#and cool chamber hides

[swagging-back-to]

bought the girlies some new stuff

swear it felt like way more

[creganslover]

I think it would be cool if you did a cregan x reader but reader has a dragon and her dragon is called the beast of winterfell or something like that and for the longest time even the people of winterfell have no idea what it means (they assume because of her family they are just referring to her) but while she’s giving birth or something the dragon hears and feels her pain and come out of hiding freaking out and finds her and like puts his snout up to the window to make sure she’s okay and it’s kinda like a crazy moment for the people of winterfell lol just a random idea I had hope you like it feel free to change any details about it

ofc! thank you for requesting, anon! i really hope you'll like it! i apologize if its not that great T^T

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

beast of winterfell, cregan stark x targ! fem! reader

wc: 1.4k

warning/s: mentions of blood, childbirth, lmk if i missed anything!

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Ever since you had been arranged to Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, you knew you were about to live a completely different life as you were expected to live with him in Winterfell for the rest of your days. 

It had taken a while for you to get used to being so far from the West and your family, yet Cregan’s presence was like a breath of fresh air, albeit cold, really cold. 

The lighter clothes you used to wear back in Dragonstone now replaced with heavy furs, you could have sworn if you had listened closely you would hear your back crying in protest. 

Alas you carried yourself with grace, it helped that Cregan had understood where you had come from and he always made sure the fireplace in your shared chambers had been extra warm, even if he had to get the firewood by himself. 

One thing you had also missed in the West was being able to go on dragonback without feeling that you were about to freeze at any given moment.

Your dragon, Rhaegos or commonly known as the Red Beast, could not stand to be far from you either, even willing to visit from time to time due to his own stubbornness that reflected your own. Making himself a home far enough from Winterfell within a clearing in a forest, you think, he had been able to live and feed himself, keeping warm with his flames. 

The folks of Winterfell had not even seen a dragon before, you’d wager, and you intend to keep it that way as they would not need to worry of such a magnificent beast nestled near their home, if they had only known. 

Cregan had also known of Rhaegos, he very well knew the creature as the first ever day Cregan had seen you was you landing on your dragon onto the sands of Dragonstone, he was about to depart then, yet you made him stop in his tracks as the Red Beast had made its appearance.

And you noticed him upon your landing, the ship in the distance carrying the banner of House Stark, which you have soon learned who was going to be your betrothed. 

Rhaegos did not take kindly to strangers nearing you but you just had to see who the ship carried, if it included your soon to be husband. 

And when you hopped off your dragon and had reached him, Rhaegos was watching carefully, even crawling himself a yard behind you, though Cregan did not seem to waver, or was trying his best to keep his composure as a dragon was barely in the North and the way its eyes gleamed at him, had him gripping a little tighter on his gloves. 

To your surprise, Rhaegos had nudged its snout against your back, almost shoving you to Cregan that had sent both your cheeks running hot as he caught you in his arms.

It seemed Rhaegos wanted to play cupid at that moment as you profusely apologized to the Lord of Winterfell.

The marriage came and went, devotion had come easy with you and Cregan, no sooner than a moon after your bedding that you had noticed the changes in your body.

It only took a look for the maester to confirm it. You were with child. 

Cregan was absolutely delighted, he could not stop showering you with affection within the confines of your chambers, his big rough hands gently upon your stomach.

There were barely any signs of growth yet making you laugh. It was your first time pregnant, and of course you’ve seen and heard your mother Rhaenyra teach you a thing or two about it, yet it had always worried you as you saw how it could take a toll upon a woman’s body, like with your mother.

Cregan swore no harm will come upon you and your child as you carry it through the moons, always placing his most skilled men out your chambers if he ever was required someplace else than at Winterfell. 

And when he would return, he would not even mind the cheers of his folk, going directly straight to you, enveloping you in a careful embrace, before he would kneel to press his forehead against your swollen middle, the baby within you kicking in response.

The days had inched closer to your due, and you had felt it with the way your body had increasingly been feeling heavy, the way you waddled while you walked. 

Your scream had broken out the great keep of Winterfell as the moment had finally come when their lady was about to give birth. Your handmaidens paced around you in worry, the maester advising you on what you should do- yet it all seemed to drown out by the time it reached your ears.

Blood began to trickle down your legs as your handmaidens rush you to lay upon the bed, you were restless as your body had been covered in sweat, platinum hair matting to your face as you cried out for Cregan, the maester informing you he was well on his way. 

Your breathing came in rushed, panting as your eyes blinked back tears as you were positioned necessarily for birth. Your muscles had contracted painfully, sending you with another wail. 

Though on this day, not only your childbirth would be borne by Winterfell. 

After your long cry, an unfamiliar loud screeching could be heard in the distance, making every folk in Winterfell pause in their actions. Could it be…?

��Dragon!” A knight exclaimed as people began to panic and rush around. 

Cregan was on his way back to Winterfell speeding on his mount after having visited the Hornswood, but he was not alone. To the West of him was undoubtedly a creature he had not seen a long time, your dragon, Rhaegos. 

His screeching may as well echo throughout the North as the dragon flew itself close to Winterfell. Its intimidating and thunderous roars caused worry for Cregan’s folk as he finally managed to rush inside, dismounting off his horse and quickly telling his people to calm- that the dragon would not dare harm them, that it was yours. 

Cregan then rushed towards the great keep, where your screams and wails grew louder, tearing his own heart as he finally shoves himself in the birthing chambers. 

“Cregan!” You cried as he came into view, rushing beside you as the maester had told you to push for the nth time. You wasted no time bearing a deathly grasp upon his hand, knuckles turning white. 

The gap on the windows was then darkened by a shadow followed by a low rumble, the maidens in the room, even the maester was disturbed at the sight of a dragon’s nout, moving outside as its eyes tried to spot you. 

“Calm down, it means you no harm.” Cregan said firmly. “My wife is the priority.” He commanded, glaring daggers at those within the room. 

Your chest heaved up and down as you could feel Rhaegos’ bond clearly with you as your eyes found his slit ones through the window. “Rāpirī (Be calm) Rhaegos!” You managed to say out loud, the dragon grumbling weakly in turn as it hissed at the maester, who quickly got back to his occupation. 

With one last push, you had felt it– the pain had numbed most half of your body, making you try and chase your breath, Cregan’s gaze flickering to you and the maester, with Rhaegos present out the window, his low grumbling ever a presence to your strength. 

All your body seemed to be in a haze, unable to move your legs- or the whole of your body for that fact.

Until a cry of the babe was heard, Cregan’s heart thumping in his chest as he looked at you and the babe being wrapped in the towel.

“You did it, oh thank the Old Gods.” Cregan murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead before his pressed against yours. “It is a girl, my lord, my lady.” The maester announced as the bundle of joy was placed into your arms. 

“Our- our own little girl…” You croaked out, a grin breaking through your face as tears of joy pricked your eyes, Cregan looking at the babe wriggling and making his heart near to bursting. “She’s a beauty like you.” He murmured.

Rhaegos outside began whirring as he seemed to be feeling your joy coursing through your bond, taking himself to the skies screeching happily, making you laugh weakly. 

Cregan then nuzzled both you and the babe, with Rhaegos’ sounds echoing above. 

Your children would need not worry for a protector, when they’ve got the beast and the wolf of Winterfell by their side. 

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

cregan tag-list: @misswynters @i-padfootblack-things

[kasagia]

Skin and bones

Pairing: Halbrand/Annatar/We know who x fem!elf! reader Summary: Ever since Galadriel revealed Halbrand's true identity, you've been having some very strange dreams… dreams that aren't the innocent figments of your imagination you thought they were. Warning: I HAVEN'T WATCHED THE RINGS OF POWER. All my knowledge is based on fanfics, short scenes posted on yt and uncle google. I just couldn't get this guy out of my mind... And I don't regret anything. Inspired by: David Kushner - "Skin and bones" Halbrand's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

"Y/N…" A cold shiver runs down your spine as you feel HIS hot, quiet, velvety whisper in your ear. You keep your eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see what image your mind, tired from today's meetings, has put before you this time.

For days now, your imagination had been tormenting you with strange dreams. Dreams in which you were haunted by him.

Halbrand.

You avoided speaking his true name. Somehow, the face of the one you should have hated with all your heart did not match the face of the one who had spent so many weeks by your and Galadriel's side.

And it scared you immensely. So much so that you weren't sure you could pretend to the light elf that you were haunted by the shadows of your past.

Galardiel once told you that to know true light, one must touch the darkness. But what do you do when that darkness becomes more attractive than light? What do you do to resist that magnetism? How do you enjoy the glow of pure light on your skin again when you still have spots of darkness on you in the shape of HIS fingerprints?

"Y/N." Another whisper, another brush of warm air against your cool skin, this time on your neck. Goosebumps rise up your spine, your hand shakes uncontrollably, trying to desperatly grasp something you can't see. "Let go. Just let go. I'm waiting here for you. With open arms, mime írima kal (my lovely light)."

The feathery touch of HIS lips against your earlobe sends a shiver through your body. Even though you are in complete darkness, you are perfectly aware that he is near, that his presence is right next to you.

Physically you could be miles away from each other but spiritually... spiritually he has made sure that he will haunt you every night.

"You miss me. You miss the feeling of power I gave you. The darkness you could hide in, when you were too tired of playing the hero no one appreciates as they should. Just as I miss your light. Your laugh. Your mind. Your lips. Your body..." His lips move with each sentence down your cheek and to your neck, leaving a gentle kiss as if he was appreciating your skin and paid tribute to it.

He was right. You missed this. Him. He was addictive. And like any addiction, you should cut yourself off before it goes too far... but hasn't it gone too far already?

"Do you think you can hide from me? That any elven friend of yours could disrupt my vision of you? That I would stop watching you at night in the darkness of your chambers, waiting for the moment when you finally realize that the cold you feel is caused by my lack of physical presence with you? Tell me, my beautiful, stubborn elf, when will you realize that the warmth you long for is found in my darkness and not in the light of your golden sunlight?"

You gasp as HE suddenly grabs you by the neck and uses his fingertips to force you to turn your head towards him. His mouth attacks yours with a huge force of possessiveness, anger, frustration, lust, as if he were going to conquer you by using only his soft lips and a silver-tongue trained over the centuries he spend on seducing others to his will.

And you promised yourself that you wouldn't be the next victim of his games and manipulation.

That's why you let him kiss you. Not because you enjoy it and miss the feeling of his lips on yours. You tangle your hands in his hair, shivering as you feel the cold metal of his spiked crown against the pads of your fingers.

You managed to let his guard down, letting his tongue tangle with yours in a familiar, passionate dance you used to indulge in when you knew him not as a Dark Lord but as a mere blacksmith. An electric jolt runs through you, stealing all the air from your lungs and making your mind cloud with lust—but not strong enough to make you completely forget about your plan.

Before he can realise it, you bite his lower lip and push him away from you. You summon all your power that he hasn't timed in your sleep and push him out of your unconscious mind. You can hear his loud growl of rage and the clang of his metal armour against the rocks as you fall into nothingness.

A loud thud echoes through the room you and Galadriel have rented as you fall from the small bed onto the wooden floor. You groan, propping yourself up on your elbows and cursing under your breath as you wake up from yet another dream HE has taken over.

"Another one? Which one is it this week? Third?" You sigh at the question from the elf sitting on the bed across the small tavern room. You nod reluctantly and stand up, dusting off the dust and dirt from the floor.

"I'm not counting. I lost count about a two months ago anyway." You mumble, ignoring the fact that these dreams started much earlier. You turn your back to her, hiding the blush that blooms on your cheeks as you remember how… naughty your dreams were.

Before you realized that your… night visions weren't just yours, you and he… were doing all sorts of things. Most of them weren't really things you could speak about out loud. And as much as you're ashamed of them, you have to admit they were the best nights of sleep you've had since… you found out the truth about him.

"I keep wondering how he creates this connection with you? It's a bridge that shouldn't be created without… the willingness of both sides."

“It’s Sauron.” You reply, making sure to pronounce his name with just the right amount of disgust in your voice. "He has powers that allow him to break the rules. You know that."

"Still… they shouldn't be that strong."

"Are you suggesting something, Galadriel? Do you think I would really seek him out willingly? He has deceived us. He has deceived you and me. He wants to destroy Middle-earth, do you think I would willingly seek contact with him for any other purpose than to finally kill him?"

Your accusatory tone comes out a little stronger than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself and take a few calming breaths, trying to calm the anger boiling inside you.

"I trust you. If I trust anyone, it's you, Y/N. I'm not your enemy here." She responds calmly and walks over to you. She cups your cheeks in her hands and rests her forehead against yours.

"I am highly aware." You respond and place your hands on the sides of her neck. "I'm just... tired. That's all." You sigh and rest your chin on her shoulder, snuggling into her.

You hold each other like that until she gently pulls away from you. She grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes.

"We all are. War is coming. Darkness is descending upon more of our lands. But together we will prevail. Sun and moon. We must work together if we are about to defeat him and Morgoth." Galadriel spoke, tightening her grip on your hands.

"I know." You mumble and shake your head. You remove your hands from her grip and turn to face the window, watching the sun slowly rise. “Which doesn’t mean he won’t see it coming. Because he will. We have to move faster, think five step ahead than he does if we want the light to break through his army of darkness.” You say not turning to face her since you're too afraid of what she'll find in your eyes. Galadriel sighs but doesn't try to catch your attention anymore.

"I guess we won't get any more sleep tonight. Get ready. I'll go find Erlond." She looks at you a little longer, her gaze burning on your back, but you stubbornly stare out at the valleys lit by the glow of the sun breaking through the morning mist, not yet feeling ready to face what is outside.

You breathe a sigh of relief as the door closes behind her. You turn one of the rings forged by HIM, which you have placed on your necklace, in your hands, quietly wondering if you should really do what you were about to do. But since he's decided to play dirty against you for weeks... you might as well start returning his little blows, too.

You close your eyes and place the ring on your finger. You hold your breath as the familiar surge of power makes your blood pump a little harder and your eyes sharpen to your surroundings. The outlines of the valleys in the distance become much clearer, and you can almost smell the forest that lies miles away.

You know he can sense where you are if you let him. So you take a little risk and remove the protective shield that keeps you away from him. And Sauron bursts through your slightly ajar door as if into a rabbit hole.

"If you're out there somewhere… if you can hear me… know that you've given me enough darkness to rip your black heart from your chest without blinking, mime melin cotumo."

Maybe calling him your dear enemy wasn't the best thing to end your threat, but the only thing that could leave your lips when you addressed him were such nicknames. Never the names you knew him by. Especially the name under which he hid when you so naively gave him part of your heart.

"Are you, Y/N?"

His whispered question echoes through the empty room. You immediately throw him out and slam the door on his ghostly presence, blocking his vision of you again. You want to celebrate this small victory over him, showing him that you are still in control, but you both know it's just an illusion. An illusion you're desperately trying to fall for. Unfortunately, you guess you're not as good at them as he is.

"I don't like him." You say to Galadriel, eyeing Annatar carefully.

You held little Celebrían in your arms and watched as Celeborn, Celebrimbor, and Annatar chatted in the distance, enjoying the party Celebrimbor had thrown for your arrival.

"He is… quiet around us. But that doesn't mean we have to be hostile towards him right away. We can't be overly suspicious." Galadriel says and takes her daughter from you, who begins to cry quietly. You sigh, looking at the child in her arms.

"In these times we can be as suspicious as we want, Galadriel. Middle-earth is even more divided; we elves do not have such a solid, strong united front. If Sauron decides to attack with his orcs, they will crush us one by one. We must act, not be stuck in pointless parties."

"Parties are also part of diplomacy. I'm off to melt the hearts of the ladies of other lands with this sweet little bundle. Try not to spit venom at others. We need allies, as you well noticed." And with that, she leaves you to drown your bitter thoughts in a glass of wine completely alone.

You snort, not paying attention to what's going on around you. The ring that hangs around your neck under your clothes burns your skin mercilessly as you try with all your might to push away the memories of the nap you took after arriving.

Warm, black furs clung to you as you slept soundly in your soft bed. In the background, you could hear the crackling of the fire burning in the fireplace. You were tucked into warm pillows and blankets, the tip of your nose exposed to the cool air outside, being the only thing that was bothering you from resting in your bed.

After a while it turned out that it wasn't just one thing that was supposed to bother you.

You gasp as a strong arm suddenly wraps around your waist. The blankets are lifted, and the cool air assaults your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. A moment later, you feel yourself pressed against someone's bare, muscular chest.

"Is my queen comfortable enough?" He whispers teasingly in your ear and nuzzles your temple, tightening his grip on you as you try to squirm out of his arms. But he doesn't give you that chance.

He grabs both of your wrists and presses them to your chest as he straddles you. Black fur clings to his back, the only covering he's wearing.

"Do you intend to defile me in your dreams when in reality you cannot lay even the smallest fingertip upon me? You grow more pathetic with the passing centuries." You growl at him angrily, kicking beneath him and trying to break free from his grip.

"You will beg for my touch. I will make your cries heard throughout all the Middle-Earth." He murmurs a promise against your lips and leans down, capturing your lips in an aggressive, passionate kiss that sets every fiber of your being on fire.

The surroundings around you change rapidly. Suddenly, you are completely alone in a black and gold throne room. The only source of light is the rays reflected off a golden throne engraved with a sun.

You glance around frantically, searching for him and a weapon you could use against him. You take a few steps back, heading unconsciously toward the two thrones on the dais. You gasp as your foot touches the tiled mechanism beneath you.

The throne room begins to change, darkness giving way to light, the black marble turning white. But the entire chamber, instead of being divided in half by two colours, blends into grey. The golden throne turns white, and the black as night one becomes a lighter shade of black, almost greige. You turn your face to the landscape outside the window and gasp at what you see.

All of Middle-earth. Divided, but still... a coherent whole. Each of the lands was arranged so as to separate races that got in each other's way, where conflict could arise. The lands of the Orcs were in a barren wasteland, where life could not have arisen anyway, but they made their kingdom on it. All separated from each other by walls of mountains so high that even from the height where the palace was located, it was difficult to see the top of their mountains and the paths of the passes.

You shiver as the heavy, cool metal of the crown settles against your temples. He quickly grabs your shoulders and digs his fingers into you. He holds you against him, forcing you to stare at the land before you, a land you barely recognise anymore.

"We could have that. All of that. I would place a crown on your head, make them all bow to you. Make them bow to us. I would heal Middle-earth of strife and war, make them all live in harmony in their own worlds."

"Would you confine them within the boundaries of their lands? What if they run out of space? Would you move mountains? Would you remake the world? You won't fix them this way; you can't avoid wars and bloodshed. Who do you think you are to decide how the world is suspposed to look like?" You ask him angrily, turning in his arms.

You bravely hold Halbrand’s watchful gaze as he analyses your words carefully, probably thinking of ways to make you join his side, ways to make you see his case in a completely different light.

And you hope you'll have the self-control to reject every single one of them - every little tempting suggestion of the future he wants to show you.

"Amil! (Mommy!)" The joyful cry of a child and the dull thud of tiny feet hitting the floor later are the only warning you get before something small pounces on your legs.

You stubbornly don't look down, but into the eyes of the man in front of you, because you know that once your eyes land on the little projection of a child he wants to show you, you'll be haunted for the rest of your life by the image of what you could have had with him.

“You won't even look at our son, Y/N?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you, daring you to show him how much you don’t care or care about the future he has to offer you.

So you gather all the strength you have inside you and lean down to take the little boy into your arms. He mumbles something, playing with the necklace around your neck.

The boy has his dark hair. And your eyes. And he's too damn cute for you to ever forget the vision he shows you, that he created to torture you forever.

"How long would it take you to instill your dark, poisonous thoughts in him?" You ask with a trembling voice, giving him a look full of pain and dismay.

"I've told you many times, mime melin hon. With you by my side I would have no darkness within me." He mumbles and reaches up to stroke your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I will make you mine. Even if it was the last thing I would do. With or without your consent, I will bind you to me and make you who you were always meant to be: My queen."

You shiver as he places a tender kiss on your forehead. You hold back a broken sob as the weight of the baby on your hip begins to fade and his touch becomes just a hazy memory as you wake from this beautiful and terrifying dream.

“Can you do me the great honour of dancing with you, my lady?” You shiver when you suddenly hear someone's voice next to you. You turn around and barely keep a grimace from forming on your face when the platinum hair of the hated elf catches your eye.

"Lord Annatar. I thought you weren't dancing tonight?" You say in a forced, pleasant tone of voice and nod towards the elf whose invitation to dance he declined. He becomes embarrassed at this and clears his throat awkwardly.

"I simply have been saving my first dance in the hope that my lady of the sun would consent to grace me with it." You present him with your practiced smile, internally cursing him for being so thoughtful with his choice of words. Refusing him would be like spitting in his face - something Galadriel would clearly disapprove of.

"How could I be so cruel in this situation and refuse you, Lord of Gifts?" You tease him flirtatiously, seeing an opportunity in his obvious little affection, and offer him your hand.

You tremble as an electric shiver suddenly runs through you. The strange reaction to his closeness makes your brain buzz with thoughts. Especially when the ring hidden under the material of your dress begins to heat up.

"I may be… but right now I feel like I've received the greatest gift from you, my lady." He says, placing a soft kiss on the top of your hand. He confidently leads you onto the dance floor and pulls you close, wrapping his arm around your waist and being a little too close than was required for this particular dance.

His closeness overwhelms you. Not in a positive way. He seems suspiciously too familiar. Your body doesn't react to him as to a stranger; on the contrary, you immerse yourself in his touch as if it were familiar, comforting. You sense that something is wrong, but you can't say what yet.

"Do you like the rings we've been forging lately? Galadriel probably won't be too keen on his... idea."

"Because he follows in Sauron's footsteps. Perhaps we can dissuade him from this path. Together." You see his jaw tense slightly at your words. His grip on you tightens a little and he seems... flustered.

You narrow your eyes at him slightly, trying to understand his reaction, as well as why with every little touch he makes the ring on your chest burns like it's on fire.

"I truly believe we would be a great unit, úrin-o i world." You tremble when he calls you the sun of the world just as you tremble when he places his hands on your hips and lifts you.

He's in no hurry to put you down. It's as if he was deliberately prolonging this moment, and you let yourself be caught in the hypnotized state that his eyes bring you to.

For a moment, nothing exists except the two of you. It's just you and him. The dancing couples swirling around you momentarily become a blur.

You gasp when, for a moment, instead of Annatar's face, you see Halbrand. His mesmerising blue eyes pierce through you, making it all you can do to lean closer to him.

Your vision ends the moment one of the couples crashes into you. You land awkwardly on Annatar's chest, only his arms keeping you from falling. The couple apologizes and he just nods, pulling the two of you to the sidelines to a more secluded place.

You sigh, staring at him, your breathing heavy, not from the exertion of the dance, but from what you saw when you danced with him. Or rather, who.

"What are you?" You ask suspiciously, but he raises a surprised eyebrow at you, as if your sudden hostility was unfounded.

"You know who I am. Don't you, my Lady of the Sun?" You swallow hard at his question, but before you can answer him, Galadriel steps between you and him. A very angry and irritated Galadriel.

"He is of an unsound mind. How can he ignore what is so obvious? No one who follows the path that Sauron trod can call himself anything but his ally. I am leaving first thing in the morning. We cannot waste time while he is somewhere nearby, preparing an army against us."

"Perhaps you are giving him too much thought, my lady?" Annatar makes a sarcastic remark, but Galadriel ignores him and walks furiously away from the two of you, not even waiting for her husband, who has just reached the three of you.

"Galadriel..." You call out to her but she ignores you. "Galadriel!" Celeborn nods apologetically and follows the elf with the child in his arms. You stand in shock in the middle of the room and stare at the leaving elves.

"I don't blame them. You know what they're talking about... and about who they're talking." Annatar says, nodding at Celebrimbor. He stands alone in the corner, looking around nervously. "It would be best if you followed your lady." He advises you like a nasty snake that coils around your leg and whispers unwanted things in your ear.

You flinch and turn so you can fully look at him. He liked to play games. So he'll get one from you. You won't leave this palace without a promise from Celebrimbor to join you in case... if HE tries to attack.

Galadriel wanted to resort to desperate measures—she wanted to warn Adar that Sauron lived and wanted to use orcs in his plan to change Middle-earth. If you were to choose allies, you would rather heal the mind of an elf in whom you saw even a shred of light.

"I am my own lady. I do not have to follow anyone. Besides, I think you could use some help here, dear Annatar." You reply with a sweet smile. You see his jaw tense a little at your words. He clearly didn't want you around - that's why you had to stay here and see what the Lord of Gifts - the supposed envoy of the Valar was really doing in Eregion.

"Hm... that would be an honour to have you as our guest, my lady."

He says, smiling mysteriously at you. A shiver runs down your spine, and you already know that this won't be as much fun for you as it will be for him.

As if on cue, you drift off into blissful, dark unconsciousness.

"Fighting by your side… I felt like I could hold onto that feeling. Bind it in my very being."

"I felt it to." You mumble, staring at Halbrand's slightly bruised and scratched face.

You often had dreams like that. Flashbacks of past events. Sometimes they were real, and sometimes he was just playing with you in dreamland again, reenacting past events and laughing in your face, mocking you as you relived the same thing.

So I guess nothing has changed… if, knowing who I am, you still kiss me with such burning passion, my sunshine.

Cheap line. You managed to punch him for it many times. But that only seems to make him more cocky. So you stopped and instead looked for some way to get out of these dreams.

But now, as he leaned down and kissed you as sweetly as he had before... you could do nothing but moan and grab his hair in your fist as you pressed yourself against him, hating every bit of armour that covered your bodies and was separating you from him.

"The Valar must have spent aeons crafting those raspberry-sweet lips." He mumbles against your lips and cups your cheek in his hand. He pushes you back gently, your back pressing against the tree trunk you were sitting on.

You pretend you didn't notice that that little comment never came out of his mouth back then, and you take advantage of his moment of distraction. You take out your dagger and press it to his neck, pushing him away from you.

He needs a moment to process what happened. He chuckles raggedly and shakes his head slightly—just enough so that your blade doesn't even scratch his skin.

"What gave me away?"

"Sweet lips?" You mock him, pinning him against the rough tree trunk.

"I tried to be romantic with you, my beloved nemesis. Almost the same as that Lord of Gifts of yours, wasn't it?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. The cocky smirk doesn't leave his face even as you straddle him with the blade at his neck. You want to pierce all of his arteries, but his comment about Annatara catches your attention more than the murderous urge he's inspired in you.

"Jealous?"

"Intrigued. Do you like him?" He corrects you and asks a question that makes you want to laugh. As if there was anyone else besides him who could hold your attention for longer…

"Are you afraid that it will take your place as the worst, most venomous snake I have ever encountered?"

"Oh please… we both know that's not the only thing I'm best at. I remember one night perfectly, when…" You press the metal of the blade to his neck and draw blood from him. A black stream runs down his skin, soaking into the tree trunk, which instantly rots. "I understand. You want to be the one to dominate today?"

You snort in frustration at him and push yourself away from him. You take a few steps away from him and watch him closely as he slowly stands up and catches up with you.

"Only if you let me plunge my blade into your black, cold heart."

"Only if you acknowledge the fact that it beats only for you." He whispers and gently cups your cheek with his hand. You tremble, unable to move away from him or make any movement except to stare at him. Anger and something else—a feeling you're terrified to admit to—boil inside you like crazy. And that's all because of him.

"As if you could love anyone but yourself." You answer shakily as he leans toward you. He kisses you again, more gently, more tenderly.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, demanding full access to your mouth, as if the way he kisses you is to prove to you that he is capable of love—that he is capable of giving himself over to a mad passion that he cannot control, as if you were truly his lady.

And it is out of fear that he will manage to squeeze out of you that little challenge that he so desires that you reach for the dagger you had abandoned earlier and brutally plunge it into your heart, bypassing the plates of your armor.

You gasp, tearing yourself out of the dream he has entangled you in, but only to find yourself in a real nightmare.

You look around in panic as you see only orcs above you. The dead body of a dark elf is being torn apart by them, as if they were performing some kind of ritual over the dead. They are talking to each other in the black language, clearly too distracted to pay much attention to you.

You reach out for their abandoned weapon beside you, but you can't move much. You groan as a foot steps on your wrist, hard enough to pin your hand in place but gentle enough not to break or crush your bone.

You lift your head and bite your lip, drawing blood when you see who is standing over you.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, my sweet nemesis." Annatar says and nods to the two orcs closest to you. They walk over and hold you by the arms, lifting you to your feet.

"Sauron." You snap at him furiously, putting as much venom and hatred as you can into saying his real name.

"Hello, darling. Many years, centuries even, but it still seems like one day, right?" He mockingly responds to your seething fury. You watch him closely and freeze when you see that he holds not only his crown in his hand but Galadriel's ring as well.

He had two of the three forged for the elves. The last one... hung around your neck. And he could have taken it anytime he wanted. But he would have to pry it off your dead body if he really wanted it.

"You were more handsome as a brunette." You spit insults at him, trying to stay as calm as you can as he begins to walk forward. The orcs lead you right next to him.

"I can transform back into Halbrand just for you. Would you prefer that, my lady?" You press your lips together in a thin line, about to answer him, but he's already using his powers, and before you can do anything, Halbrand appears before your eyes.

You turn your gaze away from him and try to focus on the burning desire to draw some blood that the orcs' touch on you inspires as they lead you toward what looks like a camp.

"I'd rather have you rotted in Mordor."

"Ahh… such ugly words on such a joyous day? After all, you don't get married every day, do you?" He asks casually, too excited for your liking; if the orcs weren't forcing you towards the large tent, you would have stopped dead in your tracks and stared at the back of his head in complete shock.

"Married?" You repeat his words stupidly. The orcs hand you to him after you enter the large tent and quickly flee at their lord's beck and call. Halbrand... Sauron sets his crown down at the foot of the makeshift bed and turns to regard you, a huge, cocky grin on his face that you once found sexy. In the current situation, it only irritated you more.

"I promised you I would make you a queen. My queen. I have a crown, an army, and land. The only thing that is missing is you by my side—exactly as the Valar planned." He’s been explaining this to you for the umpteenth time, as if you were a carefree child to whom he had to explain something in a simple, banal way. You clench your fists and take one deep, calming breath.

"I'd rather die."

"No, you don't. Don't blaspheme like that. We both know that's what you want. I'm only doing you a favour by taking away your free will, giving you the illusion that I'm forcing you to do this against your will, so you don't have to feel guilty about acting on your heart's desires." He answers confidently, stubbornly, in a tone you knew—a tone he had used a thousand times when negotiating with kings, queens, and nobles.

Back then, when you thought he was just a man, you were charmed by his chearism, his self-confidence, and his unwavering actions. Now you saw how dangerous that was.

"You don't know my heart's desires." You whisper as he stops in front of you. But he doesn't move to touch you, does nothing but stand there and watch you.

You want to curse him for turning back into Halbrand and for showing you this illusion. It was much easier for you to reject Annatar than him... ironic, since it was Halbrand that betrayed you more than any other being.

"Another lie. I think you've gotten a lot better at it than I have in my absence, my dear sunshine."

You snort when he calls you that. The moment you open your mouth to answer, he leans in and steals your kiss and your breath. He pulls you to him by the material of your dress and perfectly ignores any thumps in your chest you give him. You jerk against his grip, bite his lip, and do everything to pull away from him. But he doesn't let go. Not until you're gasping for air and your lips are swollen, your clothes and hair a mess just like all of you.

"You know... I am not surprised you lied to me all this time. I mean... living for so long can trick your mind. You probably don't know your true self anymore, do you? When was the last time someone called you by your true name? Not with insult or fear, but with affection, maybe even sympathy?"

"Why? Want to change that, I úrin -o mime coiv- (the sun of my life)?" He asks, slowly pulling away from you. You ignore your instincts to follow his touch and stand frozen in place as he walks over to his abandoned crown.

"Are you just going to rule them? In the hopes that they won't kill you again? That I won't convince them to do so?"

"Fear is a powerful ally. And something tells me you'd rather have me alive than dead." He answers calmly and places his crown on your head. You frown as the cool metal settles on your temple.

You let him play with you for a moment and treat you like a doll he can do anything to. You waited for the perfect moment to attack, to throw him off balance. You wouldn't give in to him without a fight. Not when you still had at least a shred of strength to resist the darkness calling out to you.

"Not as powerful ally as love." Your response makes him more thoughtful. He stares at you, contemplating the sight of you in his crown, as if trying to forever engrave the image in his mind… to bind it to his very being.

"Indeed. But you either have one of them." He nods and runs his fingertips over your exposed shoulder. You shiver as he grazes the metal of your necklace.

"And what did you want? From me?" You see him soften noticeably at your question. Something like affection… maybe even tenderness or love appears in his eyes as he moves his hand to your neck, cupping it gently.

"You know my heart's desire, Y/N. Just as I know yours." He mumbles your name barely audible and leans in closer to you. You shiver as his bearded cheek brushes against yours, his soft lips caressing your earlobe as he whispers: "I don't have to say it out loud for you to know it."

"No… you don't have to." You respond and cup his cheek in your hand. He freezes at the sudden display of affection from you and involuntarily buries his face in your palm, closing his eyes. You lean down and press a small kiss to his cheek. He sighs tiredly, as if he had travelled a truly polynomial distance, and allows himself to melt in your touch. "Because I'd rather cut your tongue out than listen to another lie from you."

Before he can react, you're already reaching for his dagger. You press it to his neck, but he shakes off your little seduction and pushes you away from him roughly. You fall with the yak onto the mattress behind you, the crown falling off your head with a clatter to the floor as you stare at him intently, both of you aiming your blades at each other.

"In some races dagger is considered as one of the love's language." She mocks you, wiping the black blood off his neck with her free hand. He licks it off—a demonstration at which you hold your breath for a moment. Bloody bastard.

"I always preferred to consider it death's language." You respond and lunge at him again. He blocks your blade with his own and grabs your arm. You hiss at the hard, painful swipe of his fingers against your skin as he leans toward you, giving you one of his long, enigmatic, dark stares.

"You know what the difference is between me and them, Y/N? They fear you, what you can do, the power you wield with such grace, like it's nothing. But I'm willing to burn in the light of your sun if it means having you by my side."

"Rather, if it means gaining that power for yourself." You growl and kick him. He falls on his back in surprise at your strength, which you take advantage of and run forward—straight to the exit of the tent.

You run through the camp and quickly take the ring from your neck. You put it on your finger and, using the power it gives you, cast illusions on yourself, becoming invisible to the orcs. You hear Halb... Sauron's shouts behind you, ordering the orcs to find you and bring you alive to him. He himself gives chase through the forest. And you have to admit that he is not so far from you.

You run as long as your legs give you strength. You stop in some clearing with a small stream. You try to find a safe hiding place, hide, and wait out the mad pursuit. And just when you think you've made it, he emerges from behind the trees.

"Y/N! I know you are here! I can feel you! I will always..." He pauses, his voice shaking, and you realise this is the second time you've seen him so... vulnerable and open. It's a dangerous reaction from him. Either it's real... or he's using it as a card in his game to win yet another game he's playing with you. "I would make you a queen. In a heartbeat. You don't have to do anything. Just come with me."

And you really wish it were that simple. But you don't know if you could look at yourself in the mirror if you just so blatantly betrayed them and everything you know for… him and his lies. As beautiful and tempting as they were.

"Queen of slaves like you!" You scream, comming out from your hidding place and attack him.

"Yes! I am a slave! I am a slave to you, Y/N. At least I have the courage to admit it to myself and to you. And you, my queen?" He says each sentence every time your blades strike each other with a metallic clang.

"Don't forget about Mogoth, my king." You mock him and hit him more and more aggressively, each of your blows a precise attack on him.

"You're going to bind to me. Willingly or not, and I will relish every moment of it." He growls and finally knocks the blade out of your hand, and he grabs your wrists, twisting your arms behind you and pressing your back against his chest, the blade at your neck gently teasing your skin, as do his lips against your temple. "Let go. Just let go. I know you are tired. Let me help you. Let me carry for you all your worries and the hatred of the Middle-earth. Let me make you my queen. Heal this world with me."

"Only if you will made ma a crown from your skin and bones." You gasp, fighting his grip, trying to twist from the iron grip his arms have on you, but it's not as easy as it might seem. He pins you to the ground, straddling you, and stares at you, breathing heavily.

"I will wrap you in them, if that's what I need to keep you at my side!"

His cry echoes through the empty clearing. For a moment, you stare at each other, not making a move. The sound of the stream around you is the only other song playing in accompaniment to your heavy heartbeat, which you can hear in the deafening emptiness that surrounds you. The world stops. Again, when you're close to him.

"I did not desire power as much as I desire you. You hurt me more than Morgoth ever did; you poison me more than the darkness. I think of you every morning, afternoon, and night. You are like a poison that I cannot draw from myself. You are the light that blinds me, that destroys me, but I cling to it like a child in the dark. Even though the darkness has been a much longer and more loyal companion to me than you." He mumbles, pressing wild kisses to your face.

You moan as his lips and rough beard abuse your neck worse than the blade he had brought to you moments ago, which he had driven into the ground beside you. You had nothing. No weapon to attack him with, to protect yourself from his sweet lips and the burning touch that stirred desires so shameful and so familiar in you.

"A pathological liar." You gasp as he hastily undoes your dress. But you do nothing to stop him. You can't anymore.

You feel exhausted, both mentally and physically, all the running away from him, all the fighting with him. Maybe you really were a lost cause; maybe you were always meant to blend with his darkness and try to balance it with your light. You don't know that. What you do know is that he feels too good against you for you to fight him any longer.

"Both of us. But I'm the only one here who doesn't deceive myself."

"I'd rather deceive myself than allow myself to think that I could desire someone like you." And it's awful that as you say that, you reach for him and help to undress him.

You were only proving that you really were a terrible liar and hypocrite. But how long could you hold back from touching the darkness that called out to you so sweetly?

"We both know this is much more than simple lust." He whispers, stroking your hair tenderly and pressing his lips to your forehead. His hands roam your exposed body, caressing every little part of you. And if you concentrate hard enough, you can forget for a moment who he really is—you can only see Halbrand and not HIM. "Tell me… what's it like to want to simultaneously pierce me with a sword, burn me at the stake, and cherish me in the privacy of your chambers, my dear sun?"

"Maddening." You whisper shakily, admitting what you feel.

A single tear rolls down your cheek—a tear that he quickly licks from you. He groans at the sweet-salty feeling of your tears and holds you tightly with his one arm as the other slowly begins to toy with your most sensitive place, preparing you for complete failure and defeat.

All you can feel is blissful pleasure as the darkness is touching you.

And just when he is about to bring you great pleasure, when he is about to unite the two of you as one after so long, he stops completely. You fidget, toss, and turn, seeking renewed contact with him that he does not grant you.

"I'll come for you. In one form or another. I'll make you my queen, whether you want me to or not. I may be a fraud, Y/N, but I don't have the strength to deceive myself. You'll understand when you will be my age. And I'll wait for that. I will wait for you to realise that I am the only one who sees you, accepts you, and adores you as you truly are. All you have to do is call for me." You almost cry in frustration as he pulls away from you, leaving only a ghostly touch on your skin as he continues to hold your wrists. "The sun is also having an eclipse, Y/N. I am your eclipse. And you will beg me to give you my darkness."

He places one last kiss on your forehead and then disappears. You sigh, looking around you, and realise with a shiver that he was never really there.

He tricked you. He connected with you through the ring you still wore on your finger and entered your mind as another illusion. You cry, your hand shakily pressed to your mouth as you try to keep from making any sound for fear that he and the orcs might still be nearby and sense you.

You bite your fingers as a pitiful cry wants to escape your lips; it starts as your mouth forms a cry of his name, but at the last moment you stop yourself. You grit your teeth and stand up from the ground. You dust off your dress and look around you.

The rising sun illuminates your face, but you no longer feel the familiar warmth spreading throughout your body as you greet the morning light. You feel emptyness. A festering, burning emptiness. And the visible touch of HIS lips on your neck...

Sauron may have defeated you in your dreams and mind, but when it came to duels, when you faced each other in your own skin and bones, he lost. In the crucial moments, when he was about to make you his, you managed to slip away from him. You only fear how long you will be able to do so.

Especially since he has robbed you of all joy in the light and awakened a lust for the darkness you have touched with him...

And as you stared at the rising sun, you already knew that there would be no salvation for you, nothing that would make you forget about the electric thrill you felt every time you embraced the darkness with him.

Halbrand, Sauron, Annatar, whatever form he took, you were drawn to him. And you could either die, try to fight it, or accept it and try to save the little bit of light that was left in both of you. You didn't believe that after all the darkness he'd poured into you, he wouldn't get an ounce of your light from you in exchange. And if that tormented him as much as his darkness tormented you... then you felt at least a little less pathetic for falling in love with the Dark Lord of the Rings.

[humanpurposes]

You Want This, You Need This

The only daughter of Rhaneyra Targaryen is firmly devoted to her mother's cause, and yet she finds her way through the passages of the Holdfast, to the bedchamber of a Prince she should hate // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, enemies with benefits, hate sex, degrading, angst, Targcest (uncle and niece)

Words: 3.7k

A/n: Me making a poll then doing whatever I want 🫶

There’s no use in waiting for sleep to come to her, she’s too restless for sleep.

Her bedroom is full of alcoves and adjacent chambers, good for hiding and keeping the room cool during the summers. In one of the alcoves is a mural. If she presses a particular space on the wall with much force, she can push it to reveal an entrance into the hidden passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Light is lost beyond the threshold. A gentle but piercing breeze washes over her, through the thin and billowing fabric of her night shift. There’s always this lingering excitement when she opens the doorway. She equates it to the thrill of flying, cutting through the wind on dragonback. Only she’s not in the sky, she’s staring into darkness, daring herself to take a single step.

As children she and her brothers had found many of these hidden doors throughout the castle, the perfect sort of places to hide in when they were in trouble, the perfect place to eavesdrop and move through the keep undetected. When their mother found out she had discouraged them from venturing too far, lest they end up like the piles of bones left by rats and other rodents that had never found their way out. 

The paths within the walls are treacherous, but she knows some of the routes by heart. She knows how to head down to the kitchens, she even knows a way which leads past the dungeons, to a chamber which houses the skull of Blaerion, the Black Dread, out to a beach along the shore of the bay, out of reach by any other means.

There is one particular room she has in mind tonight.

She treads carefully, tracing her fingertips against the wall so that she does not lose her way. When she comes to a series of steps she takes even more caution. She counts twenty steps, then turns another corner and keeps walking until the stone underneath her fingers turns to wood. It is a door, one which appears as part of a panelled wall on the other side. She pushes it open, hoping he has left the latch undone, and he has.

The room’s warmth is a welcome sensation. She makes as little noise as possible as she enters and closes the door behind her. 

He’s sitting by the fire, turned away from where she stands, head lowered slightly and his silver hair spilling down the back of his chair. She almost always finds him like this, practising one of his self righteous rituals. He reads until the hearth and the candles have burned out because it enforces his own belief that he is a more dedicated son than Aegon, more intelligent and more worthy than the Velaryons– than her and her ilk. 

His shoulders stiffen as the soles of her slippers tap delicately against the floor, moving towards his bed. She imagines him frowning, or perhaps smiling to himself as he closes the book in his lap.

She perches at the edge of the mattress, pushing her shoes off and letting them fall to the floor. “That was quite the display in the training yard this morning,” she says in a clear voice.

Everything he does is agonisingly slow. He grips the arms of his chair as he rises, slots the book back onto a shelf, and finally turns to face her. He is dressed in a simple black shirt and the breeches he usually sleeps in. His hair is half tied, his leather patch secured around his head, over the space where his left eye should be, sliced out by her own brother’s hand.

The low light of the hearth casts shadows in the sharp edges of his face, the lines around his mouth, the curve of his lips, proud but restrained. His remaining eye is trained on her, glaring at her like a hunter approaches prey.

“You were there to watch your brother, I thought,” he says in that softly threatening voice of his. He comes close enough to loom over her, though just far enough that their legs do not touch. “Or did you find your eye wandering?”

Jace’s first mistake had been to go down to the yard early. Aemond was always there in the mornings after flying Vhagar, to train with Ser Criston Cole until noon. His next mistake had been to succumb to Aemond’s goading. Their uncle is never one to use violence at first, not like Aegon who would brawl with a gull if he thought it offensive enough. Aemond likes to use his words to tease and probe, to lure an opponent to action, and Jace almost always falls for it. The moment her brother had challenged Aemond to a sparring match she knew what the outcome would be. Jace was a promising fighter, but he simply could not match Aemond’s height, strength, speed or skill.

Her heart sank for her brother, but it couldn’t force her attention away from Aemond. He moved like a dancer, all fluidity and control, like he already had the entire performance planned out in his head. He toyed with Jace, kept his defence up, only to knock his sword from his hands and place his own blade at his throat in a sudden flash of silver and steel.

She’d had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from smirking.

“You humiliated him, before spectators,” she says.

Aemond frowns in mock sympathy, taking her chin between his finger and his thumb to tilt her gaze up. “I would do it a hundred times over, for my own pleasure if not for anything else.”

She tilts her head. “And what of my pleasure?”

He hums cryptically. The corners of his mouth flicker upwards. “Your pleasure is only my concern within the confines of this room.”

He’s looking at her like that again, like he wants to devour her.

He traces his fingers down her throat, her collar, the neckline of her shift. His touch is sparse but familiar, exploring the curves of her body through the fabric, patterns she’s felt before, spaces he already knows and seems to have mapped in his head.

He leans in closer, his other hand pressing into the bed, invading her space, infiltrating her senses with the scent of smoke and lavender. She could drown in it, the scent of him.

She shudders as he runs his nose over her neck, following the heat of his breath with a lingering kiss against the sensitive spot of her skin. “What is it you want from me tonight?” 

She has an idea in her mind, one she’s been toying with since she had seen the look of pride in his face in the yard.

“Lie down, on your back.”

He stands straight. Eye still fixed on her, he does as she says, making himself comfortable against the pillows. 

She draws out every movement, just as he likes to do to her. She straddles him, settling her hips against the growing hardness in his breeches. She rests her hands against his chest, runs her fingers over his skin and the patch of silver hair revealed when she pulls on his shirt.

His hands are on her immediately, running up her thighs, gripping at her waist, bringing up the hem of her shift and tutting as though it has caused him some personal insult in hiding her body from him. He pulls it over her head and surges up to kiss her, capturing her lips with the desperation of a man starved. His kisses are always like this, slow and consuming, pulling her in closer and closer like he expects her to try to escape, like the only air he wants exists in her lungs.

It’s fast and overwhelming, and at first she’s content to just let it happen, to let herself be carried away in the currents of his wants and not her own, but once she’s a little more settled, she pushes him back against the bed.

He stares up at her, blood rushing to his cheeks, lips parted and panting. For all the times she’s seen his stoic exterior at court, she thinks he looks best like this.

“I thought you were concerning yourself with my pleasure?” she says, not bothering to contain her smile.

“I thought you liked it when I take what I want,” he retorts.

“I want you to do as you’re told.”

He huffs a laugh, but his gaze softens and his tongue wets his lips, his eye roaming appreciatively over her bare body, until he stops at her small clothes. All it takes is a few gentle rocks of her hips before his jaw tightens and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her waist. She swears she feels his hips twitch beneath her, but he makes no move to take what he wants.

She leans back on her haunches as she drags his breeches below his hips. By the sight of him, hard and reddened at the tip, she knows he at least finds something about this arrangement appealing. 

She discards the rest of their clothing, his shirt, her small clothes, the leather eyepatch on his head. She pauses when she reaches for it, waiting for him to protest, but he doesn’t. He gives her a small nod and she slides it up to reveal the true extent of his scar, the twisted red flesh around the sapphire wedged in his socket.

She has seen it countless times before. She needs the reminder of who he is, how much he must hate her.

Now that they are both bare she resumes her position, pleasure like a flame licking up her spine as she traces circles over her centre. Aemond grinds himself against her, breathing with a strain in the back of his throat. The sound only makes the wanting feeling in her gut tighten. She can feel herself clenching over nothing, her body begging for more friction and the release it promises.

She feels she is wet enough to take him now, and her stomach drops in anticipation.

When he whispers her name, she knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

She closes her hand around his cock, giving it a few half-hearted strokes and lining it up to her entrance, only to hesitate. “I hear your mother is intending to invite Borros Baratheon to court,” she says.

Aemond catches his lip between his teeth, staring at the space where their bodies almost meet if she would only lower her hips.

“Might he bring one of his comely daughters? He has four, doesn’t he?”

Aemond huffs and meets her eye. His hands are still on her waist, his thumbs tracing circles over her belly. “Where did you hear this?”

She tries to pretend such a simple touch from him does not excite her or tempt her to relent. 

Daemon has spies in the Queen’s household, not that she knows the specifics. Her mother had discussed the matter with her, expressing concern for the Hightowers’ intentions. It has been decades since a Lord of Storm’s End has stepped foot in the Red Keep, and Daemon believes their rivals are trying to close ranks, amass allies outside of the capital. Perhaps such a deal may be sealed with a marriage pact.

“What,” she breathes, trying to smile, “that his daughters are comely? I can only assume, for I’ve never met them you see–”

In the blink of an eye she’s beneath him.

Aemond brings a single finger to her lips. “I thought we had agreed not to discuss political matters in private,” he says.

“I did not realise the matter was political–”

He cuts her off when he snakes his hand down her body and pushes his thumb against her pearl. She hisses, her hips bucking to meet his touch.

“Are you trying to bait me, niece? Hmm? Is that what you came here for?”

She shakes her head as he circles over her. For such minimal effort on his part, it sparks something frustratingly bright in her, back arching, warmth settling between her legs and beneath her skin.

“Is that really what you want me to be thinking about? Wondering which one of the Baratheon girls is the prettiest?”

His fingertips tease over her entrance, but he doesn’t push them inside, instead they’re replaced by the head of his cock. She presses her lips together, determined not to make any kind of noise he could take for weakness, for wanting, but she feels it all the same.

“Presently, I’m only thinking about what I can see, and what I see is a spoiled little Princess, laid out beneath me. Poor thing, she’s trying to look smug, but I’m not sure I’m convinced, not when I’m about to fuck her tight, little cunt.” 

Her pleading is mindless, falling from her lips as effortlessly as her breath. “Please… please… please…”

She wonders if it is her want or his own he eventually succumbs to. He pushes in slowly, delighted at the slight moan he elicits from her, sharing her air as she gasps at the pleasurable ache of being stretched out around him.

“I’ve heard rumours too, that Rhaenyra has been sending ravens to Highgarden,” he says as he starts to snap his hips against hers. “What business would your mother have with the Tyrells, I wonder?”

Rhaenyra has her own plans for a marriage pact, plans she’s known about for months. “What indeed?” she says, trying to smile as he ruts into her.

Aemond almost growls, burying his face into her neck. As his voice is harsher so are his thrusts. “My sister will sell you to a sickly little boy, is that it? Why would Rhaenyra want an alliance with the Reach?”

Because the King is little more than a breathing corpse and who knows how much life he has left in him. Because eventually, he will die, and they both know what will come next.

She’s always known her part in this, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her brothers may well fight in battles to defend their mother’s claim, but wars cannot be won without the necessary support. The Reach, The Riverlands, The Vale, The North, they must all be secured one way or another.

With his face hidden from hers she allows herself to admire the way his muscles move and flex under the smooth, pale skin of his arm. Since leaving childhood behind, he seems to have this idea of efficiency, with no tolerance for excess. His arms are slight, but defined where he trains with his sword each day, where he hauls himself onto Vhagar’s saddle and steers her around Blackwater Bay.

“It’s always been expected of me,” she says, tracing her hand over his skin, almost perfect, save for a few marks: a burn after an unfortunate encounter with Vermax when he was just a hatchling, a scar above his elbow where he fell from an apple tree, and crescent shaped indents from their last tryst. “I will do my duty.”

“Duty?” He stops, grabbing her by the neck so her breath hitches in her throat. He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers, caging her between his body and the bed. She sees nothing but a single eye and a sapphire, nothing but contempt. “You’re the antithesis of it, crawling to your uncle’s bedchamber every night, begging to be fucked.”

Anger flares in her blood. She clamps her hand around his wrist and digs her nails into his skin, hoping it will mark him. “I have never begged for you,” she spits, teeth bared, lips grazing over his, “and I never shall…”

Her words fade on her tongue when he resumes a punishing pace, urging her closer to oblivion with every thrust.

“Oh there you go,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?” He’s on his knees now, one hand still on her throat, the other on her thigh, forcing her legs further apart, fingertips pressing painfully into her flesh.

She tries to pull away from his grip, pushing herself further into the bed amongst the pillows, but Aemond has always been stubborn and does not relent. She has nowhere to go, no other option but to take it.

“You’ll be sent off to some castle in a miserable corner of the world, live the dull life of a Lady. Your Lord husband will trade swords and shields for you like a brood mare and fuck his children into your belly each night.”

She feels her peak building within her, the weightlessness rising and rising, she can hardly take much more. “Do you believe I will think of you?” she says with a grin, “as he touches me, as he spills inside me…”

Aemond grunts, folding his chest over hers, brushing his lips over her cheek as he hisses, “wanton little whore. I am the one you seek out, and as long as you do, you are mine.”

It tears through her quickly, a spark that turns to flame, a piece of kindling caught alight, pleasure that reduces her simply to feeling, warmth and the absence of his weight on her body. She claws her nails into nothing, empty space where she expects to find his skin.

Aemond has pulled away from her, groaning as he comes, spilling over her stomach and thighs. She watches him, jaw slack, brows angled like he’s in agony. 

She basks in the numbness her peak leaves behind as he drags his shirt over her skin to clean the mess he’s made with a touch that is soft and slow. His eye trails along her body to her face. She sees nothing in him, not amusement or satisfaction, not hatred or remorse, and yet he comes to lay beside her, turning her onto her side, settling against her back and putting his arms around her.

She allows it, too used to the feeling of lying in his bed, too used to the scent of sweat and smoke and lavender. 

Aemond’s chambers are ruled by order, every book has its place on a shelf, he does not leave papers, clothes or used cups of wine lying around. The bedchamber lies on the south side of the castle, with a balcony overlooking the bay where two of them used to watch the ships leaving the harbour. She likes the intricate tapestries, scenes of Valryian mythology, and his fondness for the colour blue. Even if she cannot see most of it in the dark of night, the silence and stillness is comforting.

“Lord Corlys’ ship was attacked,” she mutters, placing her hand over his, where his palm against her stomach. “We cannot be sure if he even survived.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aemond says, “I’ve also heard Vaemond Velaryon intends to challenge the succession of Driftmark, should the unthinkable be true.

“And I assume the Queen and the Hand will support him in this endeavour.”

Aemond’s chest stills. “They will hear the petitions and pass their judgement,” he says, quietly but finally.

“Then the decision has already been made.”

Aemond’s breathing is deep, her hair fluttering against her cheek as he exhales. Her mother has a similar way of scolding her without uttering a single word, as if to say the answer should be obvious.

With a scoff she pushes his hand away and drags herself out of the bed. The cold air stings her skin and she makes short work of finding her night shift, discarded on the floor, and dressing herself.

“Lucerys has no claim to Driftmark,” Aemond says from the bed.

“And why is that?” she says shortly, grabbing her shoes from the foot of the bed.

He won’t say it, but the word is there, in the way he teases Jace, the way his family watch her and her brothers and stare at them across the throne room with nothing but disgust. It’s there in his indifference towards her beyond the walls of his bedchamber, avoiding eye contact, muttering under his breath, insults and backhanded compliments. But the last time he said it, it cost him his eye.

She turns to face him, a defiant glare through the darkness now that some of the candles have started to burn out. 

“Coward,” she whispers.

He does claim to disagree.

With her shoes on, she moves towards the hidden door without sparing him another glance.

But she hears a ruffle of fabric, his feet against the floor as he follows her. His hand closes around her arm, hard enough it feels as though it might leave a bruise. He turns her into him, placing her back and his palm against the panelled wall.

“Stay,” he says.

“Surely you would not want to sully yourself, sharing your bed with a bastard.”

“But it’s different with you.”

“How? How is it different?”

He cups her face in his hands, begging her for something but never saying it. He leans in gradually, kissing her firmly. It’s easy to follow his lead, to let him slip his tongue between her lips, let him pull and tug at her delicate flesh, to feel him and lose herself to him. It makes her weightless all over again.

Once it was easy to love Aemond. They found friendship easily as children, even when they bickered and argued, because they could always forgive each other.

Some time ago she realised that love has always been destined to fade away, like summer changing into autumn, winter snows melting away with the spring. There is no place for it amongst the animosity between their families, causes they were born to, that neither of them will ever forsake.

Aemond pulls away but stays close to her, a hand on her waist, the other on her cheek. “I want you to stay.”

“And what then? What do you think could ever become of us?” The one-eyed Prince and the bastard Princess.

Suddenly she hates the stillness of this room, the weight of his silence in her chest. 

Aemond’s hand slips from her cheek, his expression falling from pleading to indifference. 

She leaves him standing there, bare chested and breathless, with no light to catch in the cut edges of his sapphire. She fades back into the shadows of the passageway, amongst the cold and the dark and the bones.

The rot has set in. The King will die, and both the Blacks and the Greens will seek to claim his throne. The empty space between her and Aemond can only ever grow.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

[averagewriter-inthedark]

To Be Loved is To Be Seen 👑 | Gladiator II Imagine

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Emperor Geta x Empress!reader

Content Warnings: fluff, mentions of violence and insinuated murder. morally ambiguous reader (They match each other's freak), slight NSFW—MDNI 18+, mentions of pregnancy, soft!Geta, historical refences and mythology (not completely accurate to the timeline) | female!reader (she/her) no use of Y/n | wc: 3.6k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: On the evening of their son's first name day, the Imperial couple of Rome find solace and comfort in the rare moment their afforded when keeping the order of the Empire on their shoulders. Basking in the genuine softness that is only reserved for each other, away from the preying eyes of their court who constantly test their patience and bring upon the wrath of Mars and Venus.

Note: my love for Joseph Quinn has returned full force and it makes me hate Stanger Things again for killing Eddie off.

---------------------------------------

Under the stars and Gods of the Roman night sky, the Empress stood on the balcony of the Royal chambers overlooking the beautiful city. A symphony of music and chatter from the people below, filling the streets as torches light the pathways and far beyond. The Colosseum, the battleground for Rome’s gladiators, once consumed by spectators to witness the blood and glory of her fighters now remained silent and steadfast as the day’s celebration came to an end. 

And the Empress, adorning in the comfort of her nightwear and robes, held the celebrations honoree in her arms. Pius Septimus Caius. The one-year-old Caesar, heir apparent to the Roman Empire, stared up at his mother with wide eyes full of wonder. Reaching up with a chubby hand to grasp her hair, freed from its braids, pins, and curls. 

“One day, this will all be yours,” she declared, adjusting the child so he was perched on her elbow, leaning his entire weight onto her side. Her mouth pressed to his head as she cradled him, “Everything the night touches, and what the sun shines upon when Sol comes to claim the sky from Nox, belongs to us.” Tiny fingers play with the seam of her robe, the young heir fixated on the gold detail. 

Down below the Empress heard cheers erupt, peering to find citizens by the gates of the palace dancing and waving to the ruler. “Blessed be the Caesar on his first natalicium!” “Empress, may the Gods bestow great fortune to you and his Grace!”

Grinning, she raised her hand, fingers cupped to wave at the crowd, who grew in size--all vying to catch a glimpse of the Empress and Caesar before they retreated into the chambers. The balcony stood high off the ground and yards away from the streets, but the guards stood firmly with their weapons ready for any threat. Caius mimicked his mother. Arm moving up and down, igniting more cheer from their subjects.

“And when you’re older,” her voice dropped an octave, despite no soul in proximity. A menacing shift in tone all while the smile remained on her face. “Your father and I will teach you the ways of ruling this great empire with an iron fist and the secrets to prevailing without bringing destruction onto yourself. Where the people of Rome shall adore you, worship the ground you walk on, and stay loyal to you even when their hearts scream at them to run.”

Giving one last wave and shielding the boy from the cool breeze, the Empress retreats inside, the smile dropping to a dubious smirk, reflected in the way her eyes seem to darken now she is away from prying eyes. “You’re too young to understand, my dear Caius, the lengths your father, uncle, and I have gone to keep the favor of the people while hiding the truth of certain matters they surely would spread fire to the streets if they discovered.” Her chuckle echoes with the sound of the doors shutting. Sealing the chambers from the outside world. 

“Gods be damned, the lengths I went to secure my position could bring upon ruin.” The bodies of the Senator and his daughter, who plotted to usurp her betrothal to the Emperor, now rotted to bone and dust beneath the Colosseum. “Not to mention the lengths your father went to ensure my hand.” At the bottom of the sea laid the box containing the man her father initially betrothed her to. Who’s life was forfeit the moment Geta laid eyes upon the woman he vowed would be his Empress. 

And any and all Concubines knew not to dare breach the boundaries of the Imperial couple. Certain actions and intimacies were reserved for each other. 

Do not kiss the Emperor or the Empress on thy lips.

The Emperor takes pleasure, he does not give. Only to her.

The Empress does not lay below, she remains above. Except for him.

The Emperor does not allow anyone on top of him, only her.

The Empress takes no seed but his. He releases in no one, but her. 

The one time a brave soul attempted, ended with their passage to the Underworld. 

Pulling back the duvet, the Empress settled into her side of the bed. Back pressed against the headboard and Caius tucked in her lap, she lit the candles on the nightstand for more the light the flames of the fireplace were unable to reach. 

“Let me tell you a little story, my son, of the love between two Gods that is not so far from your father and I. Mars and Venus.” Eyes full of intrigued, the boy babbled in approval and snuggled closer into her embrace. Warmth of the duvet and fire hugging him alongside her skin. “The tale goes like,” she began hoarsely, “there was once a beautiful Goddess. More beautiful than any Goddess in Mount Olympus and the lands below, who held the bounds of love like no other. Venus. And every man, God and mortal, wanted Venus to be theirs. But she was married to Vulcan, the blacksmith God, who relished in being the one to have secured her hand by the order of her father, Caelus.” 

The Empress’s jaw tightened, tone hardening at the last sentence as she thought of her father and former betrothed. The Senator twice her age whom her father agreed to marry her too once she reached marriage potential. Sentencing her to a life where the home he built would be her own personal prison. Hidden away from the likes of preying men, but would show her off as a prized gift from the Gods when he desired satisfaction from his peers.

Gods be damned he’d be her husband. She would’ve slit his throat on their marriage bed the night of the wedding. But alas, Mars rescued her. 

“Venus spent every waking moment planning to rid Caelus from her life. Leaving Mount Olympus to live among the mortals. Drown herself in the sea. Poison him little by little until his body could no longer put up a fight.” The Empress had been so lost in her rising anger, staring at the flames of the fire, that she forgot what she was talking about. It wasn’t until hands brushed her cheek, and she glanced away to find her son tilting his head, wondering why she stopped the story.

“But one day while attending a feast, just when the Goddess believed all hope was lost, she was visited by Mars, the God of War.” Caius’ awed expression made her smirk, falling to a whisper, “and in that moment Venus knew her prayers had been answered.”

The smooth surface of the pillar beneath her finger guided her with each step, the column the only thing between the two as they circled each other. Eyes locked, drawing out the voices of the guests in the dining hall yards away. Leaving them the only two, standing on the balcony as they welcomed the cool night breeze and allowed Nox to be their only witness to the instant connection they both met the others gaze.  

“You should not be without your guards, my Imperator. Tis a foolish thing to do when so many souls occupy your home.”

“Sounds as though you have plans to strike me down, my Lady.” His smirk indicated he did not feel threatened at all by her. Continuing to circle the pillar, he moved at the same pace as though not to lose sight of her face. Her entire being beckoning him like a siren luring their prey. 

“Oh no,” she purred, lips curling up to match his smirk. Sending heat up his spine as the air around them shifted. “I wouldn’t dare dream of striking the likes of you down. 

“No?” came his mock, like he didn’t believe her. “Is that not why you lured me out here?”

“Who said I lured you?”

“Ah, so it was luck you betted on that I’d follow you.” Geta suddenly stopped and turned to intercept her, the woman nearly running into his chest. But she made no sound of surprise, expecting him to eventually end their dance around the pillar. 

The moonlight shined against her eyes, mimicking the twinkle of the stars above. “I did not have to bet on luck. You’ve been waiting the whole night to have me alone.” 

Geta’s expression shifted to a mix of intrigue and lust, mesmerized by her confidence of speaking so freeling in front of him, knowing he’s killed men who’ve dared to do the same. “Is that so, my Lady? Care to enlighten me what assured you I’d leave the company of my guests to follow you into the night alone without my guards.”

Leaning closer, enough for him to feel the heat radiating off her body, she lifted a finger to trace the image of Mars on his golden chest plate. Smooth metal beneath her fingertip. 

“I’ve felt your eyes trail me the moment I stepped through those doors,” she spoke into the night, never straying her intense gaze from him. “You may be good at masking your thoughts, my Emperor, in front of your subjects and Senators. But when that man introduced me as his intended….” her head tilted, challenging him to reject the claim about to leave her lips. “You appeared rather displeased.”

Geta’s hand came up to her arm, trailing up until it reached her neck to cup her jaw, rather rough yet she showed no trace of fear. In fact, she appeared aroused. It enticed him.

“Any man would when they are in the presence of Venus herself.”

“I’m flattered by your kind words, my Emperor. And if I may, being in your presence feels as though I've been visited by Mars.”

“Does that frighten you?” He questioned.

“On the contrary, I’m pleased,” she didn’t hesitate, making his grin widen. 

“And like Venus, Vulcan has claimed you as his own.”

“He has not claimed me and never will.”

“You intend to kill him then? Before your wedding?” A trace of surprise laced his tone, but more so amusement.

Once again, she challenged him with her eyes, hand coming up to his own on her neck, “Would that please you, my Emperor.”

Geta’s eyes were as dark as hers, the tension between the two thickening as their goals of the night since the feast started finally came together. She was in his arms, and he was wrapped around her finger. 

He brought his head to hers, leaving his mouth roughly centimeters from hers, giving her the promise she prayed to the Gods in the image of Mars himself. 

“Very much so, but leave him to me, my Lady, I rather enjoy removing those standing in the way of what I want. And what I want, is you,” Their lips brushed together, sealing the vow in a single kiss, “Swear yourself to me, and I shall free you from him. You will be my Empress.” 

“Mars and Venus loved in the shadows until they finally could show the world they belonged together. Vulcan was indisposed, thanks to Mars,” The Empress’ finger was grasped, Caius attempting to take her ring that caught his attention. It made her grin, letting the boy take her hand to inspect the jewelry. “And Venus made sure the maidens and Goddess alike knew better than to tempt Mars with their seduction,” voice dropping to a murmur, she added with a smirk, “those who dared were removed with ease.”

A squeal left Caius when he was suddenly lifted in the air, waving his arms rapidly as giggles echoed against the walls of the chambers. The Empress stared up with adoration, “and born from Venus and Mars’ love was their son, Cupid. The winged God of affection.” 

Caught up in the moment, the little prince giggling as his mother continued to hold in the air as though he was flying, the Empress did not hear the chamber doors opening. The troubled expression on Geta’s face wondering why his son wasn’t in the nursery vanished upon his eyes landing on the scene before him. A sudden warmth filled his veins hearing Caius’ laughter, followed by the view of a beaming smile on his wife. 

“Make no mistake, Cupid was as clever and mischievous as his parents. They say that when struck by his golden arrow, one is gifted with uncontrollable desire. But when he sends his arrow tipped with lead, they flee with great aversion.” Returning the boy back down, the Empress nuzzles her nose against his. Giggles still falling from his mouth he nearly drowns her voice out, but Geta manages to hear her. “And let us not forget dear Cupid was known to steal honey straight from the hives of bees. The sweetness too tempting to resist.” 

The Empress swore she saw Caius’ brown eyes light up at the mention of honey. For he, too, loved the golden liquid. Especially when infused with bread or cookies. 

Geta, who’d been watching from a distance fondly, finally made his appearance known, “and when Cupid’s stung by the bees he’s stolen from,” the Empress does not even flinch by the sudden intrusion. Having felt her husband’s eyes on them when he entered the chamber. 

She turns Caius in her arms as her gaze shifts to Geta’s, smirking at the sight of him strolling to his side of the bed, robes clasping his figure and leaving nothing to the imagination. The light of the candles illuminated his gorgeous face, the vision of Mars, her Mars. 

Caius reaches out to his father. Escaping the Empress’ hold when Geta settles onto the mattress. Letting his son fall into his arms while he continued, “he ran to his mother Venus claiming no creature that small should bring upon such pain. But Venus did not consol the young God like he hoped, no…” Geta’s eyes fixed on his wife, who met his gaze, their expressions full of delight. “She reminded Cupid how he was not so different from the bee’s. He was small, like them, and he delivered the sting of love.” 

Of course, Caius was too young to understand the extent of his parents' stories. Just one year old and yet to speak his first words to the world. But he was captivated nonetheless, eyes big with awe and wonder. 

“Poetic justice at best,” The Empress whispered, smirk never faltering as she leaned closer, her lavender aroma filling his nostrils. Leaving little room between the two now that Caius laid claim to sitting on Geta’s chest. The Emperor held him upright with one hand under his armpit and the other on his side. 

“You gave me a fright, wife,” Geta remarked, tauntingly. “I went to the nursery, and imagine my surprise when I looked in my son’s cradle to find it was empty. Then I heard the guards chattering about how the front gates were flooded by citizens shouting their desire to see the Empress and Caesar.”

  Chuckling, the Empress returned his playful smile, “My apologies, husband. Caius and I were enjoying the view of Rome at night Nox has blessed us with. I was showing him what will be his one day.” 

Geta lifts a brow, “already preparing him for the throne? My dear, I thought you’d wait at least until his second name day.” 

A hand lightly taps his shoulder in offense, though it does no damage and Geta simply laughs at the action. Caius, the bold prince, reaches his chubby arm to swat at his mother as to protect his father, making the two gasp with grins etched on their visage. 

“Such loyalty, my son!” Geta lifts him up, causing giggles to erupt. “I shall dismiss my Praetorian guards and make you my sworn protector. No man shall harm the Emperors of Rome so long as the mighty Septimus Caius is by their side.” 

Laughter echoes along the walls of the Royal chamber that any passersby outside, servant or guard, stopped momentarily on their journey just to hear the joyous sound of their Caesar. Geta brought his son back down only to bestow soft kisses against his soft cheek. The Empress gazing upon the scene with deep reverence. 

Moments like these were rare. With the state of the Empire constantly on the shoulders of Geta and his brother and the Empress maintaining their facade of benevolent rulers to the public as to keep their favor, finding time to be a family proved rather difficult than they intended. Caius often got the attention of one parent at a time during busy days. Either Geta tucking him in at night before bed after a days worth of politics and scheming, or the Empress bringing the boy alongside when attending her duties. Hardly allowing the servants to care for him. Going as far as to refuse the wet-nurse when she birthed the child to feed him from her own breast. 

An action that appalled the Senate and ladies of the court, but garnered the affection of Rome’s people. 

Caius' laughter settled, the boy nuzzling into Geta’s chest as his mother brought her hand to caress his cheek. Lulling him to sleep. “Tis unfair you know,” she spoke softly, though Geta recognized the mischief in her eyes. “I held him in my womb for nine moons and he betrays me by having all your features and no trace of mine.” 

Melted chocolate for eyes, hair reddish golden like the setting sun, and skin light as peaches from their garden trees, Caius was the spitting image of his father. He had plump lips and freckles adorning his tiny face. The only attribute he took from his mother was her nose. Other than that, he could be mistaken for the offspring of a concubine had the servants not attended the Empress first hand during her labors and subsequently the birth. 

A chuckle left Geta’s lips, stroking his son’s hair as said matching eyes fluttered shut to find slumber. “He might have the likes of me physically, but rest assured wife, he’ll take on after you in every other way.”

“How so?”

“He’ll have your ambition,” he drawled, looking down at his son. “Your assertiveness and confidence. He’ll know to love no one but his family, and to remain loyal to them above all else. He’ll know how to sniff out traitors.” Geta’s voice is serene, his attention now toward his wife. “No one will ever deceive him. He will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever seen. All because he has you as his mother.” Tears pricked in her eyes, heart full of love and feeling butterflies in her stomach by his words. 

Hand coming to his cheek, the Empress pressed her forehead against his temple, her voice featherlike against his ear, “and with you as his father, he’ll prevail. He’ll know how to be a fearless emperor, a doting father, and devoted husband. And maybe…” she trailed off, biting her lip as a smile threatened to grace her face. “A loving brother as well.”

The air caught in the back of Geta’s throat. Eyes wide and moving down her figure to follow her free hand trailing to cradle her stomach. “Are you…you’re certain?” The Empress confirmed his suspicion, kissing his lips as the lone tear fell from her eye. 

“Yes, my love.” she whispers against his lips with a slight nod, careful to not wake the sleeping prince. “I have not bled in two moons. You’ve blessed me again with the honor of carrying your child.” 

Overcome with emotion, Geta carefully sits up, holding Caius against his chest as he pulls his wife up as well to crash his mouth against hers. The passion filled kiss made her head spin, enough to make her fall had his one arm not wrapped around her waist to keep her upright. The kiss was wet, sloppy. Full of love, full of devotion. A kiss actors at the theater could never accurately portray. As the feelings behind it are what truly brings it to life.

Pulling away after a minute, flustered and consumed with lust, Geta holds her gently by the neck, forehead pressed against her own. “The Gods have granted me you, my Venus, and I cannot thank them enough for the gift you’ve given me. Our son, and the child in your womb. I need not anything else in this world but you and our children.”

Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she uttered, “I love you, Geta,” kissing him again with the same amount of passion as before, which he met feverishly.

When they pulled apart once more, Geta let his lips trail to her forehead before leaning back to announce, “I’m going to escort our little prince back to the nursery. I’ll only be a moment.” Adjusting his body, Geta lifted himself off the bed, a sleeping Caius pressed tightly to his chest. The soft patter of his footsteps headed for the chamber door, his wife watching him depart. However when he was about to open the door, Geta stopped and turned back to face her, a lewd smile painting his features. 

“When I return, you shall take your place on top of me,” arousal flooded the Empress, his order producing the wetness between her thighs on command as it always did. Igniting the fire boiling within her stomach. Geta licked his lips, blood rushing to his groin by the predatory glint in her eyes. “Then I’ll have you under me after I’ve feasted upon your cunt. We have much to celebrate tonight.” 

“Much to celebrate indeed….” Sinking back into the cushions of the bed while teasing the opening of her robes, the Empress sighed in content. Pleasure forming at what’s to come in the next five minutes. “I’ll be waiting.”

[clare-875]

More Than Enough (Law x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Law x Female Reader Summary: Law hates it when you overwork yourself, but you don't think you're doing enough. Warnings: Angst/Fluff, Comfort, Soft Law [One Piece Masterlist] _____

You are on the brink of sleep.

It tempts you as you feel yourself lulled between reality and your dreams, but you can't stop. Just one more report. That was what you had told yourself hours ago. It led to one more task, one more bit of paperwork, one more duty; one more. You didn't know why you felt the need to force yourself into this vicious cycle but you also couldn't get yourself to end it. It builds within you: the hope to be useful, to serve as a member of the Heart Pirates, to earn your place beside your crew. You were strong, but not the strongest; you were talented but not the most gifted; you were smart but never the smartest. You felt as though you stood by pillars of strength and such capable companions. You felt like you owed something in return. So, even when members of the crew murmured good night to you, concern lingering in their eyes as they walked by, you stayed as you always did. Only this time you knew you were pushing your limits with sleep. You knew you were desperately in need of rest, especially after a hectic day of fighting and treating injuries, but you kept at it. Just one more.

Law entered his sleeping chambers exhausted as he always was. He was craving sleep but he was also craving you. Your gentle hands that pushed past his dark hair, easing the constant pounding of tension. Your warm embrace that lulled away lingering thoughts that kept him from rest. Your soft kisses that made the brutal day worth it. You were the only thing that could get Law to relax enough to find some peace, so his heart, which he thought would never brim with the love that it did now, thrums in anticipation. The anticipation of you. But when Law opens the door to the room you both shared, instead of the relief that comes with finally finding solace, he is met with utter dissatisfaction. Law's sharp eyes travel the length of the room, but he finds the bed as untouched as it was in the morning. Most importantly, he saw the blatant lack of the figure he had hoped to see.

You weren't there.

Law feels sharp irritation ring through his head as he groans in frustration before turning away from his room, knowing you were probably overworking yourself; Knowing you wouldn't come to bed unless he came to get you; Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep unless you were by his side. Law travelled the cool hallways of the Polar Tang, each step bridled with his exhaustion. Normally you would be the one chiding his lack of sleep but it wasn't uncommon for him to do the same. "[y/n]" He murmurs when he finally opens the door to the room where you had been working away. You turn, your weary eyes wide at the sight of Law before shaking off your surprise and turning to meet your partner. "Law, is everything alright?" No, Law wants to reply, no everything is not alright, why weren't you in bed? He can't sleep without you. But Law forces his childish words to the back of his mind and approaches you to where you sat.

He sees your writing on countless pieces of paperwork; those on supplies for the ship, maintenance, an odd medical report here and there. He sees the multitude of sticky notes around you filled with suggestions that could help the crew and advance the Polar Tang. He sees notebooks filled with your handwriting on an abundance of ways you could advance your strength in battle. But most importantly, he sees you. Not just the dark imprints under your eyes and every yawn you stifle. Not just the way you fight sleep's echoes or force a hand through your hair to ease your headache. Law sees you trying. He sees your devotion to the crew, he sees your efforts literally piled around him, he sees your inner turmoil that you try to desperately hide from him; from the crew. He knows of your insecurity, he has known since you graced him with your presence and joined him on his journey across the seas. You think you're not enough, but what you didn't know was that you were enough.

You didn't need to lose sleep just to prove that to him.

You didn't notice how much you helped the crew by your mere presence. In ways that Law could not comfort, you thrived. Each day that the crew faced major loss or grief, you were there pushing away your feelings for the sake of them; you were the light. Every time a tired member of the crew sluggishly complained about the tasks they had to complete, you would jump for the opportunity to help. Every small bit of work you did for the crew, helped in such enormous ways, each supporting act of you on the battlefield saved more lives than Law could count. Most of all, you were Law's literal lifeline. He doesn't think that his life would be as vibrant as it was until you showed him colours, devotion; love. It was cheesy and he knew it, he also knew he would never say it straight-forward as he wanted to with you. He also knew he was a hypocrite; a routine overworker himself. But he also knew you.

You needed rest.

Law grabs your hand gently but firmly on the page you wrote on and doesn't listen to your confused and murmured words before pulling you to your feet. "Wait Law, I just need to-" But he cuts you off before you can continue. "It's late, and you've done enough already." He turns to you and you are met with his sharp gaze. "How many times have I told you, you don't need to do everything yourself." You roll your eyes despite the seriousness in his gaze. "Like you can talk, I'm surprised you actually want to go to bed before dawn." Law sighs deeply as he pulls you through the hallways before reaching your shared chambers. "That's different, I'm the Captain." You keep up your facade, but you feel the sinking weight of his words within you. That's right. You think. But what am I? Suddenly, your sleep-deprived state makes you lose the control you usually have over your emotions as you let out a quiet but snarky comment; one that Law hears muttered under your breath; one that betrays you of your thoughts. "I know that. I just wanted to be useful, to be enough for the crew, is that so bad?"

Law turns to you and instead of frustration you are met with a more gentle gaze; one you would only see pointed at you. "[y/n], you are more than enough." You look up to him then, eyes wide at his delicate words, those of sentiment you would never hear him say, but he has turned away as though those words were obvious; like it was a fact. "It's the damn crew that needs to pick up their slack. If I hear that you did their jobs for them again, I swear to god-" You feel it then, the rush of relief and hope that comes with your boyfriend's passive but blunt words. You go to him before he can continue, feeling the beginning of tears in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. Instead, Law is startled by your swift embrace but returns it after several moments and caresses the depths of your hair. He feels you slack against him then, as he pulls you to his bed, cradled in his arms. That is, until you look up to him, tired but glossy gaze all for him to see. "Thank you Law," you mutter against him, but Law says nothing but gives a roll of his eyes.

In the next moments that pass you both do not even realise when sleep takes your exhausted states. The crew do not dare wake you when the two of you sleep in until late the next day, held in the assurance of the other's embrace.

[imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul]

The Prince - Chapter Ten

A/N: Hello! I apologize that this is late, I meant to post last night but then I facetimed by bestie for 4 hours and got drunk. ANYWAYS, I present to you the final chapter of The Prince. Thank you so much for all your love and support on this story! I hope you enjoy this finale <3

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader Word Count: 4.6k Synopsis: Finally, we see the end of Jace and the reader's story.

Warnings: smut

Previous Chapter

Rhaenyra is understandably furious when Jace comes to see her the next morning. He had not wanted to leave you for long, so all he told her was a quick summary of the events in your room. She had wanted to rage, had wanted to know exactly everything that happened, wanted to see the proof for herself, but when he asked to postpone the meeting, she read the look in his eyes. It was fear. It was fading, but it was still there. Fear for you, fear for himself, fear that everything he had wanted was slipping through his fingers.

So she had let him leave, let him go to you, as long as he promised to find her first thing in the morning. Her rage had not abated in the night.

“If I could kill him again, I would,” she says, looking at the, thankfully, light bruising along his neck. Jace pulls back from her, not wanting the attention the bruises now gave him.

“Did you send word to the Iron Islands?” he asks.

“I sent a raven last night to his brother, the Lord Blacktyde."

“What does this mean for our standing?” he asks. Last night, besides his thoughts of dread that he almost lost you, he was also plagued by what the realm would think. Their position was still so new, to have an attack on his life so soon—

“The only thing the realm will know is that Lord Blacktyde attacked Y/N and the two of you fought him off,” Rhaenyra says.

“The two of us," Jace says softly. He brings his eyes to his mother's. She watches him delicately, like he might break with just a touch. "I'm fine, Mother," he says. She nods.

"I know."

"It looks worse than it is," he says. He wishes he could pull the collar of his doublet up, just to block them from her sight, and yours. Your eyes had been on the bruises all night long. "What of Y/N and I?” he asks. Rhaenyra smiles, her earlier rage ebbing away.

“Y/N saved your life, do you think I would deny her anything?”

“I was not sure,” he says, his smile spreading.

“I think it’s clear the two of you would do anything to stay together. I won’t get in the way. Before last evening, I had a few doubts, but after what Y/N did for you, and speaking with Baela, I trust this is the right decision."

"Baela?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "What did she say?"

“She seems excited about finding a new prospect,” she says. "Or a few."

"She does."

"You both have found happiness, and that is all I've ever wanted."

“Thank you,” Jace says, taking his mother’s hand with a smile. He feels more at ease, knowing that the events of last night only solidified your love.

The cool air of the gardens heals some of the pain inside of you. Of course, your hand still throbs after the maester had to redo your stitches. You are sore all over and have an angry bruise on your cheekbone, but amongst the flowers and the breeze, you feel light. The nightmare you lived in for years is over.

It doesn't feel real. Even after you went to your chambers this morning, looking down at the wet area the maids had scrubbed clean of Barun's blood, you still felt like you were dreaming. That you'd wake up and he would be waiting for you still.

You had woken up a few times in the night, startled from the dreams playing in your head. Jace had been there. His voice was still strained, but he said soothing words and held you close. He was the reason you could believe that it was over, that it would get easier.

He sent word for you to meet him in the gardens, but as you lap around the outer edge again, you still don’t see him. When you stop, its by the door you skipped out of months ago, to hide from your date.

Smiling, you realize where Jace is. You walk to the alcove with the fountain, the place where Jace first confessed his feelings for you. He is pacing beside the fountain when you walk up.

"Are you hiding from me?" you ask, jostling him from his thoughts.

"Never from you," he says, wrapping an arm around your waist. He left early in the morning, and he hadn't seen you until now. His eyes flit to the bruise along your cheek. It seems to only be getting darker as the day progresses.

"Jace," you say gently. His thumb brushes over the mark.

"He didn't suffer enough."

"It doesn't matter," you say with a shake of your head. "He's gone, and he does not deserve our remembrance." Against your better judgement, you look to the bruises along Jace's neck. Yours is darker, but his take up too much space on his beautiful neck.

"Y/N," he says, seeing the sadness in your eyes.

"I'm sorry, Jace. He never should have even come close to you."

"You never have to apologize for what happened."

"He hurt you."

"He hurt you, too," he says, a hand to your chin so your eyes meet his brown ones. "If this is the mark I must bear, so that he is out of your life, I'll wear them with pride."

"I don't deserve you," you say, a hand to his chest, your eyes starting to water.

"Of course you do," he says. You lean in to kiss his jawline once, twice. Jace is smiling softly when your lips meet his. The hand on your back tightens, holding you flush to him. When you pull back, Jace has a strange look on his face.

"What is it?" you ask.

"Do you remember the first time we came here?"

"Of course."

"You almost kissed me," he says, a shy smile growing on his face.

"That was a recurring pattern in our history, yes," you say. "But seems like we're past that." He smiles as he leans in again, his hand fisting in your hair, kissing your lips. He deepens it, backing you up until your legs rest against the fountain.

"Jace," you say, breaking away as he continues to kiss your face. You laugh when you say his name again. He breaks away, the smile still on his face.

"Sorry, just being back here reminds me of the last time, how much I wanted to kiss you back then," he says. "Sometimes, I can't believe this is real, that you love me back." You are smiling softly as you take his hand and kiss it gently.

"I know what you mean," you say. "It doesn't seem real. It's easier when I wake up next to you. Then I have the proof I'm not dreaming. I don't want to return to my chambers tonight."

"You don't have to," he says, squeezing your hand.

"It's not just the room," you say, "It's not being with you."

"I know, which is why I'm moving you into my chambers permanently."

"Jace, the message that would send--"

"What's wrong with a woman sharing the same room as her husband?" he asks. Confusion passes over your face for a moment, but quickly changes to amazement.

"What?" you choke out, the building emotions keeping you from saying much else. You need him to say it clearly, though.

"My mother has assured me that her blessing still stands. We can marry."

"Truly?" you ask.

"Yes," he says, pulling you close. "Doesn't this make you happy?" He studies your face.

"Oh, it absolutely terrifies me," you say with a laugh. "But it also makes me incredibly happy." He beams at you.

"You have nothing to be afraid of. Not when I'm at your side."

"I love you," you say, a hand to his face.

"I love you."

When he kisses you again, your arms wrap around his neck, and neither of you break away for a long while.

The wedding has been pushed until the bride and groom no longer have bruises marring their skin. The decision was also made that your wedding would be a private event. Although there would soon be a time when you would have to face the realm as princess, you want to stay in your bubble with Jace for as long as possible.

It's a lovely bubble to be in, too. To wake up next to him every morning, to learn more about him, to get to bask in his love and not hide away; you don't take it for granted for a second.

However, as the wedding approaches, the bubble gets closer to popping. You will only have five days of officially being his wife before you have to be presented as his princess.

Jace tries to keep your mind off of it, tries to keep you in the bubble. Still though, your anxious thoughts cloud your happiness.

Laying in bed now, you stare at the ceiling, imagining everything that can go wrong.

"What if they don't like me?" you ask aloud. Jace pushes out of the folds of your dress, wiping at his mouth.

“Why wouldn’t they like you?” he asks on a pant.

“Because I’m not what they expected, because our betrothal came out of nowhere.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“To the realm, it will appear so.”

“Y/N,” Jace say with a sigh, his hand tracing a soft pattern on your ankle. “They are going to love you because you will make a great queen. You are kind, smart, and not afraid to fight for the future of the realm.” He kisses your thigh and smiles. “Not to mention, you are so gods-damn beautiful, just a glance at you will have them bending the knee.”

“You exaggerate,” you say.

"I do not."

"You do," you say, "But I love you, still."

“I love you,” he says. “Now please, stop worrying and let me focus on what I was doing.”

“Yes, My Prince,” you say with a smile. You lay back as Jace’s lips meet your center, and this time, you let his mouth distract you from your worries.

Jace has never been happier. Watching you dance with his brother, he can't help the smile on his face. He hasn't been able to all day. From the moment he awoke, to when he finally saw you in your wedding dress, to the celebration now: his smile never fades.

The moment the song ends, he moves towards you, taking you from Joffrey's arms.

"Oh, hello," you say with a grin, falling into step with him.

"Hello," he says with a matching one.

"Joff and I barely finished our dance," you say.

"I didn't want to be apart from you any longer."

"Well I can understand that," you say. He kisses your lips easily.

"I'm so glad I can do that in front of everyone now."

"Me too."

"How does it feel?" he asks.

"Still so strange. Like I'm in the wrong shoes," you say. He shakes his head at you.

"There's something I've wanted to tell you," he says, "And I'm sorry it's on our wedding night, but I need you to know." You look at him nervously. "You've always been worthy. You didn't have to kill Barun and save me, you just had to be you."

You are silent for a moment, tears watering in your eyes. Your fingers are in his curls, playing carefully with them.

"I love you," you say.

"I love you."

"Brigitta," Jace says, his voice sensuously soft. "You are not needed for the night. I can help the princess undress." You look at him through the mirror in your bedroom, a sudden chill racing over your shoulders.

"Very well, Your Highnesses."

Jace doesn't even wait until she's left to come up behind you. His hand snakes around your waist, pressing his body into yours. He makes a sound low in his throat.

"I don't know if I will ever get used to that," you say, leaning your head back on his shoulder. He kisses your neck softly.

"Used to what?" he asks against your skin. His hands trail over your body, like it's the first time they've ever touched you.

"Being called princess," you say breathlessly. Jace's mouth closes on your neck, sucking gently.

"Why?" he asks. His hands move up to cup your breasts. He seems set on distracting you from speaking. He kneads them softly, eliciting a soft moan from you.

"Because I am not--"

"If you say anything about not being worthy," he says, breathless as he continues to feel your body, biting at your earlobe. "I will stop touching you."

"You can't comfort your new bride?" you ask, squirming against his body, the growing pressure there.

"I will do a lot to her," he whispers gruffly in your ear, "But pity her I will not." You grab at his hands, holding him still.

"Jace."

"Fucking look at you, Y/N," he says, meeting your gaze in the mirror. "You were meant to wear these clothes, this crown, this ring." He emphasizes his statement by squeezing your left hand.

"I was meant to wear this dress?" you ask. Jace grins.

"Not for much longer." His hand is gentle as it brushes your hair over your shoulder. Carefully, he pulls at the laces along your back. He moves agonizingly slow. Each time his fingers touch your bare skin, you shudder, until you are covered in goosebumps. Jace laughs against your skin.

"I love you," he says simply, then he lets your dress drop. "Princess."

"Jace," you start, but he cuts you off by turning you around, facing him.

"You better get used to it," he says. "There's no backing out now."

"I don't intend to."

"Good," he says, closing the gap between the two of you. He moves slowly, like he did your first night together. A hand in your hair, he explores your mouth easily. Your hands are on his chest, fiddling with the clasp of his cape. When it falls, it clatters to the ground. Jace pulls back from you with a soft laugh.

"Thank you, Princess."

"Stop that," you say, pulling him in for a quick kiss.

"Not until you're used to it," he says firmly. You loosen the ties at his side and he quickly tosses his doublet aside.

"This one, too," you say, a finger to the loose shirt he wears underneath.

"Yes, Princess," he says with a smirk. "I like when you tell me what to do." His shirt lands in a pile with your dress. His hand cups your cheek as he smiles at you, at your annoyance.

"I'm used to it now," you say, wrapping your arms around him. "You can stop now."

"It is so enjoyable though, Pri--" Your lips meet his, cutting him off. You want none of his slowness tonight. He can taste your need as your tongue slips into his mouth. He hums, bracing a hand on the back of your head to keep you close. The bed seems leagues away as he guides you towards it.

"Y/N," he says in breathless awe, watching your body as you sit on the bed. "You're my wife, my princess." A look passes over his face you know all too well.

"I know," you say, sitting up on your knees, so you are level with him once more. "Now, get up here and fuck your wife." He wraps warm hands around your waist. He speaks against your lips.

"My Princess." He crashes down on top of you, kissing you fiercely. You groan into his mouth, partially because of what he's doing, and partially because of what he called you.

He breaks for breath first, his mouth pink and smiling as he looks down at you. His arms bracket your face. You lean to the side and softly kiss his left hand.

"What is it?" you ask when he keeps looking at you.

"I can't decide between taking my time with you, or taking you roughly." He laughs at the whimper you make. "Slow it is."

"Jace," you say, gasping as his lips meet yours. He bites at your lower lip, eliciting another sound from you. His mouth moves down the length of your neck, leaving slow kisses in his wake.

He says your name, calls you princess, and tells you how beautiful you are, the entire way down your body. He stops at your hip, smirking at the face you pull.

"Y/N," he says lowly, smiling when your body jerks as he slide a fingers a finger through the wet warmth between your legs.

"Yes, My Prince?" you ask. He laughs.

"See, it's not so strange," he says. He adds another finger, both of them deliciously close to your clit, but never fully touching it.

"You were born into the name," you say breathlessly.

"So what?" His fingers slide inside of you. You moan, reaching for him. He holds your hand with his other.. You grip his hand as he pumps slowly. He kisses your inner thigh, slowly, slowly, moving his mouth to your center.

"Jace," you whine.

"Yes?"

"I--" His thumb finally grazes over your clit and you cry out.

"Tell me what you need, Princess." You roll your eyes, but it only makes him work his fingers harder. "Tell me."

"I need your mouth or your cock," you pant. Jace doesn't respond. The moment the words are out of your mouth, his is on your center. His touch is everything you want, and your body thrusts into him. You have devolved to a string of moans, swears, and gasps.

"You taste so good, Princess," he says against your skin. You can't even be annoyed, because when he's between your legs, whispering sweet nothings, it doesn't sound so strange.

"Jace," you cry out, when finally, the building pressure breaks in waves of pleasure. He rides you through it as always, a smile on his face when his fingers slide out of you. He moves up to your lips, kissing them sloppily.

"I'm never going to get tired of hearing my name on your lips," he says.

"I should just go back to calling you My Prince," you say. Your hand moves down to his trousers, working him through the fabric. His eyes flutter at your touch, and his intake of breath is near intoxicating.

"It means something entirely different now," he says, kicking his trousers off. When you touch him, the sound he makes has you smiling.

"You are My Prince," you say, kissing his lips slowly. Jace moans into your mouth.

"I need to be inside of you now," he says. You smile, nodding your head as you kiss him. You release your hand from his cock and he groans.

"So needy," you say, shifting on the bed, pushing him back until his back is against the headboard.

"Can you blame me, Princess?" he asks. You are shaking your head as you straddle his lap. Jace's hands are still greedy, grabbing at you anywhere they can touch. When you align his cock with your folds, his eyes are blown wide, filled with lust and love.

"I love you," you say.

"I love y--" He breathes in sharply as you slip him inside of you. He moans your name, and pulls your chest to his.

"Princess," he says breathlessly as you rock against him. Your arms are around his neck, giving him a view of your annoyed look.

"Stop with that," you say. He grips your hips, moving your body on his.

"I can't."

"I call you Jace, why can't you do the same?" You gasp when he shifts his angle slightly.

"Because you're finally my princess," he says, his breathing growing heavier.

"It's irksome," you say. His lips smile against your neck.

"I'm sorry, princess."

"Jace," you groan, grinding into him until he does, too.

"Let me do it, just tonight," he pants, "I want you to hear how beautiful it sounds." You don't respond, you just grab his face and kiss him. He holds your hips and drives your body against his. You are both quickly approaching your release, and Jace continues to moan 'Princess' into your ear. Per his request, you don't fight him on it. The more he says it, the less it seems ill-suited.

When he finally loses control and finishes inside of you, though, it is your name on his lips.

For a few moments, you are both silent, the room filled with only your breaths. You climb off of him, lying down at his side.

"So?" he asks.

"I could get used to it, I think. But only from your lips."

"That's a start," he says, leaning down to kiss you.

You stand along the balcony surrounding the ballroom, looking down at the throngs of people. The sight is beautiful. Ladies' ballgowns sparkle in the candlelight. Raucous laughter fills the room as wine is passed around.

The fact that all of this is for you feels incredibly wrong.

Just six days ago you were a title-less woman from the Vale, awaiting for you a life of nursemaiding, or marriage to a brute. It feels strange that now, you have what you have always dreamed about. What every young girl has dreamed about once in their life. You were married to a handsome prince. You were a princess. The rest of your life would be nothing but luxuries, and the juxtaposition is still jarring.

And somewhere, still inside of you, you felt as though you don't deserve it. That the life that had been laid out for you was the one you deserved. Your husband said otherwise, but in quiet moments like this, you feel out of place, like you don’t belong.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look in red?”

You startle at Jace’s voice. He walks to your side, laughing softly. He is dressed in his finest, as well. The doublet he wears clings to his chest in ways that have you thinking about leaving the party altogether.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. He leans up against the banister rail, surveying the crowd with you for a quiet moment.

“What are you doing up here, Y/N?” he asks.

“Just making a plan of attack,” you say with a smirk, resting your hand on the railing. The wedding ring on your finger sparkles in the light.

“They’re going to absolutely love you.”

“Untrue. Do you know how many of these men I left in the garden or lied to about a cousin needing my help?” you ask. Jace laughs, shaking his head.

“I think they’ll get over it. Besides, you’ll be queen one day. Whatever bad feelings they may have about you, they’ll put them aside to earn your favor,” he says. Your jaw tightens, reality washing over you that this is to be your life now.

“Y/N,” Jace says, standing upright and taking your hands. He turns over the right palm, looking at the scar there. He frowns and rubs it softly with his own thumb. “You are one of the strongest people I know. You can handle anything this court wields at you.”

“I’m not so sure,” you say quietly.

“I am,” he says. “I’m your husband now, Y/N, you should trust me.”

“I do,” you say, stepping closer to him slightly, meeting his eyes.

“Then trust when I say you’ve got this. And,” he says, squeezing your hand softly, “If we do hate it, we can always return to Dragonstone.”

“I don’t want to run,” you say, glancing out at the crowd. “Just hide.” Jace laughs.

“They’re going to love you, just as much as I do,” he says. He puts a hand to your cheek, making you look into his brown eyes. “In that dress, how could they not?” he asks. You are smiling when he leans in to kiss you.

His hand trails down your back, squeezing your backside playfully. You laugh into his kiss, opening it up with your tongue. Jace backs the two of you out of the light, up against a pillar in the shadow. His mouth claims yours, his hands greedy on your body.

“And just think,” he says, breaking away breathlessly, “If the party gets unbearable, we can always sneak off to do this.”

“Why go to the party at all?” you ask, pulling him back to your mouth with a hand in his curls. He laughs, but you know he won’t let the two of you stay like this for long.

“Come on,” he says when he pulls away. “I want to show off my princess.”

He leads you downstairs, just outside the banquet hall. For another few minutes, you keep him occupied with your lips on his, but then he breaks off.

"I'll announce you in a few minutes," he says, squeezing your hand.

"Dragonstone is always an option?" you ask. He smiles.

"Yes, but you won't need it."

"I love you," you say.

"I love you," he says. You cling to his words, gaining courage from them. He slips into the low murmurs of the crowd, leaving you alone. You hope he will be quick, because you aren't sure how long your courage will hold.

"Your Highness." The voice startles you, and when you turn to see Baela, your heart beat doesn't slow. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to scare you."

"No, no, that's quite alright."

"What are you doing out here?" she asks with a smile. You haven't seen her since the wedding, and before then it was only in passing, or in large groups.

"Jace is going to formally present me," you say. Baela looks at you strangely.

"You're not used to it yet, are you? The title?"

"Not at all," you say with a laugh. Baela does, too, and it makes you relax a little.

"It'll take some time," she says sagely. You nod.

For a moment, it looks like she might leave, but you will hate yourself if you don't say what you must.

"Baela, Your Highness," you say, "We haven't talked very much since everything changed."

"Y/N," she says, smiling as she steps closer. "I want to talk to you, too."

"You do?"

"I know we haven't gotten to know each other, even before . . . everything happened," she says. You look down at your feet. "But I want you to know I'm happy for you. You make Jace so happy. I couldn't ask for anything better."

"Thank you," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "And I just have to say I'm sorry, for taking this from you." She gives you an easy smile.

"Do not worry for me," she says. "This change has given me a freedom I didn't know I could ever have. You have given me that."

"I'm glad for it. And glad for you," you say. "Jace is lucky to call you a friend."

"Thank you, Your Highness. Good luck, tonight. It will go quickly, I think."

"I hope so," you say. She gives you a smile as she enters the ballroom, too.

You stand still for a few minutes, a weight lifted off your shoulders you thought might never be. Knowing that Baela holds no anger for you, makes you believe that the rest might come easily, too.

When a guard waves you towards the door, you are ready. Your husband is on the other side, your family is on the other side. When the doors open and you hear Jace's voice, you let out a sigh of relief.

“Please allow me to introduce my bride, Princess Y/N Velaryon.”

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Harry Potter is Probably Gay and Here's Why

So.... a lot of this fandom likes to call one Harry James Potter a Bi disaster. Personally, I think he's gay and I can use book text to prove he isn't actually attracted to women at all.

So here goes:

How Harry Describes Men

Harry describes many men as attractive and handsome in the books, not only that but in general Harry goes into more detail when describing male characters. I'll mention it again in a later section in this post, but when describing men, even those Harry doesn't find attractive, he tends to describe much more details about them than about girls he supposedly does find attractive. Something that to me suggests, he doesn't find these girls attractive at all.

Here are some examples of Harry finding men attractive:

Charlie Weasley:

Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weatherbeaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

(Goblet of Fire, page 52)

Bill Weasley:

However, Bill was — there was no other word for it — cool. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill’s clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide.

(Goblet of Fire, page 52)

Cedric Diggory:

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen.

(Goblet of Fire, page 71)

Sirius Black:

Sirius was lounging in his chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 642)

Sirius stared around at the students milling over the grass, looking rather haughty and bored, but very handsomely so.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 644)

Firenze:

white-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes, the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino body of a horse.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 598)

Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination

(Half-Blood Prince, page 174)

Blaise Zabini:

He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes

(Half-Blood Prince, page 143)

Draco Malfoy:

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.

(Chamber of Secrets, page 133)

Malfoy, who had a pale, pointed, sneering face

(Prisoner of Azkaban, page 79)

A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair

(Goblet of Fire, pages 116-117)

Tom Marvolo Riddle:

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale

(Half-Blood Prince, page 269)

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an oldfashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome — the teenage Voldemort.

(Half-Blood Prince, page 364)

Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys.

(Half-Blood Prince, page 369)

followed by a tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever.

(Half-Blood Prince, page 434)

I don't think anyone would argue Harry isn't attracted to men... He's kind of obvious. What I want to go more into detail about is him not being attracted to women, as that's what I think I disagree with most of the fandom about.

How Harry Describes Women (for comparison)

So, we saw how Harry describes men, specifically men he finds attractive, so, let's compare to how he describes a girl he thinks is pretty, like Cho Chang:

Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that she was extremely pretty. She smiled at Harry as the teams faced each other behind their captains, and he felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he didn’t think had anything to do with nerves.

(Prisoner of Azkaban, page 259)

“Good luck, Harry!” called Cho. Harry felt himself blushing.

(Prisoner of Azkaban, page 304)

She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak front doors, looking very pretty with her hair tied back in a long ponytail.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 556)

These are all the physical descriptions I managed to find of Cho, the girl Harry supposedly has a crush on from 3rd to 5th year... yeah, I don't see it. Sure, he mentions she's pretty, and he blushes around her, but he doesn't describe anything else about her. Not eye color, not hair color, skin color, eye shape, physique — nothing! Compare this to how he describes Bill Weasley or Blaise Zabini even, with so much more detail in their description.

Now, details in descriptions when writing from a character's POV are very important. Because a character would use more words to describe what's most important or striking to them... and in Harry's case Cho isn't it.

We know she's pretty and Harry's nervous around her, but the descriptions are just so stale and distant compared to: Tom "handsomest face in the room" Riddle, or Sirius "handsome handsomed handsomely" Black.

And I want to talk about Harry's crush on Cho more, but first:

Fleur Delacor:

I want to talk about Fleur for a bit. Because Harry's reaction to Fleur is very interesting, specifically because Fleur is a quarter veela.

Ron was still goggling at the girl as though he had never seen one before. Harry started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back to his senses. “She’s a veela!” he said hoarsely to Harry.

…

many boys’ heads turned, and some of them seemed to have become temporarily speechless, just like Ron.

(Goblet of Fire, page 252)

Veelas are literally magically attractive, if you are attracted to women, you'll find a veela woman attractive and be mesmerized. We see it with Ron and other boys, as Harry notes in the above quote. Ron and many other boys all stare, speechless at Fleur because that's how her magic works.

Harry, on the other hand, isn't affected at all. To the point, he's confused by Ron's drooling over Fleur. He later in GoF wonders why Ron wanted to go with Fleur to the Yule Ball so much, as he didn't see the appeal.

Harry is literally not attracted to a woman who is magically attractive to anyone who's attracted to women.

Looking careworn, she [Fleur] left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water. “Don’t you get used to her if she’s staying in the same house?” Harry asked. “Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then . . .”

(Half-Blood Prince, page 93)

It continues in his later interactions with Fleur, like when he arrives at the Burrow in HBP in the above quote. Harry asks Ron if he shouldn't get used to Fleur and stop drooling whenever he sees her, to which Ron responds that you do to a degree. The thing is, Harry isn't used to being around Fleur, he just arrived, after not seeing her for over a year. But still, he isn't affected at all, like in 4th year, he seems to not get what all the fuss is about.

That being said, Harry does react to the full veela in the Quidditch World Cup:

But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Harry’s question was answered for him. Veela were women . . . the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen . . . except that they weren’t — they couldn’t be — human. This puzzled Harry for a moment while he tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind . . . but then the music started, and Harry stopped worrying about them not being human — in fact, he stopped worrying about anything at all.

...

And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Harry’s dazed mind. He wanted to do something very impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the stadium seemed a good idea . . . but would it be good enough? “Harry, what are you doing?” said Hermione’s voice from a long way off. The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard.

(Goblet of Fire, page 103)

I'm not sure exactly about the full veela's effects. Mostly because Arthur Weasley doesn't seem as affected as Harry and Ron, and Harry describes the crowd in general reacting to them, not just the men. Hermione doesn't seem affected though.

Something I want to note is that Harry only becomes affected once they start dancing, and not just by looking at them the way Ron and some of the boys are described as being with Fluer. Only when the music and dance start Harry becomes mesmerized. Before that, he is wondering how their hair moves behind them without wind... Additionally, after the music stops, Harry snaps out of it quickly, Ron on the other hand doesn't and proceeds to tear his Ireland merch.

So, while full veela, can influence him, it isn't by their appearance alone but by magic beyond their regular magical attractiveness.

Note that even with the veela, Harry barely describes anything about them. his descriptions of them aren't as detailed as his descriptions of men he finds attractive.

So even if he is attracted to women, it's very minor and barely there.

Harry's Disastrous Relationship with Cho

So, Harry and Cho... I don't think it's a pairing that has fans, but I might be wrong about that. Regardless of your opinion about it, I don't think Harry actually liked Cho. Like, at all.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry felt a burning desire to run from the room and, at the same time, a complete inability to move his feet. “Mistletoe,” said Cho quietly, pointing at the ceiling over his head. “Yeah,” said Harry. His mouth was very dry. “It’s probably full of nargles, though.” “What are nargles?” “No idea,” said Harry. She had moved closer. His brain seemed to have been Stunned. “You’d have to ask Loony. Luna, I mean.” Cho made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. She was even nearer him now. He could have counted the freckles on her nose. “I really like you, Harry.” He could not think. A tingling sensation was spreading throughout him, paralyzing his arms, legs, and brain. She was much too close. He could see every tear clinging to her eyelashes. . . .

(Order of the Pheonix, page 456)

Cho, the girl Harry is convinced he's crushing on since he was 13, is about to kiss him under the mistletoe, and he's thinking about nargles and Luna... And how does he feel about kissing Cho?

"a burning desire to run from the room"

He wants to run away from kissing Cho. And, well, it doesn't get any better than that.

“What kept you?” he [Ron] asked, as Harry sank into the armchair next to Hermione’s. Harry did not answer. He was in a state of shock. Half of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had just happened, but the other half wanted to take the secret with him to the grave. “Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill. Harry gave a halfhearted shrug. In truth, he didn’t know whether he was all right or not.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 457)

He is not sure he's alright after kissing Cho. Harry thinks about kissing Cho like it's a traumatic experience... He's happier talking about Voldemort's resurrection than about his first kiss. (WTF Harry?)

Harry doesn't like Cho. Not even a bit.

“Did you kiss?” asked Hermione briskly. Ron sat up so fast that he sent his ink bottle flying all over the rug. Disregarding this completely he stared avidly at Harry. “Well?” he demanded. Harry looked from Ron’s expression of mingled curiosity and hilarity to Hermione’s slight frown, and nodded. “HA!” Ron made a triumphant gesture with his fist and went into a raucous peal of laughter that made several timid-looking second years over beside the window jump. A reluctant grin spread over Harry’s face as he watched Ron rolling around on the hearthrug. Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust and returned to her letter. “Well?” Ron said finally, looking up at Harry. “How was it?” Harry considered for a moment. “Wet,” he said truthfully. Ron made a noise that might have indicated jubilation or disgust, it was hard to tell.

(Order of the Pheonix, pages 456-458)

I don't need I need to add anything here... Harry speaks for himself.

“You just had to be nice to her,” said Hermione, looking up anxiously. “You were, weren’t you?” “Well,” said Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up his face, “I sort of — patted her on the back a bit.” Hermione looked as though she was restraining herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty. “Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” she said. “Are you going to see her again?” “I’ll have to, won’t I?” said Harry. “We’ve got D.A. meetings, haven’t we?” “You know what I mean,” said Hermione impatiently. Harry said nothing. Hermione’s words opened up a whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tried to imagine going somewhere with Cho — Hogsmeade, perhaps — and being alone with her for hours at a time. Of course, she would have been expecting him to ask her out after what had just happened. . . . The thought made his stomach clench painfully. “Oh well,” said Hermione distantly, buried in her letter once more, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to ask her. . . .” “What if he doesn’t want to ask her?” said Ron, who had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face. “Don’t be silly,” said Hermione vaguely, “Harry’s liked her for ages, haven’t you, Harry?” He did not answer. Yes, he had liked Cho for ages, but whenever he had imagined a scene involving the two of them it had always featured a Cho who was enjoying herself, as opposed to a Cho who was sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 460)

Okay, so I have two things to mention about this quote.

The first, Harry realizes he doesn't like Cho and probably never did. He didn't consider dating her until Hermoine mentioned it. He doesn't want to date her. He's terrified and grossed out by the notion.

This isn't a boy with a crush. I'd argue this proves he isn't straight at all. I mean, a guy who is attracted to girls, even if not crushing on Cho specifically, wouldn't be horrified to a painful degree at the thought of going on a date with a pretty girl. Or kissing a pretty girl. His reaction is just too viscerally grossed out.

The second is Ron's response. Not really related to Harry being gay, but I love Harry and Ron's friendship so I want to mention it. Hermione and a good chunk of the fandom dunk on Ron for having "the emotional range of a teaspoon", but he clearly doesn't. Ron is Harry's best friend, he knows Harry better than anyone else, yes, better than Hermione even, and this scene proves it. Hermione is flippant, ignoring Harry's responses to his kiss with Cho, just saying he should ask her out as if it's obvious.

Ron on the other hand, Ron notices Harry's expression and the turmoil thinking of dating Cho causes him. Ron is the one who speaks up that maybe Harry doesn't want to date Cho. He immediately defends Harry and his option to choose not to date Cho. (Ron would be very supportive if Harry ever came out, is what I'm saying)

They sat down at the last remaining table, which was situated in the steamy window. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a foot and a half away with a pretty blonde girl. They were holding hands. The sight made Harry feel uncomfortable, particularly when, looking around the tea shop, he saw that it was full of nothing but couples, all of them holding hands. Perhaps Cho would expect him to hold her hand.

…

In the time it took for their coffees to arrive, Roger Davies and his girlfriend started kissing over their sugar bowl. Harry wished they wouldn’t; he felt that Davies was setting a standard with which Cho would soon expect him to compete.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 559)

The above quotes are from Harry's disaster of a date with Cho. I think no one needs me to explain that the date went badly, but what I want to note is how uncomfortable and grossed out Harry is by the very notion of holding Cho's hands. That he'd have to kiss her again.

Like, again, even if he isn't crushing on her, a guy who's attracted to girls wouldn't be grossed out and pained at the thought of kissing or holding hands with a pretty, attractive girl.

Harry has never been attracted to Cho, and I don't think he's attracted to girls at all.

But What About Ginny?

So this post has gotten quite long already, but I don't think Harry actually likes Ginny. And I have evidence for it in the sequel to this post that is taking a while to write.

No hate for Hinny shippers, but I don't see the pairing, like, at all. I did write some of my thoughts about Hinny here until I finish with the more comprehensive post about them.

But in general, let's just say Harry never uses the word pretty (or good-looking, or nice-looking, or attractive) to describe Ginny. Ever.

And when I looked for his descriptions of her all I found were descriptions of her hair:

He felt a strange twinge of annoyance as she [Ginny] walked away, her long red hair dancing behind her

(Half-Blood Prince, page 136)

she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair

(Deathly Hollows, page 103)

(There are more descriptions of her hair in the books, but they follow the same lines as these and don't add more information)

Again, contrast these descriptions to the ones of the guys earlier. No eye color, face shape, eye shape, or descriptions of her body or clothes — nothing.

I have more to say about their relationship, but that's for another post.

[whosscruffylooking]

Militae Species Amor Est IV

Militae species amor est- "Love is a kind of war."

warnings: // mentions of death. canon typical violence.

word count: 1.9k

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The halls of the imperial palace are cavernous and cold, their shadows stretching long as you walk with hurried steps. Each echo of your sandals against the marble sends ripples of urgency through your veins. You clutch the letter that you discovered within Caius’ quarters tightly in your hand. The wax seal of Caius broken, its treasonous contents burning against your palm like a brand.

You have no time to waste. If the twin emperors—Caracalla and Geta—are to be warned, it must be now. The fate of Rome depends on it.

You reach the outer chamber of the audience hall, its gilded doors looming before you. A guard steps forward to block your path, his spear crossing your way, but before you can speak, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps behind you halts you in your tracks.

“Going somewhere, my dear?”

You freeze, recognizing the voice instantly. Macrinus.

Turning, you find him standing there, his expression cool, almost amused, though the sharpness in his eyes betrays the storm simmering beneath. He wears the polished armor of a general, but his demeanor is that of a serpent.

“Step aside, Macrinus,” you command, lifting your chin in defiance. “I have business with the emperors.”

His smile is thin, cruel. “Indeed, I can see that. And what business might that be, I wonder? A message, perhaps?” His gaze falls to the letter in your hand. “From Caius, no doubt. How loyal of him to leave such dangerous evidence lying about.”

You step back instinctively, clutching the letter tighter. “You will not stop me.”

“Oh, but I will,” he replies smoothly, taking a step closer. “Do you think the emperors would listen to you, a woman with no standing in their court? Do you think your words would outweigh mine—their most trusted praetorian?”

“I have proof,” you retort, holding up the letter. “Your plot is laid bare, Macrinus. It is over.”

He chuckles, a low, menacing sound that sends a chill down your spine. “You underestimate how little they care for proof. Caracalla would sooner slit his brother’s throat than read a word of your letter. And Geta? That boy would bury his head in the sand and call it wisdom.”

“Then it is fear that drives you,” you counter, your voice steady. “Fear that I will succeed. That Rome will see you for the traitor you are.”

Macrinus’ expression darkens, the amusement vanishing. “Enough.” His tone is sharp, final. “You will not see the emperors. You will turn around and forget this folly. If you persist, I cannot guarantee your safety—or that of Lucius.”

The mention of Lucius makes your blood boil. “You dare threaten him? He has nothing to do with this.”

“He has everything to do with this,” Macrinus snaps, his composure slipping. “You have made him a weakness, one that I will not hesitate to exploit should you force my hand.”

“You’re a coward,” you spit, taking a bold step forward. “Hiding behind threats and lies. But I will not be silenced. Rome will know the truth.”

Macrinus’ hand moves faster than you can react, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. His voice lowers, venomous and cold. “Rome will know what I allow it to know. Do not test me, girl. You have no idea the forces at play here.”

You glare at him, unyielding despite the fear coiling in your stomach. “Let me go,” you demand.

Macrinus smirks, releasing your wrist with a shove that sends you stumbling back. “I suggest you leave while you still can,” he says, his tone mocking. “The emperors have no time for the likes of you. But worry not—I will ensure Rome thrives under my watch. Or what remains of it, at least.”

He turns on his heel and strides away, leaving you standing there, your path to the emperors blocked. For a moment, you consider charging past the guards, forcing your way into the hall, but you know it would be futile.

Caracalla would sooner slit his brother’s throat than read a word of your letter. 

Those were the chilling words Macrinus had spoken to you, laced with smug certainty.

Little did you know that by the time you had arrived at the imperial palace, those words had already been made a reality.

Macrinus had moved swiftly, weaving his web of deceit around the ailing Emperor Caracalla. He whispered poison into his ear, convincing the fevered and paranoid ruler that his brother, Geta, was plotting treason against him. Fueled by fear and ambition, Caracalla had fallen into the trap with ease.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You burst into the dimly lit chamber where Lucius was confined, a space barely larger than a prison cell. He looked up sharply, the tension in his broad shoulders evident even before your eyes met. His eyes, weary but defiant, softened only slightly when he saw it was you.

“Iris?” His voice was low, cautious. He stepped closer, his expression shifting to alarm when he saw your face. “What’s wrong?”

You grasped his arm, your words coming out in a rush. “Lucius, it’s your mother. They’re going to make her a spectacle in the arena. Caracalla has ordered it—at Macrinus’ urging.”

His face turned ashen, and his jaw clenched tight. “What are you saying?” he demanded, his voice edged with both disbelief and fury.

“They plan to force you to fight,” you said, your voice trembling as you fought to maintain your composure. “They will pit you against the empire’s guards while your mother is at their mercy. The entire city will watch as they parade her like a prisoner. If you refuse to fight or fail to protect her, she will die—publicly and cruelly. It’s all for their entertainment, Lucius. To break you, to show the people that even you cannot defy the empire.”

Lucius turned away, his fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his neck taut as if he were struggling to contain an eruption of rage. “That snake Macrinus,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “This is his doing. Caracalla is nothing more than his puppet now.”

You stepped closer, your hand reaching for his. “Lucius, you can’t let them win. You’re stronger than this, smarter than this. But we have to think carefully. They want to see you broken—don’t give them that satisfaction.”

He turned back to you, his dark eyes blazing with a mix of desperation and resolve. “I won’t let them harm her, Iris. No matter what it takes.”

You nodded, your own resolve hardening. “Then we’ll find a way to stop this. I’ll go to the magistrate, the guards—anyone who will listen. We’ll expose Macrinus’ schemes if we have to.”

Lucius shook his head. “No. If you speak out against them, they’ll come for you next. You don’t know how far their reach extends.”

“I don’t care,” you said fiercely. “I won’t stand by and let them destroy you, Lucius. Or your mother.”

He cupped your face in his calloused hands, his touch both tender and urgent. “You’ve risked too much already. If anything happens to you…” His voice faltered, the weight of his emotions evident even in his silence.

You placed your hand over his, your fingers intertwining. “Then let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that. Together.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the chaos beyond the walls fading in the quiet intensity between you. Then, Lucius nodded, his jaw set with determination. “Together.”

Lucius paced, his hand raking through his hair as you told him everything. His mother. The arena. The vile parade of power Macrinus had orchestrated. Each word tightened his jaw, his fists clenching as the reality of it all settled over him.

Finally, he stopped, his gaze sharp, his voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. “We don’t have much time. If they want to make a spectacle of my mother, then we’ll turn their arena into something they can’t control. But we can’t do it alone.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “What are you saying?”

Lucius turned to you, resolve hardening in his features. “We free the gladiators—all of them. Every man who’s been forced to fight for the empire’s amusement. They’ve lost everything, just like me. Give them a chance to fight back, and they’ll rise.”

“But even if we free them, the guards will be everywhere,” you said, your voice uncertain. “They’re better armed, better organized.”

Lucius shook his head. “Not if we split their focus. The guards will be consumed with maintaining order in the arena. That’s where Ravi comes in.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Ravi?”

“Yes,” he said, the fire in his voice growing. “My mother revealed that Acacius conspired with a man named Darius Sextus—the general of Acacius’ army. All he is waiting for is a signal to attack the city. If Ravi can reach him, he’ll bring his army at once. Macrinus and Caracalla won’t stand a chance.”

The name Darius Sextus hung between you, heavy with the weight of Acacius’s intentions. It all made sense now—why Acacius whispered about allies in the shadows of the empire.

“You want Ravi to leave now?” you asked, still processing the enormity of the plan.

Lucius nodded. “Yes. He knows the city better than anyone. He can slip through unnoticed and find Darius before it’s too late. Give him this. It is my grandfathers ring that he gave to my fatherfather’s ring. Have him show it to Sextus and he will recognize it as proof that the time to attack has come.” 

You gasp at the ring. 

“Meanwhile, we’ll prepare here. The arena is their stage, but it will be our battlefield.”

Your breath caught as his words sank in. “And your mother? How will you—”

“I’ll fight for her,” Lucius said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ll face the guards in the arena if that’s what it takes. But with the gladiators freed and the crowd turned to chaos, they won’t be able to hold us for long. By the time Darius arrives, we’ll have already torn apart the empire’s hold on this city.”

You hesitated, the risk of it all spiraling in your mind. “Lucius… this plan. If it fails—”

“It won’t,” he said, stepping closer, his hands gripping your shoulders. “We’ve been backed into a corner for too long, forced to watch as they take everything from us. This is our chance. Not just for my mother. Not just for me. For all of us.”

His conviction was unshakable, and as you looked into his eyes, you felt your doubts falter. Lucius had been forged in the fires of the arena, and now, he would lead the charge against the empire that sought to break him.

“Ravi will go,” you said finally, your voice firm. “And we’ll free the gladiators. Together, we’ll bring down Macrinus and Caracalla.”

Lucius exhaled, his grip on you tightening for a moment before he stepped back. “Then let’s begin. If this is the empire’s final spectacle, we’ll make sure it’s one they’ll never forget.”

The fire in his voice burned brighter than ever, and as the two of you began to prepare, you knew that the tides were finally turning. The empire would pay for its cruelty. Together, with Ravi, Darius, and the gladiators, you would take back what had been stolen and carve a path to freedom.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

taglist:

@willowpains @tsunchani @beau-hawkins @a-dizzle777 @987coley @mmkkzz @allthingsimagines @anilovessadbooks @8812-342 @nlr1606

[devnmon]

wine & dine.

summary: astarion's ego still burns hot after the most recent battle, and whilst you celebrate he becomes convinced he can make you come in a room full of people without any of them noticing.

warnings: a lil exhibitionism, fingering, star knows what to do with his hands, dirty talk, also reader is wearing a dress just for easy access & is called 'my girl' once xo

a/n: happy october, here's another vampire fic <3

wc: 1.5k

Sometime between when your adventure began, and what they have put you up against, you’d currently found yourself having dinner inside a castle. It was local tradition to celebrate winning the battle with a meal and song. Like always, next to you was the ever so dashing Astarion, sipping from a his own goblet of wine.

The two of you had been on the road for days, accompanied by the rest of your party— but Astarion stood by your side with unending loyalty. He lingered in a soft nudge of your arm whilst in a crowd, and in the words of dedication he’s sworn to you every night.

Astarion had the ability to hear when your heart sped up or skipped a beat— especially when he’d placed his hand on your thigh about ten seconds ago. His touch was a stark difference to the heat dancing under your skin.

His palm rested on your thigh, nothing more. Your eyes met his for a second's glance and caught the cheekiest flash of mischief in his eye. Before you could notice the glint of his fangs peeking out, your attention turned back to the room in front of you.

"Gods, you're beautiful." he purred, leaning over with the chalice still in hand.

A vampire of all creatures feigning innocence in any context was not seen very often. But you knew what Astarion was doing, continuing to play along with his little act and observing the others celebrating.

The stone corridor was lively with music and dancing, many of the halflings and gnomes swinging on one another while singing together. Others sat on one of the many tables, drinking and eating their fill for the night. You could easily spot Shadowheart being talked to by a certain Githyanki over their meal, deep in conversation.

Astarion’s skill of his rogue handiwork did not only pertain to picking pockets and unlocking chests. If only you would’ve felt his cool palm slide further up your leg, perhaps the second cup of wine you’d consumed had something to do with that.

Your inner thigh always proved to be more sensitive, and Astarion knew that; he knew every lucky spot you loved the most. It proved to be one of his favorite things when you so you blessed his ears with your pretty sounds.

"Astarion..." you slurred, shooting him a knowing look.

"Yes, love? Is your leg cramping?" He lifts the goblet before him for a sip of wine before sliding up further and tightening his grip, "Oh, maybe more than just simply that..."

Your eyes shifted around the room, catching the many pairs of eyes occupying the chamber. Any one of them could easily spot the two of them doing this— and the idea of it made you all warm inside.

Starkly contrasting the warmth of the room, Astarion's skin to skin contact drowned out everything else. The band of bards playing a jaunty tune, the laughs and clinks of goblets and conversations all flying past your ears as if in a dome where only you and Astarion existed.

The pale elf's hand made its way under the fabric of your skirt, already feeling how heated you were for him before he'd touched you right where he knew to.

"People could see..." you mentioned, attempting to hide your blush with a rather large gulp of the mead in your cup. Though everything you'd drank so far had already loosened you up, of course it was like Astarion to push you over the edge with his touches.

"By the chaos of it all, they won't even notice, my dear. That is, if you don't give them a reason to." His full lips curl into a smirk before swallowing another sip of wine.

Your eyes trail over to him beside you, taking note of his red eyes burning with lust and the skin of his neck you'd caressed many times before.

It's evident by the sound you make exhaling that proves you want him all the same. There's no denying the urge to be whisked away to a corridor and letting him have his way with you. But being with Astarion has taught you many things, and testing something new was always a new adventure with him.

That's all the signal he needs to confirm he wasn't pushing a boundary of yours by doing this. The vampire's hand sneaks between your legs, cupping your heat exactly the way he knows you like. The pad of his middle finger is pressed lightly against your garments, soaking the cloth with arousal.

Your warmth leaks onto his fingers, immediately sending one of them swiping through the mess you'd made.

"That turned on from just my touch? Oh, now there's my girl."

The hand that's not wrapped around your glass grips at the cloth napkin, dropping it on your lap for any discretion you could still hold. Palms sweating, cheeks plastered with a flushed state that Astarion knows so well. You were melting in his presence and knew he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

"You know, you're a three course meal in that dress. Showing what you've got off— gods, the amount of eyes on you earlier. I had half the decency to not smudge that pretty makeup of yours before we even arrived."

He runs the tip of his tongue over the edge of his fangs, immediately salivating at his memory of the first time he tasted you. Astarion's never felt such ecstasy in something he wasn't doing to himself, it brought him to new heights for the first time in his life.

You didn't dare speak… not wanting an inappropriate sound leave you and draw people's attention towards you. Astarion slips a second finger between your folds, and swallowing the sound threatening to escape your lips seemed easier in your head. Your entire body aches for him to please you the way he always knows how.

You truly can't control the way your body turns for him- it's fucking magic the way he can unravel you entirely without doing much.

Two of Astarion's digits enter you without resistance, and if instinct, you clench around him from the sensation. At first he doesn't move, only waiting to spot if anyone's noticed. That first movement of his has you gripping the table while attempting to poise yourself. It's difficult on its own, for your enamored mind body and soul only grows when you’re surrounded by his scent, his presence, his laugh.

His digits thrust into you, hitting just the right spot that a whimper expels itself from your chest. Your knuckles've just about turned white from how hard you're gripping the handkerchief in your lap.

"Don't worry, I'll make it quick for you. Wouldn't want our hosts to think you're a filthy slut who likes such a thing, now would we? Oh wait..." Astarion chuckles to himself, the cocky bastard. Though you would never admit it to anyone except him how much you never wished for his touches to stop. He yearned for an eternity of pleasing you if it made him feel as good as it did.

He withdrew his fingers from inside you almost all the way, before squishing them back into your warm, wet heat. Breath hitching, you wished to rut against his palm sickeningly before his fingers found themselves pressing that spot again.

"Astarion... please," you begged.

"Don't draw attention, darling. That's the fun part." His continuous movements were close to sending you over the edge, and the purr in his voice didn't help matters. Keeping yourself contained when Astarion had his hands on you was much easier when you didn't have the threat of people seeing what mischievous act the two of you were up to.

Every movement threatened to release all the groans and moans Astarion deserved to hear, biting down on your lip to suppress it. You grabbed the cup of wine in front of you and took a drink, almost choking when the fingers inside you curled again. Some of it dribbled down your chin, leaving Astarion to pick up his napkin and dab your lips with it.

"Tsk, so consumed by desire you can't even act normal. Figures." His teasing and fingering had all but kept you on the edge of your orgasm for minutes on end.

Your arm grabs his wrist, making eye contact with his rubies and silently begging for him to indulge you.

"You want to come? Be my guest, darling. I want repayment in full later on, in private."

Astarion's fingers began thrusting inside of you, curling to hit that sweet spot before you were gushing around him and leaning into his shoulder to hide your cries. With your orgasm washing over you, he removes his fingers, letting them linger over your clit for just a moment before removing them from your undergarments fully.

As if the whole thing wasn't enough, Astarion just had to lick his fingers right in front of your eyes. It was the most erotic thing you've ever seen, especially since you were all over his fingers.

"Hmm, delectable as always. Tasting you has always been one of my guilty pleasures. But for now we eat, drink and be merry. There's a celebration about, my love." Astarion stated before taking a swig of his wine.

Merry you were, not just from the afterglow, as you leaned in to his chest and watched the party ride out its chaos.

[kingdomaddiction]

I've been thinking in a Cumplane friendship idea.--

You see, everyone seems to believe SQQ and SQH can't stand each other. Quite the opposite, really. When it's only the two of them they don't feel the need to keep up the pretence. It's so easy to relax, to put the mask aside.

They aren't peak lords nor cultivators. They're just two dudes in their mid tweenties trying to survive in this forsaken world.

SY knows he might not be the kindest nor the most loving of friends, (he spent so many years alone in a cold, hospital room, he's not good at socializing) but he does care for Airplane. A lot. He will never say it out loud because it's embarrasing but that stupid author is his best friend.

So, that's why when the news of Qinghua's disappearance finally reach him (two weeks, it took two full weeks before someone decided to tell him--- )they absolutely destroys him.

He seems calm at fisrt. Not truly procesing the news. LBG makes a few comments about something Mobei told him (you fucking knew and didn't tell me, how dare you, husband?! )

Gone, SQH? No, that's dumb. He couldn't be gone. He's a peak lord, he has responsabilities, a bunch of little ones to teach. He even takes care of the north. And most importantly why would he leave Mobei? It makes no sense, not fucking sense.

SQH wouldn't leave like that. He... he wouldn't leave SY behind.

He can feel sob building up in his throat. That... stupid, idiot--HACK AUTHOR!

His crying fit is so strong and sudden that sends LBG and his whole demon staff into a panic.

"Shizun?!" He says looking for visible injuries-

"Don't touch me!" He screams and LBG looks at him with hurt.

"Husband? Have... have this disciple done something wrong?"

SQQ just turns and walks to his chambers ordering LBG not to follow him. His husband is left feeling distressed and cries for very different reasons.

Later that night they talk. SQQ feeling tired and sad finally calls for his husband to comfort him. He explains to him why he is angry at him and LBG apologizes.

"This one thought you hated Shang-shibo and that Shizun wouldn't care about his dissapereance." He says in a small, careful voice. "Mobei jun came to the palace days ago to beg for help in his search... "

"You turned him away... " SY says, sounding very tired.

"Yes. But this husband will make it right, Shizun. I will find your friend for you, promise."

SY sighs and hugs his husband, hiding his face in his chest.

..

Idk 'm all over the place but the idea is that the system is glitching and took SQH and is kind of keeping him hostage? Like, in between worlds. Not the mordern universe, not PIDW.

I imagine LBG having a very hard time accepting his shizun worries and loves others and not just him (??? why??? I'm more than enough you need NO ONE else shizun). He's too possesive and would like very much just to lock his shizun away, but that would break him and he never wants to see him cry like that ever again. Even if that means he has to share his attention.

MBJ is very broken in this one fiding himself lost without SQH. they had just finally stablished their relationship so he's between angry and scared. Also his trust and loyalty to LBG has taken a blown since he refused to help him find his lover. Didn't he help LBG when everyone turned his back on him as he clinged to his dead shizun's body?

While they work together (before they can even figure out where sqh is) LBG slowly realizes he might have fucked up a bit and ??? misses Mobei ??? are they friends???!!

SY tries his fucking best to keep it together. Really, he loves Binghe but that man can be so dense.

They find where SQH is being kept. The place is like a limbo. Cold, and vast where no time passes. In order to get him back LBG, MBJ and SQQ work together to reforge Xin Mo and travel there. There's a cool fighting montage, tears, hugs and everyone is happy at the end

Yeah that's all i got so far. I'll be going back to work now--

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"...ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ"

Word count: 5,600.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!, violence.

FALLING — 8. Him.

As they ventured beyond the gardens, the night unfurled before them like an endless canvas, speckled with stars gleaming like precious diamonds. The cool air brushed against their faces, his heart racing with a thrilling anticipation.

Time seemed suspended as their lips met for the first time. She leaned in with a determination that enchanted him, and their brief, gentle kiss pulsed with newfound love. As they separated, he silently wished this moment could last forever. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the sweetness of her lips once more, and when they eventually pulled away, their hearts beat as one. 

"Goodnight" she whispered, her voice barely audible with emotion of the moment. He studied her divine face carefully. 

"Goodnight" he replied, his heart overflowing with happiness.

His steps were light, almost floating on the ground like it was made of clouds, as he replayed every detail of the encounter in his mind. Her smile, the softness of her voice, the warmth of her eyes. Everything about her captivated him, and now the opportunity to get closer to her lay before him.

The overwhelming feelings swirling inside him formed a maze of complexities and simplicities. He was deeply in love, a truth as soothing as it was exhilarating.

From the moment their eyes first met, something within him surged with indescribable force. Now, after witnessing countless dawns and dusks together, he finally understood the profound signals his body sent and the true sentiments his heart harbored. It was unmistakable: love, destined to flourish, destined to be. He was certain that, had it not been for fate, somehow they would have found their way to each other. Yet, he was profoundly grateful that the gods had paved their path.

The movements of servants and distant voices reached him as a faint murmur. In that moment, he only heard the rapid beating of his own heart and the echo of his steps leading him back to his chambers.

Reflecting nostalgically on the early days of their relationship, particularly that initial meeting in the library, it seemed like ages had passed and yet remained vivid as yesterday. Every moment spent in her company felt all too brief. She had the uncanny ability to transform every experience into something incredibly beautiful, a dream come true, and he perpetually yearned for more.

Upon entering his room, he collapsed onto the bed, paying no mind to the clothes touching the freshly changed sheets. He made no attempt to conceal the radiant smile that illuminated his face, one that seemed determined to etch itself there indefinitely.

His heart raced wildly yet also felt serene, as if it had been sprinting for hours and finally found repose, reassured that he was precisely where he belonged, every fragment of his life fitting seamlessly into place.

It had been his first kiss, a magical, momentous occasion and he was taken aback by its occurrence. It wasn't that he hadn't previously contemplated doing it, or that he didn’t want it, but he had been hesitant to rush into it. 

With the taste of her lips lingering on his, he wondered if that was her first kiss too.

Just as he kept sinking into his thoughts, knocks on the door snapped him out of his reverie. He had completely forgotten that Aegon had promised a visit, and he couldn't wait for this meeting to end so he could see his princess again. The thought of them being alone excited him even more, filling him with indescribable joy. Perhaps, he thought, he could have another one before sleeping—and every night thereafter.

He opened the door with a radiant smile he couldn't care to hide. His elder brother greeted him with an amused and surprised look at seeing him so elated then entered the room followed by a servant carrying a pitcher and two cups. He, still lost in his daydream, watched curiously as the servant placed the things on the wooden table and discreetly withdrew. Aegon seemed more interested in the lady than anything else, but soon, when the door closed, he focused his attention on his brother.

With a quick gesture, he tossed something to Aemond, who caught it mid-air. It was a rough cloth cloak, starkly different from the soft garments he was accustomed to. He unfolded it, furrowing his brow, as he looked at his brother with curiosity.

"Is this my present?" he asked, unable to hide his confusion. He didn't expect much from Aegon, but a dirty cape seemed like a rather insulting gift, even from him.

"No, it's still too early for gifts. Come, sit down" his brother said, pointing to the armchair across from him. Aemond placed the cloak on the back of it, smoothing it carefully. Aegon chuckled softly before pouring wine into the cups.

He sat down, accepting the brimming goblet that Aegon offered. He didn't normally drink as much as his brother, but this time he decided to join him. The elder downed his in one go and set it aside, while he sipped slowly, still eager to receive his gift and return to the princess.

"May I have my gift now?" Aemond began to ask, but was calmly interrupted.

"I know you've been acquainted more closely of late, you and the princess. Especially in the nighttime" Aegon remarked casually, a sly glint in his eye. Instantly, he felt a jolt of alarm, worried that rumors were already swirling through the castle corridors. Aemond held his breath, his heart pounding hard. How could Aegon have found out about that? Then, with a playful smirk, his brother added, clearly relishing the tease: "It appears you hold her in high regard." 

Caught off guard, he struggled for words. His mouth opened slightly in surprise and he remained silent, debating on how to respond.

"She is not the only one aware about the passages, but don’t worry, mother won’t know" Aegon continued nonchalantly. "Is there something you wish to share?" he probed.

After a pause, and under the expectant gaze of Aegon, he admitted: “Well, we… We have spent some time together, yes. And I find her company quite... pleasant.”

"You have feelings for her" Aegon asserted, his tone almost rhetorical.

"Of course I do, she's family" he tried to deflect, attempting to mask the truth of his emotions, but it was feeble. It was all too conspicuous; he was too transparent, and Aegon too perceptive.

His brother's eyes rolled at the predictable response. "Come now, Aemond. Your countenance betrays you." Aegon insisted with unusual calmness. He felt his mouth go dry and nervously took another sip of wine, the silence between them growing tense, charged with an expectation that the elder seemed to enjoy. "You've taken a liking to her, have you not?" he pressed, his expression urging honesty.

Exhaling heavily, he acknowledged the undeniable truth. "Perhaps I do... yes. This is all rather new to me" he admitted softly, revealing his inner thoughts to his brother for the first time. Aegon's smile widened reassuringly. 

"And do you intend to declare yourself?" Aegon inquired knowingly, his tone now softer, almost understanding. For a brief moment, he debated the necessity; after all, they had already shared a first kiss. But the desire to fully reveal himself to her outweighed any doubts.

Aemond looked down, his thoughts invaded by memories. The first time their hands accidentally brushed in the library, the conspiratorial conversations meant only for their ears, the shared laughter that echoed like a melody, and the silences that were anything but awkward. Every detail of her had delighted him, and for once, Aegon was right: he couldn't deny it.

"I must admit, I'm relieved. I thought the only woman you'd ever fancy would be the one from your books." Aegon said, laughing softly. He got serious again, rolling his eyes at his brother’s snarky comment.

"Where are you going with this?" Aemond finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll lend a hand" Aegon offered warmly, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. He frowned, taken aback by his brother's willingness to assist, yet also stung by the implication that he needed it in this pursuit. While it was true he didn't possess Aegon's effortless charm in certain matters, he was determined to win her heart entirely on his own terms and merits.

Silently, he shook his head and drained his cup in one swift sip.

"Are you not going to drink more?" He asked, surprised, trying to change the course of the conversation, noting that his brother had only had one glass of his favorite drink. Not that he seemed sober, but the fact that he wasn't almost unconscious was somewhat of a surprise.

"Thanks for caring, but even I know my limit. I've had a bit during dinner and in my room" He said with a light laugh. Aemond, not considering that to be little, decided not to argue. "But back to your gift... it's something special. In fact, I did it at your age. Now, I want to guide you through it." Leaning forward, his brother's eyes showed a hint of excitement. "I'll take you to a fun place tonight. A place where you can try new things and become more... experienced."

Aemond looked at him skeptically, trying to focus his vision that was beginning to blur. "What kind of place?"

Aegon leaned, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he filled his cup once more. "Oh, you'll see.”

"I think I've had enough" he murmured.

"Finish this one, and then we may go" insisted Aegon, pushing the cup towards his lips.

Aemond drank the wine with a grimace, noticing his mind beginning to cloud more with each sip.

"Fuck" he whispered, trying to keep steady.

"Feeling more relaxed now?" Aegon asked sarcastically, watching him with a mocking smile. "Is this your first time being drunk?" He nodded, a small laugh escaping his lips at the unfamiliar sensation. "You'll thank me later, I promise. I'm sure it will help you with your... beloved" the elder added cryptically.

"What do you mean by that, Aegon?" Aemond raised an eyebrow, his intrigue deepening.

"It's a surprise," he replied, rising from the sofa and grabbing his cloak, "trust me on this one. Now, shall we?" Aemond sighed inwardly, realizing arguing with his brother would be futile. He nodded reluctantly.

With a theatrical gesture, Aegon headed towards the back door and opened it, revealing the hallway where the princess always passed to see him. 

"Come on, brother" Aegon said with an unusually serious tone. "You're going to love this."

He rose slowly, his mind filled with unanswered questions while grabbing the cloak. Aegon rarely showed such interest in something, which only heightened his curiosity and, at the same time, his wariness.

They left the room and silently made their way through the dark corridors of the castle. Aegon led Aemond to a secret door that he didn't even know existed, then opened it and revealed what lay behind. 

Aemond furrowed his brow and began to shake his head. "I'm not sure this is a good idea" he said cautiously.

"Aemond, could you stop being such a prude for one night?" Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes in disbelief. "It's your special day; I just want you to see the city.” he explained, then mockingly added: “Don’t tell me you’re afraid."

Aemond had never felt a genuine urge to explore the city, but Aegon's challenging tone, coupled with the slight boldness the wine had imparted, began to wear down his reluctance. Curiosity about the surprise also spurred him on. Moreover, he was eager to meet his beloved princess, and the sooner they finished this, the better. 

Perhaps he could turn this experience into an interesting tale to share later—a memory of the remarkable night that signaled the beginning of a new chapter in his life, a chance to surprise her with a new adventure. He could also learn something more, should she ever wish to make an unforeseen escapade.

They descended the narrow stairs together, with Aegon leading the way. The guards appeared accustomed to the prince frequenting these places and simply opened the doors without questioning.

Once outside the castle walls, entering the city immersed him in a cacophony of noises. He kept his hood up, observing everything with curiosity tinged with caution. Unlike him, Aegon seemed unfazed by the possibility of being recognized, allowing his hair and face to be fully exposed and even exchanging friendly greetings with passersby.

Aegon spoke enthusiastically, recounting stories of his experiences in the city, and Aemond tried to listen attentively, but his mind was divided. He felt somewhat guilty for not enjoying the gift as much as his brother had intended.

The bustling atmosphere of the city began to unsettle him. Soon, the overwhelming number of people and the unpleasant smell disturbed him deeply. He felt uncomfortable and agitated, sweat beading on his forehead in the unfamiliar and potentially dangerous surroundings, unsure of what fate awaited him under Aegon's turbulent guidance.

They walked until they reached a shady alley. It was less crowded but equally foul-smelling and narrow as the previous path, he noticed. They approached the door of a larger house, its entrance concealed behind red curtains, giving no clue as to what may lay inside. 

Some men silently opened it and they both stepped into it.

The smell changed upon it, but not necessarily for the better. Aemond looked up when he saw bare feet approaching them from the center of the room, dimly lit by candles. Aemond's breath caught in his throat and he felt the blood drain from his face as if he had seen a ghost. Fear mingled with revulsion as he realized the nature of the place, the weight of Aegon's expectations crushing down on him.

When Aemond turned to look at Aegon with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, he felt overpowered by the taller, more robust presence, who flashed a malicious smile and pulled back his hood.

Anxiety surged through him; he felt as though he were caught in a dangerous game, not fully understanding the rules or the objective. His heart began to pound harder in his chest, and his throat went dry when Aegon, who was in his element, pushed him further, closer to the woman, and said: "I want only the best for the one-eyed prince."

"I'm sorry, Aegon, I can't..." murmured Aemond, his voice barely a trembling whisper. But his protest was drowned out by Aegon's tired groan.

"You can't back out now" insisted Aegon firmly, his eyes gleaming with a determination that was more frightening to Aemond than any physical threat.

The woman in front of him smiled and extended her hand in an inviting gesture. However, he kept his hands firmly clenched at his sides, fists tightly closed with such force that he could feel the pain of his nails digging into his palms. His brother, seeing that he showed no signs of wanting to move forward, pushed him more towards the woman, who greeted him with another smile and grabbed his wrist.

He obeyed mechanically, his heart hammering painfully against his chest. Each step carried him further away from everything he knew, towards an abyss of the unknown and feared. 

She was walking in front of him, dressed in a revealing attire that left little to the imagination. Feeling embarrassed, he lowered his gaze. Aegon continued to stand behind him, hands resting on his shoulders, urging him. 

He wanted to react, genuinely trying, but he felt dazed, as if his mind was disconnected while his body moved on inertia. His face flushed with heat.

Although his gaze was fixed on his feet, his eye captured unsettling images, scenes he had never imagined and certainly should not be witnessing. As the figures moved about, a subtle melody played in the background amidst moans of various voices and tones. 

Aemond swallowed hard, every fiber of his being screamed to stop, to turn around and run far from that place, but Aegon continued to push him forward. He felt like a marionette, strings pulled by Aegon's words and will.

And he kept walking towards his uncertain fate, desperately longing for some miracle to divert him from this imposed path, to regain ownership of his life once more.

The woman, moving deliberately and maintaining a consistently gentle demeanor, positioned them in front of semi-transparent curtains.

"Come now, don't linger" Aegon urged impatiently, a sly smile twisting his lips. 

Aemond hesitated, unease settling in his gut. He didn't want to enter, didn't want to confront whatever lay inside.

"I don't think..." Aemond stammered, his objections weak against Aegon's strong grip on his shoulder, propelling him ahead.

"You see, brother," Aegon whispered in his ear, his tone low and insidious, "this is where boys become men. You can't shy away from what life demands of you."

Aemond felt trapped, like a lamb led to slaughter. Every nerve screamed for escape, but he found himself unable to resist the pull of Aegon; his persuasive words wormed their way into his thoughts like a creeping vine. Aemond's mind reeled, torn between revulsion and the need to please his elder brother. 

Impatiently, Aegon parted the curtains and pushed him into the room. Aemond closed his eyes briefly, cold sweat beading on his forehead as a wave of nausea swept over him. His thoughts became a chaotic whirlwind of denial and despair. 

As the curtains closed behind him, he avoided lifting his gaze. His hands remained clenched, his legs heavy. From the center of the small room, a soft voice broke the silence: "My prince, don't be shy."

Despite the invitation, he continued reluctantly to look up. The voice, with a playful tone, drew nearer, descending from a bed. The room seemed to absorb all sound, leaving Aemond with the deafening echo of his own racing pulse and the measured steps from the woman.

She walked slowly towards him with grace, and he could see her bare body approaching. He felt rooted to the spot, unable to move, his body stiff and tense, experiencing slight tremors. He wanted to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. 

The woman moved behind him, and he finally lifted his gaze. He observed the walls adorned with explicit paintings, while numerous candles scattered around the room illuminated the space, highlighting a large round bed in the center. He felt like an intruder in his own skin, his mind and body disconnected in a harrowing internal struggle.

The atmosphere was dense, heavy with something oppressive, something that seemed to steal all the air from his lungs. Forced to breathe quickly and deeply, his nostrils filled with a pungent scent of myrrh that seemed to seep into his very being. Discomfort threatened to become more visible with each second. 

His face contorted in an expression of revulsion and distress as he felt hands resting heavily on his shoulders, while warm breath caressed the nape of his neck.

"I'm going to make you a man" she whispered softly in his ear.

He barely remembers the journey back to the Red Keep, except that he purged himself in some dark corner of the city, relieving just a bit of the discomfort plaguing him.

He was grateful that the sun had yet to rise, sparing him from many witnesses to his sorry state, just a few guards and servants. 

They entered through the main door of his chambers, one of his arms was draped around his brother's neck, who bore all his weight, as he couldn't muster the strength to walk. Aegon laid him down in his bed. The room spun slightly around him.

"What did you do to me?" Aemond whispered, looking at his brother with a blend of confusion and betrayal. His words slurred slightly, and the edges of his vision blurred further into a disorienting haze.

Aegon met his gaze with a furrowed brow, the telltale signs of intoxication evident in his expression. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across his features, highlighting the creases of concern and bewilderment etched upon his face before he turned away.

Aemond tried to fight the drowsiness creeping over him, but it proved futile. His eyelids grew heavier despite his efforts, and eventually, they succumbed, closing shut, the faint sound of Aegon closing the door echoed in his ears as he slipped into darkness.

As the sun began to timidly filter through the windows, painting the room with a soft but unsettling light, Aemond woke up with a knot in his stomach. The confusion still weighed heavily on his mind. Every image echoed painfully from the events of the previous night.

He sat on the bed, hugging his knees as his gaze wandered over the white sheets. Memories began to surface and cling to his mind like a heavy, dark cloak. He felt corrupted, as if the shadow of what had happened was seeping into his skin and soul.

The silence in the room was deafening, interrupted only by the distant sounds of the castle coming to life. He squeezed his eye shut, trying in vain to ward off the memories that mercilessly intruded into his mind.

He didn't realize when his mother entered the room; her voice rumbled low, almost imperceptibly intrigued in his ears. A servant discreetly withdrew upon seeing him. 

He wondered if it was his bare face that had alerted her, the patch lost at some point in the night revealing his wound, or maybe she could see what he had done. Maybe she sensed it and noticed how stained he was.

In the distance, the aroma of freshly cooked breakfast drifted from the table, a small sign of normalcy in a world that seemed to have lost all its balance for him.

His mother approached quickly, wanting to comfort him, but he recoiled. He couldn't allow her to be tainted by his actions.

"Leave" he murmured, avoiding her gaze.

"My child, what is the matter?" she asked, her eyes full of anguish and her hand reaching out to him, but he couldn't accept it, even though he wanted to.

The images kept coming, clearer each time, confirming what now was. Nothing but something murky, impure, darkened, spoiled.

"Don't touch me" he pleaded. He felt his mother withdraw her hand.

"Please, tell me what happened, we can solve it together" she pleaded, tears starting to flow her eyes. "Do you want me to call the princess? Anything, my child, just tell me how I can..." Her voice was painful.

"No!" he shouted, making his mother flinch in fear. Immediately, he felt worse.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked desperately.

Not wanting to hurt her further, he said with a trembling voice, "I just want a bath, please." She nodded and quickly left, wishing to be helpful and offer any assistance he needed.

After his mother exited the room, he rose from the bed and tore off the grimy sheets where he had slept. With a mixture of frustration and sorrow, he tossed them aside onto the floor, the same spot where he then discarded his soiled suit. 

It had been his favorite, adorned with delicate embroideries meticulously crafted by his sister, worn proudly on his nameday, now tragically besmirched beyond repair.

Once the bath was ready and the room fell silent, he dragged his feet to the bathtub. Every movement was an effort, as if he was navigating through a world made of dense darkness.

He scrubbed his skin with the sponge until it turned red and his mind urged him to stop, trying to rid himself of any trace of the unpleasant smell. He washed his hair, hoping to erase the memories. He submerged himself in the water, seeking to drown out the feeling from his body, but the sensation of dirtiness persisted.

He stayed in the bathtub until his skin wrinkled and the water cooled. As he emerged, he passed by the mirror. The reflection revealed tired, baggy eyes and an expression etched with pain and confusion. He climbed back into bed, hoping to find some form of comfort.

Lying there, staring at the ceiling as the sun rose slowly, a ray of light pierced through the window, illuminating the sapphire on his bedside table. Tears welled up and finally spilled over, coursing down his cheek like rivers of pain and regret. The reflections of lights and colors danced on the walls and ceiling, mirroring the turmoil within him.

Breakfast remained untouched on the table, as did the other meals his mother silently brought throughout the day. Thoughts crowded chaotically: Was it real? 

He squeezed his eye shut, allowing the silence of his room to envelop him like a comforting blanket. Nestled in the softness of the new sheets, he sought refuge, hoping they would shield him from the relentless onslaught of his own mind. Yet, tears continued to flow unabatedly.

The following days passed in a heavy silence, immersed in a state of denial. He felt no inclination to rise and confront reality. 

Each task seemed insurmountable, and he had no desire to encounter anyone, engage in conversation, or face the concerned glances and unspoken inquiries he knew would come.

There wasn't much room for his mother's well-intentioned visits that could further destabilize his fragile balance, nor for food, even the simplest appetite felt as distant as the sun on a cloudy day.

He grew accustomed to the monotony of the room, its walls the sole witnesses to his silent pain. Sometimes, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly without truly seeing, while the outside world continued to spin, unaware of his suffering.

During those days of isolation, he tried to find peace in the emptiness of solitude, allowing himself to simply exist without the pressure to act or face the truth.

Then another feeling emerged; each sigh was an attempt to free himself from the heavy burden of guilt that imprisoned him. 

New questions arose: How could he do that? Guilt enveloped him like dense fog, making him question every decision, every word spoken, every gesture made.

He decided to store the sapphire in the dagger's case, hiding it behind a stack of books as if that could somehow make its presence less felt. The sapphire's gleam felt unbearable, as if each sparkle was a silent reproach, reminding him of the horrendous actions of the previous night. The lingering scent of roses mixed with the scent permeating him only exacerbated his torment, evoking images of his sin that refused to disappear.

The next day, his mother appeared again with breakfast.

"I've brought you a new patch" she said, her voice laden with concern, as if seeking permission to share in his grief.

Seeing him rise from the bed and head toward the table, she took it as an invitation and sat beside him. He began eating small bites, but he knew that staying silent with his thoughts could sink him deeper into his pain. He wanted to avoid mentioning her name, as if it could be tainted by simply pronouncing it, but he needed to know how she was. Surely worried, maybe even upset.

"Has she come to see me?" he asked softly.

His mother didn't need to ask whom he meant. She lowered her gaze, and he began to fear the worst.

"The princess left for Driftmark a few days ago" she said quietly. The fork slipped from his weak fingers, and he furrowed his brow, staring blankly at the plate in front of him. "Ser Laenor has passed away" his mother added. Confused, he looked up.

"And the funeral?"

"Your father and brother have traveled to be present, they must be returning by now" she explained.

"But why aren't we there?"

"That day you told me you didn't wish to see her, so I assumed..." He cursed under his breath, cutting her off as he buried his face in his hands.

He wanted to scream in frustration, yet he knew he couldn't fault anyone but himself. He had forbidden visits. Had he been informed, he would have acted differently, however, he also never allowed his mother an opportunity to speak.

The knowledge that she left shattered him to his core. How could he survive without her by his side? 

Guilt overwhelmed him even more. She, who had set everything aside to be with him without any ulterior motives, was now mourning the loss of her father while he hid in the comfort of his bed, lamenting his decisions.

After that, he couldn't eat anymore, feeling his stomach clench instantly. His mother withdrew, still worried but grateful for having accompanied him even for a brief moment.

Aware that she was likely headed to Dragonstone, he took paper and pen, determined to send a letter to that destination, seeking to offer an apology. He didn't feel ready to face the darkness he had allowed that night, nor to confront the very possible disappointment in her eyes, but still he wrote that if she requested it, he would mount Vhagar in the blink of an eye and fly to wherever she was, ready to stand by her side no matter what.

Days turned into weeks, and he became a mere shadow of his former self. He neither ate nor slept, and words seemed to have abandoned him entirely.

Unyielding flashbacks haunted him, casting a relentless shadow over his waking hours and his dreams alike. These memories were vivid and fresh, like an open wound that refused to heal.

The grotesque sounds and screams, the frantic rush, the stinging tears in his eye, the bitter taste of blood from biting his lips, the mocking laughter, the barrage of vulgar words that stung—each detail made him feel like a trapped animal.

He knew he had done wrong, he had ruined his reputation. The sense of failure gnawed at him, as a man, as a prince, as a future husband, as himself.

He longed for those moments to be forgotten, buried deep within his mind. But they clung to him like a parasite, feeding on his despair, and twisting him into someone unrecognizable.

His brother's words echoed in his mind, making him feel like a coward for his inability to handle the situation.

Every time he closed his eyes, the images infiltrated his thoughts, consuming him like wildfire. He realized the battle with that would never truly end.

He felt like a vessel of dirt and filth, a walking embodiment of shame.

Desperate for distraction, he threw himself into his studies and training, avoiding eye contact, shrinking from touch. He couldn't bear the thought of being seen, of being surrounded by others.

One day, lying in his room, immersed in dark thoughts, a burden weighed heavily on him. He waited in vain for any sign from the princess, any news to alleviate his growing anguish.

Suddenly, someone on the door broke the oppressive silence, pulling him out of his reverie. His mother usually entered without notice, and the servants no longer frequented his room, so these unexpected knocks caught his attention.

A glimmer of hope arose within him. Could it be that she had returned? He quickly suppressed the idea.

The room, once filled with her essence, now lay stripped and empty, as if it had never been occupied. No trace of her presence remained, not even the sweet aroma that used to linger in the air. The only proof of her presence was a gift hidden in the shadows.

He hesitated, unsure whether to open the door. As the knocks persisted, he quickly adjusted his eye patch and prepared to receive whoever was on the other side.

When he opened it, Helaena stood revealed. With a small, warm smile, she moved toward his bed. He closed the door behind her and stood, staring at the ground, ashamed to see his sister after everything.

Helaena moved delicately, holding something in her hands. "Aemond" she called softly, drawing his attention. When he finally looked up, he found an empathetic expression, contrasting with the concern from their mother.

"I've brought some roses from the gardens" Helaena announced calmly, placing a crystal vase near his bed. He looked at her gratefully, feeling as though she had read his mind.

Helaena took a few steps toward him, respecting his space. Aemond silently appreciated this gesture, knowing his sister was not one for physical displays of affection, and he did not feel deserving of a hug.

"I made you another" she said, handing the clothes over carefully, with an implicit understanding of the story surrounding her previous gift, one he had to discard after that fateful night. Aemond nodded, his heart moved by the gesture.

Unfolding the soft fabrics, he revealed a new suit, this time black, in stark contrast to the greens he usually wore. The delicate, perfect embroideries reminded him of the last one, but these were even finer and more elaborate, as if they held a promise of renewal and strength.

"Thank you" he whispered, struggling to convey the depth of his gratitude.

Helaena smiled gently, as if to say there was no need. Aemond felt she understood more than she could express with words, wishing to comfort him in her unique way.

Before leaving, Helaena added with a hint of mystery in her voice "I like to believe that our wait will be rewarded, don't you?" He nodded, almost imperceptibly, without taking his eyes off hers.

With those words resonating in his mind, Aemond was left alone in the room, feeling a little lighter. Then, he let the tears fall again, washing away the pain and anger that threatened to overflow him.

@helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @callsignwidow @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @oh-you-mean-me @squidscottjeans @fossface

Last part as kids! I feel so bad for Aemond :(

[coralinnii]

When they accidentally kabe-don you feat: Epel, Jamil, Jack, Deuce genre: fluff, budding romance notes: reader is written as Yuu, not gender specific, no pronouns used,

when he’s hiding from Vil

Epel just needs a break now and again. The skincare routine, intonation and vocabulary training, posture correction, calories check…everything is little too much for today. 

He honestly just wanted a rest in the courtyard before Vil figured out he’s skipping out on his lessons. Which is how you found the lavender-haired freshman laying behind the bushes. 

“So, how long are you planning on hiding?” You asked him with a cheeky grin Epel doesn’t appreciate

“When I’m good and ready” or caught. Epel whispered those last words under his breath as he guessed that Vil had already noticed his absence and was looking for him or had ordered Rook to bring him back. 

“Monsieur Cherry Apple~” Speak of the devil

Epel cursed as he heard the hunter’s call and in hurried desperation, pulled you down with him as he rolled into the bushes. He didn’t realized how he pinned you down as he peered out through the gaps of the leaves trying to see if Pomefiore’s vice housewarden was out of sight. 

He only realized his position when he heard a shaky tone whisper his name. 

He looked down to see you looking at him, surprised and flustered. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he assessed his situation. His arms and legs caged you underneath him, and the low height of the bushes forced him on his elbows and knees to avoid peaking out from the foliage, so your bodies were so close that he swore he could feel your heartbeat (which he noticed were quite fast) on his own. 

He’s been trying for so long to make the first move on you but now that he had you so close to him, he’s blanking on his next move. He’s wondering what would Leona do in this situation? Heck, what would Vil do? 

Epel was so nervous that he didn’t notice your own mental battle as you decided what you should do. You were fidgeting with your hands whether you should push Epel away or if you should pull him by his cute little bowtie. Finally you decided to shoot your shot, reaching out to touch the lapels of Epel’s school jacket, gently pulling the flustered freshman towards you. 

Taking the hint, Epel started to lower himself as he watched your expression for any last minute second thoughts or discomfort. You showed none. 

Too bad that’s as far as he got as reality smacked him in the face with a burst of light shining through a sudden gap of the leaves being pushed away. 

“Beaute! A beautiful embrace between two young lovers, intertwined like vines of the foliage that hides their rendezvous from the eyes of their peers.” 

Rook’s sudden intrusion forced the two of you back to your senses as you and Epel scrambled out from each other’s arms, looking away in embarrassment. 

Perhaps because Rook senses the awkwardness, Rook reached for Epel and pulled him to walk with him towards the Mirror Chambers to head back to the Pomefiore dorm. 

“I sincerely apologize, young freshman. But, our esteemed Housewarden is awaiting our presence as to begin your daily lessons” 

Epel didn’t grumble or sigh under his breath at that like he usually would. Instead, his thoughts were swirling around the last few minutes with you. He’s stunned and honestly a little giddy over the positive step in his relationship. You reached for him, right? That means you, his crush, want something more with him, right? 

Epel braved a glimpse behind him and noticed you fanning yourself to cool your warm face. He felt his ego swelled at the notion that he made you that way. 

He promised to himself that he’ll be the one to make the first move next time. 

when he saved you during Basketball Club 

Basketball was one of the few aspects of Jami's life that doesn’t revolve around Kalim or his duties as the servant of the Asim family so he assumed that he could have some time away from his responsibilities. Too bad that’s not the case when Floyd, the wishy-washy eel merman and Ace, the scheming slacker are his clubmates. Whenever one or both of them are here, there’s always a possibility of something that is bound to give Jamil a headache. 

Today was a little different however, when Ace decided to invite you to watch the club activities. Regardless how quiet or chaotic you are, Jamil would much rather deal with you than the worrisome Floyd and no, it is not because he finds you charming or attractive in any way. He swears it’s not that…not at all. 

You sat on the side benches, watching and sometimes giving encouraging hollers to your friends, including him which certainly boosts the morale of the club members. Almost unfortunately so as Floyd started getting too into his slam dunks. In his manic glee, the eel merman wanted to see if he could slam the ring hard enough to break it. 

Despite everyone’s pleas not to do so, Floyd went for it and slammed the basketball hard, succeeding in bringing the ring down along with the ball. The rest of the team ran from the hoop as the ball that was still stuck in the net of the hoop bounced towards you, bringing the ring with it. 

With quick reflexes, Jamil dove towards you to push you away from the ball’s path. The Scarabia student covered you as the both of you got on the ground, the basketball safely bouncing away from the two of you. 

Recovering from the fall, Jamil raised his head to survey the damage. It looks like the ball lost its momentum and is now rolling to a stop somewhere far from him. He sighed a breath of exhausted relief and looked down to ask if you’re alright. 

Still a bit shaky, you answered back with affirmation as you loosen the tight grip you just realized you had on Jamil as you must have wrapped your arms around his neck when he reached for you. To be fair, Jamil also just realized he had placed one of his hands behind your head, worried you might hurt yourself when diving to the floor. 

The both of you didn’t say anything else, lost in each other’s presence as you both wondered what’s the best course of action. Jamil is a tactful man but even he can be confused as to what to do. He searched you for a clue as to what you’re thinking. Were you uncomfortable? Scared? Maybe happy? 

“Floyd, this is why we said stop. Now how are we gonna play?” Ace complained to the tall Octavinelle student who responded with a frown

“I wanna see if I can, so I did it. You got a problem with that, Crabby?” Floyd said, showing off a glimpse of his sharp teeth in intimidation “We can talk it over if ya want. Come over here” 

“Nope. No thanks!” Typical Ace, running away after running his mouth but Floyd is unfortunately a chaser. 

Jamil sighed, getting to his feet then helping you onto yours. He weighed in the pros and cons of intervening before deciding to do so, in fear Floyd may break more things if left alone. Before he did, he took a quick glance at you and his keen eyes caught something rather pleasant. 

You were biting your lip.  

when he accidentally bumped into you 

Jack Howl is an honest student. He does his best in school and he makes an effort to not miss a class if he can help it. Except one day, that may not be the case. 

Jack was assisting his senior Ruggie in convincing Leona to attend one of his classes. He already missed too many classes that week and Professor Crewel was scarily serious that the lion beastman attend his class as his grades depend on this particular attendance. Worried, Jack had offered to literally carry Leona to his class which offended Savanaclaw’s Housewarden enough to walk on his own, angrily declaring that no one is going to carry him like some sack of potatoes. 

But now, Jack was almost late to his own class which explained his long steps and quick walking as running in the halls was prohibited. In his haste, he didn’t consider looking ahead as he rounded a corner which ultimately caused his collision with another student. 

Jack was young but he was still a bulky beastman. A collision with him would mostly end badly for the other party which is why with Jack’s build and strength, pushed the other student backwards onto the floor with Jack following suit. Thankfully, Jack managed to catch himself before he reached the floor, softening his landing and using his arms to avoid crushing anyone. 

“Ah, sorry-“ Jack started to apologize before he looked and realized it was you. You were also in a hurry to your class and the last thing you expected was to bump into what you initially thought to be a firm but surprisingly soft wall. 

“I’m sorry, Jack!” You apologized as well with a look of worry. “I should have looked where I was going. Are you ok?” 

But Jack didn’t respond. He was slowly working his feelings whenever he’s near you. He noticed that his tail starts to wag excitedly around you which he curses his obvious joy he feels in your presence. Thankfully you haven’t realized or you weren’t aware what his tail wagging means. 

That may change though as you spoke once more, “Umm Jack. Your tail is tickling me” 

Jack’s ears perked up and he looked behind him and to his horror, he watched his tail whip about, occasionally brushing against your legs that were under Jack’s. The soft fur was tickling your legs which made you reflexively move away but being under Jack meant you accidentally bump into the beastman’s thighs, which definitely made him flinch. 

Mortified, Jack scrambled hastily off you but still offered to pull you up which you accepted. After a quick look to see you’re ok, the white-haired student gave a quick nod before running towards the direction of his class, school rules be damned. 

You were left in the dust but you didn’t try to stop Jack. Especially since you needed to head to your class as well. With that, you turned to walk towards your destination but with a shy but satisfied smile on your lips. Turns out what Ace and Deuce told you about Jack’s tail was true after all. 

when blocking others from you 

It was not a secret that the school cafeteria was filled with delicious meals and treats for the students in NRC. Considering the rich, the powerful, and actual members of royalty were attending here, the school can’t afford to serve anything else but the best and finest lest they want to hear complaints. 

Still, that doesn’t mean there’s enough to go around. The cafeteria works on a first-come, first-serve basis where you gotta be there quick if you want what you want for lunch, especially when there’s something particularly rare on the menu. 

Which is why one day there was a scrambling line of hungry and greedy students who were on the brink of starting a fist fight for a special limited edition sandwich made by the finest and rarest of ingredients. Grim and Ace in particular were hankering for a taste of the supposedly grand sandwich so you, Grim, Ace, and Deuce were quick to get in line for the chance of such a treat. 

The crowd was getting restless. Students were pushing and yelling, agitated over so-called line cutters or people pushing each other to accelerate the pace. You could handle yourself well enough but a push too far from these relentless students could send anyone to the wall at this point. 

And luck would have it, a student was aggressively pushed back which in turn pushed you out from the line and back against a wall near the food line. You groaned over the slight pain coursing your back before seeing the back of another student coming your way. 

Before you could brace yourself, a strong arm came between you and the incoming student, effectively blocking the impact from you. You looked to see Deuce’s body protectively covering you as he placed his other hand against the wall near your head, glaring at the student who came flying towards you. 

“Watch it, buddy” Deuce said, his delinquent side peeking out as he gave the student a nasty warning stare. The student walked away, grumbling how it wasn’t like he wanted to get flung around like that and returned back to the line. 

Ignoring him, Deuce turned to look back at you with worry. “Are you ok?” His voice was nothing like the gruff tone mere seconds ago but instead a sweet voice of concern which had you more flustered than before. Not trusting your voice, you nodded your head. 

But Deuce wasn’t too convinced, he was worried that the slam might cause a bruise on where you landed. He cautiously moved his hand to the side of your head, gently touching you as he tried to feel for something, perhaps a bump or some blood. “You gotta tell me if you’re hurt, ok? A hit like that can do some serious damage” 

As sweet as Deuce was, you couldn’t pay attention to his words right now. Not when he’s caressing your head so softly like that, as though you’re a fragile baby chick in his hands. He was so oblivious to his effects on you that you curse him for his obliviousness but at the same time, you’re relieved he can’t tell how nervous he’s making you. 

“Yo Henchhuman, Deuce!” Grim’s voice called you and Deuce out from your own little world as the cat-like creature ran to you. “We got the yummy sandwich! Let’s hurry and find a seat” 

“What happened to you guys?” Ace questioned with a suspicious quirk of his brow, as he noticed the closeness of you two. 

“Some jerk pushed Prefect into the wall, and then nearly crushed the two of us,” Deuce angrily explained. “Looks like we’re good, though” 

“Well then, if nothing’s wrong then let’s find a spot to eat. I’m starving!” Grim already started walking with Deuce already following to make sure he doesn’t crash into somebody with his small body. You and Ace followed soon behind but yours and his attention were somewhere else. Ace watched you with mischievous curiosity, dying to interrogate you on the details Deuce left out in his story, and you looked anywhere but the red-haired freshman as you already knew what he’s thinking about.

[mourning-sapphire]

bruised fruit | aemond targaryen | teaser

Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.

Pairing: aemond targaryen x redwyne!wife

Warnings: For this teaser, none.

Word count: 2067

a/n: Just a small teaser to introduce our lady Redwyne - enjoy~

“I’ve heard they’re closer to the gods than any of us,” She could hear the tinkling voices of the maids from her place on the balcony, their hands busy packing her things into trunks, “Some say they shed their skins at night for their true scales” The giggles were something the young Redwyne girl would miss in these moments.

“Gods can you imagine,” She could hear the deep laugh of the older maid, Meredyth, chortle, “Waking up next to one and seeing those slits of eyes, gods i'd be paralysed.”

“Oh, I’d scream the bloody keep down!” Tayra, one of her other maids gasped out loud with a ringing laugh, “Run for Visenya’s hill and walk on foot back here.” Their laughter was infectious, and she felt her chest rumble with amusement.

They never heard her coming as she rose from her hammock on the balcony, bare feet warm against the stone as she strode back into her chambers; the sheer curtains kissing her shoulders as she peeped back in with a smile.

“I’ve heard their hair is silver because once upon a time a dragon rider flew to the moon,” Her voice was a gentle tilt as she smirked softly, the maids turning with wide eyes as they listened to her, “And the gods decided to spin magic into the strands, blessing them for making the long journey.”

There was a pause as she stopped with a smile before the women in the room started laughing again, their laughter contagious as the winter fever as she settled on her day bed, body warm from outside with a content sigh; her fan doing little to cool the heat of outside.

“Now that’s a story,” Meredyth smirked, her hands busy folding one of her summer dresses, “Be sure to tell your silver prince that one, petal, you might just make him laugh for once.” She could only roll her eyes.

“Be nice,” She sighed softly, relaxing into the daybed, “I’m sure he’s not what the stories make him out to be, Meredyth.”

“I’ve heard he hides his eye because the other could turn someone to stone,” The youngest maid, Mara, tutted softly, “Careful, my lady, lest they ship you back here to be a pretty statue in the gardens” She could only smile softly at that.

“Really?” The Lady Redwyne smiled as Tayra piped up, “I’ve heard he’s a ferocious fighter, trained by a man from Dorne; but prettier than the rest of them” Tayra huffed with a smile as she was packing up the jewellery.

“The Targaryen’s are pretty…” Meredyth sighed wishfully, her smile was almost a smirk as she recalled something beyond their years, “I remember seeing Prince Aemon in my younger years, now that was a prince” She raised her eyebrows lustfully at the young girl.

“Was there ever a Targaryen that wasn’t pretty?” She could only tilt her head as she sighed out her question, her hand delicately moving her fan to keep her cool, “I’ve heard stories that they’re just born looking godly, it’s unfair really.”

“Isn’t he called one-eye?” Tayra stopped packing to ask with a furrowed brow, “Something about losing an eye at a young age?”

“Does it matter?” She sighed softly, her hand reaching for a glass of chilled fruit juice; the juicy peach taste coating her mouth delectably, “Tis only an eye, he seems like a strong man regardless if the stories are anything to go by.”

“Let’s hope he isn’t like the other prince~” Mara sang softly, “My sister told me, that someone who works there told her that the Keep is constantly having to find new maids because the older prince Aegon is too... Handsy” Mara received a smack from Meredyth at that.

“Don’t scare the girl, Mara” Meredyth hissed softly, her eyes looking at the young Redwyne as she lounged on the daybed; the beginning of her lip starting to worry with her teeth, “I’ve heard the two princes are completely different, Prince Aemond takes after his mother.”

Alicent Hightower.

She could scarcely remember the woman, but she remembers her father Otto visiting The Arbor some years ago for business; or friendship, her father was a funny man to understand sometimes so people visiting could never pinned for business or pleasure. But from what she understood, the Queen was devoted and tense, but a lady in every textbook definition of the word.

“Well, if he’s anything like the youngest, Daeron, I’m sure he’s a charmer” Tayra mentioned with a soft smirk towards the young girl.

“Isn’t the youngest more Hightower than Targaryen?” Mara raised an eyebrow at Tayra, her hand stopping folding nightgowns, “He’s been in Oldtown since he was a lad, has he not?”

“Does he have a dragon?” Meredyth rolled her eyes, the crow’s feet around her eyes smoothing out at she looked at her two younger maids with a look that said ‘tread carefully’.

“Well yes,” Tayra hummed, “A blue thing from what I’ve heard from the mainlanders, couldn’t tell you the name.”

“Then he’s a Targaryen,” Meredyth tilted her head for a second, “The royal family and their bloody… Lizards” She mumbled as she folded yet another gown

She could only repress a soft smirk at that, truthfully, she’d never imagined ever meeting a dragon – let alone marrying someone who had one, but she supposed that this was going to be her new life now. A princess of the Realm who shared a bed with a dragon rider.

“Do you think the prince will show you his dragon?” Mara asked innocently, “He rides Vhagar doesn’t he? The last of the big dragons or something...” Mara waved her hand like she was trying to recall some intricate title, but the little lady Redwyne could see the smirks forming on Tayra’s and Meredyth’s faces at her wordage.

“Oh, I’m sure that the prince will show her his dragon alright,” Tayra smirked lustfully, much to Mara’s shock whose jaw dropped; Meredyth cackling as she watched the two girls, “If you catch my drift.” Tayra winked at her.

“Tayra,” Mara screeched softly, her face aflame as she threw one of her rolled-up nightgowns at her, “Not in front of the Lady” Tayra reached over to swat her for that.

“It’s alright, Mara,” Her face was aflame much like Mara’s, the implications of Tayra’s words warming her cheeks more than the blistering sun outside, “You can speak freely, I must be prepared I guess.”

“Are you nervous?” Meredyth asked softly as she placed some of her gowns gently in the trunk, “Meeting the man you’re going to marry is no easy task, it’s okay if you are” She could have smiled at that.

Despite having four sisters of her blood, the little lady Redwyne was the youngest of the bunch, and by the time she had reached her moon’s blood; her sisters had been off into the world and married to various lords of the Realm. She rarely had women to counsel her and soothe her fears, her mother no longer with them, so she was thankful for her gaggle of maids; they took care of her like they were her blood.

Meredyth was the oldest of them all, a woman well into her fifties, who had served her family since she was a young girl; she had seen every side of her and her family, travelled with them everywhere, and took care of the young girl when her Septa’s could no longer handle her. She was less a mother figure and more an aunt, her tongue loose like she wasn’t serving a lord and his family, but her openness was welcome.

Tayra and Mara were her wards in a sense, she showed them the ropes of the house; made sure they did every task to her perfection but remained youthful and fun. She’d be damned if she saw their light go out despite their position. They were like the little Redwyne’s sisters in a sense, they joked and prodded each other like so, and made sure that she was never lonely in the large house.

So, she felt comfortable joking and gossiping with them like this, her oldest friends in a sense, there to soothe her worries about the new chapters in her life.

“Truthfully?” The young woman hummed softly, looking down into her glass of juice, “I’m terrified, being away from home… It’s an ache in my chest that I can’t seem to shake” She tutted softly, taking a sip.

Her eyes were cast out the open doors of her balcony; her room faced the cliffs that overlooks the crystal clear waters of the Arbor. The air a mix of salt and the waft of florals that kicked from the fruit fields.

“I’m not sure what scares me more,” She shrugged, “Not seeing this place for a while, or the fact that I am going to get married to a man I’ve never met.”

“It’s okay to be scared, petal” Meredyth sighed softly, dropping her folding to wander and sit on the edge of her daybed, her hand reaching and squeezing her knee through her dress, “No one expects you to just be completely okay with being sent to King’s Landing.” Her lips pursed at that.

“You won’t be alone,” Mara settled down on the ground in front of the day with a gentle smile, her hand reaching out to touch her arm, “Meredyth will be with you, and your father till the wedding is over…”

“Yes, I know…” She sighed placing her glass off to a side table, “But what if we do not get along, what if he hates me?” Her eyes were wide as she stared at the two of them scared as a lamb.

It was a possibility she had rolled around her head in the many days since her father had told her she was going to be married; the prospect of marriage was something she knew would happen but just not like this. She was well over-considered ‘of age’ but she never thought it would be to a prince of the Realm, she thought as the youngest she would marry a lord of the reach and that would be it.

She remembered her father’s face as she was summoned to his study, that afternoon he broke the news to her. The way he looked both overjoyed and hesitant to talk to her; she could tell as soon as she entered the sun-washed room that whatever he had to say, was going to change her life.

“Sit, my petal,” Runce Redwyne was weathered by the years as Lord of the Arbor; his once orange hair was faded to a grey, tufts of the burning stands still visible in the sun, and his face tense and aged from years of dealing with five daughters and no sons, “We must speak.”

She didn't look like him, the man cursed with no sons had also been cursed with five daughters that looked exactly like their mother.

He hadn’t been the same since her mother passed from what she heard, the spark for life he has was snuffed out as he became quieter and more reclusive in his older years. She had only been a babe when a striking fever took her mother, but the pain of losing her still wore on her father’s face.  

“What was so urgent that you called me away from my studies, father?” She had asked so softly as she sat in one of the chairs that he used for when he held meetings, the leather soft and worn as she played with a string on the arm, “Is everything alright?”

“My petal” His smile was reserved but still there as he spoke the news like he was granting her the greatest wish of all, “I’ve just had an interesting proposition from King’s Landing…”

The rest of that afternoon was a blur, from the shock of hearing that her father had found a marriage for her, to the even greater shock of finding out it was to a Dragon Prince of the Realm no less; she was practically a husk of a woman by the time she’d left his study. The blood rushing in her ears, and the fright of change grasping at her heart like death's cold hands.

Marrying a Lord of the Reach was one task, having to learn to tame a dragon was out of her reach.

Full thing coming soon....

[peggyao3]

Preyd

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x f!reader (reads like an ambiguous OC)

SUMMARY: Feyd calls his pet to his chambers for a monthly feast.

WORD COUNT: 2,259

TAGS: 18+, smut, graphic depiction of violence, she/her reader, AFAB reader, dubious consent, ambiguous relationship status, oral (f receiving), period oral ❗, period sex, blood play, knife “play”, blood kink, BITING, pain kink, vaginal sex, violence, sadomasochism, attempted murder, aftercare-ish (love that tag right after attempted murder)

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Cool air streams into Feyd’s chamber when the door opens at his command. The servants who bring the struggling woman don't need to knock. The increasing volume of her irate pleading out on the hallway has been caressing his ears for the past minute. He regards it as foreplay.

The woman's toes scrape over the stone tiles as she is delivered to him like a meal, but without a platter because a good meal is best devoured on the floor, with dirty teeth and fingers.

She is shoved into the room by rough hands which hastily retreat, bending and bowing to the Na-Baron who sits with his hands on his knees, a black smile already forming on his alabaster skull.

She stands on shaky legs, clutching the robes that still cloak her frame. Warm wetness already runs down her inner thigh. Red, not black.

“You left me waiting.”

“I can't exactly control when I start,” she snaps. The irate edge to her tone doesn't fool him. “My Lord,” she adds in a much more timid voice, head lowered so the hood of her cloak hides her trembling lips.

“I expected you two days ago.”

“Tssk. Forgive me.” Feyd's head tilts to the side and he stands up, striding over to the cloaked woman.

“You know I could keep you in a prison cell instead?” The calm control of his voice is a farce. In truth he is quaking with excitement, yearning to get under her skin.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“So, be a little more grateful.”

The Harkonnen heir's hand shoots forward and grasps her chin. He yanks her head up. The ferocious tug makes her hood fall off, revealing a head full of hair and glossy eyes that never stopped smoldering with a sliver of reckless defiance. 

Feyd squeezes her chin, squishing delicate flesh against easy to break bones. His fingers leave bruises as he slides his black tongue over her mouth, along the side of her nose, into the apple of her eye until she winces and forces the black appendage out by shutting her lids. His tongue wriggles through her lashes instead, wetting them with saliva that clings to the fine hair like inky tears.

Ruthlessly, he shoves her backwards with a force that could snap a neck. She stumbles and falls, landing hard on the bed. Feyd-Rautha leaps after her like she's a felled enemy in the ring and he is one stab away from victory. Strong hands half push up her robes, their warmth a stark contrast to their snow white hue, devoid of color like they are devoid or mercy.

She tries to push at his chest to hoist him off, but he catches her foot and bites her toe until she lets out a shrill scream. The robes fall over her bent thighs and pool around her hips. She is bare underneath, except for the blood that glistens on her center.

Inky eyes light up with nauseating joy as he admires the crimson landscape between her thighs. His outlandish pet is so colorful and full of life… Pale hands wrap around her thighs to part them. Her muscles flex, as if she could ever stop him from taking what he wants.

“Let me eat. I've been starving.”

“You are sickening.”

Feyd-Rautha's mouth descends between the woman's forcefully spread thighs and his tongue hotly slips through her folds, parting them effectively to get to the source of her heady lifeblood. She shivers, spine arching despite the revulsion she feels for him. Her fingers dig into the sheets - white, to mark the occasion. They will be stained red all over by the time her period is over.

Stubbornly, she stares at the ceiling, though in the long run her gaze can’t resist the twitching silhouette of pale, lithe muscles that shape Feyd’s shoulders and back. He produces sounds like a sloppy eater, like a panting beast whose teeth are tearing through a carcass, except that her flesh is lively and, unlike the carcass, highly receptive to both pleasure and pain.

She knows this is only the beginning. The easy part. When Feyd’s dark eyes lift to monitor her expression, she knows what he is about to do, yet he catches her by surprise. His teeth close around her clit and nip, forcing a squeak out of her mouth and a hand to shoot down and push against his skull.

Feyd feels virtually invigorated and laps at the swollen bud like a salivating dog until her body spasms and her nails dig into his scalp. Each clench of her walls offers him more sanguine fluid to drink.

His tongue returns to her slit while he stares at her disheveled face, eyes like black, bottomless pits, insatiable. She knows nothing she can give will ever be enough.

One might think a wet tongue on a bleeding center would make the area in question cleaner, but Feyd somehow makes a mess like a child with no table manners, smearing blood over her thighs and venus mound. It is almost like slaughtering his outlandish pet, but without the commitment. It makes his cock hard.

-

The treatment continues until the sheets are drenched in sweat and blood, until the woman’s thighs quake violently in the na-Baron’s wicked hold. She feels lightheaded and every touch to her overstimulated center burns almost like a whiplash. 

Feyd however is far from being done. He relishes how her flesh feels now that it’s hot and swollen and covered in bite marks all around her cunt. He is unable to tell if the blood that spills comes from her center or the searing wounds he’s caused with his voracious teeth.

Nails dig into his skull, leaving marks that bleed. A thin rivulet of black runs down his brow bone and seamlessly disappears in the corner of his eye. He only grins, bites harder where many old scars already adorn her flesh. His cock strains against the fabric of his trousers and his pelvis grinds against the mattress, dry-humping it, spurred by the taste of blood like a beast by the scent of pheromones. 

“Stop!” She pleads. “You greedy monster, stop stop stop!” But he doesn't listen.

He pretends not to see the way her hand slips into the pocket of her robe, producing a blade of shiny silver that finds a new home in Feyd-Rautha’s neck. Sweet pain radiates through his flesh and a moan comes out of his blood-smeared mouth.

His pet snarls and strains, fighting against the hand around her wrist that had stopped the lethal attack at the last second. The knife’s tip trembles in the na-Baron’s throat but then her fingers go slack, acknowledging defeat. Feyd takes hold of the blade and gingerly pulls it free, exhaling a soft moan.

Fascinated, he regards the black blood that decorates the tip of the blade. Rapt as he is, he has finally stopped assaulting her center with his greedy mouth. He is almost proud of her for the attempt, even if it was a pitiful one. His neck throbs where the blade had kissed his jugular.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear!” The pitiful would-be assassin hiccups, tears slipping down her temples. She clutches her robes to her heaving chest as if that could protect her fragile life.

“I should split your tongue.” Feyd-Rautha rises to his knees between her parted legs. Blood and slick have left a sanguine pattern on his face. Pensively, he twists the blade in the air so it catches the light. “Or maybe you should split mine? So I can make twice the mess of your cunt.”

“You are insane.”

“You brought the tool.” He laughs and offers the blade to her mouth. Panicky, she shakes her head, twisting it away and into the sheets with squinted eyes. “I want you to lick it. Taste my blood, pet.”

She refuses until he nudges the tip between her lips, drawing a droplet of blood. Quickly, she surrenders, opening her mouth like he wants though her brows remain pinched with fear. Feyd languidly slides the flat side of the blade over her pink tongue, sullying it with black.

“Swallow. And tell me how it tastes.”

She swallows, cringes and hesitates. “P-Potent, my Lord.”

Feyd-Rautha laughs and his free hand drops to his pelvis, unfastening the black fabric that has kept his manhood covered. Panic rises to her eyes, bigger panic than when she had feared she might die by his knife.

“Wait, n-no!”  He has never done this to her before.

“You’ve impressed me.”

The fabric is pushed down to his mid thighs. She has always feared his length and girth would be daunting, but the sight before her is as monstrous as the monster he is in flesh and in spirit. He lowers himself, hand wrapped around his shaft to nudge the thick head to her swollen entrance.

She raises her feet and plants them against his abdomen, pressing against adamantine flesh with all her strength but she doesn’t stand a chance. Feyd watches all hope go out in her eyes as her feet slip to the side and her knees fall against her cloaked chest.

A cage of white, wiry flesh leans over her. She smells her own heady blood on his face and cringes. It almost distracts her from the velvety flesh that presses against her cunt, still sopping wet with her own slick and blood and the na-Baron’s black saliva.

He breaches her, stretching her obscenely as inch after inch carves into her cunt. Black teeth are parted for a near-maniac grin as his virile length is massaged by snug, bloody walls.

She winces, shifting her hips to accommodate to the intrusion. It actually hurts less because he hasn’t marked her from the inside yet, so she is almost grateful for it. This way the sore marks on her inner thighs can rest.

Feyd shoves the final half of his cock inside with the force of a gut punch, knocking the air out her lungs with a pathetic yelp. He rolls his hips, grinning, getting comfortable inside her body. After only a few moments, he is comfortable enough and slams his pelvis down, grinding into her with short, hard thrusts that batter her cervix. Blood squelches wetly with every move.

She pushes at his chest but avoids his face, knowing her fingers would only end up between his teeth, bitten and bruised. A ferocious slam of Feyd’s hips makes her howl like a wolf. Reflexively, her hands shoot up to his pale throat, squashing his Adam’s apple under her palms. One fingernail digs into the wound on the side. A strangulated moan escapes the man’s throat, hips stuttering, lids fluttering.

The hand that isn’t busy supporting his weight offers the knife to her. “A second chance,” he rasps, eyes alight with madness. A thread of black drool dribbles off his lower lip and lands on her chin.

Shuddering, she accepts the offered weapon, holding it with a weak grip. Her worn-out body struggles to muster the strength, but she brings her arms around Feyd’s back, a wicked embrace. Aimlessly, the tip of the blade scrapes over his muscles as she tries to find two ribs between which to slot it.

“Higher. Or you’ll never hit the heart.”

“Why don’t you kill yourself then, if you’re so keen on it!” Furiously, she lashes out, but the blade only slips off a rib, leaving only a shallow cut on wiry flesh. Still, it stings beautifully and a small groan escapes him.

“A third chance, because I’m so generous.”

“Now you’re j-just being greedy.” She grits her teeth, tears wobbling on her waterline. His cock makes her sore from the inside and his hip bones dig into the marks on her inner thighs.

“I’m not greedy. I get everything I want. Again!”

A merciless thrust makes her cry out and it’s not very hard to lift the blade again and slam it down. This time, it finds its target, slipping beautifully between two ribs. The Harkonnen-heir roars out, black spittle spraying over her face as his features scrunch up and his hips slam down and stutter, nearly knocking her unconscious with his force.

Her hand weakly slips off the blade handle. She already knows she has missed any vital organs, or he would have stopped her.

His seed paints her cervix and even as his length begins to soften, it still feels like too much.

She doesn’t cum around his cock, but that’s alright. After half a dozen on his tongue, her body has nothing left to give except weak tremors and tears of relief when he finally pulls out. Black seed oozes out of her, mixing with red. She buries her face in her hands and rolls on her side, curling up. Fatigue makes her dizzy. The servants are going to have to carry her back to her chambers, she fears. Her shaky legs are incapacitated.

The wet sound of the knife being slipped out of his flesh nearly makes her retch, but even for that her body is too weak.

In awe, Feyd swipes black blood off the blade. The bed dips when he sits next to his astonishing pet. A throaty hum is all it takes to convince her to crawl into his lap, still curled up and shivering. He brings his bloodied fingers to her face, stroking it softly as she presses against his body for warmth.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she mumbles, on the brink of passing out. “Next time I’ll kill you better.”

A/N: If you had fun reading this, consider leaving a comment! ❤️ It would make me very happy!

[novaursa]

The Searing Flame (chapter in-between chapter)

- Summary: Aemond drags Grand Maester Orwlye to Aegon, so the maester can confess what he suggested to your mother.

- Paring: (wife) twin!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Note: This is the expansion of The Searing Flame, this chapter happens in-between the last chapter, after Orwlye suggests to Alicent that the reader should be moved into a separate chamber, away from Aegon, just before it continues with her recovery. For all the parts and more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 1 800+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The sharp scent of burnt flesh and incense still clings to the air in your chambers, a cruel reminder of the fires that raged at Rook's Rest. Your body lies motionless beside your twin, Aegon, as the weight of your shared injuries presses down on the room like a storm about to break. You sleep deeply once more, not out of peace but because your body is struggling to mend itself, trying desperately to pull you from the constant brink.

Aegon stirs beside you, every breath a reminder of his own pain. His body, though awake, is just as broken as yours—his skin still angry with burns, his mind haunted by what almost happened. His hand, heavy with exhaustion, reaches out, instinctively finding yours. The touch of your cool skin is the only thing that reassures him, the only thing that keeps him tethered to the moment.

The door slams open. Aemond strides in, his one good eye burning with fury, dragging the reluctant figure of Grand Maester Orwyle behind him. Aegon blinks, lifting his head slightly, a wince creasing his face as he tries to focus on his younger brother.

"Wake up, brother," Aemond hisses, a cold edge in his voice as he drags the Maester toward the bed. "Orwyle has something he needs to confess."

Aegon's brows furrow as he struggles to sit up, his body protesting with every movement. His hand instinctively tightens around yours, unwilling to let go, as if even in your sleep you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, barely more than a rasp. "What is it?"

Aemond pushes Orwyle forward with little gentleness, his face twisted in disgust. The Maester stumbles, looking down at his feet as though the stone floor might offer him some escape from the Targaryen fury bearing down on him.

"Tell him what you suggested to our mother," Aemond growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Orwyle glances nervously between the two brothers, his hands clasped in front of him, knuckles white. "I... I merely advised the Dowager Queen on... precautions," he begins, his voice shaking. "Queen Y/N... your sister... her condition—"

"Speak plainly, Maester," Aegon interrupts, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His grip on your hand tightens further, a desperate edge entering his gaze.

Orwyle swallows hard, his voice trembling. "I suggested to the Dowager Queen that it might be best if... if Y/N were moved to another chamber. Somewhere quieter. Away from the distractions and—"

"To what end?" Aegon snaps, his eyes widening in alarm, a sharp heat rising in his chest. The thought of you—his twin, his wife—being taken away from him, of your shared connection being severed, even temporarily, fills him with dread. He can feel the rage bubbling up inside him, twisting through the pain that already gnaws at his bones.

Orwyle hesitates, glancing nervously at Aemond, who stands like a viper ready to strike. "Her condition is delicate. I... I fear that... that Queen Y/N may not—"

"May not what?" Aegon growls, his voice more forceful now. "Finish your words, Maester."

Aemond steps forward, his voice a vicious whisper. "He told our mother that he thinks our sister will die." He spits the words as though they poison his tongue. "And he wants to hide her away in some dark room to wait for the end."

Aegon’s heart slams against his ribs, a mixture of panic and fury overwhelming him. His breathing becomes labored, his entire being rebelling against the very idea of losing you. "She will not die," he hisses through clenched teeth. "She is stronger than you think, stronger than any of you fools could imagine."

"Your Grace, please," Orwyle pleads, his voice faltering. "I only meant—"

"You meant to hide her away, to leave her to rot while she still breathes!" Aegon’s voice is almost a roar now, his body trembling with the effort it takes to keep himself upright. His eyes blaze with a fury that even the fires of Rook’s Rest could not diminish. "Fix her, Orwyle. Do whatever you must. You will not touch her again unless it is to heal her."

Aemond steps closer, his own anger radiating off him like heat from a dragon’s breath. "You will do as my brother says," he growls. "Or I will see to it personally that your head no longer sits on your shoulders."

The threat hangs heavy in the air, and Orwyle trembles, nodding rapidly. "Of course, Your Graces. I will— I will do everything within my power. I swear it."

"Then go," Aegon commands, his voice laced with barely controlled rage. "And remember, Maester, I will hold you accountable for every breath my sister takes from this moment on."

Orwyle quickly backs out of the room, bowing his head repeatedly as he escapes the tension that coils like a snake in the chamber. The door shuts behind him, leaving only the low crackle of the hearth and the heavy breathing of the brothers in the air.

Aegon leans back against the headboard, his gaze immediately falling to your still form. His fingers brush your pale cheek, as if willing you to wake, to open your eyes and tell him you’re still here with him.

"I won’t let them take you," he murmurs softly, his voice barely a whisper now that the storm has passed. "Not ever."

A harsh silence fills the chamber as Aegon’s hand remains on yours, his thumb absently stroking the back of it as if the rhythm alone could rouse you from the slumber that holds you captive this night. His eyes are locked on your face, every breath he takes more labored than the last. You are the mirror of him, always have been, and the thought of you slipping away into the abyss once more twists his insides into knots he can’t unravel.

Aemond lingers by the door, his shadow stretching long across the floor in the low light. He watches his brother, his good eye narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something that hovers between concern and frustration, though Aemond’s face is so often a mask, even Aegon struggles to know which.

"She will recover," Aegon mutters, as if speaking it aloud will make it true. His voice trembles slightly, though he tries to hide it. "She has to."

Aemond steps forward, moving closer to the bed, his boots softly scuffing the stone floor. "She’s strong, brother. But Maester Orwyle is a fool." His gaze shifts from your pale face to the burns still marking Aegon’s flesh. "You should be resting as well."

"I’ll rest when she wakes again and eats more," Aegon bites back, eyes flickering toward Aemond with a sharpness that cuts. "Until then, I’m not leaving her side."

Aemond exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders visible. He approaches the foot of the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, watching you closely. “I wouldn’t ask you to leave her, Aegon. I wouldn’t dare. But you have to consider the cost of pushing yourself too far."

"The cost?" Aegon scoffs, his voice brittle with disbelief. "The cost is losing her. My twin, my wife—" His voice cracks slightly, and he looks away, his jaw clenched tight. "How am I to consider anything else when she’s lying here like this?"

Aemond doesn’t immediately reply. He stares at the faint rise and fall of your chest, and a rare flicker of vulnerability passes through his eye. His hand moves to grip the hilt of his sword, as if anchoring himself. He’s seen you fight alongside Aegon in spirit and resolve, always his equal, always his mirror. To see you now—broken, vulnerable—is a sight he finds hard to bear.

"I’ll see to it Orwyle doesn’t get near her again," Aemond finally says, his voice quiet but firm, almost a vow. "But you need to trust she’ll fight her way back to you. She’s always been stronger than either of us."

Aegon lets out a soft, bitter laugh, more of a grunt than anything, though there’s no humor in it. His eyes never leave your face. “I can’t trust anything right now. Not the Maesters, not the healers. Not even the gods.” His voice turns raw, desperate. “I should have been able to protect her.”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening. “You weren’t the one who failed, Aegon. It was the dragons. The battlefield. We’re always at their mercy.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a truth neither of them can deny. The dragons, so often a symbol of their power, are just as much a source of their destruction. Even their might could not shield you from the flames of war. The thought gnaws at both of them, filling the room with a bitter silence.

Aegon leans forward, his forehead resting against your hand, as if drawing strength from the warmth of your skin. “If she dies,” he says softly, the words almost strangled by emotion, “I’ll have nothing left. She’s everything. My other half.”

Aemond watches his brother, a flicker of pain crossing his usually impassive features. He knows the bond the two of you share—he’s seen it since you were children, always two halves of the same soul, inseparable. It’s a bond that he, despite his own strengths, has never quite understood. He lingers at the edges of your twin connection, watching from the outside in.

“She won’t die, Aegon,” Aemond says quietly, his tone less harsh than before. “She’s a Targaryen. And you know as well as I do that Targaryens are not easily felled.”

There’s a pause, and Aegon finally lifts his head, his bloodshot eyes meeting Aemond’s. “Then you’ll help me ensure that,” he says, more a command than a request.

Aemond gives a single, sharp nod, his eye glinting in the dim light. “Of course.”

The room falls into a tense stillness again, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Aemond turns to leave, but he hesitates at the door, looking back one last time. His eye lingers on you, and for a moment, something softens in his gaze. A brief flicker of something unspoken, something he would never admit aloud. Perhaps it’s worry. Perhaps it's a regret that he can't do more. But then it’s gone, his mask slipping back into place as easily as ever.

"Rest when you can," Aemond says, his voice firm again, though not without a hint of concern. "Both of you."

Aegon doesn’t respond, his focus already back on you. He watches as Aemond slips out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving the chamber once again steeped in silence.

His hand returns to yours, his thumb brushing your skin with the same relentless, aching hope. He leans down, pressing his lips against your forehead, his voice a whisper against your skin.

“Don’t leave me, Y/N.”