ever tightening grasp.

His hand stopped dead at the very bottom of your stomach.

Your breath hitched. Liquid fire spread in between each strand of hair on your head as you gulped.

“May I?”

“Al, what are you doing? You wouldn’t do this. You’re playing with me,” you dared to speak out amidst the haze of speechlessness that had been cast upon you by this half-done bathroom—by the swell of Alastor’s chest on your shoulder blades, by his entire body that had been so perfect of a puzzle piece against the back of your own.

“Oh, but I would,” Alastor snickered in a low, sinister tone that only finished in a high. “You’ve already witnessed the measures I’d travel just to make myself happy. You and I are both unaware of what I’m capable of doing for the one I yearn for.”

“Al … that’s …”

This is all wrong. He’s going about it the completely wrong way.

Your eyes finally shoot up and away from the mirror that distorted your tunnel-vision view—but that could very well be your own mind overwhelming your body, making it jump hoops all for its own sick gain.

If you started all over again, you couldn’t have guessed you’d end up here. And even if you could … would you have avoided it?

…

The bar had been its usual glowing, droopy green as it always had, with Husk tending to it like he was its loyal servant—and in a way, he was. With being the hotel’s bartender, he was unspokenly tasked to help the poor souls that wander over to his bar to look for solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

But today … had been slightly different.

Slightly different in the sense that Husk … couldn’t read the man before him. He looked … tired, with subtle bags forming below his once bright, wide eyes whenever he looked down, but he still smiled when he downed a shot and settled for red wine after the very first one.

When you and Charlie came bursting in with what would be the sun’s energy if it possessed the power to speak, your eyes matched the man at the bar’s. Husk saw it immediately.

Not just the dark circles under your eyes, or how your shoulders went limp the moment Charlie regrouped with her girlfriend.

Your neck.

It had been very slightly deformed, but he couldn’t explain in what way. In almost every angle, it was flawless skin that looked the same all across your hands, arms and face. But in just one angle in particular …

Husk flinched when Lucifer called your name from across the hotel lobby, waving at you to sit down next to him. The bags disappeared without a trace, with only that bright smile everyone knew so well to accompany his already cheery demeanor. You would have almost forgotten he was even sitting at the gloomy bar in the first place.

“How was your little outing with Charlie? Did you and my little girl have fun?” He asked as his smile persisted through his drinking.

“Yes, sir, we—”

“Oh, no need for that now, just call me Lucifer,” he chuckled as he waved you off.

“Okay,” you smiled, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine, why do you ask my dear?” Lucifer raised a brow but his other hand was still wrapped around his half-finished glass of liquor.

“Well, it’s just that—”

You flinched as gentle fingers on your cheek had forced you to twist your neck at an awkward angle.

A whispering breeze blew past a sore spot you had forgotten.

You swatted Lucifer’s hand away and gasped at your own sharp reaction.

“Shit, I’m so sorry sir I—”

“Who did that to you?”

His voice crumbled unstable, being held up by only his will to know what happened. He glanced up at you, brows tensed and pulled together.

You covered your neck, rolling your lips into a crumpled line.

“Lucifer, it’s nothing, really,” you insisted.

Lucifer reached out again. “At least let me heal it—”

“You can’t,” you said, gently deflecting his hand once more.

He blinked a few times. His gaze briefly rested on your shoulder before resuming to his own glass as he sighed silently.

“Alright then.”

He snapped his fingers and summoned a soft scarf from a pume of red smoke. He presented it to you with two hands and you took it wearily, but wrapped it around your neck as soon as you had it in your grasp.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m only worried,” he said, and your name was exhaled from his lips like it was something he’d been keeping in.

“Could you at least … think about it? For me?”

“Think about what?”

“Letting me heal your wound. It looks painful,” Lucifer added as he squinted back at where your wound would have been had you not covered it up with the scarf.

“I’ll …” you paused as you looked away. The lobby had been rather empty tonight considering the evening was settling in, this was usually when people would be flooding either into the dining hall for dinner or out to catch their own meals.

Your gaze fell on Charlie who had been Vaggie’s headrest as they watched tv together in the lobby. They don’t usually do this, so you had a feeling it might have had something to do with the man right in front of you. After all, it wasn’t a usual sight to see him anywhere near the bar considering he clearly found it distasteful.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lucifer nodded. A warm smile overtook his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Husk glanced between you and Lucifer and set down the empty wine bottle he’d been wiping at the side.

He walked over to the back of the bar where the other bottles of liquor were on display and reached for a small radio with knobs on either side. He knew that this would come in handy someday, even if he hated to admit that the radio demon was right.

He turned the knob once, and a fast-talking demon barely got a word in before he turned it again. It took a few more turns before he settled on a song he was lucky to have stumbled upon.

The slow, swaying tune of trumpets began to play, the sound bouncing off the walls to create an ambience similar to that of an old film shot in a fancy hotel just like this one.

And like the corrupt angels heard Husk’s scattered prayers, Angel Dust appeared by the main stairs of the hotel.

“Hey, I’m just gonna head out for dinner,” he called to him before his eyes wandered the ceilings. “Hey, what’s this fancy tune?”

The radio had been magically routed throughout the hotel lobby, and it had been like this since Alastor had given him this radio to tuck away in case of ‘dire situations.’

Everyone looked around the walls of the hotel, amazement filled in the glimmers of their eyes at what they were hearing.

“Just a lil’ somethin’ to lighten up the mood. I haven’t been outside but I’m sure it’s a fine evening,” Husk says rather apathetically, considering the actual content of his words.

“Hey, wait I know this song!” Angel Dust perked up as his eyes widened just as much as his agape smile had. “Husk, c’mon!”

Charlie and Vaggie had already taken the floor and slow-danced in swirls.

Angel Dust rushed towards the bar and beckoned Husk once more.

“It … is a lovely night,” Lucifer uttered your name once more, catching your attention as you exchanged tired gazes with him. “Care to dance, love?”

Lucifer offered you his hand.

But all you saw were the memories of what had happened upstairs not too long ago. The striking pain, the oozing pleasure—Alastor’s gaze.

“Lucifer, it’s very sweet of you, but I can’t,” you refused again.

Lucifer’s already effete smile dissipated, but his hand remained persistent.

“It’s only a dance, my dear. With all the things that wear you down, I can’t think of a more perfect distraction,” Lucifer persisted as his hand remained extended out before you.

You considered Lucifer’s words for a minute. Alastor hasn’t appeared when he usually does whenever Charlie comes back from an errand, and you didn’t want to disturb him especially after the intimate moment you shared before leaving. It must have been a lot for him considering his sexual orientation, even if sex wasn’t involved.

And, Lucifer had been nothing but endearing since you came back. He didn’t pry into your business even if you knew he could tell that you were fatigued.

You hooked a finger in the scarf Lucifer had given you, as if to remind yourself of just how patient and kind Lucifer had been when even he seemed out of it tonight.

You nodded as you took his hand, and you yelped at the sudden pull of your entire body as he spun you around. Before you could reorient yourself, you were in the empty floors of the hotel lobby, with one hand clasped on Lucifer’s own, and the other on his shoulder. His other hand held your waist upright as you danced in tandem, you and Lucifer’s feet like two parts of the same mechanism. His one step forward was your one step back.

“Kiss me once and kiss me twice and kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long, time …”

His eyes remained on you, a gentle smile shone in the gold lighting of the hotel. Perhaps this was why he was named the Morningstar; the setting sun whispered over his cheeks and his gaze, even if it had now been tainted red, was still something to behold.

“Did I tell you you look lovely tonight?” Lucifer asked gingerly.

You held back a chuckle. “You might have mentioned it, yes.”

“Oh, you kid,” Lucifer grinned as he shook his head. “The answer is ‘no,’ dear.”

“Then what was the point of asking?”

Lucifer paused, and all you could do was search his features for an answer.

“It was so that I can tell you a million times over.”

You only had a second to react when he spun you a lot slower this time, and you were actually able to catch a glimpse of Husk and Angel dancing nearby and … was that a stain on the wall?

“You look lovely tonight,” Lucifer uttered in hushed tones, the low voice casting a fumes over your line of thought.

He pulled away from you for a moment, but had a firm grasp as your only link to him was both your hands, arms outstretched to each other. He pulled you back towards him again, your chest to be flush against his own as your hand instinctively found his again.

“You look lovely tonight,” he repeated in a more hopeful tone, and by this time you understood what he was doing and you finally let yourself laugh.

As the song slowed to an end, he dipped you delicately as his arm steeled under your lower back to hold the rest of you up.

“You look … lovely. Tonight,” Lucifer finished.

He helped you up as your eyes locked onto his, though, if you were being honest with yourself, it might have been locked there for just about the entire dance; you were just too busy exploring what laid beneath. You finally returned his solemn smile and he reached to the side of your face to tuck some stray hair behind your ear.

You tilted your head towards his touch, as if it was almost by instinct again.

“You know, I was looking to … loosen up tonight, if you catch my meaning,” Lucifer lifted his chin as hints of that signature grin peeked through his lips.

A raindrop string, a bird’s cry—what had been something so endearing had suddenly turned strangely bittersweet. The answer had been more than sparkling clear in your head.

“Lucifer, I—”

Your eyes instinctively fell on that dark spot on the wall again.

And your entire body shivered ice cold. You perked up and away from Lucifer’s hand as the stain on the wall sneered at you.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer asked.

Except, it really wasn’t a stain on the wall. More of a shadow in the chair. Alastor materialized fully into a single seater by the tv, eyes squinted as his close-mouthed smile stretched from ear to ear.

Alastor’s high pitched cackle echoed in your head as he dissolved into black wisps again, his shadow stretching towards the half-done women’s public bathroom of the hotel.

“Did you hear that?”

“No … what’s—”

“I’m sorry, I have to go—um, to the bathroom.”

Lucifer called your name as you slipped away from him, but you ignored his call as you rushed into the bathroom like you said you would.

When you burst through the door, the bathroom sat humid and abandoned with the air conditioning of the hotel kept completely out from the stuffy room. The structure of it had really come together nicely, so it wouldn’t have looked nearly as creepy if the team had gotten the paint job done this week.

“Why have you come, dear?” That smooth yet high pitched voice echoed not just in your head this time, but it ricocheted off the walls and back at you to hear it ring a second, third, and fourth time.

Alastor was loudest over your shoulder. You felt his breath tickle your neck as his shoes clicked along the tiled floors. He walked around you, finally showing himself as he planted his cane on the floor between both of you.

“Lucifer and I were just talking and I was looking for you after we came back but you didn’t come to see us. Then music played and …”

Alasto waited a while before speaking up himself. “And what?”

“Oh c’mon Al, could you just—not do this for once? Please? You know what I’m trying to say. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … do that.”

“Do what? Dance with the very man that has me scratching layers of my own skin and flesh out?” Alastor looked up in thought, though knowing him, this remark had been smeared all over his lips since he’d first observed you with Lucifer. All he’d done was scrape the nastiest parts and flung it right at you.

“Alastor, I didn’t know if I should have disturbed you when I got back, alright? Don’t be like that. I really am sorry—and you’re being mean about it, I’m trying to be genuine here,” you protested as you folded your arms over your chest.

“Oh, darling,” Alastor sighed sympathetically. He approached you with just a step or two forward, and with your head still hung low, your eyes zipped at him as he laid a gentle hand on top of your own.

That hand grabbed yours and in a gush of wind, you were in front of the mirror with Alastor’s entire body glued to your back.

. . .

And you’re back in the present. His hand was a clothing iron to your lower stomach, burning and sticking to you like you had to get it off.

“Alastor, do you think I’d choose Lucifer over you for sex?” You shrieked in disbelief.

Alastor’s lips pursed in thought. “It’s the one thing he acquired that i have not. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“And you’d make yourself uncomfortable … just to keep me from leaving you?”

You feel Alastor slowly nod with his head still pressed against you.

“It’s an indulgence i find useless and quite incomprehensible however—”

You broke out of his grasp and turned around, your hands ending up around his nape.

“Al.”

His complexion relaxed from its previously shocked state. He blinked, and he pinned you against the sink when he leaned into you, his hands on either side of the sink’s edge.

“I think it’s very sweet that you would do that for me,” you began shakily. “But I also … I want you to want me.”

Alastor tilted his head.

“But I do want you, darling. Just earlier up in my quarters I was thinking how lovely it would be to read dracula to you while you drift off to sleep.”

You smiled sheepishly, finally breaking eye contact with him as you lower your head.

“Yes. I’d like that very much. But that’s not what I’m talking about, dear,” you reiterate with honey that Alastor could taste in your tone as you felt him ease up in your hands, he somehow grew warmer, softer—like he had been making himself easier to hold for you.

“I’m … I’m talking about sex.”

“Yes. If you’d like that then—”

“No, Al. I’ve accepted that you’re aromantic and asexual a long time ago. And I consider myself lucky to be in some sort of exclusive arrangement with you already.”

“‘an individual that rarely experiences romantic or sexual attraction.’”

Your eyes widened. “You know?”

“I asked Niffty to use voogle because I felt my skin crumple and bubble at the very thought of participating in that picture box head’s scheme. But yes, I am now aware of such terms. I find that it suits me quite well.”

“I’d like to respect that, Al. You’re who I want to spend all my time with. And if sex makes you uncomfortable then we don’t have to do it. I can always do it myself.”

Alastor continued to smile as if you hadn’t said anything. As if you hadn’t just handed him your heart—blood, arteries and all—on a silver platter. You bit your lip and it pulsated like a heartbeat, but maybe you were just getting lightheaded.

Alastor finally pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as his grin shrunk down to a barely visible smile.

“Thank you, my treasure.”

That night, as Alastor had mentioned, you went to bed in matching pajamas as he read your own book to you, Dracula by Bram Stoker. You fell asleep quite a while after he’d begun reading, and even if Alastor barely gets any sleep at all, he still shifts next to you under the sheets to have you close.

taglist : (comment if you’d like to be on it! tell me if there’s other characters you’d like to be tagged for as well <3) @whateverlololo @shunsuiken @rineptune

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flowerwrites06 · 5 months

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plucked blossom — myg (teaser)

PLUCKED BLOSSOM | Yoongi | Oneshot | Request or Original

Original Request: Arranged marriage au?? E2L?? They were enemies but yoongi finding out she was just a hurt precious soul. Ending up with Yoongi being protective of oc Plot: Two nobles are rushed into marriage and struggle to navigate the pressures of the court. Pairing: Noble!Yoongi x Noble!OC (Name: Kiku). Genre: Historical AU. Rating: R18+ Word Count: 500+ (teaser wc) Warnings: coarse language, angst, sexual content, marriage troubles. Author’s Note: sorry for the wait, friends, here's a teaser for an upcoming fic!

“This is the third ball you’ve refused to attend,” Yoongi said as two servants placed a white box onto the bed.

Kiku only glanced at the object before going back to her embroidery, still working on the same daffodil which was already fraying from her lack of focus. “I told you I wasn’t in the mood.”

Yoongi lets out another frustrated sigh, his white sleeves rolled up by the afternoon and his patience thinned as he placed his hands on his hips. “Eventually we need to become public.”

“We have become public, we had a wedding so big, the money could’ve fed the entire country.” The two servants quickly walked out of the room, wanting to avoid what was the fifth argument they’ve had.

“Oh you’re a pure, giving soul now?”

Kiku rolled her eyes, stabbing the fabric again for the next stitch. “If you want to go to the ball so bad, why don’t you just go by yourself?”

Yoongi shook her head. “That’s not a good look.”

“Why not? So many men there attend a ball only to fuck some other noblewoman in the garden.” She raised her eyes to glare at him directly. “At least you’ll be honest with yourself.”

Frustration laced his gaze. “I don’t go there to fuck some random person, it’s just tradition.”

“Well, I’m not going.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, clearly to gather whatever saintly patience that was hanging by a threat. With another deep breath, he walked to the box and opened it to reveal a beautiful pale blue dress, transparent outer kaftan with a silk white inner dress. “I brought you a new dress. It’s your favourite colour.”

Kiku looked at the dazzling delicate silver embroidery at the edges, just the way she preferred it. “Did you go to consult my brother to find out?”

“No, your brother thought it was yellow.”

Kiku’s brows furrowed. “Of course he did.”

The tension between them slowly cooled as it always did. Something about Yoongi’s seemingly endless way of handling her quips and her own demeanour becoming gentle caused their arguments to end swiftly. Granted, they were still frequent but it was shorter everytime.

In a softer voice, Yoongi spoke. “Just one night a month, I’d like you to come public with me.”

“I don’t have good relationships with the court members,” Kiku said empathetically.

“Then ignore them, just come.”

“Why’re you being so insistent? You were never like this before.” Kiku crossed her arms over her chest. “You have been talking to my brother, haven’t you?”

“He…we think that the people might be whispering certain things.” Yoongi waved his hand.

Anger flared in her chest. Of course the court started muttering poisonous rumours. Everytime someone wanted some alone time to actually think about their life for once, they wanted to punish those people. Because it meant too much honesty in a world so used to pretty lies. “They whisper a lot of things, what is it this time?”

“They think you might’ve gone mad.” Yoongi didn’t waste breath saying this, as if he had already convinced himself of it.

Kiku chuckled, putting her embroidery away and walking to look at the window. “What delightful conversations you and my brother have about me.”

masterlist

#yoongi #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts angst #bts smut #bts imagines #yoongi fanfic #yoongi imagines

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theetherealbloom · 17 days

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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 3 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Three: There Will Be No Glory

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge,

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I swear I’m cookin’ back here. I've been writing this series non-stop for days lmao. Idk what hit me?? I actually have the next chapter ready to post too lmao. Hope everyone is doing well!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: hunter by Paris Paloma

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — EARLY MORNING

The Sept of Baelor was alive with a flurry of activity. Servants moved swiftly, preparing for the grand wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell. Every corner of the grand sept was being scrubbed, every flower meticulously placed, every banner hung with precision. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue over the stained-glass windows, but already the heat of the day was making the air feel thick and heavy.

You were in the midst of it all, arranging the delicate floral garlands along the altar. The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, mingling with the incense that filled the Sept. Your hands moved mechanically, arranging the blooms with precision, though your mind was elsewhere. The headache that had been gnawing at the edges of your consciousness all morning now pulsed with a vengeance, a searing pain behind your eyes. It was getting harder to focus, and the heat didn’t help.

Voices echoed through the Sept as people hurried by, servants calling to one another in preparation, but it was all a dull hum in your ears. You pressed a hand to your temple, closing your eyes for a moment as the migraine intensified. The world seemed to blur at the edges, the weight of your own thoughts pressing down on you, mingling with the physical pain.

Then, suddenly, a firm hand gripped your arm. You gasped, eyes snapping open as you were pulled away from your work, your feet stumbling beneath you. The world spun as you were dragged through the corridors, away from the main hall.

Your first instinct was to fight back. You kicked, struggled, your heart pounding with panic. But the grip was unyielding, dragging you into a darkened alcove, hidden away from prying eyes.

“What are you—? Let go of me!” you hissed, your voice strained with fear and frustration as you fought against your captor, kicking and trying to free yourself.

Then, in the dim light, you saw him. Oberyn Martell. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something else in them—a hunger, a dangerous edge. He didn’t release you, instead pressing you further into the shadows, the cool stone wall biting against your back.

“You—” you began, breathless, still trying to regain control of the situation, but Oberyn leaned closer, cutting off your words with the intensity of his gaze.

“Shh," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ve been looking for you.”

His words hung between you like a dangerous secret. His body pressed against yours, firm and unyielding, his hands bracing on either side of your head, caging you in. Your heart raced as you realized there was no escaping him now. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, determined to maintain your composure despite the sudden surge of heat that flushed your skin.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice shaky but defiant. “We shouldn’t be here—”

Oberyn’s smile widened, the corner of his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Shouldn’t we?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were dark, intense. His face was so close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve noticed.”

“I’m working,” you replied, trying to maintain control of your voice, trying to keep your heart from pounding so loudly in your chest. “And you should be—”

But Oberyn interrupted you, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending sparks shooting up your spine. "You carry yourself with grace, more like a lady of the court than a servant.” His gaze trailed over you, studying you, watching the way you tried to hide the tremor in your breath. “It makes me wonder… who are you really?”

Your throat tightened. The question cut too close to the truth. You had worked so hard to blend in, to be unnoticed, yet Oberyn’s gaze seemed to peel back the layers you had carefully built. He was too perceptive, too sharp.

“I’m no one,” you lied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Just a servant.”

Oberyn chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “A servant who speaks with such eloquence, who watches others like a hawk, as if you’re calculating their every move.” His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming as he whispered, “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Your pulse quickened. His words were dangerous, far too close to what you had been so careful to hide. Oberyn was watching you with an intensity that made your skin burn, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. He saw through you in a way no one else had. The facade you wore was slipping under his gaze, and you weren’t sure if you could hold it up any longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Oberyn tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours, reading the fear and the defiance in equal measure. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a good liar,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “But I’ve spent my life around liars. And you... you are no ordinary servant.”

You swallowed hard, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone as Oberyn’s presence enveloped you. His fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, tracing the line of your face as he studied you. "There's something about you," he said, his voice soft but dangerous. "Something... familiar."

Your breath caught in your throat. He was getting too close, too close to the truth you had buried so deeply. You had to regain control, had to push him away before he uncovered everything.

“Let me go,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength you intended.

Oberyn’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he held you there, trapped between him and the wall. He leaned in, his lips hovering near yours, the tension between you crackling like wildfire. “Not yet,” he whispered, his voice a promise, a warning.

And in that moment, you realized you were caught.

Oberyn stood so close, his presence overwhelming, his eyes filled with that dangerous blend of curiosity and something more primal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the air between you thick with tension, as if the entire world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in this darkened corner of the Sept.

His voice, low and smooth, broke the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. “My sister used to write to me, you know,” he began, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “Princess Elia. We were always apart, but her letters kept me close to her.” He paused, watching you closely, as though he could see right through the facade you’d carefully built over the years.

You stiffened at the mention of Elia, your heart clenching painfully. You hadn’t heard that name spoken so intimately in years. You were only a child then, but you remembered her well—kind, gentle, her presence like a soft light amidst the darkness that surrounded the Red Keep. Your hands trembled slightly, but you quickly clenched them into fists, trying to maintain your composure as Oberyn continued.

“There was one letter,” he mused, his voice softening as if recalling a distant memory. His fingers lightly traced the air, as if mimicking the act of writing. “She wrote about a servant. A girl, a child really, whose parents had given her away. She never mentioned the girl’s name, but she always said how kind she was. How strong, despite everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You knew he was talking about you. Elia had been the only one who had shown you kindness, who had given you a place to belong when the world had taken everything from you. But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t let anyone know who you truly were. The weight of your past was a burden you had carried alone, and it had to stay that way.

Oberyn stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, as though he could find the truth hidden behind your carefully guarded expression. “I wonder…” he whispered, his lips hovering near your ear. “Was that girl you?”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to run, to get away, but Oberyn’s presence held you in place. His gaze was relentless, burning into you, waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“I—” You struggled to find the words, your mind racing, but your throat felt tight, your heart hammering in your chest. You had spent years building this mask, this life as a mere servant, someone no one would look at twice. But now, in the span of moments, Oberyn was threatening to tear it all away.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of your face, and the world seemed to narrow down to that single point of contact. “Who are you, truly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his tone.

The question hung in the air, suffocating. His proximity, the way his body loomed over yours, the way his eyes pinned you in place—it was all too much. The pressure, the closeness, the danger of being exposed—it all came crashing down on you, and suddenly, something snapped inside you.

Without warning, you moved.

Your knee shot up, connecting with Oberyn’s side, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not enough to cause real harm. He staggered back, his expression briefly shifting to one of surprise before it morphed into something almost amused. But you didn’t give him time to recover. You slipped out from under his arm, using his momentary lapse to dart past him, your body moving with an agility you hadn’t shown before.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, clearly not expecting the sudden resistance. “I see,” he murmured, rubbing his side where you’d struck him, his eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than before. “You’re full of surprises.”

But you didn’t stop to listen. You were already moving, slipping back into the main hall of the Sept where the other servants were still bustling about, preparing for the wedding. The light from the stained-glass windows bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, but you barely noticed. Your heart was pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you forced yourself to keep walking, blending back into the crowd of workers.

No one seemed to notice your disheveled state, the faint tremor in your hands as you returned to your duties. You grabbed a bouquet of flowers, your fingers working mechanically as you set them in place, your mind racing with the encounter you had just escaped.

Oberyn had been close—too close. You had no idea how much he truly knew or how much he suspected, but it was clear he wasn’t going to let this go. You could still feel his eyes on you, the way he had studied you as if he could unravel all your secrets.

But you wouldn’t let him. You had survived this long by keeping your past hidden, and you wouldn’t let anyone—no matter how charming, how dangerous—pull you back into that life.

As you worked, your mind kept replaying his words, the way he had looked at you with that knowing gaze. You could feel the danger closing in, but you had no choice but to press on. The game was far from over, and you would have to be even more careful from now on.

But one thing was clear—Oberyn Martell was not a man easily fooled.

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — DAY

You lingered in the cool shadows of the Sept, hidden from view, just another servant who wasn’t meant to be seen. You weren’t supposed to be part of the grand ceremony at all. Your role, after all, was to prepare for the feast that would follow this extravagant display—a celebration meant to rival even the greatest of royal unions.

But something compelled you to stay.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of hushed murmurs echoed off the high stone walls as nobles and lords gathered to witness the joining of Houses Tyrell and Lannister. It was all falling into place, every step of this elaborate plan leading to this moment. The tension in the room crackled like lightning before a storm.

You stood, your heart pounding, as Margaery Tyrell, radiant in her flowing gown, walked down the aisle on the arm of her father, Mace Tyrell. Her golden hair shimmered in the light of the stained-glass windows, and her face was calm—serene even—as though she had been preparing for this her entire life. You watched closely, your gaze sharp, dissecting every movement, every flicker of emotion. The entire event was a spectacle, a symbol of power, of politics. It was all theater.

Mace Tyrell paused at the base of the steps, his expression proud as he handed his daughter to the waiting king. Joffrey stood at the top, his grin smug, cruel even, as he accepted Margaery’s hand. For a brief moment, your eyes lingered on the boy king, revulsion curling in your stomach. His reign had been a reign of terror and madness, and yet, in this moment, he stood like a conqueror, basking in the adulation of his subjects.

Margaery, ever poised, ascended the steps with him, her head held high as she moved beside Joffrey. The High Septon awaited them, his voice booming through the Sept as he began the sacred rites. You felt a strange sense of detachment, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance. Yet, there was a thrill beneath your skin—a deep, quiet satisfaction. Everything was in motion now, and there was no turning back.

The High Septon’s voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls:

"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

As the words filled the air, you couldn’t help but smirk slightly to yourself, hidden in the shadows. Cursed, indeed. The irony of it all, the pageantry, the vows, the promise of unity, knowing what was to come—it was almost poetic.

You watched as Joffrey, in all his arrogance, turned to Margaery, taking her hands in his. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. His voice carried the same venomous self-importance it always had, as if he truly believed himself a benevolent ruler.

The crowd erupted in applause as their lips met in a kiss that was supposed to symbolize the unity of two great houses. You watched with an unreadable expression as Margaery played her part flawlessly, the perfect bride, while Joffrey basked in the adulation.

From your vantage point, you caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark, her face pale as she leaned toward Tyrion Lannister. Her eyes were dark, her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, "We have a new queen."

Tyrion, ever the cynic, barely glanced at her as he muttered under his breath, “Better her than you.”

You felt a surge of something—was it pity?—for Sansa, trapped in this viper’s nest with no escape. But this wasn’t your concern, not today. Today, the wheels were turning, and soon, this entire charade would unravel. You could feel it in the air, the undercurrent of tension beneath the applause and celebration. It was almost time.

The ceremony concluded, and the newly crowned queen and her king descended the steps together, the picture of royal power. The applause grew louder, the lords and ladies of Westeros rising to their feet in celebration of this union. But all you could focus on was the bitter truth behind it all.

Your migraine throbbed in your temples, the dull ache intensifying as you stood there, watching the farce unfold before you. But you smiled, knowing that by the end of this day, Joffrey would no longer be king. The poison had already been set in motion, and the pieces on the board were exactly where you needed them to be.

For now, you would watch. The storm was coming, and you would be ready to strike when the time was right.

THE WEDDING RECEPTION

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — DAY

The garden was a riot of color and sound. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the warm breeze, the sigils of House Lannister emblazoned on every surface. Long tables stretched across the lush greenery, laden with golden platters of roasted meats, fruit, and delicate pastries. Lords and ladies of every great house in Westeros mingled, their voices a hum of excitement, laughter, and gossip, all gathered to celebrate the union of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.

Jugglers tossed brightly colored balls high into the air while fire-breathers sent plumes of flames into the sky. Their movements were smooth and practiced, as if the entire performance were just another part of the show that was the king’s wedding. Some even walked on stilts, towering over the crowd, while musicians played lively tunes in the background, the melodies weaving in and out of the general din.

You stood back, observing from the edge of the gardens, the soft perfume of roses mingling with the smoky scent of roasted meats. The spectacle of it all, the opulence, the grandeur—it was enough to make anyone feel insignificant in its shadow. You glanced down at your own hands, trembling slightly as you worked to keep them busy, adjusting a garland of flowers, though your task had long since been finished.

The whole scene was a display of power, the ruling elite flaunting their wealth for all to see. Each lord and lady wore their finest silks, their jewels glinting in the midday sun as they danced, laughed, and raised their goblets in celebration. But beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of tension. It lingered in the air, a brewing tempest on the horizon.

As your eyes drifted over the crowd, you spotted Bronn, Tyrion, and Podrick making their way through the guests. Tyrion’s face was hard to read, his usual wit tempered by the weight of the moment. He and Bronn exchanged quiet words, but even from a distance, you could see the unease in Tyrion’s posture. He didn’t want to be here, that much was clear.

And then, from across the garden, your gaze landed on Oberyn Martell. He and Ellaria Sand were seated near the fountain, utterly captivated by a contortionist performing impossible bends and twists before them. Ellaria laughed softly, her eyes alight with amusement, while Oberyn watched the performance with a more measured gaze.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes found yours.

The world seemed to slow as the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through your body. His dark eyes, filled with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, locked onto yours, as though he could see through every wall you had carefully constructed. Your heart quickened, and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest. The moment stretched between you, silent and loaded with meaning.

But you couldn’t hold it. Your pulse raced, your palms dampening with sweat as you quickly tore your gaze away, focusing on the flowers at your feet. You forced yourself to breathe, but the weight of his attention lingered on your skin, like a touch that burned long after it was gone.

You busied yourself again, rearranging the flowers though they didn’t need rearranging, anything to distract yourself from the flutter of nerves in your stomach. What was it about him? The way he looked at you wasn’t like the others. It was as if he knew something—something about you that no one else did.

Your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. You weren’t supposed to stand out here, in this garden full of lords and ladies, and yet… here you were, caught in the eyes of a man who seemed to see too much.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ellaria lean in closer to Oberyn, whispering something into his ear, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her eyes flicked briefly in your direction, curiosity burning behind them. The same possessive glint you had seen before was there, but now it was tempered by a different kind of intrigue.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or unnerved by the brief reprieve from Oberyn’s gaze. Either way, you knew one thing: nothing at this wedding was what it seemed.

The air was thick with revelry, the laughter of lords and ladies mingling with the melody of flutes and the clink of goblets. Everywhere you looked, you saw power—power flaunted by those who had it, and coveted by those who didn’t. But you played your role, dutifully present, a servant watching a play unfold.

At the head table, Olenna Tyrell moved with a deliberate grace, her hand trailing through Sansa Stark’s carefully braided hair before lingering on the stones of her necklace. The movement was subtle, her fingers deft, plucking at the polished purple gems with a kind of ease that only someone of her station could manage. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention—but you were always paying attention.

Your eyes narrowed, recognizing the faint gleam in Olenna’s fingers as she discreetly palmed something. The strangler. A crystalline form of poison, almost impossible to detect once dissolved in wine. Your heart beat faster, but outwardly, you remained composed, blending into the background of the celebration.

No one else seemed to notice. Not Sansa, lost in her sorrow, nor Tyrion, pouring himself another goblet of wine as he approached the table. Olenna’s conspiratorial smile went unnoticed by the rest, except you. You stepped closer, pretending to busy yourself with the trays of wine, ready to serve at a moment’s notice, but your ears were sharply tuned to their conversation.

You heard the last bit of Olenna’s words as she turned to Sansa, her voice low but pointed. "Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace has come and all is right with the world, it would do you good to see some of it." Olenna cast a glance toward Tyrion, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You must excuse me. It's time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

Tyrion smirked, but the bitterness in his eyes was unmistakable. He raised his goblet in a mock toast, the weight of his station pressing heavily on his shoulders.

As Olenna moved away, the music changed. The musicians struck up a familiar tune, the one they always played for the Lannisters—a song of lions, of power.

"A coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws..."

Margaery seemed to be enjoying the performance, her laughter light and genuine. But Joffrey, ever the restless king, was bored. He stood abruptly, tossing coins at the musicians as if they were little more than beggars. "Very good. Very good. Off you go," he said dismissively. The musicians scrambled to collect the coins, bowing as they backed away from the table, desperate to avoid the king’s wrath.

From where you stood, the entire spectacle felt sickening. You clenched your jaw, your hands hidden beneath your sleeves as you forced yourself to remain composed. It was all a game to them. A game of politics, of power, of lies. The poorest in King’s Landing would never see the remnants of this feast, no matter what Margaery or Joffrey decreed. You knew the truth. People like you—those without titles, lands, or coin—were little more than pawns to be sacrificed in their endless struggle for dominance.

You watched Margaery lean toward Joffrey, her hand resting on his arm as she tried to soothe his restlessness. "My love, why don't we make the announcement?" she said, her voice soft, almost coaxing. Joffrey banged his goblet against the table, the sharp clang silencing the crowd as he stood.

"Everyone!" he called out, his voice booming over the garden. "The queen would like to say a few words."

The crowd cheered, applauding the queen they had already accepted as their own. Margaery stood gracefully, her smile serene as she addressed the crowd. "We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink. Not all among us are so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."

More applause followed, and Joffrey beamed, soaking in the adoration of the crowd. Cersei, ever watchful, approached Margaery with a forced smile. "You're an example to us all," she said, placing a kiss on each of Margaery’s cheeks. The queen mother’s jealousy was palpable, her eyes glinting with barely concealed disdain.

You stood there, watching it all with clenched fists beneath your sleeves, your breath coming in slow, measured draws. The words, the gestures, the smiles—it was all smoke and mirrors. They paraded their generosity, their wealth, their power as if it were a gift to the realm, but you knew better. This peace was fragile, built on the bodies of the innocent, and it could shatter at any moment.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, a habit you had developed over the years. You scratched at the skin beneath, the pressure grounding you as memories flashed before your eyes—memories of pain, of cruelty, of the Mountain. The heat of the branding iron. The smell of burning flesh. Your own screams ringing in your ears until the world went dark.

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing the memories to retreat back into the dark corners of your mind. But the tension remained, a heavy knot in your chest, coiled tight like a viper ready to strike. Everything around you—the laughter, the opulence, the false smiles of lords and ladies—was part of this never-ending cycle of power. A gamble played at the expense of lives like yours.

Standing at a distance, you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you again. He lounged with casual arrogance, a wicked smile playing on his lips as Ellaria sat on his lap, delicately feeding him a grape. His gaze lingered on you, his expression one of amusement, as if he found your presence there tantalizing. His nod in your direction was slow, deliberate, and the smirk he gave you only made your pulse race. You quickly turned away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on you.

Your focus shifted, catching Cersei out of the corner of your eye as she exchanged curt words with Brienne of Tarth. Whatever was said made Brienne visibly uncomfortable, and she soon excused herself, walking away with her usual brisk pace. You weren’t close enough to hear their exchange, but the look on Cersei’s face said it all—disdain, irritation, and a certain dangerous pleasure in making the taller woman feel out of place.

Just as you were about to step away, something else caught your attention. Pycelle, with his hunched posture and greasy fingers, had cornered a young maid—Serena, you realized with a scowl. Inwardly, you cursed. Pycelle was one of those men you despised most at court, his pretense of wisdom nothing more than a shield for his lechery. You moved closer, keeping your head down, pretending to adjust your serving tray as you eavesdropped on their conversation.

Pycelle’s voice was low, his tone sickeningly paternal as he said, "No, no, come to my chambers and I will examine you personally."

Your stomach churned at his words, but before you could intervene, Cersei’s voice cut through the air like a dagger.

"She’ll do no such thing."

Pycelle jumped, his greasy face paling as he turned to see the queen standing there, her expression cold and unyielding.

"Oh, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "Yes, well, this young lady sought my advice..."

Cersei’s smile was sharp and cruel. "You should see Qyburn. He’s quite good."

The maid, eyes wide with relief, quickly dipped her head. "Your Grace," she murmured, then hurried away, escaping Pycelle’s grasp.

Pycelle’s face contorted into an expression of disgust. "Qyburn? Deplorable man. Brought shame on the Citadel with his repugnant experiments."

Cersei tilted her head, her smile never wavering. "More repugnant than your gnarled fingers on that girl’s thighs?"

Pycelle stiffened, his eyes darting around nervously. "Your Grace, I am a man of learning."

Cersei’s eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. "My little brother had you sent to the Black Cells when you annoyed him. What do you think I could do to you if you annoyed me?"

Pycelle’s face turned ashen. "I never meant to annoy anyone," he mumbled, his voice now a pathetic whimper.

"But you are," Cersei said softly, stepping closer, her gaze boring into him. "You annoy me right now. Every breath you draw in my presence annoys me. So here’s what I want you to do: I want you to leave my presence. Leave this wedding right now. Go to the kitchens and instruct them that all the leftovers from the feast will be brought to the kennels."

Pycelle’s mouth opened in protest, but Cersei cut him off sharply. "The queen is telling you the leftovers will feed the dogs, or you will."

For a moment, the old man seemed to consider arguing, but one look at Cersei’s smile—a cruel, dangerous curve of her lips—and he thought better of it. With a shaky bow, he muttered, "Yes, Your Grace," and scuttled away like the coward he was.

Cersei smiled after him, pleased with herself.

What a bold-faced cunt, you thought bitterly, watching her bask in her small victory. Everything about her was venomous—her beauty, her power, her cruelty. She wielded them all with deadly precision, and you hated her for it.

With a steadying breath, you made your way back toward the head table, slipping seamlessly into your role. You refilled goblets, offered plates, your presence unnoticed among the nobles. But beneath your mask of calm, your mind churned. Every move, every word, every gesture at this wedding was a lie—a careful façade constructed to conceal the rot beneath.

The clamor of the wedding feast carried on, a haze of laughter, clinking goblets, and the gleam of gold and silk that shone in the late afternoon sun. The Lannisters and Tyrells reveled in their temporary triumph, their smugness saturating the air like a sickly perfume. But you knew better than most how quickly fortunes could turn in a place like King’s Landing. The city was a pit of snakes, and the shift of power could change in an instant.

From where you stood, just close enough to watch but far enough to remain unnoticed, your eyes followed King Joffrey. He sat at the head of the grand table, restless and bored, his twisted amusement turning toward the fool juggling before him. Margaery, ever the dutiful queen, smiled gracefully at his side, playing her part flawlessly.

But Joffrey… he was never satisfied.

You saw the glint of cruelty in his eyes before he even stood. The familiar spark that made your skin crawl and your stomach twist. His voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

"A gold dragon to whoever knocks my fool’s hat off," Joffrey declared, his sneer stretching wide as he stood, scanning the crowd like a predator ready to pounce.

The fool, a trembling man in motley, barely had time to react before the guests joined in. Laughter echoed as food—chunks of bread, slices of fruit, and bits of meat—were hurled at him. You could see the fear in his eyes, how his smile wavered as he danced awkwardly to avoid the barrage.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The sight of it—how quickly cruelty had become sport—set your blood boiling. You knew this game, too well. You had seen it before. You had lived it.

Joffrey’s laughter rang loud, ringing in your ears like a taunt.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a sharp inhale, you turned on your heel, walking briskly away from the spectacle. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the memories threatening to overtake you. The jeers, the screams, the sound of flesh meeting stone… all of it haunted you still, and this—this senseless cruelty—stirred it back to life.

The clamor of the feast swirled around you, a whirlwind of laughter, clinking goblets, and hushed conversations. Your hands moved mechanically as you helped arrange the giant feast table, replenishing trays of roasted meats and lavish platters of fruits. Yet your mind remained a storm of its own, the anger still simmering beneath the surface from what you'd just witnessed.

This court—its twisted bets, the cruelty woven into every interaction—was a festering rot, and you couldn’t allow yourself to forget that. Not for a moment. Not here, where forgetting meant losing yourself to the madness.

As you moved to refill goblets of wine, you saw Cersei and Tywin strolling past, their expressions as cold and imperious as ever. You kept your head down, but their voices reached your ears, low and murmured.

Tywin’s tone was calm, almost bemused. “You’re in rather a good mood.”

“I suppose I am,” Cersei replied, her voice holding a faint, bitter edge.

“I won’t ask why,” Tywin remarked, his gaze never faltering as they passed by.

“Small pleasures,” Cersei added, a sharpness in her words that hinted at something more, something dark beneath the surface.

You busied yourself with the table, arranging goblets when you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Oberyn and Ellaria had entered, gliding through the crowd with a grace that seemed to draw every eye. Their presence commanded attention, not unlike the very snakes that represented their house.

Oberyn's deep, silken voice cut through the air as he greeted them. "Your Grace. Lord Tywin."

Tywin turned to face them, his expression as stony as ever. "Prince Oberyn."

"I don't believe you have met Ellaria," Oberyn continued smoothly, gesturing to the woman at his side. "This is the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. Or, I suppose it is former Queen Regent now." The jab was subtle but unmistakable. "Lord Hand and Lady Cersei, this is Ellaria Sand."

Ellaria stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming as she curtsied. "My lord. My lady."

Tywin offered a curt nod, the barest flicker of acknowledgement. "Charmed."

Cersei, however, let her gaze linger on Ellaria for a moment too long. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a Sand before,” she said, her words dripping with disdain.

You stole a glance at Ellaria, whose demeanor had shifted, a spark of fierceness flashing in her eyes. Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk. “We are everywhere in Dorne. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smirk. “Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don’t despise them in Dorne.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, nearly betraying a smile at Oberyn’s thinly veiled jab. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to remain composed, knowing how easily any sign of amusement could draw unwanted attention.

Cersei, however, did not miss a beat. “No? How tolerant of you.”

Oberyn leaned in ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giving up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years must have left your neck a bit crooked.”

His words were a dagger, sharp and cutting. And as he spoke, his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a knowing glance that sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He had known the entire time you were standing there, silently witnessing the exchange.

Cersei’s smile faltered, if only for a heartbeat, before she recovered. “I suppose you’ll never know, Prince Oberyn. It’s a shame your older brother couldn’t attend the wedding.”

Tywin chimed in, his voice as cold as ever. “Please give him our regards. With any luck, the gout will abate with time, and he will be able to walk again.”

“They call it the rich man’s disease,” Oberyn shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “A wonder you don’t have it.”

You almost choked on your own breath at the boldness of his words, gripping the tray of food tighter to maintain your composure. Every word he spoke was a calculated strike, each one landing with precision, and you admired his audacity.

Tywin’s expression remained impassive. “Noblemen in my part of the country don’t enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in Dorne.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkened, the air between them thick with tension. “People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. In other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful. What a fortunate thing for you, former Queen Regent, that your daughter Myrcella has been sent to live in the latter sort of place.”

Your grip tightened on the tray as Oberyn’s words struck like a whip, slicing through the false pleasantries of court. You admired him for it—for his boldness, his refusal to bend to their rules, their cruelty.

But you also knew that such boldness could come at a cost.

Without another glance, you quietly moved away, slipping back into the sea of nobles and servants. You busied yourself with pouring wine and serving food, but your thoughts lingered on the dangerous dance unfolding before you. The court was a place where words were as deadly as swords, and you could only hope that Oberyn’s sharp tongue wouldn’t cut too deep.

Yet, as you glanced back at him, standing tall and unyielding, a part of you knew that he wouldn’t be so easily broken.

The air was thick with tension, festivity clashing with the cruelty lurking just beneath the surface. You stood near the head table, your place behind Sansa Stark’s chair, a silent observer in the midst of the spectacle. And Joffrey, the cruel little tyrant, loved his games.

From the center of the garden, you heard the familiar tap tap of Joffrey’s goblet. He rose from his seat, commanding attention as if the entire world existed solely for his amusement. His voice rang out, high and grating.

“Everyone, silence! Clear the floor,” Joffrey called, smirking as his gaze swept over the gathered crowd. “There’s been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement. A royal wedding is history.”

You could feel the unease ripple through the crowd as Cersei and Tywin returned to their seats. Their expressions remained impassive, but there was a shared sense of something darker brewing beneath the surface. You, too, felt the shift, your body tensing as you braced for what was to come.

“The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history,” Joffrey continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. “My lords... my ladies…”

A lever was pulled, and from the gaping mouth of a giant lion, a red carpet unfurled, rolling down the middle of the floor. The crowd leaned in, curious, and you felt your stomach twist.

“I give you... King Joffrey... Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy. The War of the Five Kings.”

From the lion’s mouth, five dwarves emerged, each dressed to mock the fallen kings of Westeros. They paraded around the floor with exaggerated movements and comic glee, drawing laughter and applause from the nobles. But you could feel the weight of it—the insult, the cruelty embedded in the display.

The dwarves pranced around, playing their parts. One, dressed as Renly Baratheon, twirled about the center with an exaggerated flourish. Another, playing Robb Stark, shouted, “I am the King in the North!” His wolf-head helmet bobbed comically as he danced. The Joffrey dwarf stood at the center of it all, reveling in the absurdity, while the real Joffrey watched, his face alight with sadistic glee.

You saw Tyrion’s face, stoic yet darkened with distaste, and you shared in his disgust. Every part of you was braced for the inevitable humiliation, the way Joffrey delighted in belittling those who had fought and died with honor. The scene continued, with the dwarves mocking and prancing, their movements a grotesque parody of real battle.

“Let the war begin!” the Joffrey dwarf cried, and the chaos of the mock battle began. Robb Stark’s dwarf clashed with the others, while the Balon Greyjoy dwarf pretended to drown in an invisible sea, his gurgling cries echoing through the hall.

You glanced at Sansa. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock as she watched the dwarf dressed as her brother fall to the ground, his wolf helmet tumbling off. Joffrey laughed, his high-pitched cackle reverberating through the room. “Your head!” he cried, pointing at the fallen wolf.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. You sneered, your lip twitching as you barely restrained the anger rising within you. You wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to Joffrey’s twisted plans. But you couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

The crowd cheered, applauding the spectacle as Joffrey stood, a cruel smile on his face. “Well fought! Well fought!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with satisfaction. “Here you are—champion’s purse. Though you’re not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all challengers. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign.”

His gaze landed on Tyrion. “Uncle. How about you? I’m sure they have a spare costume.”

The crowd erupted into laughter. You clenched your jaw, biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Every fiber of your being screamed treason. Never had you wanted more to defy a king than in that moment.

Tyrion rose slowly, his expression unreadable. “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady. “I would like to keep what remains of my face.”

You almost smiled at the subtle barb, but it was quickly followed by another.

“I think you should fight him,” Tyrion continued. “This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a firsthand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a tragedy for the king to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

The crowd went still, the tension palpable. You could feel it, the shift in the air as Joffrey’s expression twisted into anger. He marched over to Tyrion and, without warning, poured the contents of his goblet over his uncle’s head.

You bit back a gasp as wine trickled down Tyrion’s face, his hands clenched at his sides. His voice remained calm, but you could see the fury in his eyes. “A fine vintage. Shame that it spilled.”

Joffrey, ever the petulant child, sneered. “It did not spill.”

Margaery, sensing the rising tension, tried to intervene. “My love, come back to me,” she called, her voice sweet yet pleading. “It’s time for my father’s toast.”

But Joffrey was far from finished with his torment. “How does he expect me to toast without wine? Uncle, you can be my cupbearer since you’re too cowardly to fight.”

You watched in disbelief as Joffrey dropped his goblet, forcing Tyrion to kneel and retrieve it. Your own anger mirrored the look on Tyrion’s face, your nails biting deeper into your palms as he knelt to retrieve the goblet, only for Joffrey to kick it away. The humiliation was complete.

Sansa kindly retrieved the goblet for Tyrion, silently nodding in acknowledgment. He turned to hand Joffrey the cup but sneered, “What good is an empty cup? Fill it.”

Tyrion pours wine for Joffrey in front of Cersei and hands it to him.

“Kneel,” Joffrey hissed. “Kneel before your king.”

Tyrion did not move.

Joffrey’s voice rose, venomous. “I said… kneel!”

Before things could escalate further, Margaery stood. “Look—the pie!”

The crowd’s attention shifted to the giant pie being carried in. Joffrey turned his gaze toward it, temporarily distracted. He strode forward, hacking at the pie with his sword. Doves burst forth, fluttering into the air.

But you weren’t watching the birds. No. You saw Olenna, her hand quick and deft as she slipped something into Joffrey’s goblet. A stone. A strangler stone that she took from Sansa’s necklace.

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you did not react. You acted enraptured, like the rest of the crowd. You helped serve the pie, your movements mechanical, your mind racing. Sansa turned to Tyrion, her voice a whisper.

“Can we leave now?”

Tyrion’s response was measured. “Let’s find out.”

As you continued serving, your eyes flicked back to the head table, watching as Joffrey took his goblet and drank deeply. A small smile tugged at your lips as he swallowed.

The end was coming. You could feel it.

“Mm, good,” Joffrey muttered. “Needs washing down.”

He took another gulp, arrogant and unaware, until it hit him. The first sign was the subtle hitch in his breath, almost laughable at first—until it wasn't. The coughing came next, sharp and violent, ripping through him like a wild beast gnawing at his throat. His regal posture crumbled, hands clawing at his neck as if to tear the poison from his skin. His face twisted, contorted, morphing from haughty superiority into sheer terror.

The hall shifted with his agony, the murmurs turning into gasps, the gasps into cries of panic. Chaos rippled through the crowd like wildfire, nobles scrambling, eyes wide, horrified. But you did not move. Your body remained still, a statue amidst the storm of panic, unmoved by the sight of the boy-king choking on his own hubris.

Joffrey’s sputtering, retching—every grotesque, gurgling sound—echoed through the hall, yet all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. Slow. Steady. A contrast to the pandemonium erupting around you. It was a symphony of suffering, and you reveled in the silence that enveloped your mind. His pain meant nothing to you.

Your eyes drifted across the garden, over the faces twisted in fear, horror, and confusion, and then... there was him. Oberyn. His dark, probing gaze locked onto yours from across the hall. His brows furrowed, lips parting ever so slightly. Surprise? No, curiosity, perhaps even confusion, flickered in his eyes as he searched your face for something—anything—but found nothing. No flicker of emotion, no sympathy, no shock. Just the cold, hollow indifference that had settled into your bones like an old companion.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Why would you? This was one of the moments you had been waiting for. The reckoning. All of Joffrey's cruelty, all of his venom, had finally come back to devour him whole. His pitiful gasping, the frantic clawing at his throat, was a fitting end for the boy who thought himself untouchable.

Joffrey gurgled, his face now a deep shade of purple, eyes bulging, lips frothing. The people around him scrambled in vain, trying to save a life that was already slipping away. You remained still, cold as ice, watching it unfold with detached precision. The world could burn around you, and you would not care.

Oberyn’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if he were trying to understand the enigma standing before him. He didn’t. He couldn't. No one could. There was no more humanity left in you for him to grasp.

Joffrey’s choking grew louder, more desperate. His hands flailed, reaching for his mother, for someone to save him from the inevitable, but no one could stop what was coming. No one could stop you from witnessing the justice you had longed for.

Margaery rushed to Joffrey’s side. “He’s choking!”

Olenna, ever the actress, called out, “Help the poor boy!”

But there would be no help. No saving the king. You watched, unmoved, as Joffrey staggered, his face turning purple, vomit spilling from his lips. Jaime rushed to him, but it was futile. Joffrey was dying.

And all you could think of was how fitting it was. There would be no glory for Joffrey Baratheon. No legacy. Only pain. Only death.

“My son. He’s gone. My son!”

Around you, the world screamed and wailed. Cersei’s frantic cries cut through the air like a knife, but you barely registered them. You were detached, distant. Untouchable.

It was strange—the numbness. The apathy was a shield you had forged long ago, layer by layer, through every injustice, every cruelty, every wound. You were unbreakable now, untouchable by Joffrey's suffering or anyone else’s. There was a quiet power in that, a dark satisfaction, as you watched the boy-king's life wither before your eyes.

His torment did not sway you. Not a muscle in your body flinched. Your fingers, relaxed at your sides, held no tension. You didn't care. Not anymore.

“He did this. He poisoned my son, your king. Take him. Take him! Take him! Take him!”

Cersei, her screams filled the hall, but you felt nothing. The king was dead. And soon, the unraveling of this court, this rot, would begin.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

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dark-frosted-heart · 8 months

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Alfons vs Roger event (Part 1)

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

Crown’s relationship is perfectly balanced.

Though they couldn’t be considered friends or family, there’s an unspoken connection and trust.

—Well, except for a certain “pair”.

Alfons and Roger: Unbelievable.

Kate: Did something happen? You two said that together the minute you came back from the mission.

Today, Alfons and Roger were supposed to be chasing after a serial killer who had caused quite a stir.

Roger: Al, if you’d drawn him over, I could’ve sent him to the after life in a heartbeat.

Alfons: Wow, you’re putting the blame on another? Had I not chased after you, you would have dropped dead.

Roger: I’m gonna wrap those words with a ribbon and give them back to you.

Alfons: Then I’ll wrap that ribbon around your neck.

Kate: Um, so what happened to the criminal in the end?

Alfons and Roger: William happened.

Meaning William, who seemed to have gone ahead, took care of the criminal instead of these two who couldn’t work together at all.

Kate: Regardless, I’m glad the criminal was caught.

Alfons and Roger: I’m not.

Kate: Huh?

Alfons: Every time I go on a mission with Roger, my delicate heart gets another scratch. Ahhh, woe is me!

Roger: What delicate heart. A delicate guy wouldn’t come at you himself. (•̀ ⌓ •́)

(This sort of sight isn’t surprising anymore)

Alfons and Roger have known each other since they were kids.

Had they been old friends, they would’ve gotten along exceptionally well. However, it;s the complete opposite for the two of them.

(I have a feeling that these two have the worst relationship in Crown…)

Roger: Geez, I can’t deal with this anymore.

Alfons: Oh, then be my guest. Please leave Crown and live as you like.

(A Crown resignation emergency?!)

I look around, but unfortunately, I seem to be the only one around to intervene.

(What do I do, what do I do? Ah, I got it!)

Kate: You two! I won’t give you any chocolates if you keep fighting!

Alfons and Roger: Chocolate?

Roger: Oh yeah, it’s Valentine’s Day today, isn’t it? No wonder the city was bustling.

Alfons: I heard you were making “sweetheart chocolates” last night, Miss Kate.

Kate: How did you know?

Alfons: I’m the well-informed Mr. Sylvatica.

Last night I was baking sweets with the maids when they encouraged me to make some “sweetheart chocolates”.

(I was planning on eating them all myself…)

Roger: Sounds good. I was gettin' tired of fighting. Let’s have a contest, Al. The winner gets Kate’s chocolates and serves the loser. How’s that sound?

Alfons: It’s the best of the worst of preferences. Yes, I like that.

Kate: Hold on, what is this?!

Alfons: So, what sort of contest are we doing? Anything beside a fistfight is fine. Ah, how about this. We have two shots of vodka, one of which is poisoned. A game with no hard feelings that can be won immediately.

Roger: If one of us kicks the bucket, then there’s no point in the servant rule. Then-

The games the two kept suggesting were so outrageous that it made me dizzy.

(At this rate, a city or two is going to get blown up. What the heck do I do?)

Victor: O~kay my cute cursed ones! This nonsense stops here.

Kate: Victor!

Victor: You two fight the moment I take my eyes off of you. Bad, I say. Bad!

Alfons/Roger: It’s Roger’s fault./It’s Al’s fault.

Victor: I’m not blaming anyone. I don’t mind the contest, okay? However, I don’t like negative games where the other dies from poison and things like that. I can’t afford to lose either of you. That’s not cute at all.

Kate: ……Not cute?

Victor: So here’s my proposal. Remember my friend, Viscount Morris?

Alfons: He’s the rich eccentric who owns a luxury cruise ship.

Victor: Yes, yes. The viscount’s beloved niece’s birthday is today. A birthday party will be hosted in one of his estates. The girl in honor has fled. I believe she went out of the country on vacation.

Alfons: She’s a runaway horse, isn’t she? Perhaps a consequence of being raised like a princess. A pity.

Victor: The viscount came to me in tears, so I considered going as her double…

Roger: If the lady suddenly became huge and burly, that’d make a failure of a party.

Victor: Therefore, Kate. I want you to pretend to be the lady.

Kate: I knew this was where the story was going.

Victor: Haha, you’re becoming more like Crown! So, Alfons, Roger, I want you two to serve as Kate’s caretakers so that she doesn’t get exposed.

Roger: But what’s that gotta do with our contest?

Victor: Hm, that’s actually a good question! How about you compete for “friendship points” while acting as caretakers?

Kate: What are “friendship points”?

Victor: Simple. You get a point if you’re friendly to the other. Oh, and the judge is Kate of course.

Roger: So the winner’s the one with the most points and gets Kate’s chocolates.

The proposal was completely unexpected, but it sounds like a good way for the two to get along.

Kate: I think it’s a good idea. I’ll also help the viscount.

Roger: If the little lady’s fine with it, then I’m game. Besides, it sounds like we’re gonna get kicked because of this pointless fight.

Alfons: I feel as if I’m being forced into something troublesome, but I’m fine with it. I’d also like to put an end to this pointless fight. Well… She and the chocolate will ultimately be mine.

Roger: You sure? I take what I want. You ready for that?

Alfons and Roger looked at me, and I blink in return.

Alfons, in an overly gentlemanly manner, shook Roger’s hand.

Alfons: Let’s have a fair, “friendly” match, Roger.

Kate: Ah. That’s one friendship point for you, Alfons!

Roger: What? Damn it, that was dirty.

Alfons wipes his hand, which had touched Roger’s, with a handkerchief.

Alfons: There’s nothing clean or dirty in this contest, is there Miss Kate?

Victor: Mhmm, it’s charming how they’re becoming fast friends. Fabulous!

#ikemen villains #ikevil translations #ikevil summary #ikevil #ikevil jp

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ikeromantic · 13 days

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Nanny Belle and the Midnight Princes pt2

Nanny Belle does her best to keep her favorite little princes entertained, while welcoming the kids from Jade, Benitoite, and Obsidian too. Diplomatic crises, chaos, and cuteness everywhere! Approx. 2800 words

“Can I help you?” Nanny Belle put herself between the dangerous looking Obsidianite and the princes, wondering how he got past the nursery guards. She didn’t know who he was or what he wanted, but she wasn’t letting just anyone stroll in.

“I need to check the room. Out of the way.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you past. You aren’t on the guest list.” Belle stood her ground, trying to see behind him so she could signal a guard.

The man’s hand brushed his hip as if he was used to carrying a weapon. “Move, or -”

“Don’t be such a bully. The Rhodolitian princes aren’t going to murder me. I’m in less danger here than home.” A small, pale boy stepped past the man, and surveyed the room. His eye lit on Chevalier and a smile spread across his lips. “There you are.”

“Not you again,” Chev groaned.

Nanny Belle knew who he must be. The younger Obsidian prince, Gilbert. He wore an eyepatch, and carried a small, worn plush bunny rabbit. “Prince Gilbert. Be welcome.”

The little boy’s one uncovered eye scanned her as if she were a page in a picture book. It felt as if he peeled back her polite smile and proper manners, to see right inside her to the real person underneath. It was unnerving. “Thanks! I’m gonna go play with my best friend.”

Behind her, she heard Chevalier sigh. “That’s wonderful.” Belle wasn’t sure what kind of play Gilbert meant. Chev didn’t like children’s games, but she hoped whatever he wanted to do, the two of them would have fun. It would be good to have someone that could pull the quiet blonde prince from his shell.

Prince Gilbert plopped himself down beside Chevalier and pulled out a book of his own. “Have you read this one?”

Belle didn’t get to hear Chevalier’s reply as the Obsidian serving man took her attention again.

“I will be here, by the door. Watching.” The man’s grim voice felt out of place in the brightly decorated room, with the laughter of children as counterpoint. “Should anything happen -”

“Walter, leave the nanny alone.” Prince Gilbert’s voice was anything but childlike as he addressed his servant, one bright scarlet eye fixing the man from across the room.

Walter, the servant, bowed low and gave Nanny Belle a nod. Then he stepped to the side, just in time for Clavis to come barrelling through the door with a young girl in close pursuit.

“Stop right there! Stop! Someone stop him!” The little girl skidded to a halt just past the doorway as Clavis tucked himself behind Nanny Belle’s skirt.

“Princess Mirielle, why are you chasing Prince Clavis?” Nanny Belle knew who the girl was the moment she opened her mouth. The slight Jadean accent combined with her fine clothes and imperious manner left just the one option.

“I can answer that.” Sariel followed a little ways behind the girl. He had another child with him. A small boy, about Luke’s age, with the Jadean royal look about him. Golden eyes and light, olive toned hair. He had some bright colored goo around his mouth, as if he’d tried to eat a particularly vibrant crayon.

Princess Mirielle stomped her foot. “That - that monster tried to poison my baby brother!”

Sariel’s lips curved up in a tiny smile before he caught them and forced his expression back to one of severe neutrality. “Prince Clavis, is this correct?”

Clavis, hanging tightly to Belle’s skirt, peeked around her to look at the councillor. “No! I just made him a snack. But the cookies we found were boring, so - so I added some stuff. But it’s not poisonous!”

“And what did you add to make the cookies . . . not boring?” Sariel’s left brow rose a fraction.

“Umm . . . some rhubarb custard because it was such a nice color pink, and a dollop of caviar, and a pickled herring! I was going to put a strawberry on top but I couldn’t find any.” Clavis smiled brightly, clearly proud of his efforts. “It was the most funnest thing I ever tasted!”

Nanny Belle kept a sigh on the inside. “I see. Thank you for telling us Prince Clavis. But next time you want to share a special snack with a new friend, you need to check with me, ok? Prince Tio might not like the same foods you do, or he might be allergic.”

Mirielle stomped her little foot again. “It was disgusting! I demand he be punished!”

Sariel didn’t miss a beat. “You have my word that there will be consequences, princess. I will see to it myself. But for tonight, please let bygones be bygones.”

She looked as if she might argue, but Prince Keith stepped in, a gentle smile on his face. “Come on, sis. Tio is just fine. Right, Tio?” He ruffled his brother’s hair affectionately.

Prince Tio laughed and hugged his big brother. “Yep!”

Mirielle relented, though she still gave Clavis a suspicious glare as she walked past him to the toy chest in the corner.

Belle shared a look with Sariel. This was going to be a challenging evening. She was intensely glad for the servants helping out through the room, but it was up to her to keep all these little royal kidlings entertained until the party ended.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Sariel mouthed silently, his gaze warm. Aloud he said, “I trust you have it from here. I will be back later to check in.” He gave her a slight bow, and hurried out, back to his duties.

Nanny Belle turned to take in the scattered children. Leon was still on the balcony, looking wistfully toward the ballroom. The lights and music from the celebration carried all the way across the palace grounds. Luke was sitting and munching happily on a honey roll, while Gilbert chattered to Chevalier in the corner.

Prince Keith was showing his siblings the telescope on the balcony under the suspicious gaze of Licht. Nokto was smiling at Princess Mirielle, while Yves played quietly with a set of toy soldiers at a table. Jin was drawing in his sketch pad, glancing up occasionally to check on his brothers. And Clavis - where was Clavis? He’d been right behind her.

Just as Belle was about to panic over a lost prince, one of the guards came in with the missing boy tucked under his arm. “My lady, this one was trying to follow Sariel out. Where should I set him down?”

“On the bench there, where I can see him.” Nanny Belle gave the prince a sharp look. “Prince Clavis, you know you are meant to stay here at our party.”

He gave a heavy sigh, shoulders falling. “I just wanted to go help Sariel. He said he’s real busy tonight.”

Belle could tell he was genuine in his desire, even though Clavis’ help often made more work than it ever resolved. Still . . . “I see. Well . . . would you be willing to help me tonight instead? I’m quite overwhelmed with all these foreign dignitaries here.”

Clavis studied her with his bright gold gaze, then grinned broadly. “I will be the best helper ever!”

“Wonderful.” Nanny Belle ruffled his hair. “Since nearly everyone is here, I think we should play a fun game. Would you help me set up a place for duck-duck-goose?”

“Yes!” Clavis clapped his hands together. “I’ll get some cushions!”

Belle watched him race off to get started. She intended to keep a close eye on him, but just then one of the maids brought Rio in from his nap. The little blonde moppet looked every part a little prince, in a blue velvet onesie with an adorable light blue sash and fancy cufflinks.

Rio smiled when he saw the nanny and held out his arms to her.

“Aren’t you just a cutie?” Nanny Belle took him from the maid, listening as she gave a quick update on him. She thanked the maid and then turned back to check on Clavis. The cushions were all laid out and ready for duck-duck-goose. She didn’t see anything obviously suspicious about them either, but went to check anyway.

Clavis hurried to her, stepping right in front of the arranged cushions. “Did I do a good job, Nanny?”

“It looks great.” She eyed the little prince, trying not to look suspicious. “Why don’t you let everyone know it’s time to play a game, hm?”

“Yes!” Clavis raced off, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Time for duck-duck-goose!”

Belle leaned down and lifted one of the cushions, checking it for the usual. Itching powder, sticky jam, dye . . . it seemed completely clear. She set it down, mildly surprised. “Alright. I guess he really did just set these out like I asked. Hm.” She put Rio down on the one she checked as the other kids came over.

“I heard you the first time,” Jin sighed, as he came strolling over.

“Yeah. First time,” Luke echoed, putting a little, sticky fist on his hip.

Prince Keith came over, with Mirielle and Tio in tow. Mirielle went for the fanciest cushion on the floor. It was light green, with delicate lace stitched across the cover in a floral pattern. The moment she sat down, a loud toot sounded from beneath her.

Mirielle jumped up, her cheeks stained bright red. “That wasn’t me!”

Keith was looking at her with raised eyebrows, unsure how to react, while Tio giggled. Jin was struggling to keep his expression neutral, but Luke wasn’t old enough to understand and he was laughing too.

Belle didn’t need to guess what happened. She could see Clavis’ grin from across the room. She hurried over and knelt down to pull a leather sack from under the pillow. It was supposed to be used as a bed warmer, with hot water, but someone had filled it with air and left the valve open just enough to make noise when it was squeezed. “Ah! I was looking for that. I am so sorry Princess Mirielle. I don’t know how it found its way under your pillow.”

The princess crossed her arms. She clearly wanted more, but was struggling with her emotions.

Keith came to her rescue. He grabbed the bed warmer from Belle’s hand and stuck it under his pillow, then sat down hard to expel the last of the air from it in a loud, obnoxious honk. This set Tio to laughing even harder, and even the other princes cracked a smile. “Oh! Now I’ve done it too!”

Mirielle looked at him, and then at the other princes. She seemed to consider whether or not she should stay angry, then sighed and sat down carefully. “Fine. But I don’t forgive whoever did that.”

“Yes. Whoever that might be,” Chevalier commented from his reading spot.

“Aren’t you going to come play,” Leon asked.

“Absolutely not. I have no interest in such a ridiculous game.” Chev looked back down at his book.

Gilbert stood up from beside him. “I’d like to play.”

At this, his servant Walter took a step forward. “I can’t allow that. This game -”

“Can’t allow?” Gilbert’s red gaze fixed on his servant. Some silent struggle continued between the two of them. Nothing was said, just a long, intense look.

Walter’s face went red, staining him from eartip to eartip. He bowed his head, looking down.

Gilbert said nothing for several tense moments, then sat again. “I’d rather read with Chevalier anyway. I’m too old for duck-duck-goose.”

His servant didn’t respond, but his posture evinced a deep relief.

Belle wasn’t sure what was going on between them, or why it should matter if the little Obsidian prince played the game or not. Despite Gilbert’s dismissive tone, she had a feeling he really did want to play and decided she would find a game for him tonight, one way or another.

Once everyone but Chevalier and Gilbert were seated in the circle, Jin agreed to be the first goose. He stalked around the other children, a big smile on his face. “Duck . . . duck . . . duck . . .” When he got to Emidio, he tapped him and shouted, “GOOSE!”

Emidio leapt up and chased him around the circle, just a hair too slow to catch the first prince before Jin slid into his seat. “I almost had you!”

“Almost,” Jin agreed.”

Yves snorted. “Almost doesn’t count in duck-duck-goose.”

“Almost doesn’t count in anything,” Nokto added.

“Let’s all be kind while we play our games, hm?” Belle intervened before the boys could get out of hand.

It was clear that Emidio’s pride was stung, but there was nothing to do for it now. Belle watched as he made his way around the circle, tapping each person. “Duck. Duck. Duck.” When he got to Rio, he poked a little harder than necessary and shouted “Goose!”

Poor Rio, barely old enough to understand the game, struggled to his feet. He rubbed the back of his head, lower lip trembling. Just as Belle was about to step in, he lurched after Emidio. Of course, he had no chance to catch the older boy. Emidio plopped down in Rio’s spot a moment later, leaving the toddler to continue the game.

Belle wasn’t sure if he quite understood, but Rio surprised her with a gap-toothed grin. Then he started his own walk around. “Du-du-duh-”

“Duck, ya moron,” Silvio snapped. “D-u-c-k. Duck. Why’re we letting this idiot pup play anyway?”

Rio slapped the back of Silvio’s head and shouted, “Goose!” Then ran pell-mell around the circle, practically falling into Silvio’s spot as the Benitiotian prince reacted with surprise.

It was the first time Belle ever saw Rio do something . . . mean. He’d been careful tapping the other kids, but the slap to Silvio’s head was definitely not accidental. She couldn’t exactly blame him though. Silvio was quite rude.

“That - snot nosed little - I demand he be punished! Ya can’t just slap a prince!” Silvio’s voice was shrill and his jewelry jangled as he gesticulated at the toddler who now sat smugly in his spot in the circle.

Belle curtsied. “I’m sorry, Prince Silvio, on behalf of Rio. He’s still growing and isn’t always very coordinated.”

Silvio looked like he might say more, but all the other royalty were looking at him. After a moment, he deflated, grumbling under his breath. Then he started around the circle.

Nanny Belle was a little worried he would try to revenge himself on Rio, but instead he tagged Leon, who gamely went for Keith. Keith grinned when he was declared goose.

“I’m not very good at these kinds of games, but let’s see . . .” Keith went around the circle twice, pretending to ignore his little brother who obviously wanted to be tagged next. When he ‘goosed’ Tio, the little prince leapt up with a happy grin and chased his older brother around the circle, just a hair too slow to catch him even though it was clear that Keith wasn’t really trying to escape.

Tio giggled when Keith plopped down in his spot. “Oh no! Now I get . . . umm . . .” Tio’s eyes went wide as he realized his predicament. He could pick his sister, Luke, Licht, or Nokto. Mirielle arched an expectant brow, but Tio went around her with a quiet ‘duck’, and passed Licht and Nokto as well. He got to Luke and the two little ones exchanged a wide, expectant grin. “Goots!”

Luke wobbled to his feet and the two of them chased each other around the room, running wide of the circle on their chubby toddler feet.

“Hey! That’s not fair! That’s cheating!” Emidio glared at the two little ones.

Licht sighed and shook his head. “It’s not cheating unless it gives an advantage. They just aren’t playing the game right.”

Belle shooed the two back toward the circle, but their flight around the room effectively ended the game. Thankfully, it was dark enough outside to guide them out to the balcony, where they could take turns on the telescope.

Even Chevalier and Gilbert joined the group for this event, excited to get to see the stars through the refractory lenses. Nanny Belle watched them with a cautious eye, making sure everyone got a turn, adjusting the telescope as needed while the stars marched across the velvet black sky.

The party in the ballroom was still going strong. Music echoed from the open windows, and the sound of laughter. Belle was glad she didn’t need to attend such events. The bickering nobles and the moody king held no allure for her. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Jin and Chevalier would be required to attend. And where Chevalier went, Clavis would follow.

Clavis.

Her eyes darted around the balcony. He wasn’t waiting to look through the telescope. When had he . . . then she remembered. Just as everyone else sat down to play, where he’d positioned the pillows well away from the door, Clavis had slipped away.

#ikemen prince #ikemen prince au #ikepri kids #nanny belle #fanfiction #otome #fanfic #otome guys #fluff

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navybrat817 · 2 years

Note

Addicted to Love has me craving more Bucky!

Me, too, nonnie.

Worship

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky should have worshipped you sooner.

Word Count: Over 600

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, implied vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), insecurities, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?).

A/N: Sinday belongs to Addicted to Love Bucky again. Hope you lovelies like it! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Header by yours truly, banner by the wonderful @sgt-seabass, and divider by the lovely @rookthorne . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

One of the most difficult decisions Bucky made was saying "yes" to you. Looking back, he wasn't even sure exactly how he got your attention. He didn't exactly exude a welcoming presence with the permanent scowl on his face. Too busy trying to make amends after a failed attempt at dating. Too lost in his head or unintentionally pushing people away before they even had a chance to form a connection.

Yet you smiled at him.

He didn't smile back.

Now he worships you at your altar.

"Bucky?" you asked, cradling his face in your hands as you straddled him. He gripped your thighs in response as your delicate folds brushed along his cock, but he didn’t let you lower yourself onto him yet. As much as he craved his personal heaven on earth, uncertainty seeped through his mind like poison. “Talk to me.”

"Some days I think you deserve better than me," he admitted in a quiet voice.

You're worth more than weight in gold. If I’m a humble servant, do I need to cleanse my hands to touch you?

It didn't mean he'd let you go. He couldn't. It sickened him to think of another man having you in his lap like this, allowing you to touch him with such infinite tenderness. Or allowing him into your heart. Maybe Bucky wasn’t worthy because of his sins, but he’d repent and be pure.

Well, as pure as a man can be when indulging in what you offered.

"Hey," you whispered, keeping a firm grip on his face so he couldn’t look away. He didn’t dare close his eyes either. "I'm the one who gets to decide what and who is best for me."

You hovered over him, taking in the tip of his cock as you kept your eyes locked with his. The gateway to the soul, you told the unspoken truth in your gaze. That he not only deserved you, but there would be hell to pay for anyone who said otherwise. The fire that burned within your orbs warmed him, an antidote to the venom in his veins.

“So, you’re saying I deserve you?” he asked.

You rolled your hips to sink down further. “Some days I think I don’t deserve you.”

“What?” his eyes flashed as he clung to your thighs in an almost painful grip, not to stop you on purpose, but to leave his mark in a small way.

How could you think you're not worthy of me? That doesn’t make any sense. You’re a fucking goddess.

“You’re a hero, Bucky Barnes. I’m just me.”

No, fuck that. You’re everything.

“But I think that’s more than enough,” you said, pressing your forehead against his before he could speak. “And I think we’re both worthy of love. We just need to remind each other some days.”

“Yes, we do,” he agreed, fastening his mouth to yours as he guided you the rest of the way down.

Take me into your haven. Bring me to paradise that you believe I’m worthy of. Surround me with your wet heat and let me paint you with my love and devotion.

You both took what you wanted, but you gave back to each other. You gave him sighs and mewls as he grunted and moaned your name. His hands mapped your body as you moved as one. He was yours to worship as much as you were his.

And in the end, he gave you a smile reserved just for you.

The way he should’ve the day you met.

But now he could spend the rest of his days worshipping you.

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#navybrat writes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #addicted to love #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x female reader #sebastian stan x you

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voraciousvore · 7 months

Text

Giganterra (Chapter 1)

Prologue | Chapter 2

Content Warning: Soft, safe, unwilling vore

Word Count: 2.1k

------ Chapter 1: A Typical Royal Dinner ------

Six years later…

Crown Prince Ronny, the adult heir to the throne, sat down at his usual spot at the table, on the right-hand side of his father, the king. King Richard claimed his rightful place at the head of the table, and Princess Bianca, the youngest by about two years, sat across from her brother Ronny. The king’s personal guard Ajax, his shadow, stood discreetly off to the side behind his seat, ever watchful.

Ronny, dour as always, glared at his sister, who stuck her tongue out at him in response. He scoffed superciliously and removed his gloves for dinner, folding them neatly on the table. He was rescued from having to converse with his loathsome family members by the servants, who came in balancing plates loaded with vittles. Ronny sat in a gloomy silence as Chester, the royal food taster, checked each entrée for poison. He curled his lip with mild disgust when he was given his portion: prime rib, sautéed swiss chard, and scalloped potatoes, with a human dressed in a light sauce.

Bianca had a similar reaction, poking and prodding the tiny woman on her plate with her fork. The woman winced, but stayed silent and didn’t try to run, knowing the consequences of resisting giant royalty would be far more gruesome. “Daddy, when are we going to get more humans? It’s been a while since the last tribute.”

King Richard wiped his lips daintily with a napkin as he gleefully swallowed the human on his own plate. “Hmmm… it’s been a while, hasn’t it? We are certainly overdue for some fresh meat.”

The giantess princess perked up. “If so, can you order some little men this time? Pleeeeeease? Ladies are fine and all, but they’re all we ever get, and I want a handsome boy to play with…” She pouted, scraping her fork with an obnoxious screech on her dish. Her human repast covered her ears and grimaced. Ronny rolled his eyes.

The king gave his daughter a knowing smirk and chuckled lightly. “I’ll see what I can arrange, my darling.” He picked up his knife and cut into his meat, which leaked blood onto his plate.

Ronny shook his head and dug into his own meal, flicking the human carelessly off his slab of prime rib. He didn’t understand his father’s obsession with tiny maidens, or his sister’s fascination with miniature men. Why couldn’t she be normal for once and content herself with an attractive giant instead? Humans were fine for eating, when he was in the right mood, but otherwise Ronny found them to be gross vermin, clambering around with their wiry legs like bugs. Distracted by his thoughts, he failed to notice his tiny female side dish had crawled off the edge of his plate. He put a bite of meat in his mouth, and his face puckered with detestation.

“Ugh!” he groaned, spitting the offending meat back onto his dish without concern for decorum. “Nasty!” His face turned purple with rage. “Bring me the royal chef!” he bellowed. The servants scrambled to obey. Soon enough, the obese chef rushed into the dining room, huffing and puffing with the effort.

“Yes, Your Highness? How may I best serve you?” he asked nervously, wringing his hands and picking at his blond mustache. He was sweating profusely, his skin ruddy with exertion.

“Bucky!” Ronny roared. “This food isn’t fit to serve to a dog! The meat is cold in the middle and saltier than the sea! Dumping a mountain of salt on such a bland cut doesn’t improve the flavor, you cretin! I’m a prince, and I deserve only the best, not this offensive rubbish!”

His temper flared as he got worked up into a frenzy. He stood up out of his chair and gesticulated with his hands aggressively. “You’re a sorry excuse for a cook, you worthless piece of shit! Just look at these vegetables! Wilted strings reeking of too much garlic and swimming in watery juices! And these potatoes! Unpalatable texture, lumpy and uneven, tasteless paste! Unacceptable, reprehensible slop!”

He picked up the plate and hurled it against the wall with all his might, shattering the porcelain and staining the wall and expensive carpeting with juices. The servants hurried forward to clean up the mess in a hush. Nobody was especially surprised by his tantrum: The servants were accustomed to unhinged outbursts from the royal family. Ronny ignored them and continued to verbally berate the chef, who pointedly stared at his feet. Ronny shoved his finger into his fat chest as he ranted in his face, spitting and swearing. After several minutes of screaming at the top of his lungs and frothing at the mouth, Ronny finally cooled down, dismissing the silent chef with a contemptuous wave of his hand. His face changed from pink back to its usual pasty shade. He crossed his arms petulantly and slumped in his chair.

“Good job, Ronny,” King Richard praised, grinning wide. “Sometimes you need to put the commoners in their place and make them fear you.” He chomped down on a bite of meat, clearly enjoying his meal despite his son’s scathing condemnation of its quality. Ronny shrugged, still scowling. The servants, so inferior to the royals as to be invisible to them, cleaned up his mess in the background.

Bianca was unperturbed by Ronny venting his spleen, continuing to toy with the human on her plate as she ate the food around her. Eventually, she got bored and lifted the poor woman up by her leg, studying her wriggling with a cold inquisitiveness. She lowered the tiny woman headfirst into her mouth, licking her face and closing her plump lips around her torso before slurping her flailing legs inside with the rest of her body. She sucked on the delicious morsel for a while, shuffling her from one cheek to the other, before sending her off on a trip to her stomach with a hearty gulp.

She watched as the servants flitted anxiously back to the table, bringing with them a sumptuous feast of roasted partridge and yams for the picky prince. He sulked as the royal food taster sampled each portion and cleared the food for consumption. The servants backed away, sweating nervously as Ronny tasted the partridge. The bratty prince raised an eyebrow and grunted, but didn’t complain. The tension dissipated among the servants and they disappeared into the background again, relieved not to be on the receiving end of another explosive fit.

“Hey, Ronny, what happened to the human in your food?” Bianca queried.

Ronny shrugged as he continued to shovel food into his mouth. “Fuck if I know. She probably ended up as a red stain on the wall.”

King Richard frowned. “What a waste.” He gave Ronny a stern look. The aura in the room subtly changed, as if the air itself chilled. “Don’t squash your humans so carelessly, Ronny. They are valuable, and we can only extract so many without them revolting against us.”

Ronny stiffened. “Of course, Father,” he mumbled, casting his eyes downward. “I won’t do it again.” The king assumed a milder expression, accepting his words, and the mood lightened again. Ronny repressed a shudder.

“I never understood why you don’t just conquer the human kingdom, enslave the populace, and farm them,” Bianca remarked, tilting her head. “Wouldn’t that make more sense? Then you can have as many as you want.”

The king sighed and shook his head. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Haven’t you noticed the humans that are here for a long time tend to lose their unique flavor and vitality? That’s because, if they’re not fed and cared for well, and they grow sad, they become frailer, weaker, and less appealing to the palate. That’s why over time we need fresh tributes, and why I usually dispose of them, when they are no longer of any use to us for our personal pleasure.”

He licked his lips as he finished the last bite of his dinner. “I prefer my humans to be free-range, so to speak, and of high quality. That standard of health isn’t possible if they were all forcibly imprisoned. Happy humans also multiply in greater numbers, which is even better for us. Let them have their silly little kingdom, go about their lives, and exist in blissful ‘freedom.’ As long as they give us our rightful share and don’t complain, I will be content.”

He inserted his fingers into his pocket and pulled out a small, trembling woman. “Of course, as you know, not all humans go stale! I still have my favorites, like my cute sweet little Millie, now don’t I?” He grinned roguishly and nuzzled her with his nose.

“Y-yes, of course, Your Majesty! I would never want to disappoint you!” the poor creature squeaked, out of fright rather than affection. Ronny looked away, repulsed by the display. He hated his father’s distasteful perversions and could hardly stand to watch. Bianca stared at him with jealousy, wishing she had a tiny man to kiss and pet and play with. King Richard always exclusively requested maidens as tribute, and she was fed up with his selfishness. She was used to always getting what she wanted, so the fact that she couldn’t have one irritated her to no end.

The servants cleared the dirty dishes off the table and brought slices of cheesecake for dessert. King Richard removed a small vial from his pocket full of a glowing blue potion and dripped a drop onto Millie’s head. Her face paled with dread as her body absorbed the substance, a magical anti-digestion fluid that would keep her unharmed inside his stomach. He pressed her into the soft dessert with his index finger up to her shoulders. She turned her head away from him, and Ronny spotted quiet tears glistening on her cheeks. The prince switched his attention to his own dessert and ate in silence, ignoring the display.

King Richard scooped up Millie with his fork and licked the sweet filling off her body, chuckling at her small whines of discomfort. He gently enveloped her in his mouth, humming with delight. After slopping his tongue all over her and sliding her against the inner walls of his teeth, he took another bite of cheesecake and rolled her around with it, sucking it all up with pleasure. He continued in this manner until he finished his entire slice before finally gulping down the small lady.

Ronny hastened to excuse himself from the table, grabbing up his gloves. As he lifted them, he noticed an abnormal weight inside, caused by a small, shivering lump. He flipped the glove and dumped its mystery contents out on the table, only to discover the food human that he thought he’d thrown across the room was hidden inside. She tumbled out and landed on the hard surface with a splattering of sauce.

Ronny glared at her, then at his fancy gloves, soiled inside with sauce. “Ugh! Look what you did, you filthy little rat! These gloves are ruined!” He flung the gloves away, his dark eyes flashing as his white-hot wrath returned with a vengeance. The woman’s eyes widened and she cowered before the giant man looming above her like a mountain. She had already narrowly escaped death when he smashed his dinner plate against the wall; she knew what he was capable of with his volatile temper.

The giant prince slammed his fist on the table next to her, startling her to her feet. Even standing up, she was shorter than his stacked fingers; he could easily crush her in his grasp like an insect. Her legs turned into useless rubber beneath her as she comprehended the futility of resisting and collapsed to the table. Ronny unclenched his fist and grabbed her up, raising her close to his face.

“Vile, foul worm,” he grumbled as she whimpered helplessly in his hand. “I’ll make you pay for that.” He knew humans hated to be eaten, so he shoved her into his mouth and swallowed her hard, sending her straight to the fleshy prison in his midsection. King Richard grinned with approval as he observed his son. Ronny stormed off in a huff, stomping on his gloves and kicking them to the side on his way out.

He clomped down one of the many stony corridors of the castle, fuming with irritation. He could feel the human fighting inside his gut as she was jostled about by his rapid steps. That idiotic human deserved her punishment. Those gloves were custom-made, based on the measurements of his hands, and now he’d have to order a new pair from the royal tailor. Such an inconvenience!

Chapter 2

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violet-moonstone · 4 months

Text

Heathers Part 4: Rogue Heather and Conclusion

Part 3

This is my favourite option, which is why I saved it for last. This route focuses on skills Heather could much more believably pick up on her own—in fact, these are skills we already see her exhibiting in RoB. This version of Heather is very much like Arya Stark—minus the combat training—specifically, Arya when she’s in Braavos. She’s good at hiding, sneaking around, pickpocketing, etc. She would rely on changing her behaviour and appearance to fit the situation and slowly build her arsenal of disguises as she improves her skill and has more resources at her disposal. One day, she might appear as a raggedy street urchin; the next, a bawdy barmaid; then, a haughty noblewoman or cunning hunter.

Her primary use of this skill would be survival—blending into the background or standing out without people knowing her true identity—but this would also be strategic. She could get information either from being a fly on the wall no one considers being cautious around, or by being charismatic and charming people into trusting her. In more extreme situations, she could slip poison into the drink of a bar patron, set fire to the room of someone who thinks she’s their servant, or (in a version of RTTE with a more mature rating) stab someone once they’re in her bed. (I’ve written a fic about this)

I think this option makes the most sense, because it requires no retconning of her backstory and includes the most believable skillset for someone without any training. I also think that with a heavy focus on stealth, it wouldn’t make sense for her to have a large, armoured dragon with reflective scales (once again, sorry Windshear). Instead she could have a small dragon that could help her with fetching things, being on watch for danger, and shooting fire at close range. I’m thinking a Terrible Terror or something similar. Although a small dragon with similar traits to a Changewing would be really cool, like a winged chameleon of sorts—but maybe instead of becoming invisible, it just mimics different colours and textures.

In terms of costumes for Rogue Heather, it can really be anything. She’d probably need a base outfit for when she’s not in disguise, in which case, I’d go for something like the redesigns all the dragon riders except Hiccup got, which was basically putting them in the same clothes as in RoB/DoB but with different colours. I think the outfit Heather’s wearing in RoB is pretty good for a rogue type character already—just use a slightly different colour scheme that’s still faded, and keep the hood from her current design. Her disguises could be much more dramatic and could include wigs and makeup as well.

I have a headcanon that she has a favourite disguise though. Due to all the danger and insecurity she’s faced, she’s become ruthlessly ambitious—not just for revenge, but for wealth and power. She never wants to have to worry about being unsafe or scrounging around to survive. I think her favourite roles to play are rich and powerful women. In these roles, she gets to wear something beautiful—I’m thinking a deep green gown that brings out her eyes. It could also be a reference to serpents and envy, which goes hand in hand with her use of poison and her desire for the finer things in life.

I love this version of Heather. I’m currently in the early stages of writing a very long fic (that will probably just include regular Heather because the story already has a lot of OCs and moving parts), however, if I get enough inspiration, I might write some one-shots here and there about her.

Some ideas for her more fancy/aspirational disguises:

From left to right: Labyrinth (2012), BBC’s Merlin (I always thought Katie McGrath would be a great grown-up Heather)

(Some more historical Norse looks)

And a more everyday look:

(From Voriagh)...tell me this model isn't LITERALLY HEATHER. I think it's the murder in her eyes.

(Arya in Game of Thrones, tunics from Dark Knight Armoury)

Conclusion...After a Note About Combat and Women in Fantasy

Before I finish, I want to briefly touch upon another issue I have with Heather’s character. You may have noticed that the latter two options I gave have a much stronger emphasis on her intelligence and/or social skills than her physical prowess – I did this intentionally because I find that RTTE lacks characters who are not combat focused (Even Johann turned out to be a skilled knife-thrower. I miss when he was just a friendly and knowledgable—though talkative—merchant). While I appreciate that the female characters in the show are shown to be capable fighters, they don’t all need to be. I think fantasy and sci-fi writers tend to forget that making women into combatants is not the only way to make them strong, empowered, or interesting. There are so many ways that characters, regardless of gender, can have agency and be integral to a plot; these ways don’t have to include putting a heavy weapon in their hands. I’ve briefly discussed this in another post, but I think the dynamic between Viggo and Ryker would be much more interesting if Viggo were not physically strong and had to depend on Ryker’s strength just as much as Ryker depended on Viggo’s wits. And while Hiccup’s sword fighting abilities are commendable, let’s not forget that his first great achievement would never have been possible without curiosity, intelligence and empathy—the three things required to befriend Toothless—not physical strength. I love Race to the Edge, and I understand the combat-heavy focus (because “Vikings”) but I do wish there was just a bit more variety when it comes to the way characters navigate dangerous situations.

Alright, so there you have it: My 3 Heathers. I’m very tempted to draw all three of them, to get a clearer image of what their designs would look like. Which one do you prefer the most? The revenge-fuelled warrior, the unhinged alchemist, or the ambitious assassin? Let me know, and thanks for reading!

#httyd #httyd analysis #httyd essay #how to train your dragon #rtte #rtte essay #race to the edge #heather #heather the unhinged #httyd costumes #httyd character design #long post

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misguidedasgardian · 1 year

Text

Dragon's Mistress (5)

5. Plaything

MASTERLIST

Summary: You get caught in the middle of their schemes

Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, witchcraft and attempted poisoning, smut, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3.1 k

Notes: I'm sorry for the delay! I want to say than starting next chapter, things will get smuttier, but darker...and I'm not doing a taglist for this story, sorry loves

You were dismissed so you took the opportunity to relax in your chambers, trying to meditate on how Alys Rivers’ presence here affected you.

If it was true and she and Aemond were married, was she here to stay?

She clearly thought you were “entertaining” her “husband”, so she didn’t like you, if she was to stay here that was certainly going to be a problem, on the other hand, you might have been treated like a servant, but this was your home, you were of Valyrian descent, you were certainly positioned over some bastard witch, were you not? but Aemond seemed hellbent on humiliating you, perhaps he was going to place Alys over you as well, and you were not looking forward to more humiliation from his part.

Perhaps she was going to convince him to leave this place and go back to Harrenhal… or perhaps… she was here to stay…

It troubled you

It was already nighttime, so as was already a custom, you heard a faint knock on your door and you knew it was Dalya

“I’m here with a bath for you My Lady”, she said with a smile, and you felt guilty that you made a bath for Aemond and he was probably not going to take it

But you were

“Thank you”. You prepared your own bath with the help of the servants

BUt when you couldn’t find relaxation in the tub, you blamed Aemond, for everything, a looming presence over you that made you feel on edge, like if you took a wrong step he was going to punish you, kill you or worse. There was not going to be honor in your punishment, or in your death, or in your life, he has taken your honor and your grace, Dalya only still treated you as a lady because of her own kindness, but nothing else.

So you rubbed your skin almost raw with a sponge, and then you left quickly, these were not pleasures anymore, you couldn’t have pleasures, you were only a servant, if you managed to understand it, you were going to become stronger, you believed. You couldn’t give more reason to Aemond to punish you

The you dried yourself and were about to put on your night dress, but a knock on the door interrupted you, the person let themselves in after those warnings knocks, and it was Dalya

“My lady, His grace is calling you”, you paled, you really couldn’t fathom why he would call you at this hour

“Now?”

“Right now”, she said urgently, "I'll help you. You had no choice but to put on a simple black dress that required no bodice underneath, it was too tight, stick to your form, and a simple pair of slippers, and you were on your way to the Prince Of Dragonstone, fixing your hair on the way

When you entered his rooms you found the dark haired witch seated on Aemond’s lap, his big hands were around her hips, caressing her there. She was wearing a simple silk black dress which adjusted to her perfect figure. She was feeding him grapes and cubes of cheese and dropping kisses on his jaw, and the intimacy of their position made you blush

“You called for me… your grace?”, you couldn’t call him your prince, you had the feeling Alys was going to curse you if you did

“You refer to me as “your prince” or have you forgotten?”, he asked, anger twisting his face

“What can I do for you, my prince?”, you asked with a high pitch voice, your eyes fell to the floor in front of you, not daring to look at the couple

“That is better”, he said simply, “I did call for you, you are my servant are you not?”, Aemond asked, as Alys giggled as you were the silliest thing on the island

“I am”, you said, trying to sound energetic, but not improper. She took her goblet from the table and handed it to you

“Bring me wine”, she commanded, and you didn’t know what to do, you looked at Aemond who was looking back at you with curiosity, sick amusement too. You decided to made haste to take the cup from her hands and bring it to the corner where the silver pitcher was, you filled it and brought it back to her

She took it from your hand, her nails digging into your fingers for only just a second, but enough to make you withdrawn your hand immediately like she burned

Aemond seemed pleased

And you wondered if he was going to keep you there all night long

Aemond lowered his face and kissed Alys with passion, hungrily, grunting as she moaned, you looked away, embarrassed, you didn’t want to be there

You wondered why he summoned you, and then you almost chuckled… he wanted to humiliate you, that was his purpose, in regards to you, that is all it was

When you looked back at Aemond he was looking at you with a mocking smile on his face, and you cursed yourself and your face for being so transparent, as you couldn’t hide your disgust

“Does serving your prince bother you?”, he mocked

“No, my prince, but I think you would prefer… to be alone with your lady wife”, you said simply, and his face turners and twisted, in something hard to read

He stood up, making Alys stumble off his lap, you had to bite your tongue not to laugh

“You are making assumptions far over your place, servant”, he snapped, and you wondered why he got so angry only by your words, was she not his wife?

He was fuming.

Alys appearing in Dragonstone was troublesome, yes, he did not expect to see her again, he was done with her, or that is what he believed. He had left her like the lady of Harrenhal, he had begged Aegon to make her a real woman from house Strong, and Aegon, between laughs and spilled wine he had granted his wish, then he had left her like the Lady of Harrenhal, with the riches and lands with the title

He had believed it was enough.

He was not married to the witch, one night after he fucked her, she had taken his hand, cut his palm and licked the blood off of it, then recited a few words binding them together. And even though he believes Alys, and her magic, what she has seen and done, he did not believe that would make them husband and wife, he was not binded to her, he was not her husband, she was not his wife.

But Alys was here, so Aemond could take advantage of that fact, use her to anger you, to corner you, to lure your feelings out.

But you did not looked jealous, you looked disgusted, you did not look angry, you looked wretched and sad

This was not what he wanted

And you too believed Aemonf was married to Alys, as the witch told everyone who encountered her path, that both were married. It almost cost his mother a heart attack when she heard of the tale

His darling son married to a bastard witch

She prayed to the seven for a week straight, day and night, for them to take Aemond back into the right path.

So no, this was turning messy, and he was not going to be able to “work” on you properly with that witch here. He had to get rid of her. He had to evoke dark feeling from you

“Get out”, he only mumbled, and you were fast to comply, grabbing the skirts of your dress so they wouldn’t make it difficult for you to run back to your chambers before he changed his mind. Only when you were behind the door of your room you let yourself breathe properly

You went to bed fairly quickly, scared that he was going to summon you again.

When you woke up the next morning, you did so alone, the sun coming through the windows let you know that it was already the middle of the morning, you jumped out of bed, scared, where was Dalya? was she well? she usually would wake you up early so you would be always ready for Aemond in case he needed you.

You got dressed quickly, and you left the room. You walked towards Aemond’s rooms, and as you tended to do, you opened the door

Big mistake

Alys was riding Aemond, moaning like a mistress, and Aemond was underneath her, taking her hips. You were about to exit the room, but your eyes met the witch’s

“Are you joining us, or just watching?”, Aemond found you as well, and he looked like he was enjoying himself

“I’m sorry”, you cried, and exited the room. Even though you had never seen anything like it, and even though you knew was sex was all about, you couldn’t help but feel… beyond embarrassed of course… you felt relieved

Relieved, Aemond had another one to satisfy… those needs… because you had started to feel uneasy when he looked at you, but now, he had Alys, you felt relieved, perhaps he only hates you for being Rhaenyra’s daughter, and nothing else…

You started to look for Dalya throughout the palace, she has been giving you small lessons on how attent Aemond, and you were about to learn how to properly serve a meal and make bread. But you couldn’t find her anywhere

You started to get worried

Nobody else knew anything, nobody has seen anything, and you didn’t even know where her chambers where, so you couldn’t look for her in the servant’s quarters

Defeated, you went back to your room, and you whimpered when you saw Alys there, she had a cup in her hand

“I’m sorry for interrupting you in the morning”, you said, but she only smiled

“We like it when we are being watched”, you didn’t need to know that, “wine?”, she offered, but you shook your head

“No thank you”, she did not seemed to like that, she scowled, and left the wine and pitcher in the small table you had in the middle of the room

“I don’t know what you want”, she muttered

“What?”, you asked, confused

“What do you want?”, she asked, “for him to take you, make you his? make you his wife?”

“I want nothing of the sort”, you fought, but she wouldn’t listen, she only chuckled darkly

“Of course you don’t”, she mocked

“He killed my family”, you whispered

“And yet you stayed here and looked at him with your puppy eyes… fuck me eyes”, she taunted with a bitterness of a jealous woman

“I do not”, you answered, hurt by her words, if she believed you wanted that man to take you, she was mistaken, and sick, and you wondered if Aemond would get mad if you answer back to her, if you insult her…

“You are nothing but his plaything”, she mocks, “he enjoys playing with you”

“He hates me because I’m Rhaenyra’s daughter”, you said seriously, she only chuckled

“I’m just wondering if you are so naive, or you are just an idiot”, she snaps, “no matter, I will take you out of the way, you know what they say about me, it’s all true, I can make men fall dead at my command”

“Do it then”, you invited, not fearing her, no nothing, is not that you believed her or not, believed in magic or not, you just wouldn’t submit to her.

She looked at you with her deep green eyes, looked right into your soul, and she was wide-eyed when it didn’t work, nothing happened. She reached out for you, you looked at her hand, and it looked… macabre, it did not belonged to a living person

She touched your cheek, and yet, nothing happened, you looked back into her eyes and now it was she who looked scared of you. You grabbed her hand in yours, taking it out of your face

“The Targaryens are fire and magic turn to flesh”, you said, her blackened hand trapped between yours, “you can’t hurt me, not here”, you said back, and you relished in the fear in her eyes, “I’m the descendant of Daenys the dreamer, Visenya the warrior Queen, who also studied magic”, you spit out, “of Maegor the cruel, you cannot touch me here”, you let go of her hand, your hand imprinted on red in her wrist. She took it to her chest, to caress it with her other hand.

And Alys swore she could hear a dragon growling in the distance

Or perhaps it was only you

She left your rooms there and then, the door rattled behind you when it closed hard.

And then you finally breathed, you walked towards the table and the wine, you took it in your hand and then you walked towards the balcony and threw it over it, into the dark seas underneath the castle.

You didn't know it then, but you scapeed death by poison right then and there.

Now you truly wanted to flee the castle, being subdued by Aemond was one thing, but a mad jealous witch was another thing entirely.

You left your chambers to look for Dalya, she had been born on the island, which meant that she could easily help you find people to take you to safety… for a price of course, but a help was a help…

But alas, you couldn’t find her, your search was interrupted when a soldier came looking for you

“They want to see you”, he said nervously

“Who?”

“Prince Aemond and the witch”, he whispered, and you whined in fear

He escorted you back to the princes’ chambers, and you entered at his command, he was again with Alys on his lap

“Where were you?”, he asked, “I needed my servant and you weren’t there”

“I’m very sorry my Prince”, you whispered, “I was looking for one of the servants”, you admitted, a servant missing had to be drawn to his attention

“Yes, I thought so”, you raise your head to look at him

“Where is Dalya?”, you asked Aemond bluntly, and he smiled

“I dismissed her”, he said dismissively

“What?”, you whined, “why?”, he only looked at you, mockingly, tempting you

“He does not answer to you, servant”, Alys said simply, mockingly. And you had to look away because you were going to cry, your only friend… gone, Aemond chuckled and you winced

“It seems I’ve been too permissive with you”, he muttered

“Please”, you whined, but you didn’t cry, you couldn’t not anymore

“Fetch us wine, servant”, Alys said, her head pointing at the corner where a small table stood with wine

You walked slowly towards it, and poured two cups, you turned back and walked towards them both. You looked into Aemond’s eye and he seemed slow, drowsy, but it was probably the morning fuck.

As you were to give him the cup, you tripped with the skirt of your dress, and you could do nothing to stop your fall so you dropped the wine, the goblets crushing on the floor, and you fell over the dark red pool

“You idiot!”, cursed Alys, and you whimpered when you felt a sharp pain in your knees

“I’m sorry”, you stood up far too quickly. Alys seemed angrier than normal, you just drop a couple of goblets of wine, the spill didn’t even reached her, but she looked enraged

Aemond seemed to wake up from his stupor, moving Alys to stand up

“What happened?”, he asked, he seemed concern

“I’m sorry, I tripped”, you whispered, “I will clean it up”, you left the room to fetch a bucket and a mop, leaving them in the room

And chaos ensued

Aemond watched the pool of wine on the floor, and he could clearly see an unnatural ring of color, he then looked at Alys by his side

“What did you do?”, he asked. Aemond knows her, he knows how her magic works, and as he looked at the misshapen rings in the spilled wine, he knew she had tried to poison him with one of her potions, he guessed, with the one that made him pliable, the one that made him surrender to her

He turned towards her and grabbed her

“You had been giving me the elixir, haven’t you?”, Alys looked at him in fear, “I swear this is the last time you will do such a thing!”

“You will regret it!”, Alys threatened

“Oh will I?”, he mocked, “will you curse me?”

“Not you”, she said with a sick smile, Aemond lost it, he grabbed her by the throat

“Don’t you dare”, he hissed, looking into her green eyes

“I will not harm her, you will do it on your own”, she whispered dangerously, “but what will come your way…”, she giggled then, a sickening, child like laugh, “you will need me Aemond”

“I doubt it”, he growled

“But you will, I have seen it, you will never met happiness”

“Shut up”, he said

“You will have her in body and mind, but you will never have her soul, you will never have her heart”, she spitted out

“I don’t believe you”

“Now you don’t believe me, you certainly did when I told you how to defeat Daemon Targaryen!”, she said, and he pushed her away from him

“I want you gone before sundown or I swear I will kill you”, he said, “I will burn you, I know how much Vhagar hates you”, she looked at him, enraged

“You would have me gone?”

“Yes”, he said bitterly, “be content with being the lady of Harrenhal, or be content with losing your head”, he spitted out, and with a last yearning look, she exited his room. She knew when the battle was lost

She left the castle, and later that day Dragonstone

She might have loosened Aemond, but she smiled as she found one part of her plan succeeding, planting the seed of anger and fear in Aemond’s heart, her visions were never wrong…

When you entered the room with the cleaning rag and a bucket of water, Aemond was alone looking out the window

“Leave that”, he commanded, and you looked at him

“What happened?”, you asked, he seemed… different, when he turned you gasped, his eyepatch was gone, instead, a big sapphire shining in the place of where his eye should be

“Does my sight frighten you, my lovely servant girl?”, he asked, and you shook your head, “good, because from now on you will not be my servant anymore”

“Sorry?”, you asked

“You will serve me… in other, more intimates matters”, you shook, taking a step back

“No… please”, you whined, and his face twisted

“I’m not asking”, and you whined, feeling now, truly frightened.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x alys rivers #aemond x oc #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen #misguidedmistress #targaryen!oc #targaryen!reader #hbo house of the dragon #house targeryen #house targaryen #house of the dragon

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nymphoheretic · 2 years

Text

˜”°•.˜”°• Deadly Games We Play •°”˜.•°”˜

Nymph: Repost from my old blog but, Its here! It’s finally here! I am so excited to post this! This idea has been in my head for months and I was kinda nervous about posting it, but fuck it! I hope you all like it as much as I did writing this!

Warnings: 18+ content, smut, oral(fem recieiving), teasing, dirty talk, fingering, clit slaps, orgasm control/denial, edging, spit kink, sir kink, spanking, blood, minor character death (mentioned), weapons (knife and gun), poison usage, alcohol usage, pole dancing(inspired by this)

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Rengoku Kyoujuro x Assassin Fem!reader

Word count: 5.3k

Tags: @bakugosbratx @yeahitzally @comatosebunny09 @auraee @cherryblossomsenpai @babiefwuit @linpunny @shirohyorin @kyojuro-my-wuv @bajiissofine @lovely-shimmers @sassysaxsolo @sailewhoremoon @unknownspecies (sorry for the second ping! I private the first one! I'd love for you to reblog it again!)

Network: @tokyometronetwork

You knelt down on the shiny, hard wooden floor as you awaited your order from the man who hired you. Breathing shallowly behind the thin black mask you wore to conceal your identity, you dared to look up at the man sitting in the throne-like chair in the center of the room. You were a highly trained assassin, the best in your class. You were skilled with every type of blade and made your own extremely potent poisons.

“Lord Muzan, I await your orders.” you said softly, gazing into the man’s eyes with your own.

Muzan Kibutsuji, one of Japan’s most notorious Mafia lords, was a rather attractive man with short black hair with long side bangs that framed his handsome face and piercing red eyes. Eyes that were now locked on the woman kneeling before him. You were dressed in all black down to your black heeled boots.

“I need for you to eliminate the family that has become quite the thorn in my side.” He said, his voice calm and alluding the amount of power he had. Muzan snapped his fingers and one of his servants presented the woman with a photo. “That is the Rengoku Mafia Family. Kill them.”

You took the picture from the servant, observing the family. All three males had the same flame colored hair and golden-vermillion eyes while the woman (the mother you presumed) had black hair and soft red eyes. You almost felt a bit of sympathy for them. They looked like a nice family, maybe you would use your poisons instead.

“Yes, sir.” you started to rise out of your kneeling position when a hand clamped down on your shoulder, squeezing roughly.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are.” A voice snarled. “But killing Kyoujuro and his family is my job.”

Turning to look at the man who grabbed you, you saw that it was a man with pink hair and golden eyes. Your lip curled down into a frown as you growled out, “It would be wise to let me go if you wish to keep that hand.

“What can you d-” before he could even finish his sentence you had your thighs locked around his neck as you swung your weight around, throwing him to the ground. A blade slid out of the heel of your boot as you stabbed it near the side of his head. He looked at you with wide eyes as a stinging pain spread from the slow forming cut that split his cheek. Blood pooled in the wound before falling down the side of his face.

“Akaza.” Muzan said simply, glaring down at the pink-haired man pinned by the small woman. “Effective immediately you are reassigned from the Rengoku Family.” His voice carried across the room commanding with a lingering threat. A slow smile began to tilt at his lips. “Unless you can beat her.”

Akaza grabbed the woman’s leg and tossed you off of him before dropping into a kneel. “Sir, if given the chance. I will not kill her but I can put her out of commission.”

You laughed, maybe a bit too loudly, as you glared at Akaza. You just had him pinned, cheek split open by the blades in your heels. And he thinks he can beat you? “I’m sorry. You? Put me out of commission? Take a hint from the blood spilling down your face. You cannot win.” Small daggers fell into your palms from the hidden compartment attached to your wrists and you pointed one of them at the man. “You’re more than welcome to try. I’ll try to not kill you.” you glanced over at the man who hired you. “With your permission, Lord Muzan.”

Muzan sat back deeper into his throne, his long legs crossed at the knee as he placed his intertwined fingers under his nose. There was a long pause of silence as the two assassins waited for his orders. The woman poised with her blades and Akaza dropped into his fighting stance. “Granted.” He watched with mild amusement as the two began to fight.

You dodged Akaza’s quick flurry of punches he aimed at your face, retaliating with your own with the dagger clenched in between the webs of your fingers. Your blades, while never piercing his flesh with a direct hit, left glancing wounds on his face, neck and shoulders. You somersault backwards, the blade in your heels sliding out.

Akaza took a step back to avoid the sharp knife hidden in your boots when you flipped, the tip barey grazing his chin and leaving a small knick on his skin. He had to admit the woman was a decent fighter, but it was time for him to get serious. Only he was allowed to kill Kyoujuro. Akaza would not let some stranger take his prize.

His foot slammed down into the floor, splintering the wood as he focused his strength into his fists. Akaza would shatter the bones in your arms first, to hear you beg for mercy before breaking your legs and making you crawl back to where you had come from. Just as he was about to attack again, he stumbled, a nauseous feeling overcoming him. Akaza gagged and covered his mouth and it felt like he was both going to choke and vomit at the same time. Why did he feel so sick all of a sudden?

“It took long enough.” you walked over to where he was standing, watching him sway on his feet. “The poison has finally coursed through your blood.” you pulled a vial out of the valley of your breasts, swirling the liquid around. “I coat each of my blades in this serum that I make. It’s a deadly poison.” you stood in front of Akaza, a slight smile curling at your lips beneath your mask as you pressed your fingertips against his exposed chest and smeared the blood that dripped from his wounds. “Does it hurt, Akaza? Or should I say Soyama Hakuji.”

Gold eyes widened. How did you know his birth name? He has not used it since he was a child. Akaza choked on his own bile as it rose up in his throat as he struggled to speak. Was he going to die? Poisoned like a worthless creature after not even landing a single blow on this woman, this fem fatale.

He flinched when you suddenly injected him with a needle and the nausea slowly started to go away as he dropped to his knees to empty the contents of his stomach so that he could breathe again. “Wh-why did you?”

“I don’t kill anyone who isn’t my target.” you said simply as you tossed the needle away on the ground and put the vial back in the inner breast pocket of your top. You walked back over to where Muzan was sitting still crossed legged up now he held his face in the palm of his hand, looking quiet assumed. “Was that display to your satisfaction, Lord Muzan?” you asked as you crossed your fist over your heart and bowed.

Muzan sat up on his throne, a smile curling at his lips. “It pleases me to know that the Rengoku Family will be disposed of.” He said, looking satisfied. “The funds will be transferred to your account when you’ve brought me their heads. 12 million for each one.”

You nodded as you slid your dagger back into the weapons compartment before bowing once more. Your heels clicked as you side stepped Akaza, who was still hunched over and probably still wondering how you knew his birth name. You stopped at the door, turning to the pink-haired man on the floor. “Because you were once my target before the hit was called off. Be grateful.” you exited out of the room.

Once you had left the building, you tugged your mask down and pulled out the photo you had placed in your pocket. You suppose you should start with one of the brothers. Killing the younger one first would leave a bitter taste in your mouth because he looked so adorable with that kind smile on his face. You glanced over to the other brother.

“Pity.” you said as you took in the older brother’s features. “He’s kinda cute.” Slipping the photo back into my pocket, you pulled your mask back up on your face and hid in the shadows as you made your way back home to plan out your tactics of getting rid of Rengoku Kyoujuro as quickly as possible. Even if you did not kill the whole family before your deadline, the twelve million you would get from just him would be more than enough.

-0-0-0

Bored.

Kyoujuro was bored. Very bored at this party that was supposedly thrown in his honor. He set his face into the palm of his gloved hand as he watched the scantily dressed dancers try to seduce him with their movements. None caught his eye. Kyoujuro reached for his drink, Brandy on the rocks, and swirled the glass around before taking a drink. His attention was caught when the music changed in tempo, becoming dark and seductive.

“INTRODUCING A NEW DANCER: THE FEM FATALE!”

Kyoujuro leaned back into his seat, legs crossed at the knee. The Fem Fatale. A dangerous name. He hoped this one would provide some entertainment for him. He watched the stage with hooded eyes as the lights changed to a dark shade of violet, his glass to his lips as he waited for the performer to come out.

His tongue wet his lips when a woman dressed in dark red lingerie with a black corset tied around her waist to give her more of an hourglass figure and a sheer black robe with red ostrich feathers decorating the train and sleeves. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of thigh high leather boots and she had a riding crop for her prop. She also left her hair down to frame her face beautifully. But what piqued his interest the most was the black lacy mask that covered her eyes, hiding her identity from him. Kyoujuro wanted to know who this “Fem Fatale" was.

He watched with greedy eyes as she strutted slowly down the catwalk, tapping her thighs with the riding crop until she reached the pole at the end. When her music started, she bent over and flipped back her hair, but a few loose strands covered her face, giving her a seductive look. Kyoujruo’s eyes never left her body as she danced and twirled around on the pole. He sipped at his drink as he watched her spin and spread those delectable thighs until her legs were in a straight line as she spun on the pole.

Kyoujuro felt the front of his pants become snug as she used the riding crop to spank her naughty ass and cunt as she spread her legs from the audience. Slowly, she stripped out of her robe, tossing it to the side as she grabbed hold of the pole. His cock twitched as he eyed her thighs and breasts as she danced around on the ground, her legs looking miles long as she stretched them over her head.

The front of his pants became almost unbearably tight when she ripped off the corset, her cute tummy on display for his viewing pleasure. His eyes followed her every movement as she slowly climbed up the pole, and begin spinning and twirling. Fuck, she was sexy. Her display of strength and her slow, eroctic movement turned him on. When she spun around on the pole, supporting her body with just her upper body and ankles, Kyoujuro knew that he had to have her.

When her performance was over, Kyoujuro motioned for his bodyguards to go find her and bring her to the private room he rented.

-0-0-0

You stepped out onto the stage when they called out your stage name. You walked slowly down the catwalk, tapping the tops of your thighs with the riding crop you used as a prop. Your eyes sought out for the Rengoku’s and you found him already staring at you with those beautiful golden-vermillion eyes and a glass to his lips as he took a drink. I made my way to the pole, heels clicking on the runway. Flipping my hair back I made eye contact with him, watching him adjust his pants.

Coming out of my robe, so I would have more freedom of movement, I slowly slid down the pole as my legs spread into a split. The Rengoku’s eyes never left your form as you danced around the pole, stretching your legs as you spun around on the pole wih just your hands. You slid down the pole until your knees touched the ground.

You moved your body around seductively, your hair flying around with your movement and sticking to your gloss. Knowing that your performance was coming to an end, you snatched off the corset.

As your performance was coming to an end, You decided to show off my strength by locking your legs around the pole while spinning around in place. Slowly, you let go of the pole and supported yourself by arching your back against the cool metal while pressing your ankles down to maintain my balance.

You could feel his eyes on you as you spun around in slow circles. You wished you still had the riding crop to slide it along your covered heat and thighs, but you could tell he was already mesmerized by you. By the time you had finished your routine and blew a kiss to the crowd, he was gone and you knew that he was going to look for you.

-0-0-0

Kyoujuro sat in his private room, waiting patiently for his bodyguards to acquire the woman. He fixed himself another drink and poured one for you when they brought you to him. A soft knock at his door brought a smile to his face as he beckoned them inside.

When the woman stepped inside his private room, you were even more beautiful up close than on stage. Luscious lips, perfect breasts, adorable tummy, beautiful hips and thighs, you were a goddess among goddesses.

He dismissed his bodyguards with a wave of his hand. “You can leave.” He said simply, eyes never leaving the woman in front of him. Your eyes were still covered by that lacy black mask and he was dying to see the beauty that laid underneath it. He smiled easily and laughed when you looked around the room. “I don’t bite.” His lips curled upwards into a hint of a seductive smile. “Unless you want me to, princess.”

Kyoujuro watched as your lips parted in a gasp and he held out the glass that he poured the drink into. “Brandy?” He asked, walking over to you so that you could take the alcohol.

You took the drink from him with a shy smile. Standing this close to him gave you a better look at his handsome features. You could see the way his gold-red eyes sparkled in the light, his perfect jawline, pearly-white, straight teeth, soft yet firm looking lips that were almost always pulled into a smile, and his voice was so deep and rumbling. ‘It’s a shame such a handsome man has to die.’ “Thank you.” you took a sip of the rich brown liquid, a bit surprised at how smooth it went down.

He laughed lightly, gaining your attention. “Smooth, isn’t it. This is Mendi Coconut Brandy.” Kyoujuro refilled your glass and his before clinking them together. “I enjoyed your performance. “He complimented you, walking over to the couch and sitting down. Spreading his long legs, he patted his thigh for you to sit down.

You eyed him, trying to figure out the best method of killing him. You had the knives hidden in my boots that you used to dispose of the real entertainer earlier. You also have your poisoned hairpins tying back your locks you could use. Your eyes caught the movement of him rolling his sleeves up and you saw the dark swirls of the tattoos inked into his forearms. Fuck... Your body automatically moved over to sit down on his leg as you gave him a shy smile. “Is there something you want?”

Kyoujuro leaned in, the sweet scent of your lotions filling his scenes. Coconut. You smelled sweet like the fruit and it made him wonder if you tasted just as sweet and was as tender as the flesh. His fingers found your delicate wrist, the pads resting against your pulse and feeling the blood rush through it. “Nervous or excited to know why I called you here?” His smile was gentle, yet still a bit sadistic. Kyoujuro was the hunter and you were his prey.

Pulling the hair pins out of the bun you wore, letting your hair down, you smiled at him. “Oh, I have an idea of what you want.” you said as you shifted in his lap, straddling his thighs. Placing your lips against his ear, you whispered, “But too bad I won’t be giving it to you." You raised the poisoned pins high, ready to send them into the veins of his neck. “Next time don't be so quick to dismiss your guards.”

He sensed the danger and before you were able to plunge the sharp tips of your weapons into his neck, Kyoujuro knocked your hands away. The pins scattered across the room as he quickly flipped your positions on the couch, his gun drawn and pointed at your forehead as you had drawn a hidden blade and pressed it against his neck. “Hm...you’re a better one than the last one he sent.” His finger rested lazily on the trigger.

You began to feel a bit nervous at the large Colt .38 pointed at your head, but you didn’t let it show. “Big words coming from the Boss’s underling.” you tightened your grip on the handle of your knife, pressing it tightly against his skin. “What makes you think I can’t slit your neck before you can pull the trigger?” you fought the urge to flinch when the cold metal pressed even deeper against the center of your forehead.

Kyoujuro smiled down at you, his lips pulled taunt at your words. “The boss’s underling?” He chuckled as his finger itched to pull the trigger from that statement alone. “You have me mixed up with my father, I believe. He was the former head of the family.” He reached around and pulled at the silk strings that held your mask tied closed.

Rengoku Shinjirou wasn’t the boss? You began to sweat a little, the strings of your mask dangling with the tips tickling your shoulders. The only thing keeping it held up over your eyes was the barrel of his gun. Why didn’t Lord Muzan tell me that Rengoku Kyoujuro was the Mafia Boss. You would have targeted him last. You swallowed thickly as he slowly reached for the edge of the lace mask.

“Let me see this face of yours.” He hummed, pulling his gun back slightly, ignoring the bite of your blade against the side of his neck. Grabbing the lace between his fingers, Kyoujuro pulled it away revealing your beautiful face. You were gorgeous. “Fem Fatale. I see why you picked that name. Many have tried to come assassinate me and my family, but you’re the first one that used this method.” He hummed as he grabbed your knife in his gloved hand quickly and yanked it from her grip. “Muzan finally thought of sending a woman instead of that pink-haired bastard.” The tip of his gun moved down to tilt your chin up so that he could stare into your eyes.

You shivered as you looked into his golden-crimson eyes. They were so cold yet beautiful with that glow of lust that swirled in his irises. You felt helpless without your blades and Kyoujuro was so much bigger than you that you wouldn’t dream of taking him in hand to hand. Then there was the gun he had pointed at you. You swallowed thickly. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. You know that I came here to kill you by Muzan’s orders. Unless you want to offer me more money to take out Muzan for you.”

Kyoujuro clicked his tongue as he tapped the tip of his gun against the bottom of your jawline. “Now what is the fun in that, princess?" He trailed the cold steel down your neck to the valley of your breasts, pointing the barrel at your heart. “How much?”

“12 for each head and double if I finish before the end of the week.” you answered quickly, your eyes glancing over at the corner where he had thrown your weapons. You wished you had gotten time to redress into your normal attire, but his bodyguards had barged into the dressing room almost as soon as you had closed the door. You barely had time to grab the hair pins.

The more he stared at your barely covered body, the silver of his gun contrasting beautifully with your skin, the tighter the front of Kyoujuro’s pants became. Fuck you were gorgeous. He tapped the weapon against your breast, smiling when you jumped. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you go. But...” he trailed off, finger toying with the trigger. “On one condition.”

You arched your brow as you tilted your head to the left. Has he lost his mind? Let you go? You were just going to take another attempt on his life, maybe even go after his family first. “And what might that be?” you would play along with whatever he wanted if that meant you would live.

“I will make you fall in love with me before the deadline of your assassination attempt.” He smiled pleasantly, laughing a bit when you recoiled your head back. “If I can’t, you can have my life, but if I do, you’re mine.”

“You’re not fucking serious!” you screamed at him. You? Fall in love with him? “You really think I won’t just try to kill you while you attempt to woo me?!” your brain stopped working when Kyoujuro reached out and placed a black leather gloved finger against your lips, silencing your rant. Damn him. Did he know you thought he was attractive?

His smile never left his lips. “I never said you couldn’t keep attempting to kill me, but I will thwart every effort and won’t stop until I break you and make you mine.” Kyoujuro leaned in, moving his finger and slid his tongue out and ran it over the seam of your lips. “Come on, princess, just admit that you’re attracted to me.” his hand trailed down your neck.

Your lips were on fire from his touch as you looked up at him wide eyed. His fingers made your skin come alive when he led them down the front of your throat. “What are you...” you trailed off when his gloved fingertips traced over the swell of your breasts, his gun now being holstered back into its holder at his hip. A soft moan escaped when his palm brushed over your nipple before he used both hands to cup your mounds.

“Sensitive thing, aren’t you sweetheart?” Kyoujuro chuckled as he pushed you back onto the couch, his knee sliding between your thighs. “Let me give you a taste of what you’ll receive once you’re mine.” He leaned his head down slowly, intending on kissing her but his lips were met with your cheek as you turned your head away.

You placed your hand over your lips. “I’ll agree to play your little game, but I have my own rules.” you held up two fingers. "First is that unless I say yes, you cannot fuck me.” your head rolled back when his thigh pressed firmly against your heat, tempting you into giving into his touch. But you had to hold firm. “The second is until I say so, no kissing either.”

Kyoujuro gazed down at you, his brow arched before he sighed. “Fine. I won’t fuck or kiss you until you say I can, however,” He snatched your hand away from your lips and grabbed your chin, hooking his thumb on her bottom lip. Gathering a pool of saliva in his mouth, Kyoujuro let it fall from his puckered lips and into your parted lips, landing on your tongue, “have a taste of what you’re missing out on.”

As his spit slid down the back of your throat, a small whine left you. He tasted like the coconut brandy you had drunk, rich and smooth. You wanted more, but Kyoujuro had already latched his lips onto your neck, nipping and sucking his marks into your flesh.

Your back arched off the couch, grinding your core down further against his hard thigh between your legs. His hand began to massage your breasts, squeezing the flesh until it spilled over in his palms.

“Come on, little one. Let me hear those beautiful moans.” He licked a line down your neck to the valley of your breasts. Kyoujuro pulled the cups of your thin, lace red bra down, pushing your breasts out. His mouth began to water at the sight of your taut nipples standing to attention for him. Latching his lips around your left one, he pinched and twisted the other in between his fingers. Soon a symphony of your saccharine moans graced his ears.

You could not hold back your cries when Kyouuro began toying with your nipples. You weaved your fingers into his silky blond hair to hold him against your chest.

The pleasure was starting to consume you as he did wickedly sinful things to you. You let out a gasp when you felt his other hand glide down your belly and rested between your thighs. He moved his thigh down so that he could cup your sex over the thin red panties you had on.

Kyoujuro used his teeth to pull his gloves off his hands. He then pushed your underwear to the side and slid a finger along your slit. Releasing your nipple with a wet sounding ‘pop’, a smirk curled at his lips. “You’re already so wet, Princess.” He ran his finger up and down your cunt, parting your folds and watched your lewd juices glisten. “Look at this pussy, just dripping and sopping wet for me. Are you sure you haven’t fallen in love with me yet?”

Your face heated at his words as you swallowed thickly, the taste of coconuts still heavy on your tongue. “N-no!” you whimpered, feeling two of the thick fingers swiping through your slick coated slit. “I’m not in love with you.” A gasp left you when he suddenly pushed those digits inside your clenching hole and your hands gripped the leather exterior of the couch. “Fuck.”

Kyoujuro thumbed your clit as he thrust his fingers in and out at a leisurely pace. He watched every expression that appeared on your face. Marvelling a each lewd sound your pussy made as he fucked you with his hand. Adding a third finger and curling them, Kyoujuro found that spot that made you squirm and shake around him. He licked his lips as he stared hungry at your cunt. You only said that he could not kiss your mouth...

You were drowning, lost in the overwhelming ecstasy that he was causing on your body. Your nails dug into the upholstery of the couch. His fingers found your spot quickly, like he knew your body like the back of his hand. Your eyes slid closed as you started to lose yourself in the mind numbing pleasure. Until you left something hot and wet dripping onto your sex. My eyes shot open when I saw Kyoujuro spitting onto your clit, smearing it over your opening before lowering his head. “What are you doing?!” you kicked your legs out as you tried to grab his cheeks.

He looked up at you with a sinister smile on his lips before he slapped your clit, the stinging pain causing you to freeze up. Kyoujuro smiled up at you as he gathered your legs over his shoulders. “You only said I couldn’t fuck or kiss you, but you didn’t specify how to fuck you or what lips I could kiss.” He spanked your clit once more before gliding his tongue over the nerve.

Your head fell back as you gasped from the stinging pleasure of having your sensitive bud slapped and abused before his warm, wet muscle circled it as if trying to soothe the pain. You moved to curl your hands even tighter into his hair, not knowing if you were trying to pull him away or push him closer to your needy cunt. “Fuck...” you whimpered softly.

Kyoujuro licked up and down your folds, relishing in your sweet taste. You were indeed sweet and tender, even more so than the fruit. He could stay between your thighs, eating and drinking from your drooling hole all day. His nose brushed against your clit as his tongue dipped into your sugary hole to gather your slick. “This pussy is going to be all mine.” He groaned. “Won’t it?”

In your lustful daze, his words rang true in your ears. “Yes!” you screamed out, flinching his hand came in contact with your ass, the rings he wore possibly leaving an imprint on your skin. You quickly changed your words, “Yes, sir! My pussy will belong to you.” you whined out, fingers tightening in his long golden hair as you bucked your hips upward.

He hummed as he sucked at your opening to taste as much of your sweetness as possible. A combination of your juices and his saliva rolled down his chin. You tasted better than the finest of desserts. Moving his lips up to your swollen nerve, he flicked it with his tongue as he pushed his fingers back inside your slick, clenching hole. Your cream began to smear onto the silver and black rings he wore.

“Oh fuck...” you moaned out as he attacked your clit with quick flicks. You shook your head from side to side as your thighs began to tremble and shake around his head as your back arched even further off the couch. Kyoujuro caught your body before it landed back onto the cushion, pressing your cunt deeper into his face. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” you chanted as your high was nearing. “Right there, please, right there.

Kyoujuro felt your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. He gave your clit one last suck before pulling away completely, ruining your orgasm. The Mafia leader gave you a sweet, charming smile before he placed his still wet fingers into his mouth. “Gotta become mine if you want to cum on my tongue, princess.” Standing to his feet, Kyoujuro reached for his suit jacket before reaching behind the couch for his katana. “It’s been fun. Until your next attempt, little fireball.” He walked out of the room

You sat up, knowing he did not just leave you on edge like that. The throbbing in your core let you know that he indeed left you in such a needy state for him. Clenching your hands into tight fists, you declared. “I am going to kill him!”

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