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erinawritesheadcanons2 · 1 year ago

Note

Could I ask for either a poly or love triangle with the DreamTale twins? They’re my comfort characters and I’m not doing too well emotionally recently. Love what I’ve read of your work! Have a good day! <3

Nightmare Sans and Dream Sans Love Triangle Headcanons, Ink and Error Love Triangle, Underfell Sans and Underswap Sans Love Triangle

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A/N: Hello there @artsyfangirl! I hope you do not mind that I am adding Fell and Blueberry as well as Ink and Error. Just take it as a bonus for you since you don't really have a good day!

Warning: Cursing from Fell

Gender: Neutral

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Nightmare Sans and Dream Sans

Almost impossible because the two of them are different and we cannot forget that Dream Sans and Nightmare Sans would always fight with each other as Nightmare is the leader of Bad Sanses and Dream Sans is the leader of Star Sanses.

It is like a war because the two of them are going to end up fighting with each other despite the war between the Bad Sanses and the Star Sanses ended many years ago but it's not as aggressive between Ink and Error Sans

Dream Sans going to steal your attention by trying to make you laugh with his silly antics or his stupid but funny jokes as he would talk with you.

He would also try to steal your attention by giving small but meaningful gifts, something like little trinkets, keychains, or maybe a hand-made sweet ( I headcanon that Dream can bake).

And he would also always listen to you talking about anything even though he does not understand. He would try to understand them and give the response that you want but sometimes....it fails.

Unlike Dream, Nightmare is much less obvious when he tries to steal your attention away from Dream Sans. He would secretly tell you about all the bad things Dream did.

When Dream is not around, he keeps you in his room and not letting you go out but keeps you around as his tentacles would hold you. Sometimes, his words could make you turn red because he would whisper those 'You look dazzling my dear in this outfit but you look even more amazing if you don't wear them.' (AYO- WHAT THE FUCK)

Trying to impress you by showing you what Dream might not have but he has it (For example, if you love the library. He would allow you to read the books in there and he would be your tutor).

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The stars sparkle under the darkness of the sky and two creatures stand together to see all of the stars since the stars shine the brightest at twelve at midnight. A skeleton with a golden cape and light blue jacket standing close next to his crush. They/he/she has (H/C) hair colour with (H/L) hair length with a pair of mesmerizing (E/C) eye colours and (S/C) skin colour.

Using his powers and the staff he always brought around, he created a portal into the Outertale Universe, a place where the stars were brighter than ever, and dreams seemed to come to life. (Y/N) was completely captivated by the mesmerizing beauty of the Outertale Universe. The stars twinkled with an enchanting light, and the whole place exuded a sense of peace.

On the other realm were a pair of cyan eyes seeing the sight from the crystal ball. A skeleton with tentacles and goopy slime all over him watched his brother being romantic to (Y/N) from the shadows, jealousy brewing within him as he saw Dream Sans and (Y/N) together in the Outertale Universe.

It did not take much time for a dark and swirling portal to appear far away from where Dream Sans and (Y/N) stood together to enjoy the sight of the stars, and ominous black tentacles emerged. They snaked towards you, reaching out like a rubber band and wrapping around (Y/N).

The cold sensation around the waist made (Y/N) (L/N) gasps in aghast, horror, and surprise. It was tight enough so you could not escape from the grip but it was not hard enough to hurt you in any way since he did not want you to get hurt. Nightmare Sans, who had been lurking in the shadows, had seized this opportunity to snatch you away from Dream Sans

Dream Sans was taken aback, a mixture of shock and horror painted across his usually cheerful face. In the blink of an eye, the person with (H/C) hair colour and (S/C) skin colour was taken away from Dream Sans and Outertale, leaving him in a stupor. "Oh no! I should go to Nightmare's castle!" He pulled out the staff from his belt.

On the other side of the world, (Y/N) crosses her/his/their arms together and stares at the goopy skeleton with a black stare. You are clearly not amused by his little stunt. "What are you looking at, don't give me that look," Nightmare Sans rolls his pinpricks. "Really? Suddenly kidnapping me out of nowhere when I was hangout with Dream?" (Y/N) squints her/his/their eyes. "Ughh, what so great about Outertale? I can bring you there every day if you want. I could even bring you to a better place," Nightmare scoffs.

The battle between the two brothers raged on, neither willing to back down as they wanted your attention and no one else could have it. . As this pattern continued, (Y/N) grew increasingly not amused with Dream Sans and Nightmare Sans constantly kidnapping her/him/them out of nowhere.

The constant fighting between the two skeleton brothers had become more of a burden than a romantic pursuit, and they/she/he wished for a way to break free from this never-ending cycle. "You two really acting like five years old. I'm even more impressed nowadays kids seem to be more mature than you two," (Y/N) mutters.

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Ink Sans and Error Sans

If the love triangle between Nightmare and Dream Sans is already bad. Ink Sans and Error Sand would be much worse than those two because they would constantly FIGHT for your attention.

It is so bad that sometimes it feels like you could just take a chair and popcorn just to watch the drama between these two because they would fight for anything, not just your attention.

Ink Sans when trying to get your attention is by bringing you to the portal and showing you all of the beautiful Alternate Universes to impress you since he is the protector of Aus.

He would also just steal you away when you have free time to draw together with him. Sometimes, he would throw bits of compliments on your drawing, even if it was bad. He just likes your creativity.

He would also try to create something out of his paintbrush, small gifts maybe something adorable such as plushies and giving it to you to make you happy.

Error Sans is not as romantic as Ink Sans sadly so he had difficulty stealing your attention but I can see that he would bring you to some beautiful AUS despite him being an AU's destroyer, to watch the star.

Protects you from the other skeletons surprisingly and not letting anyone touch you, especially Ink Sans as he glares at the protector of AU's since he knows Ink also has a crush on you.

Also, he's a bit of a bully. To get your attention, he would make fun of you and give you tons or ridiculous nicknames just to piss you off and he's always amused each time you react to him.

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On the small beanbag inside of the living room, a person with (H/C) hair colour with (H/L) hair length and a pair of (E/C) eye colour as well as (S/C) skin colour sitting on it with books sprawled around the small chair. (Y/N) had been enjoying a peaceful afternoon, nestled comfortably in the bean bag. Their/her/his eyes scan every word of the book.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, the perfect ambience for your novel. You had just begun to immerse yourself in the world of words when, out of nowhere, a mysterious portal appeared in the corner of the room. The portal was glowing with the colour of the rainbow decorating it.

Startled by the sudden appearance of the portal, (Y/N) dropped their book, their heart racing. From the portal emerged the skeleton with a spot of ink on his cheek, a giant paintbrush on his back and a giant brown cape draped on his back. The protector of the multiverse as he would protect the universes from certain skeletons.

"Hey (Y/N)!" Ink said cheerfully, a wide smile on his face. "What are you doing?" "I was just reading, Ink. What's going on?" Still, a bit bewildered by the unexpected visit, (Y/N) stammered to Ink Sans. "Well, I had this idea for some collaborative drawing, and I thought, who better to join me than you? We could create something amazing together!" Ink's pinpricks twinkled in excitement.

(Y/N) was initially hesitant because the books that you had been reading had not finished and it was in the chapter where the main character faced their rival. But the idea of spending time drawing and the thought about the possibility of creating art together with Ink sounded fun too. "Sure, why not? Let's go," (Y/N) agreed with a smile.

With a bright smile, Ink Sans gestured for (Y/N) to follow him back through the portal and leave behind the book that (Y/N) still had not finished. But all of that excitement was gone as (Y/N) and Ink went inside the portal. Unsurprisingly, there is another guest who was not invited by Ink. "Oh no....you gotta be kidding me," Ink sighs.

The skeleton stepped off from the strings once he saw Ink and (Y/N) on the ground. The familiar black skeleton with a black coat, blue hood and black slippers strutted up to both Ink Sans and (Y/N). "iT HaS BeEn SuCh a LonG Time Isn'T it? bUddY?" A smug smile spread across his face. "Error, Leave us alone. You had already spent time with (Y/N) yesterday. Today is my turn," Ink Sans rolls his pinpricks. "NaAh. I Don't ThiNK sO," Another portal appears behind him.

Ink Sans quickly took the giant paintbrush from his back so he could create a shield for you but he was too late because the strings were wrapped on every one of your limbs. Error Sans created another portal of his own and, with (Y/N) wrapped on his strings, stepped into it, disappearing from Ink's realm.

You couldn't help but let out a sigh of frustration. Turning to Error Sans, he was smirking and holding you as if you were his captive. "Error, you know we spent time together yesterday. You could have given Ink a chance. This isn't fair to him," you scold him,your irritation was evident in your tone.

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Underfell Sans and Underswap Sans

A love triangle between Underfell Sans, You, and Underswap Sans might be a little ridiculous because it feels like you are taking care of a skeleton that acts like a golden retriever and also some kind of skeleton that acts like an emo with anger issues.

The other one is going to bully you just to get your attention and just to see your reaction and the other one is trying to hog all of your attention and will follow you everywhere.

Underswap Sans can be a little bit of an attention seeker because he would try to make tacos ( and end up burning all of them or using the wrong condiment and creating something inedible).

If you are busy, would give you that sad look on you before begging you to hang out with him and when Underfell was too late to ask you, he would secretly smirk.

He actually knows that he does look innocent and cute despite he hate of getting called cute but when Fell was angry at him and you saw him. He will use his cuteness to get you on his side.

Underfell Sans can be a bully just like Error Sans but a little bit worse because he won't just be calling you ridiculous names. He would make you dress up for a deal, make you watch a scary movie, and be a menace.

Not surprisingly he would bring you to Grillby's bar to hang out with you and surprisingly he asked Grilly to help him out. Even though, he would end up having more tabs. He would pay for your meals and drinks as he wants you to taste the monster food too.

Underfell Sans also steals your attention by playing games together with you. I believe he knows many great games and he always invites you to play a multiplayer game with him.

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The temperature of the kitchen is rising as the sun goes up in the middle of the day, a person with luscious (H/C) hair and striking (E/C) eyes sat in the kitchen, typing away on your computer. The soft glow of her screencast a warm, amber hue across your face, illuminating the (E/C) eye colours.

It had been a long day, and they/she/he was racing against the clock to finish the mountain of files that had been assigned to her/him/them by the old-bladed head manager. But it won't stop nature from doing its job as (Y/N)'s stomach chooses this inopportune moment to growl with hunger.

You could not help but let out a quiet sigh, torn between your desire for food or the commitment to completing the tasks that had piled up. (Y/N) knew that they/she/he couldn't afford to lose any more time, but the rumbling stomach seemed to have other plans. With a heavy heart, (Y/N) decided to take a brief break.

She/he/they stood up from the chair and stretched their/her/his tired limbs and (Y/N) knew a hungry tummy would only distract the process of working and finishing the papers. In the fridge, you found some leftover chicken and colourful bell peppers. It was the perfect opportunity to whip up something quick and satisfying.

Before (Y/N) could make something, you could hear someone scream, "Mwehehehee! The magnificent blue is here!" Startled, (Y/N) turns around to see Underswap Sans. "Oh, hey Blue. Do you need anything?" (Y/N) tilts their/her/his head a little bit in curiosity. "Human! I heard your stomach grumbling! It was quite loud, human! how 'bout I whip up some tasty tacos for you??" The skeleton asks.

(Y/N) couldn't help but glance up at the ceiling, remembering that the Jolly Skeleton wasn't the best cook. His previous attempt at making tacos had been a disaster, he managed to burn them, and then, in a whimsical attempt to salvage the situation, he had sprinkled glitter on the charred mess. (Y/N) had tried to be polite and take a bite, but it had been quite a horrible mistake.

As (Y/N) hesitated, contemplating whether to accept his offer or not, the door to the kitchen from the living room was suddenly slammed open, causing both Underswap Sans and (Y/N) to jump in surprise. Standing in the doorway was Underfell Sans. "Oi, loser, You said you're hungry? Why don't we get some grillby on the corner? The dumb baby tacos aren't edible for your intestine," Underfell Sans grumbled as he glanced at Underswap Sans.

(Y/N) felt relieved as Underfell Sans gave a solution or an easy way out of the situation. You didn't want to hurt Underswap Sans's feelings, but you also didn't want to endure another round of eating burnt glittery tacos. (Y/N) turned to Underswap Sans and gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks for the offer, Sans, but I think I'll go with Underfell Sans this time. I'm craving for French fries," You told him. "B-but those are unhealthy! They have so much grease!" Underswap Sans said.

Underswap Sans couldn't hide the disappointment that washed over him when (Y/N) rejected his offer. He let out a resigned sigh and watched as Underfell Sans escorted (Y/N) out of the kitchen. There was a pang of sadness in his eye sockets before his eyes shifted to Underfell Sans who silently glared at him, puffing his cheeks altogether.

He turned to look at Underfell, who was secretly smirking at him. Underfell was well aware that he had managed to steal (Y/N)'s attention away, and the competitive edge between the two skeletons continued to burn.

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the-fabled-void · 1 month ago

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Utmv incorrect quotes I made in 2019 but I tried to remove the unfunny ones - part 1?

Cross: Man fuck the world

Epic: *starts undressing*

Cross: What are you doing bro?

Epic: You're my world, bro

Cross: Bro

Epic: Bro

Error, to Ink: Fight me

Ink: Oka-

Error: *gets down on one knee* Fight me for the rest of our lives

Goth: Aren't we supposed to be at Life's place?

Reaper: NO! I'm an idiot! And idiots go whenever they want to!

(My dad said this)

Someone: Do you have a crush on anyone?

Nightmare: The forces of evil don't have time for romance, what kind of question is that?

Ink: I could strangle you

Error: You're not tall enough

Ink: You've sunk low enough for me to reach

Cashier: Do you want a receipt?

Sans: *pulls out a receipt* Do YOU?

Reaper: What do you normally do when I'm not home?

Geno: Wait for you to get back

Nightmare: Scientists say the world is made of protons, neutrons and electrons. They forgot morons

Lust: *sexually strokes wall until finding the light switch*

Horror: What a turn on

Nightmare: Get out

Cross: Why does everyone say get out when someone makes a pun? Don't get out, get in here and make more puns

Ink: I gotta stop telling people to fight me every 10 seconds because what if they do? I'm 4 feet what am I gonna do, hide in a vent?

Ink: *kicks the door open looking completely panicked*

Dream: What did you do??

Ink: Nobody died!!!!

Swap: What kind of answer is that??

Cross: *gives Ink a dictionary for his birthday*

Ink: Wow uh... I don't know what to say

Cross: That's why I bought you that book

#utmv #undertale au #incorrect quotes #sans au #Cross Sans #Epic Sans #Error Sans #Ink Sans #Goth Sans #Reaper Sans #Nightmare Sans #Classic Sans #Geno Sans #Dream Sans #Lust Sans #horror sans

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houseofhyde · 3 months ago

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v. another man's legacy

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, extended family drama, possible spoilers for events that take place in fire & blood! smut ( unprotected piv, creampie, [redacted]'s cum used as lube, fingering, exhibitionism? possibly? maybe? if you squint? ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 13k. hyde’s input. i ideally wanted this posted a week ago but i've unexpectedly had quite a busy month, sorry besties. lowkey hate how this turned out, wrote it in a rush, but hopefully you enjoy the chapter x ( if you see a typo, no you didn't )

another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october ) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The ravens are put to work.

Daybreak, nightfall. Sunrise, sundown. Highwinds, dry air. Blue sky, grey storms. Between man’s certainty of life and death, a new one arises: the promise of feathered wings flying high over the streets of King’s Landing. Dark wings, dark words — a phrase your late septa had sworn by, fear in her eyes everytime a bird dared arrive at Winterfell carrying a message — it does not ring true to the ink that fills the recent parchments.

The guardsmen saw me home safely through the southron sands, past the Stormlands, and alas, to King’s Landing. I pray for safety in your own travels.

You had written it in a hurry and sent it with even more haste, the innocent intentions of wishing well to a man bound to you in marriage. You had awaited no reply, in truth, yet when the raven perched itself upon your window sill at the Hour of the Wolf, you felt your heart try to flee out of your chest.

Whispers travel faster than ravens, I knew of your arrival already. It is good to read of it in your own hand. You need not fret on my safe-being, for I sit upon a mount from where no man may harm me.

No name, no signature. A rule unspoken yet well-kept. Should words be seen by unintended eyes, there is no space for errors, big nor small, for errors lead to questions, questions lead to answers, and answers lead to exposure.

It is truly a bore to attend courts as of late. No one lends me the privilege of a dance and, the few who do, seem to possess two left feet. I fear for the health of my toes, crushed under the weight of misplaced steps.

Your days in Dorne have come to mark a significant shift in your life, moulding you into a different version of a woman who always existed within you. You returned to the capital not only wearing a new dress, but a new attitude. A life divided by two key phases: Before Dorne, and After Dorne. And, yet, all that has truly changed in your life is this: the letters.

We danced this evening, when you visited my sleeping mind. Naked, sweet, pliant. It felt so real. I could taste you, smell you, feel you. I woke with a most horrible discomfort in my loins. You have ignited a longing in me befitting a petulant child, not a man of my class. How am I expected to live with never having you again?

There is a creature inside you that wishes to collect his words, like a crow collects a shiny trinket. Assign them a drawer at your bedside, a place for them to live near your resting head and hopefully whisper themselves into your dreams, the only lands you are able to get a glimpse of his blonde hair, and lean arms, and soft mouth. That would mean danger, however, a trail of evidence for someone to find. Each parchment lives on as nothing more than a pile of ash in your hearth.

There is rumour of Lohar’s death. Assassination, they say. It ripped apart the triarchy, half of them fighting, the other half fleeing. I must be honest when speaking on the swelling of my own pride. You not only heed my warnings, but also took my advice. Perhaps my next advice will be that you meet me beneath moon and sky, and let only our bodies and the gods bear witness to what we do.

Words grow bolder as minds grow desperate. You find yourself in a rut, counting days as if it does not add to your own torture. Insatiable, a term you have scarcely used to describe yourself in past times, yet it is all that feels adequate since that night upon foreign sheets. Your husband takes you, like a hound takes its bitch, and you welcome him. Close your eyes, picture that same silver hair, but another’s face, hands, voice. It ends how all couplings end between you — an unanswered prayer between your thighs, a bud on the permanent precipice of bursting into bloom, only for Aegon to rip it out by its roots and spill his own seed in its place. But for a moment, while his hips beat relentlessly against the swell of your arse and his nails dig crescents into your skin, you feel it: a subtle, low-burning pleasure. Not much, but enough, more than before.

Give me cause and I shall give you no rest, my Lady.

“Are you not enjoying the boar, wife?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts and brings your surroundings back into focus.

The King’s chambers, a table set for two, a handful of maids carrying pitchers of wine, and a nervous harpist, plucking a disjointed tune with shaky fingers. You pity the man. It is one thing to play to a court of dancing bodies and chattering mouths, it is another to play in the privacy of the King and Queen Consort as they dine in one another’s company.

You cough out a denial, shake your head as if to emphasise, “it is as tender today as it was yesterday, my King.”

“You’ve hardly touched it.”

“My thoughts feed me tonight.”

“Any that you care to share?”

No. “Of course,” Aemond takes the centre frame in your mind’s eye, not so much an image as he is a concept. You push him aside. “I attended this morning. Your dealings with the smallfolk, I watched from the balcony that sits over the throne room.”

“I saw,” he seems to light up as the topic is brought forth. Intrigued enough to lay down his cup and rest his forearms along the table, leaning closer as if awaiting some great secret to spill from your lips. You wonder if he would be half as amused if your mouth followed through on his unspoken request. “Well go on then! What did you think?”

“What did I… Think?” Your husband nods his head with enthusiasm, his unruly locks of hair shaking as he does so. It is hard to picture him any other way than this, unkept and unbothered, nothing like the rest of his Valyrian bloodline, with their meticulous braids and their well pampered image. Were it not for the striking colour that grows out his scalp, you would hardly believe Aegon is a Targaryen. His dark eyebrows shoot up expectantly. “You did well. You were cooperative and understanding. Just, too. No matter the personal issue they laid at your feet, you truly tried to solve things as best you could. You were… Aegon, you were kingly.”

“Do not sound so surprised,” rose tinted cheeks, a splash of bloodrush upon his soft skin. The wine must be getting to him and yet… And yet you wonder if it is something more, a rush of excitement at praise. He had never wanted this — the crown, the throne, you — until push came to shove and he felt the sweet weight of the Conqueror’s legacy rest upon his head and the grip of Blackfyre in his fist. Whether driven by ego or a genuine wish to do well by the people of his realm, Aegon has taken on his duties as of late with a grace no one, not even his own blood, had expected of him. A mess made in times of war, he spears ahead to clean up what rubble and ashes remain of the land. “I’m sure you’re wondering what prompted my invite to sup here, alone.”

“You are my husband, I am your wife. Who else would I share my meals with?”

“I am sure there are names ahead of mine on that list,” the smile he flashes is jaded. “Sometimes I worry you wish to forget our marriage.”

“Aegon, husband, I would never do such a thing.” And yet, you have. Naked in the Dornish heat, another name upon your tongue, another man inside your cunt.

“Leave us,” two words, enough to send the serving wenches out in a flurry of footsteps. The drag of a harp across the floor, loud and resounding as the musician slips his way out the room, closing the door behind himself. And then it is truly just the two of you, inspecting the other under a gaze cold enough it reminds you of the snow that falls over Winterfell. “The letter,” your heart leaps to your throat, blocking the space and robbing you of your breath. He knows, he knows, he knows. He knows of the letters, and the deceit, and all those complicated feelings you hold for- “That I sent to you during your time with my sister. I have not forgotten it. I expect you haven’t either.”

Air fills your lungs, your heart settles back down in the cage of your chest. The shake in your hand remains, and so you fill it with the weight of your other hand, clasp them both into stillness. “No.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll recall my mention of a chat we’re overdue. There is no time like the present,” the little of your dinner that sits in your stomach stirs. Flips. Threatens to claw its way back up and out of you, spill itself all over the table. That would not rouse any suspicion, surely. It would be a perfectly rational response to your husband, bound to you in cloth beneath the Seven, requesting to chat with you. Aegon continues, as if unaware or simply unbothered by the distress bursting out of your seams. “It is not lost on me, you know? The looks you cast my way, the disdain that has slowly wiped itself over our union, a permanent stain that hovers over every interaction we share. I believe it is time to admit to-”

The chamber doors burst open anew.

“Your grace,” Maester Orwyle, out of breath, sweat lining his brow, and his chain hanging heavy from his neck. Never has his face been such a welcomed sight.

“I believe I ordered that my wife and I be left alone.”

“Apologies, your grace, but this is a pressing matter,” the maester holds up a scrap of paper, the edges curling in on themselves. “I carry word from the Crown Prince, Aemond Targaryen.”

You sit up a little straighter at the mention of his name. Days of private correspondence, nights of fantasised meetings, you have forgotten just how commanding his name sounds when spoken aloud.

Aegon sinks deeper into his chair, a boredom taking over his features as he waves his hand, “well then, go on, spit it out!”

“Prince Aemond has requested the presence of all members of House Targaryen at Dragonstone,” his sandal-covered feet make gentle pitter-patter against the floor as he approaches the table, laying out the note for Aegon to grab at and inspect for himself. “The letter brings promise of an announcement from the prince.”

The great Targaryen dynasty.

Built on the ashes of burnt kingdoms and the man-shaped collateral damage of one family’s lust for control. Centuries of legacy, an infinite amount of tales that better fit the stuff of legends and scriptures. Lavish castles, luxurious clothing, Valyrian steel. A puritan bloodline, a family tree that circles itself. The smell of a dragon’s breath, the shine of silver-blessed hair. And this is what it has been reduced to.

Four dragons. Two crippled by war, wings with crooked bones and punctured skin. One a mere hatchling, no older than three, with a sickly pale colour and an unhealthy disposition that keeps it curled around its bonded rider’s shoulder, unwilling to stray far. And then there is the eldest of them, unchanged by the war, already well-versed in the age-old Targaryen tradition of burning enemies to a crisp.

The Martells are the first to arrive. A small boat, with a handful of guardsmen, two ladies in waiting, a wet nurse, Princess Helaena, and her two children. The Prince of Dorne has remained at the seat of his house, unwilling to leave it defenceless in the early hours of peace.

The Hightowers arrive next. Three great ships, stuffed to the brim with armed men, and mute maids, and shy squires. Amongst them, the lowly Garmund Hightower stands at command, but it is his wife who’s presence has truly been requested: Rhaena Targaryen. The last time you had seen her, no war had transpired and she had been betrothed to another. If only Aemond had not taken to the skies that fateful night…

Above the Hightower fleet, another representative of House Targaryen flies, sat atop the blue beauty, Tessarion, the left side of her still marred with scars and puncture wounds littering her left wing from the battles she had endured during the war of kin. Daeron had insisted she fly, however, having not taken to the skies in moons, since the wedding at Winterfell.

The Velaryons do not answer the summoning. It is said Baela Targaryen, infuriated at her cousin’s request, had to be shackled to her bedpost, ranting and raving threats of greeting Aemond Targaryen in Dragonstone — with a sword down his throat.

And then, at last, the King’s fleet arrives. An outlandish six ships, with more guards than dare fit on the island, enough chamber-maids to fill the Great Hall, and the main figureheads of the Green Council. Up above flies Sunfyre, a watchful eye amid the clouds, yet his back remains riderless. The King, instead, stands at your side aboard the ship, his mother and grandsire on the opposite end of him.

At last, you step foot on Dragonstone, and that is when you notice her.

Vhagar, a mass resting atop a hill, too large to nest within the caves, too lonesome to answer the call of her kind, the excited screeches taking place on sand as Tesarion and Sunfyre circle one another, jostling against the keepers who attempt to wrangle the pair into the mouth of a cave. You watch as the giant she-dragon merely lifts her head, peering at the antics, before laying back down, uninterested in the commotion of everyone’s arrival.

To tell the truth, you are not all that interested in greeting everyone either, too many heads bowing in your direction as you smile and exchange pleasantries by your husband’s side. The commotion of an extended bloodline retracing the halls of its ancestral home, unwanted as it may have been, only makes it all the more easy to slip away once you cross the threshold of the castle, however, letting your feet sneak off to your own private summoning.

Once you arrive, I recommend you find your way to the library. Alone.

The raven had arrived hours before you departed the capital, shaking out its feathers as you awoke from your slumber. You barely had the time to read over it once before the doors to your chambers came barreling open, an army of ladies waiting to grab all your loose threads and sort them back into place. Wash your hair, scrub your skin, rouge your lips. Tighten your bodice, clasp your necklace, rest the dainty tiara atop your head.

Running your thumb over the dried ink, you trace the words he wrote to you, before tucking the note safely back into the sleeve of your dress.

The library is miniscule in comparison to the one living within the Keep, yet it still manages to steal your breath away, stumbling through the door. Rows of dark oak bookcases, stuffed full of colourful, aged, leather-bound, cloth-bound spines of books. The smell of old, the smell of history, with a hint of spice and a flare of cinnamon. Candles with their wax melting into the surfaces they rest upon. Chairs, cushioned by green leather and detailed with dragon-like carvings. A table littered with scrolls, and ink, and feather quills, signs of life having been here. But no sign of Aemond Targaryen.

Boredom brings your feet to a halt within the row of bookcases furthest from the door, curiosity leads your hand to pulling at the spine of an aged book. Dragons: A Record of the Hatched. The smell of dust infects your nostrils as you flick through the wrinkled pages, from end to beginning.

Morning has yet to be listed. You let a few pages flick past, find yourself staring at the sketch of a familiar creature. Syrax. A splotch of ink covers the name of her rider. Turn to the next page, and there sits the Blood Wyrm, with Aemon Targaryen followed by a splotch of ink listed under his riders. Page after page, dragon after dragon, sketch after sketch, the names of the Black Council sit hidden behind stains of black ink.

An uneasy feeling stirs in your stomach and a sadness burns at your eyes, staring down at how easily their existences are being erased from history. How long, you wonder, until Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but the beggar Queen in a folk song, another name lost to time and another life lost to the throne? How long until the stories of the Black Council are more myth than fact?

How fickle of a thing, life. Order dictates that a name promises a legacy, a memory, a marking in a family tree to be listed until the end of time. And, yet, so easily man picks and chooses the scraps of history that will remain, when time has long passed and all who lived through it have perished back into the ground.

The sickening feeling wells inside you, uncomfortable and heavy, and so you turn another page, and another, and another, until you find yourself faced with Vhagar. The sketch does no justice to her sheer size, cramped within the page, but your eyes do not linger long enough to care. Instead, they are reading over the list of riders to find the one they seek. Aemond Targaryen. You lift a hand off the edge of the book, fingers skirting forward to trace over the lustrous A of his name.

The weight of the book shifts, resting carefully in the palm of your left hand, teetering on the edge of slipping, when something grabs at you. With a great smack, the book crashes to the floor, a cloud of dust bursting out as its pages snap shut. Arms wind around your waist, loose yet firm in their hold, and a spread of warmth blankets over your back.

“They just reached the crypts. We have less time than I had hoped.”

The voice is a whisper in your ear, a fleeting kiss against your neck, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Gentle, soothing, delicate. Something given only to you, meant only for you. It warms a chill within you, melts away the frost encasing your heart, heating you to the bone and soothing the uneasy feeling in your loins. It is the feeling of tired limbs sinking into soft sheets, it is the feeling of stepping through the familiar gates of Winterfell, it is the feeling of home. It is Aemond.

The arms that bind you to him pull a little tighter, a momentary rob of your breath. Your hands claw at his wrists, squeezing down to feel the firmness of bone beneath skin, skin beneath leather. No ink, no paper, no written promises. Tangible, tactile, sentient. Him, him, him. Firm at your back, calm in your heart, forgiving in your ear. Your tongue itches to tell him you have endured that longing, the very same he confessed to, head deep in his cups, mouth stained in the strawberry jam of your tarts.

“You erased them. Their names, they no longer exist,” the words are an accusation, your tone is not. It is just — sad, empty, disbelieving. The mourning of strangers, a family you met once upon a time, a table set in honour of a dying man, a family feud brushed falsely aside. Until the tension snapped, until Aemond raised his cup. Final tribute.

Final.

Tribute.

“Traitors have no place in our history,” fingers tug at the green velvet of your dress, moulding the golden stitching of a dragon out of shape. You resist his call to turn, not when his words feel so cold compared to his touch. “By order of the King.”

“They were your family, your blood,” you say, willing it to mean something, willing him to show a moment of vulnerability, like his confession amid tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets. A rusty chain in need of oiling, his remorse sits buried beneath layers of oxidised irony, a faux coldness the sorrowful look in his eye so often contradicts.

You turn, at your own will, and find that very look staring back at you. Momentarily, it bleeds with something, the sharpness in his stare softening as he takes in the features of your face, as if he needs reminding of how you look, to tune his imagination more deftly to your true image.

“They tried to kill you,” it is a whisper yet the prince almost seems to spit it out, as though it is a struggle to let the words form on his tongue, his eye widening as if the memories all come barreling in, the sight of blood on your skin, blood on your sleeping gown, coin beneath his table. “Do not ask me to mourn them.”

“And what of it, if I do ask it of you?” It is daring, to straighten your back and tighten your grip on his wrists, only to drop them and grab for his face, instead, as he tries to flee from your eyes. You hold him there, thumb smoothing over scarred cheek. “Would you mourn them?”

His mouth does not answer.

Instead, it kisses you.

Everything melts away under his lips, all thoughts, and questions, and pleadings. Words drift away, your mind rids itself of all the letters that do not belong to him. Aemond. Why would you ever need more than those six letters?

It is the seventh time the prince has joined his mouth to yours. You know this not because you have tried to keep count, but because each one is as striking as the last, as utterly world-bending, and fear-ending, and noteworthy.

There was the night in your chambers, from sudden kiss, to hesitant lips, to sinful tongues. Two nights later, the weight of Helaena’s teary eyes still heavy on your shoulders, you fell tangled amongst sheets with him once more. Breaths exchanged, whimpered names, a carnal hunger that only grew the more you both fed it. Twice, with no respite between, as the moon hung stars in the sky. And when the sun began to paint an orange hue, he woke you just to have you once more, eyes barely departing from sleep, bodies laying on their sides, a leg thrown over his waist, and a hand cradling your mouth against his own.

The last kiss had tasted of sorrow and longing. In the early hours of the morning, a flurry of soft knocks at a door opened to him, wide awake and dishevelled.

“I could not do it,” he had muttered, cradling you closer with each step he took into the room. “Not again.”

Though the matter of this it had never been clarified, you knew, you understood. You agreed. Not again could you see yourselves departed from another, without so much as a proper goodbye. Suddenly, that momentary longing you had to return to the Keep had been nothing but a bout of insanity, and all you wished was to fall asleep one more night in Dornish sheets. Instead, you would later count sheep whilst attempting to ignore the turning of wheels and the whinnying of tired horses.

That kiss came with no warning, his mouth on yours in one blink of a teary eye, and lingered longer than either of you dared acknowledge. Each time one seemed ready to let go, the other pulled closer, pressed harder, kissed deeper. An ending, no pause. No see you later, only goodbye. A picture-perfect ending to an affair already gone too far with, left behind by both of you as you raced to return to reality, abandoning the whispers, and the sighs, and the unspoken vows to bury themselves beneath layers of sand and silk.

But this kiss, the one that has your back pressed against the wooden bookshelves and all sense bleeding out of your ears and spilling onto stone floor, is no goodbye. It is hello. It is I missed you. It is welcome home.

It is a kiss for the simple sake of a kiss, like true lovers do, meant nothing more but to fulfil a craving for one another’s taste.

“You look lovely in green,” he brushes the compliment against your lips, eye slipping shut and unaware of how your own trace down the healing flesh atop his eyepatch, no sign of the thread of your dress still embedded in his skin. You should be happy he has healed up, yet there is a twist in your gut that longs for the return of something belonging to you being threaded into him, a physical marking of your place in his life, no matter how small a space it occupies. “Have I ever told you so?”

A sting in your eyes. You try to recollect the last time anyone had told you such a thing, paid you such an earnest compliment, and come up empty handed.

You shake your head.

“What a coward. I should have told you, everytime,” he gifts you an eighth kiss, a fleeting peck against your mouth, yet the tingly feeling lingers on, a reminder that he has touched you. “I thought it, each time I saw you wear it.” A ninth kiss. “Each time I saw you wear anything,” a tenth, eleventh, twelfth kiss. “Each time I saw you.”

“Aemond,” you pull back from him, in hope of remembering what you had been saying before he laid his mouth on you.

The brush of a hand up your thigh has you forgetting all over again, head falling back against the books with a gentle thud and a subtle sigh. If he notices the way your legs slip open with no resistance, or how the left one hooks itself so easily over his hip, the prince says nothing.

A trail of goosebumps, following the path of his palm up the length of your inner thigh, tugging at the layers of underclothing and smallclothes, meaningless scraps of cotton that only waste time.

Time.

“We don’t have much time,” you hate yourself for saying it, and even more when he reminds you of the bliss of his kiss down your neck. “You said it.”

“Then we make do and act with haste.”

It takes you longer to register what Aemond says than it does for his fingers to make good on his promise, slipping wordlessly beneath garments and meeting warm skin, wet skin, a buzzing bud of nerves that lives between the apex of your thighs.

In a pathetic display, a singular circular rub against you, followed by a gentle stroke between your lower lips, has you biting the inside of your cheek, noise stifled in the act. Satisfaction crosses through the prince’s eye, a quirk in the corner of his razor sharp lips. Teasing, playful, he is watching you writhe over his touch.

A harrowing memory dawns over you a moment too late, when Aemond has already gone and spoken his thoughts aloud.

“Eager, Lady Stark?” The tips of two fingers, long, and lithe, and a welcome intrusion in your cunt as the prince curls them, pressing against an eye-roll inducing spot within you. “Tell me, your grace, was it the taste of my tongue or the ludicrous act of sneaking off to meet me, under the very same roof as your husband, that has you soaking my fingers?”

Your lips part. You try to speak, no words are produced.

The prince must mistake it for bashfulness, a challenge to best, for he slowly thrusts his fingers, back and forth, brushing a little deeper each time, curling a little more sinfully against the soft walls of your core, the occasional brush of his thumb over the warmth of your pearl.

No longer biting your cheek, a traitor’s moan, gentile and heard only in the space between you, bursts out your mouth. You speak his name, trying to get the words right, trying to warn him of the unknown spoils he is knuckles-deep in.

Aemond mistakes it for just another call of pleasure.

And then, all by himself, the realisation seems to fall over him.

Hand slips out from under cotton smallclothes and green velvet, fingers that shine wet, shine white beneath candlelight. You stare at them in a mixture of horror, shame, and ruined dignity, apologies already rushing off your tongue before the prince can even speak a word of the seed that drips down his knuckles.

“Aegon, he- Gods, I am sorry,” his silent observation of the white fluid only makes your loins tangle in their own web, a twisted sickness creeping to the back of your throat, the blood draining from your face. “He insisted on coupling, this morning. I did not think-”

Your rambling is interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Aemond’s soiled fingers, thrust against your tongue and coating it in your husband’s flavour.

It should disgust you. It should bring a wave of shame, flooding over you and dragging you beneath its unforgiving surface, drowning you in its overwhelming currents. Remains of an act of marriage, mixed with the taste of your act of passion, and the taste of his skin, beneath it all.

But it is hard to feel shame, when Aemond looks at you with so much approval in his eye, when he’s feeding his fingers deeper, till they bump the palate of your mouth and trigger that teary-eyed effect you remember, all too well, from his chambers’ floor, your knees bruising into stone, his hips fighting against the urge to buck up into the warmth of your mouth.

“It seems I owe my brother some gratitude,” the clink of metal, a belt tugged loose. Somewhere, beneath where your eyes dare stray from his hypnotic gaze, his free hand works himself free from the confines of his breeches. Shooting under your skirts and dragging them up the length of your legs as you lick one last time at his fingers, watching how they slip out your mouth and shine once again beneath the candlelight. Not a trace of Aegon remains, except for between your thighs. “He’s gotten you prepared for me, whether he be so aware or not.”

With one leg hooked around his waist and the layers of your gown bunched around your own, the prince pins you between the bookcase and a hard place, a hard thing, notching at your centre and reminding you of the pleasures of the flesh, the pleasures of Aemond’s flesh.

With one roll, then a second, and a third, of his hips, the prince’s cock sinks slowly inside your cunt. There is a small ache, a sensitivity left behind by Aegon’s earlier frantic motions over the edge of a table, the corner of it digging into the meat of your thigh over, and over, and over again with each uncoordinated thrust. The wince escapes you before you can even try to correct it. The prince stills, instantly, a hand cupping at your cheek and a kiss pressing against the tip of your nose.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he whispers. Gentle, earnest, reassuring. Tears well at your eyes again, you try to blink them away, and scold yourself for getting so wet in the eye, so often. A tear escapes you regardless, charting its own course down your cheek. Aemond catches it with the tip of his tongue, warm against the cold of your face. “Tell me, it will not cause me anger. Tell me if you do not want this.”

Memories of those same words, that same voice, the same body. But a different room, a different position, a different state of undress. Naked, denial, hesitation, then. Clothed, touching, anticipation, now. The prince, buried deep inside you physically, is still giving you the option of an end, of an exit, of pushing him away and repositioning your clothing and leaving, like nothing has ever happened.

It only serves to reaffirm what you do want.

Him.

Somehow, the surety of this threatens a new wave of tears that you almost shed. You want to collapse into him, sink into the vessels of his arms, let yourself be lost to eternity within his hold. You want to tell him the truth, to tell him what Aegon had wanted of you in his letter, in his chambers, to tell him what Helaena had prophesied. The Stranger. The truth feels too complicated a thing, however, and the sin of lust is a more pleasurable subject to get lost within. You do not have much time, the prince would not wish to waste it on silly things, like feelings, and fears, and where your relationship with your husband stands.

The leg at his waist holds him closer, reaffirming your grip at the first sign of him stepping back. You don’t let him, won’t let him, “it’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t let me go.”

The prince proves he can listen well, no more questions falling from his lips, movement resuming in his hips. Slow, smooth, back and forth gyrations, a remedy to the dull ache below your womb, the lubrication of Aegon’s seed aiding in the slide of his cock within you.

A back that digs into the surface behind it, yet you ignore it in favour of the delightful thrill of Aemond working into you each time a little faster, a little harder, a little less restrained. A hand that finds cause amidst his Targaryen tresses, tangling in the locks as the prince’s forehead lays itself to rest upon your own. A set of mouths that hover inches apart, a single breath of air exchanged back and forth in sync with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Time. Time. You do not have much time.

But who is counting the seconds while the pair of you merge into one against the spines of books carrying the words of history? It is best it all be forgotten — the duty, the King, the announcement Aemond has promised his kin — in exchange for just another moment here, pressed one to the other, forgoing titles like Prince, and Queen, remembering only the shape of mouths, and the burn of skin.

The prince’s fingerprints carve out bruises along your thigh, gripping, and pulling, and kneading at the skin, a leverage to grasp onto as he continues to fuck into you. Sweat drips down your neck like wax drips down lit candles, disappearing beneath the lace atop your dress’ bodice and slipping between the valley of your breasts. Warm all over, you crave no refuge from it, from him, tugging him closer, arching your back, losing yourself in the feeling of friction. One foot still pressed to the floor, perching on your tip-toes, your composure buckles alongside your knee and, if not for Aemond’s fast-moving hands, quick-thinking mind, you would be moments away from crashing, elbow first, down to the floor.

Instead, you feel the prince hoist your leg around his waist, ankles locking behind his back with a reinforced grip as he takes on the weight of both your bodies. The effort he puts into fucking you manifests in a series of grunts, clenched teeth that hold back words, bite back filth.

One hand still tangled in his hair, the other stretches up, reaches behind you, scrambling to find purchase on a panel of wood from the bookcase. It finds, instead, the top of a book, slipping down its leather spine. The book falls, crashing to the ground near the one you had been reading with a great sound. A domino effect, in which two, three, four more heavy, bound by string and wrapped in leather, books fall from the shelves. Thud after thud, after thud, no doubt heard from anyone passing by.

The prince does not flee. If anything, he appears almost spurred on by the scandal and mess, a hand sliding from your waist to pull and bunch the layers of your dress higher, as if wishing to unveil to the naked eye the sins transpiring beneath the green of it, the repeated plunge of his manhood into your core, soaked in a vile mixture of your own pleasure and Aegon’s spend.

“This is what you wanted, hmm? What you needed, Lady Stark,” his voice is a whisper, his teeth biting at the lobe of your ear and pulling a shocked gasp from you. “To be filled by a man’s seed, the kind that knows how to get the job done. Not the King’s poor excuse. No. No, not Aegon’s. Mine.”

Time, and how little of it you both have, feels all the more unimportant, that familiar feeling — of everything warm, and soft, and delightful — begins to tighten at your loins, poking and proding at your dizzied conscious as you feel his cock bullying itself deeper, and deeper, impossibly deeper inside of you. The end is near, within your grasp, waiting for the right thrust, or the perfect grind, or the best friction, to finally let the thread snap.

A knock, loud and forceful, at the wooden doors to the library, is followed instantly by a voice. “Is someone in there?”

Movement stops, both of you frozen, bodies tangled in a crucifiable state.

The handle turns, you gasp, Aemond slaps a hand over your mouth.

For a moment, you feel a weight fall off your shoulders, that ever-looming fear you have dragged along with you — a ball and chain attached to your heart, ever since your return to the capital — that all your guilt sits written upon your face and, soon, someone will read it and see the treason you have committed, the adultery you have engaged in. For certain, they will have your head separated from the rest of you. Perhaps, the King will find enough grace in his heart to forgive his brother. After all, what blame does he truly possess? He is a man, unmarried and unburdened by the threat of a bastard’s life ever swelling within him. At the very least, you will die swiftly and be able to put all your lamenting to rest at last.

Then, the door fails to open and the prince’s voice is in your ear.

“I locked it. Do not worry.”

Mouth still covered, all you manage is to continue staring at him, eyes wide with fear, heart beating against the confines of your ribs. As if to worsen things, you watch as something flashes behind his eye, and he pulls his hips back only to thrust right back into you, the bookcase rattling softly behind you.

“Who goes there?” Aemond calls out, voice steady, unwavering. Even as he repeats the movement, the slow pull-back of his cock, the quick refilling of your core. “Announce your intentions to your prince.”

The golden handle goes still, a throat clears, and metal clinks, as if a knight were straightening his posture. “Forgive me, Prince Aemond, I did not mean to interrupt, I know how dedicated you are to your studies,” the voice is familiar, something that strikes deeper fear within you and more daring in Aemond’s features.

“Do you think he knows,” the prince croons against your skin, a sickly sweet, well-deep sound that entices you to throw yourself, head first, into it. The dull pleasure between your thighs is slowly rebuilding itself into something monstrous, something you lost sight of at the echo of knuckles on wood, with each thrust the prince drives into you. “Just how dedicated I am to studying you?”

“I was sent in pursuit of the queen,” the man at the door continues when he receives no word from Aemond. Your nails dig scratches into the bookcase. Your heart doubles, triples in speed with each beat it takes, yet you do not push Aemond away, you do not shake your head, you do not so much as move an inch away from him. Your ankles tighten their grip on one another at his back. “Have you seen her?”

Aemond nods, a cheeky grin taking shape upon those lips. As if staring right into your soul, the prince reads you effortlessly, watching as the seconds pass by and sanity slips surely out of your reach, the haze of lust fully overtaking the fear that fights against it.

Another book falls from the case. The man outside is too consumed by the sound of his own voice to notice. At least, you hope. “I’m her sworn shield, you see. Ser Arryk Carg-”

“Have you tried any of the guest chambers?” He cuts the knight off, confident in his words, as if he does not stand mere inches from your face, manhood buried to the hilt inside of you. “Perhaps Lady Stark grew tired of our Graces’ company and desired some much needed respite?”

With a rush of flustered agreements, and a couple of apologies, Ser Arryk clinks away, a mass of metal that grows further away with each step he takes. Not a moment too soon does he leave, for at last the tension snaps and you’re crying out into the prince’s palm, eyes rolling back into your skull as you reach your peak. He follows not long after, a series of grunts that follow the pistoning of his hips before he stills, as deep within you as either of your bodies allow, spilling himself inside your walls.

A few laboured breaths pass between the culmination of your coupling. Your feet meet the ground once more, the aid of Aemond’s hands guiding them down from their pedestal. Weak in the knees, you sink forward, sink into him, hands reaching for any inch of him. The prince meets you halfway, mouth finding your own once more, lips melting together in a fleeting kiss.

Time. You don’t have much time.

“Aemond,” you whisper, half to grab his attention, half to savour the shape of his name on your tongue. Now is the time to tell him, even if it is rushed out amid heavy breathing and on shaky legs. He needs to hear of it from you, before the threat of Aegon grabs ahold of him, thrusts the news upon him off-guard. “Aemond, there is something you must know-”

He cuts you off, a chaste kiss against your forehead before hands shift your weight backwards, resting you against the bookcase. The same hands adjust the skirts of your dress.

“Turn left down the hall and up the first staircase you see. There you shall find some guest rooms,” he steps back and takes the warmth of him too, leaving goose-skin to bloom along your neck as cold air bites at sweaty skin. “You will need to move with haste, before your sworn shield reaches that wing of the castle.”

The door to the library shuts gently at his back, and there the prince leaves you, chest heaving, lips parted, heart racing. An ache blooming between your legs and the stain of his seed sliding down your thigh.

The very same state Aegon had left you in, hours earlier.

Never has the castle been so full of life.

The flicker of candlelight brightens every hall, painting shadows over slate walls. Voices of men, women, and children carry through the space, ring through every corner. It reminds him, momentarily, of hosting an army of soldiers, mind dragging him back to the dark days and darker nights lived within Harrenhall, echoes of haunted shrieks and unpleasant sleep, men huddling under the crumbling ceiling, mere leagues away from the charred bones of a House that no longer stands. Beneath the molten breath of a dragon, it truly does not matter what name a man wears, he will never be Strong enough to endure the skin-splitting, blood-boiling, eye-popping heat.

In truth, Aemond loathes the sudden company.

Moons now he has lived at peace, Lord to the island and Prince of Dragonstone, waiting idly for the day to come where his duty as heir at last calls upon him. But then he just had to go and open that damned letter, answer a call that never should have been laid at his feet, and fly out to the dusty lands of Dorne. The new warmth in the air to blame for all his impropriety, landing him tangled with you in his own muddied desires. Since then, the prince has known no peace: his bed now too quiet, his castle now too empty, his… you now too far away.

The restlessness is what drove him to act, hours spent with his nose thrust between the pages of books, wrist cramping and fingers aching as they wielded a quill, delicate swirls filling empty pages. When he ran out of things to read, and history to recount before sending it off in ravens to the maesters at Oldtown, he took to the courtyard, determined to make men out of squawking squires, so puppy-eyed and pink-cheeked, they seemed to have hardly lived a day away from their mothers’ teats. And when that became a bore, a lost cause he dumped back on the shoulders of the master of arms, the prince took to exploring. A lonesome activity, peaceful enough to find an emblem of rest for his soul in the echo of his own footsteps bouncing off cave walls. It was there, deep in the dark corners of the island, he stumbled upon a discovery, a reason to call upon the King, an excuse to see your face. After all, where the King goes, the Queen is expected to follow.

Were matters left in his hands, the only raven sent would have been the one flying out to King’s Landing. Unfortunately, the rational words of a maester had him agreeing that this was too momentous a thing to not include all those of his bloodline, no matter if that blood be thick or thin.

And here he now stands, seeking out that quiet his castle had lost the moment their ships all docked ashore. Falsely, he had believed he would find it hidden away in the hall that houses the throne of Dragonstone, away from the rapidly filling dining hall. The unwelcome sight of a crown sitting lopsided on a head of silver hair halts his step.

“Tread carefully, brother,” Aemond watches how the other man’s shoulders rise with a jump, startled by the sudden sound of his voice announcing his arrival. No guards stand nearby, no guests watch on. It is just them, the King and the Crown Prince, and the heavy presence of Dragonstone’s seat, currently being warmed beneath Aegon’s rump. “Your throne is in King’s Landing. That one belongs to your heir, to me.”

Propped upon his throne, the King swings both legs over its side. Aemond ponders over the man’s distasteful care for grace, an image that so wholly encapsulates his attitude towards ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and feels himself fighting off a frown. How can it be that the gods chose Aegon to man the task of carrying on the dragon empire?

He, a drunken fool, a boy more interested in spreading a whore’s legs than a book’s pages. He, a graceless soldier, a threat to his own safety each time he wields a blade. He, a useless husband, a leech draining the life out of a wolf-pup, locking her away in a kennel with not a lick of water nor a stroke of affection.

Aemond could recite the pages of every book, back to front.

Aemond could thrust his sword through the chest of his uncle with one hand, while the other steered Vhagar free from plummeting through the surface of the God’s Eye.

Aemond would keep the wolf at his heel — morning, noon, evening — close by and content for eternity, free to roam beyond the four walls of a castle.

“Worry not, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping the seat warm.” As if to make matters worse, Aegon gives him one of those smiles, the kind that flashes half of his teeth and accentuates how foolish he looks, unkempt hair swaying as he rises off the seat. The crown slides a little closer to the left, his ear caught beneath the band of it.

“The others are taking their seats at the table,” he shifts his weight, one foot to another, one hand clasped over the other behind his back — just like your ankles had been. The pommel of his sword pokes out the opening of his leather coat, pointing ahead at an approaching Aegon. Strapped to his side for nothing but purely decorative reasons, the younger brother suddenly feels the hackles rising in his neck, a need to unsheath the steel itching at his palms. No one would have to know, no one would see him hold a blade to the King’s neck. “And here you are, hiding away in a damp room, sitting in my seat, and-”

“A seat I gave you,” Aegon cuts in, a smug lilt lifting his words and delivering them harshly into Aemond’s ears. Where the younger of the two delivers accusations with the seriousness they deserve, the older brother has always thrown a blanket of humour over every argument, debasing the sentiment, luring his opponent into a false sense of safety.

“You have no child to call heir. As the eldest of your male siblings, I am next in line, by right. You have given me nothing.” Nothing but a dull ache in the head.

That respite he had come searching for, now so out of reach. It has the prince longing, wishing he could travel back in time to being burrowed between the shelves of books and the warmth between your thighs. He should have stayed longer, kept the door locked and you close, for as long as you would allow him.

But he had been spooked.

First by your sworn shield, a confirmation that your absence had been noted and the two of you were far away from the lack of watchful eyes of the Water Gardens. Then, by that look that came over your face, the words that left your mouth. Hesitance, vulnerability, shame. Aemond, there is something you must know. If this something was the reason for your shift in demeanour, he did not want to know. For once, he wanted to taste just how sweet ignorance could be.

A laugh pulls him back to the present.

A cackle, in truth. Shoulders shaking, cheeks wrinkling with the stretch of Aegon’s lips, eyes reflecting the dull flames that remain on the candles. The King paints an unsettling image, the mixture of lighthearted laughter lit beneath the growing darkness of the hall, the echoes of noise bouncing off the walls, swirling atop Aemond’s head like a murder of crows, each one waiting to spot something shiny to dive down and peck at.

An arm is thrown over his shoulder, five tight fingers clamping a grip on the back of his neck. Can you feel your wife’s fingerprints, singed into the skin you are touching? His brother fortunately cannot hear his inner thoughts, too busy bending himself at an awkward angle, his shorter stature struggling to turn the prince towards the door.

“Lighten up, brother!” With a clenched fist, Aegon delivers a weightless punch into his bicep, the hand at his neck squeezing him even closer, the King’s chest pressing into the prince’s elbow. Reluctantly, he follows in the footsteps of the elder, letting himself be led over and out of the hall. The door thuds shut at their backs, neither of them sparing at it. Out in the hallway, the world seems brighter, louder, a distant hum of chattering voices coming from the left. In sync, uncomfortably close, the pair move towards the noise. “Is the lack of whores in this decrepit place leaving your cock so lonesome you now see it as a weapon? Say the word and I’ll have your favourite madame shipped over. Or better yet, come home. We’ll visit the streets together, just like when we were boys.”

Boys. The word makes Aemond feel sick, empty stomach twisting up inside him. His older brother had never grown out of that mindset — boyish, foolish, reckless. At times, Aemond had wondered if the King had robbed him of his boyhood, kept those years for himself and left the younger nothing but the misery of being a man — grown, wise, calculated.

Two sets of guards stand at either side of the double-doorway, swords hanging at their sides, armour fixed to each inch of skin, floor-length spears clenched in their right fists. One after the other, they bow their heads as the Targaryen men pass by them.

A table stands in the centre, set with the shiniest of tableware and topped by pitchers full of wines, meads, and baskets spilling fruits down their sides, and assortments of breads and cheeses. He counts a total of six birds, roasted and sitting on silver platters up the length of the table. In the very centre, an entire pig shines pink beneath the light, an apple clamped in its mouth and a bed of leaves cushioning it upon the platter. And, gathered around it all, any guest with a name worth mentioning.

Children, cousins, siblings, wives.

Martell, Hightower, Targaryen, Stark.

Across the room, standing at her husband’s side, with a stiff-lipped smile and a barely-there attempt at engaging with the woman dishing out congratulations, stands Rhaena Targaryen. Grown a head and a half taller since the cousins had last crossed paths all those years ago, sat around a table not so different from this one, her white curls cascade down the back of her black dress, denoted with the shine of red rubies and golden stitching. In a sea of Hightower green, she stands out like an aching thumb painted in colours of her dead queen. For her audacious bravery alone, Aemond feels a smirk twitch at the corner of his lips. It falters the moment you come into focus.

A vision wrapped in green, you stand before his cousin, smile a blinding light that pulls him into its vortex, numbing him to all else that surrounds him. The emerald gowns, the mustard robes, the golden chains, the auburn hairs, it all grows mute, a dull grey beside the colour you wear, possess, exude, a rainbow that strikes its mark across dark clouds.

Your lips are moving. You are talking, with both hands clasped at your front and fingers that fidget with the rings housed upon them. A pause in conversation, an exchange of laughter. There is an air of hesitance in everything you do, standing before Rhaena Targaryen and the small bump that protrudes out her midriff. The desire to swoop in by your side, to snake his hand into your own and give those nervous fingers a solid squeeze of reassurance, to watch the stress flood down the length of your spine and melt away to torment some other body, it burns at Aemond.

But, he does not move. He cannot move. And, even in a world where he can, he doubts his presence would do any good at diffusing the tension that swells in the air around his cousin. Quite the opposite, truly, his face alone may be what drives her to at last snap and drop the forced smiles.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Aegon’s voice cuts in, and the room bursts back into colour. The hall grows loud, a renewed noise the prince had unknowingly blocked out the moment his eye found you. The same eye he drags away to look at his brother who has just caught him unapologetically staring at you like you are the only person in the hall. Humour still dances over his features, a daring grin spread upon his mouth as he glances between you and Aemond. “She’s even prettier on her back,” the hand at Aemond’s neck slips down, a sharp smack delivering itself upon it. “Maybe someday I’ll let you try her, brother, let you get a taste of how it feels to be king for the night, between her thighs.”

Visions of you, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips dropped open, burn behind Aemond’s eyelid with each blink. In the library, legs clinging to him, sweat slipping under your dress. On the bed, bare to his mouth, hands tugging him deeper by the hair. If that is what it feels to be king, he can die happily without ever knowing the weight of the Conqueror’s crown upon his head, because how could that possibly feel better?

“I was not aware you were so fond of her,” he finds himself retorting, stealing any excuse to look at you.

Helaena has reached your side, one arm linked with yours, and he can see how visibly relaxed you are in her presence, shoulders back down where they belong instead of pointing up to your ears.

“Perhaps I was not. But let’s say I’ve had a revelation of sorts.”

“Oh,” the sound escapes him dripping in… something. Envy, disappointment, confusion? He hates to give his brother any chance to pry into his own mind, if ever Aegon possessed the wits to do so, and finds himself clearing his throat, fixing his neutral expression back on, reopening his mouth. “And what would that revelation be exactly?”

Both you and Helaena part from where his cousin stands, arms still linked and eyes too caught up with one another to notice the way you both almost smack into two members of the Kingsguard, Giggling, like two young girls who share the biggest secret, you make your ways further down the length of the table, searching for the little cards that hold your names, mark your place along the table. He itches to follow after you both, to pull back your chair and offer it out to you. Maybe he could even lie, switch your card around with his brother’s to have you just that little bit closer.

“That I enjoy being king. And I want to continue being one, for as long as I like,” the reply has Aemond’s head snapping immediately back to his brother. No longer is he painted like a fool with humour, but something different. Something Aemond has never seen reflected on his features. Determination, it almost seems. “I do not want to just be king. I want to be good at it,” he continues speaking, head turning to where their grandfather stands, smiling politely back at you as he pulls out your chair. “And, if I want to be a good king, I need to be a good husband.”

Aemond wishes he never inquired about the revelation.

Is this what you had wanted to tell him? Is this what he must know? That no longer are you a pair split in two, but a union. A united force. A marriage. A good husband, and a good wife, and absolutely no one else in between. Had the only reason you had even gone to the library been to put an end to the madness transpiring between you and the prince? Aemond had given you an out, but had he given you enough time to truly think your answer through, before he put his hands on you once more?

“I do appreciate all the… kindness you have shown my wife,” your name curls over Aegon’s tongue and the sound is a poison to Aemond’s ears. Wrong, out of place, he does not deserve the grace of speaking such a pretty name. “Over the years, dancing with her at feasts, and even keeping her safe on that boat up north. I think I’ll do those things myself from now on, however, take that burden of mine off your shoulders.”

He wants to protest. Wants to say you are far from a burden. Wants to insist on his usefulness, on how he can keep you blissfully busy upon the ballroom floor while Aegon sneaks off to mess around with women of coin and drown in his cups. Wants to use Aegon’s own words against him, that a King should not waste his time travelling sea, or dirt, or anywhere else you may be, when he has the skies at his disposal.

But his tongue is made of lead and he is too weak to speak, frozen as he watches you speak across the table to his mother. Suddenly, the fact that all but himself and the King have taken their seat strikes upon his conscience. That hand claps against his back again and, though it is weaker than the last, Aemond wavers under the impact, swaying slightly.

“Come, brother,” Aegon whispers, a chuckle sneaking out. “Let us sit. Your King is eager to hear what announcement you bring.”

Seventeen.

That is the number of times your eyes have betrayed you and turned to sneak a glance at him.

He crests the top of the table, sitting by himself and staring down at his summoned guests. Power suits him, especially the kind that rolls off him in waves, pride in his eye at the way everyone is looking at him, hanging on to every last one of his words, patient anticipation for the why and the what of Aemond’s ravens. He is close. Close enough you can swell the spiced freshness you have come to recognize on his skin. All that sits between you and the prince is Aegon.

Aegon, who currently has a mouthful of pork and a hand resting, possessive, at the back of your chair. It is a distracting fact. One that robs you of the ability to pay Helaena and your good-mother the attention they deserve, only half hearing their exchanges of mutual flattery, complimentary words on dresses, and hairs, and smoothness of skins. Every so often, a young girl tugs at Helaena’s sleeve, seeking her mother’s help with cutting the food on her plate.

Otto Hightower sits across from your husband, engrossed in conversation with his three grandsons and Ser Criston, who you barely recognize out of his armour. The hand’s pendant sits pinned to the leather jerkin he doubtlessly has borrowed.

Further down the table, guests sit entranced in their own bubbles of conversation, a hollow chatter that buzzes throughout the room. The table is no longer the picture of perfection it once had been, platters of half eaten carcasses, and stains of spilled wine, and sparse grape vines housed in empty fruit-bowls.

All it takes is the clink of a knife against a glass for the bubble to burst.

Silence befalls the table as every head turns towards Aemond, expectantly, only to find him frozen and with equal question in his eye. Down the other end of the table, someone clears their throat, a chair scrapes back, and Rhaena Targaryen stands up.

Her lips are stretched wide, so far up her cheeks you can almost hear the way her skin cracks under the pressure of it. You half expect the corners of her mouth to split open. She reaches a hand down towards the table and, where you think she is going to grab at her goblet, she reaches for an empty plate and a fork.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she calls out with not a hint of apology, smug satisfaction candying her voice. All eyes follow as she steps away from her seat, yet none seem as panicked as those of her husband, who borders somewhere between scolding her and dashing after her. He remains seated, however, as the Targaryen girl travels slowly up the length of the table, plate and fork gripped tightly in her hands. “But I cannot sit still with the joy this all brings me.”

Eighteen times now.

To unsuspecting eyes, you are certain the prince appears unbothered, unshaken. The way his finger twitches over the wood beneath it tells you a different tale.

It would be so easy to reach out and intertwine your hands. Just a simple stretch of your arm, you would not even have to scoot your chair closer. If only your husband were not between you, a boulder in the shape of a man unbothered by his cousin’s display, shovelling up another mouthful of food.

“To sit here, at this table, surrounded by so much… family,” Rhaena continues her advance, coming to a halt halfway up the table. Turning her attention towards the glistening pig — or, better said, what remains of it. With no apology, she squeezes a space for herself between two seated bodies, the subtle swell of her expectant womb bumping at the shoulder of a woman you scarcely recognise — a hightower, no doubt about it, wrapped in green and the emblem of their house denoted across her left breast. “Such a beautiful site we all make. Why, I wonder, has it taken us so long to gather like this?” She pauses, only a moment, and you watch how her piercing gaze zeroes in on the man who sits at the head of the table. “Ah, that’s right. The last family feast ended in fisticuffs and.. Strong accusations. But we were just children back then, weren’t we, cousins? We have grown. I do hope so, at least. It would be such a shame to learn there is still someone among us who cannot take a mere… Joke!”

A stomach-turning noise fills the hall as you watch Rhaena stab her fork into the pig’s eye.

The left eye.

Nineteen times. Aemond’s jaw sits impossibly clenched, so much that you fear for the survival of his teeth.

Back by the pig, Rhaena raises her fork to the air in a sickening toast, eye secure in its prongs as she smiles a little wider and loudly proclaims, “To House Targaryen! Long may she reign!”

Heads shift, back and forth, no hands moving for their cups until the King himself does so, laughter bubbling out of him followed by an obnoxious, “Hear, hear!” Within an instant, glasses rise and heads tilt back, welcoming the burn of wine down their throats.

Twenty, and you see that even Aemond follows suit, though his eye remains glued on Rhaena’s back as she carries herself triumphantly to her chair.

No sooner than she scrapes herself back into place, another clink rings out. Once again, all heads turn to the prince and, once again, he greets them with his own confusion. Close by, it is Daeron who’s legs stretch to a stand, hand clasping at a goblet.

With a clearing of his throat, the youngest of the siblings commences. “I hesitated on whether I wished to deliver this news at the table, however, cousin, you have inspired me.” Ever the polite man, it would not be hard to take his words towards Rhaena as true, as honest, as appreciative. The fierce loyalty that exists for his Green family, on the contrary, has you believing it is nothing but a means for peace at the table. “After the many happy years I have spent living in Oldtown, I have decided it is time I take my leave. It is time I return home,” he pauses, glancing over at his mother. “To King’s Landing. And, if the King finds place for me, I would like to do so as a knight of the Kingsguard, under the command of the very man who taught me to wield my first blade, Ser Criston Cole.”

Without a pause for silence, Aegon is shooting out of his chair and rounding the table, pulling his brother into his side and clapping a hand over his chest, “I’m sure I’ll find a space for you! Seven hells, we can hang one of the other six and have his armour melted down and reworked to fit you. Can’t we, Ser Criston? Pick amongst yourselves, whoever’s the weakest link.” There’s an eruption of laughter, and you take it as an excuse to sneak a twenty-first look. The doubt on his face matches your own, a worry that the poor fools at the table think the King speaks in jest.

Cups raised, wine sipped, seats refilled. Aegon returns to your side a ball of energy, hands fidgeting without control. First, one lands on your thigh closest to him and clamps down on the meat of it. The same hand shoots up, fingertips brushing over your cheek, tangling in a loose thread of hair and tucking it behind your ear, pulling a little tighter than you think he intends. At last, he returns it to the spot behind your chair, fingers drumming a nervous energy into the carved wood, and a third knife meets a glass.

This time, it is Aemond, and you have your twenty-second chance to look at him.

And keep looking at him, just like everyone else is, eager ears awaiting to hear what brings them all to the island.

“I will not waste your time with unnecessary words,” but you wish he would, if only to listen to the soothing lullaby of his voice enough to memorise it a little better, refine how your sleeping mind tries replicate it when you are drowning in the waters of dreams and his is the only face you want to conjure by your side. “I have already taken enough of your time, dragging you all out here.”

Pause for laughter. And for him to shoot a pointed look down the table at his cousin and her plate-full of pig’s eye. See, he seems to be saying, I can joke.

“It is no lie that our house is half of what it used to be. War is a god, however, and it demands a sacrifice in the shape of death. The dragons we lost are not a stain on our hands, but all of those who dared mount them with treacherous intentions.”

No sound has ever haunted you as deeply as the screech of a dying dragon.

It is a memory you do best to suppress, the screech of Helaena’s she-dragon struggling to escape her attackers, horrific shrieks carried from the Dragon Pit all the way up to your window at the Keep. The momentary burst of freedom, the flash of Dreamfyre rising out the crumbling roof of the Pit, only to crash back down in one final scream, the city turning silent moments after. Your good-sister had been inconsolable for days, a mess of tears, that bond between princess and beast lost forever to the rioting of smallfolk.

“But, we can rebuild what they took from us. That is what I wish to show you all,” Aemond continues. He nods his head towards a serving wench and, with a screech, the doors of the hall open, making way for two men, a heavy chest carried between them, and a man carrying the chain of a maester around his neck. The chest travels up the hall, all the way to the prince’s side, before coming to a rest gently on the floor. With ease, he twists a key, tugs off the lock, and throws the lid open, hands disappearing within. When they emerge, it is with an oval shaped rock in each one. No, not rocks. Eggs.

The maester at Aemond’s side holds out two more eggs. Each a different colour of scaly, rough surface. There is a golden one that reminds you of Sunfyre’s own scales. A black one that, as Aemond turns it in the light, undertones of a dark green shine through, and a pale lilac egg that appears near white. The most striking of the four — and the one you feel your eyes drawn to the moment it is unveiled — a bright, sapphire blue colour.

“A clutch of four,” he says, a look of pride on his face as he stares out at expressions of amazement. “I found them in the depths of the caves. Our maester has already confirmed to me they show promise of hatching, with time and patience. We will have a new generation of dragons.”

The first to move is Alicent, who rises out of her chair, hands clasped over her heart as she makes her way over to her son. Careful of the eggs in his hands, she wraps herself around his slim waist. “Aemond,” she speaks so softly, you doubt the other end of the table hears her. Hesitant fingers reach out, halting, only to let themselves brush down the length of the golden egg at the prince’s insistence. “This is wonderful news! You have… Oh, my sweet boy, you have saved us, ensuring the future of your house.”

Those words are enough to send the room into a ruckus of applause. Voices cheer, hands bang down on the table, cups are toasted and emptied. But you pay them no mind, not even a single glance over your shoulder.

All you care to look at is Aemond, and the earnest smile that takes over his face. Happiness looks good on him. It warms the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, the length of his neck, a rosy hue blooming beneath porcelain skin. He deserves to look like this all the time, radiant beneath the spotlight of people’s praise, the validation of being recognised for the things he does on behalf of his family. The rug is ripped from beneath his feet, however, with the clearing of a throat and a fourth clang of a knife.

Celebrations cease and chairs are refilled as their king comes to a stand.

“I’ve never been one for speeches. In truth, I find them to be a bore,” Aegon laughs at his own honesty, and the others are quick to follow. “But, listening to you all, well, it inspired me to give it a try. First, I want to thank all of you in this room. It’s no secret the trials and tribulations that have tested our family since my coronation. You, who fought for my claim, are the true heroes of our realm, and your king is proud of you all. If only my father were still here, I’m sure he’d feel the same, pride for those who defended the heir he chose with his dying breath,” a choked back laugh echos from down the table as Rhaena saws her steak knife through the eye. “If any doubt still remains towards my claim, I believe my dear brother’s discovery is a sign from the gods, the gift of more dragons. And, for that, I thank you, Aemond.”

“It is I who must thank you, brother,” the prince interrupts, eye looking just past where the King stands, cup in hand, and at where you sit, hand tugging at your husband’s sleeve and an unspoken pleading furrowing your brows. It seems I owe my brother some gratitude, Aemond’s voice replays in your mind, so real you can almost feel the shelves at your back, the smell of dust and books in the air, the sound of Ser Arryk knocking at the door. “For naming me as your heir and gifting me Dragonstone.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, brother. These dragon eggs are the dawn of a new era for us all, one of prosperity,” heads that nod in sync, radiant joy still beaming from Alicent’s face. The smile on Aemond’s face, however, is gone, stolen by Aegon. “But they are not the only gift the gods have favoured my reign with.”

The urge to drag your husband back down into his seat spikes at those words. You want to shovel food into his mouth, fill his stomach with wine, sew his lip shut. Anything, before he says something foolish, something he should not.

But as you tug harsher at the sleeve of his doublet, the King misunderstands. He turns to you, fingers twisting themselves in an uncomfortable grip with your own and pulling you to stand at his side, that same hand curling around your back and holding you tight against him.

“Apologies, it seems my wife wants to help me do the honours,” you shake your head, shooting Aegon a look he does not even notice, too busy smiling out at the table full of his family. Too busy pulling you that little closer, both of your sides smushed together. Too busy smoothing the hand that still houses his glass down the golden embroidery of your dress, an honour to his own dragon. Too busy bringing his hand to a stop atop your lower stomach, knuckles brushing against the green velvet. “After many years of marriage, the gods have at last blessed my wife’s womb with a child of our own. A new heir.”

If anyone cheers, if anyone raises their glass alongside the King, if anyone congratulates you, you do not hear them. You do not see them.

All you see is Aemond, frozen in his chair, face a mirror for anger, and white-knuckling his grip on his chalice, refusing to drink, refusing to toast.

Refusing to look anywhere else but your sorry eyes.

You send a letter, the eve of your return.

I did not wish for you to find out like that, from him. You must believe me.

By morning, no reply arrives. By noon, no reply arrives. By evening, no reply arrives. As a day turns to two, and two turns into a moon, no reply arrives.

The ravens no longer perch upon your window.

+ extra hyde !

this week, a new bombshell has entered the villa! so aegon bestie is trying to be a better king/husband. how are we feeling about that, chat? definitely don't see this being a point of contention.

in completely unrelated news, rumour has it that taste by sabrina carpenter can be heard on dragonstone at full volume, on repeat, 24/7. sources say the noise is coming from prince aemond targaryen's room.

my irl bestie is reading this fic on ao3 & now i'm so hyperaware of any smut i write. hopefully, i rectify my own apprehension towards writing the filth these two deserve in time for next chapter, because they're supposed to fuck, no more of the silly couplings they've done so far. thankfully my bestie and i are long distance right now so i won't have to look her in a the eye for a while.

see you next month <3

#aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell smut #house of the dragon smut #aemond targaryen x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen series #aemond targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction

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sillyunknownkitkat · 1 year ago

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hihi!! could i please request a ink sans x reader, in which the reader adores physical touch? tysm!!! Please take as much time as you need, and if you don't feel up to it, please ignore this!! <33

Ink Sans x clingy/touchy reader

[Btw sorry it's posted this late :( I hope you like it, tho!]

Now, we all know (I think) that Ink doesn't have any feelings of his own, he's has to take the vials to feel something right?

While I feel like he could be in a relationship, I hope you're not too sensitive because he doesn't actually love you because, you know, he literally can't feel any emotion

Also, I'm pretty sure that it's canon that he has a very bad memory (He doesn't have a soul, so he's just living). So he'll probably forget about you..

"But why would he ask me out then?" You may ask. Well, it's probably because someone in the Noot Noot gang (I stand by this name) or Error has a crush on you. He's just messing with them

Or maybe you belong to an Au where you being with him would create an unexpected reaction (at least to his eyes)

I have headcanons about the start sanses if you'd like more depth to this, but Blue will send reminder to Ink so he doesn't hurt you by forgetting you or something. He's definitely not happy that Ink is using you, but at the same time, he doesn't want to break your heart/soul by telling you the truth.

Dream probably avoids you. He doesn't know what to do, honestly.

Well, let's ACTUALLY start making headcanons for what you asked (after breaking you, lmao)

At first, he was really weird about it. He didn't get why you felt like you had to be glued to him to feel good, but after some recherches, (don't think I spelled that right but wtv) well more like after harrasing Blue about it, he understood. Well, no, not really, but he kinda gets the point

So when he's with you, he'll try to give you as much attention as he can. If he remembers you in the first place.

It goes from awkwardly patting you on the back to laying himself on top of you to clinging to you to the point that you can't move

Yeah... it's all or nothing with Ink, but hey! You got your touch (　＾∀＾)

No, but for real, you deserve way better, I'm sorry, but it is what it is

He's not a good guy, but it could be interesting to be friend with him if you do anything special around in the multiverse

Like he takes advantage of you, but I don't think it's that hard enough to take advantage of him either, actually

I'm so sorry for this, you waited so long and for what? Me telling you that it's pretty much impossible. (　ＴДＴ)

No, but for real, if you want to, I can explain why I feel that way about him, but like- I can't fake liking him 100%

I do think he's a really awesome character but he's not good per say (does this make any sense?)

Well I need sleep lol

Have a good day/night and again I'm so sorry for this garbage

#new writing blog #undertale headcanons #ink x reader #ink sans #ink sans x reader #undertale au #sans aus x reader #sans au x reader #sans au #undertale au x reader #kinda Ink slender I guess 🤷 sorry not sorry bb

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woaaahh-itz-caam · 19 days ago

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You people need to start TAKING MY WARNINGS SERIOUSLY!!! This is what happens when u let me yap!!

Anyways drops a shit ton of headcanons + random stuff and runs away :3

I actually think they fit the “fell first, fell harder” trope pretty well!! Nm’s first meeting with Error was probably just him sensing a lot of negativity from an au Error was wrecking and when bro walked in and saw that dude covered in dust and laughing like a maniac,,, yea he was into it.

Error DEFINITELY took his sweeeeeet time tho! I don’t blame him though, from his pov a random ass dude he didn’t gaf abt just randomly started stalking him and asking him to “make an alliance” with him out of the blue!! It was only when Nightmare stopped pestering him and just hanged out (crashing into error’s void ink and fresh style) that he actually started crushing <33

Very fun fact tho ERROR HAD LIKE ZERO IDEA HE WAS CRUSHING AT FIRST LMAO— Like man just thought he just REALLY liked being friend’s with Nm until he told geno and swap abt it and they just looked at him weird. Dudes had to SIT DOWN and break down the fact he MIGHT have a silly lil crush. Oh and btw error fucking crashed after that lmao

If u were to somehow manage to roll up one of Nightmare’s sleeves, UR GONNA FIND A FRIEND BRACELET!! (Blue string tied around his wrist in a very shitty and cheap looking way)

This “”””””””bracelet”””””””” is actually Nm’s way of letting Error know shit’s going down!! I personally hc that, since error can see through the eyes of the people he strings, he could prob feel through em when people pull em n stuff!! (LIKE SPIDERS!! SPIDER ERROR REAL!!!!)

So yea whenever Nm’s in DEEP shit, he just tugs tf out of his bracelet n uses his scary dog privileges LMAOO

They learned they both speak spanish by accident actually!! Nm was prob talking shit abt someone and a random “Maldito pendejo” slipped out and Error had to DOUBLE TAKE

They soooo gossip in spanish ALL THE TIMEEEE (Nm acts like he doesn’t care but he’s a gossiper on the inside im sure of it)

Nightmare prob has a whole ass wardrobe for all of the clothes and items Error has knitted him. Hats, scarves, sweaters, gloves, tiny little dolls of his peers and himself??? u name it, he has it!!

Error meanwhile, has a special place in his string web?? nest?? Big blue scramble thing- Where he keeps all of the wrappers of all the chocolates Nm has gifted him (gay people istg smh)

Nm’s sweater (the one he wears underneath that ugly ass hoodie lmao) is AAAALLL PATCHED UP BY OUR LORD AND SAVIOR ERROR!! Whenever he sees any of the bad sanses clothes laying around with a brand new rip or hole, he’ll just snatch it and returned it fixed. He swears he does it so that “the abominations don’t look like hobos” (funny for him to say that) but they all know its cuz he cares.. a lil.. just a tiny bit..

These bitches r SOOOOO DAMN CORNY!! not in public tho. They would rather die before even daring to SMILE at each other in front of other people.

Not gonna write more cuz i feel like alladat is enough Cam Yapping™️ for u guys today. i DO have more, as these two homosexuals live rent free in my head basically all day long, but ion wanna bother y’all further

Anyways yea moral of the story do NOT let cam yap. Like ever.

#This is exactly why i must NOT be taken out of my cage #Dramatic sigh.sfx #error sans #nightmare sans #errormare #darkchocolate

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wigglesworms · 10 days ago

Text

It somehow just occurred to me that I can make posts on here that aren't art and can just be rambles! Sooooo....

RANDOM SANS AU HEADCANON TIME!!! YAY SO FUN!!!

-Error is also a huge Spider-man fan and has a whole bunch of Spider-man merch and has definitely been Spider-man many times for Halloween

-Ink and Error are huge Muppet fans, and have both watched all the movies and shows multiple times

-Whenever Dust or Killer is near Horror, one or both of them are holding on to him in some way. Dust perfers to just kinda cling onto Horror, whether it be holding his arm or his hand, while Killer literally HANGS on him like a monkey on a branch (tho Killer doesn't hold onto Horror as much as Dust does). Horror doesn't mind them, tho

-Nightmare absolutely LOVES vampires like if they could be or be with a vampire they would do it in a HEARTBEAT. However, Nightmare does NOT like the Twilight series in the slightest because it: "Ruined the vampire romance genre in unspeakable ways."

-Cross also gets crushes WAY EASILY. It was really embarrassing when he was working with the Bad Guys and had a crush on Nightmare cause they all poked fun at him, but it was EVEN WORSE when he joined the Stars and got a crush on Dream cause Dream is just so oblivious and does things that just made it SO MUCH WORSE (both crushes were also unrequited tho T-T)

-Cross and Swap are workout buddies 100%

Anyway, that's all I got! Thanks for reading, and if you have any other ideas or things you want me to ramble about, don't be scared to tell me, I am at your service! (*^^*)

-After the truce Dream thought that it would be cute and funny to show My Little Pony to Nightmare cause it's one of their favorite shows (they also hoped that the lessons might rub off on Night). However, literally, within the first few minutes, Nightmare started to get angry cause Princess Luna was a little TOO similar to them, causing a whole rant of just "THIS STUPID HORSE STOLE MY WHOLE BRAND! MY STORY, MY NAME, EVEN MY AESTHETIC! MY LITTLE PONY? MORE LIKE, MY LIKE COPY CAT!" (Dream found this extremely funny and was dying on the floor)

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undertale-fic-librarby · 2 months ago

Note

Hey! Do you know any good Errormare fics? I know ‘Wayward’ and ‘At Their Mercy’, but I’m looking for more 👀

Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!

It's All Just Training, Right? by atomiCherry, Souldew_UT (Explicit, Complete)

Hopping from universe to universe after his own Anti-Void no longer suffices as a safe place from the chains of Fate, Error winds up in Nightmare’s Castle with none other than the God of Negativity himself, who’s far too pleased with the Destroyer’s presence. Unaware of Nightmare’s true intentions, Error finds himself taken aback by a suspicious yet remarkable deal that very few people have the courage to propose. It was meant to be a simple session, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but then the both of them find out that there might be more to their meeting than meets the eye… - updates every Tuesday and Friday

Catalyst for Concord by Somebody_OntheInternet (Mature, Incomplete)

“My ecto-o isn’t unsummoning.” He kept his gaze firmly locked on the carpet, refusing to look the other God in the eye. The tentacle in his grasp curled around his radius and ulna, and he squeezed it. There was an awful, crushing silence for a few moments, before his husband spoke: “…you don’t think..?” *----*----* After their mating cycles lined up, the "evil" Gods of Destruction and Negativity find themselves in quite the predicament. They must figure out how to balance their dangerous work with the task of ensuring their baby's development is healthy. That, and they have to ensure the Council does not find out. No matter what, Ink cannot find out.

Signed, Your Penpal by Hellsaint7w7 (General Audiences, Incomplete)

Geno and Nightmare fall in love through anonymous notes to each other and their love of books. But of course, Geno doesn’t stay Geno forever and Nightmare doesn’t handle it well.

Day 1: Teratophilia/Size Difference by Destiny_Of_A_Dragon (Explicit, Complete)

Nightmare feeds on too much Negativity and the only way Error can get them to calm down is by letting them use his body. Error felt Nightmare’s whole body shift and ripple— and couldn’t resist taking a peek over his shoulder again. The destructive Skeleton froze in a soulbeat, eye-lights shrinking as he saw the corrupted Guardian fumbling with their own pants, mind not stable enough yet to undo them properly. Eventually, the fabric tore— and Error’s eyes went wide as he saw what was underneath. S-stars, that was—! That was—! Nightmare was currently over twice his size and full to bursting with excess magic, but Error hadn’t really thought about what effect that might have on their ecto!

Chocolate Pampering by Souldew_UT (Mature, Complete)

Error succumbs to anxiously drown himself in chocolate - eating more and more every day than usual. He pays so much attention to the chocolate which eventually causes Nightmare to get stupidly jealous. Nightmare doesn't like sweets, but he likes to mess around with Error, so he takes all the chocolate away when Error is not present and hides it.

Thanks for the recommendation! The fics being recommended are…

Wayward by Queer_Sleep_Demon (Mature, Incomplete)

Error had always been in control of his teleporting abilities. He knew the ins and outs of world-hopping like the back of his hand. The joke was on him, though, because the multiverse didn't play by anybody's rules. An impulsive decision to teach Nightmare a lesson in respect went horribly wrong. As a result, Error and Nightmare become stranded in a foreign and hostile dimension. Finding a way out was easier said than done.

At Their Mercy by Devcipher (Teen And Up, Complete)

The multiverse had been perfectly balanced when the seven higher beings weaved it together. Through countless interferences, however, the balance has begun to tip, and stability is threatened. Fate's creation has been unresponsive to their warnings, and thus a solution must be made. While feuding with Destiny over a monster to be Ink's counterpart, Karma intervenes. Inspiration from Harrish6's Forced God of Destruction universe, but a unique alternate multiverse/universe of my own. Discord is constantly breaking the link for the ATM discord but: https://discord.gg/DgHWGnMNrs *EDIT: My server got raided twice please message me for a link lol* Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/devtemrys

Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!

#i've discovered that i can exclude specific ships when i'm searching #so these were significantly easier to find than the last time i tried #fic rec #fic recommendation #ao3 fic recs #utmv #error sans #nightmare sans #error x nightmare #errormare #not suitable for minors #ask #mod sleepy

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battlemaiden13 · 1 year ago

Note

I was just wondering what kind of drunks do you believe the skelebois are? Sad, happy, flirty etc-

Who are lightweights and aren’t- and how’d they act around their S/O while drunk-

Ah THIS IS IN MY NOTES! my note for my character sheets! As such I have an answer for all of the skeletons in HND. ehehe ok here we go!

Sans -A tired drunk who seems very relaxed. He is a pretty average drinker so not that hard to get drunk but knows his limits and is very open with his S/o while drunk.

Papyrus -It is almost impossible to get hum drunk but if it ever happens he is a clinger. He will latch onto someone and hug them for the rest of the night.

Red -Is a sad drunk and will often cry if he gets drunk enough. He's an above average drinker and knows his limits but by the time he's at that stage he can't bring himself to care. He will usually cry to his S/O.

Edge -Has a high alcohol tolerance and is a secret drunk. You won't be able to tell when he is drunk or not as he hides it very well. His Undyne swears she's never seen him drunk but his S/O knows because he compliments her more.

Blue -Is a perverted and flirty drunk. He is a pretty light drinker and is just very touchy with his S/O. His dom side defiantly comes out when he drinks.

Orange -Is a fun drunk, he jokes and laughs a lot. A very giggly and entertaining skeleton to watch when he drinks. He's not that much different with his S/o when he's like this. He has an average alcohol tolerance.

Berry -Is a sleepy drunk. He gets really quiet and tired and just wants to take a nap. He doesn't drink often but has a low tolerance. He's more likely to be asleep or curl up in a hug with his S/O just wanting to be near them.

Syrup -Is a pretty aggressive crush, he will often fight people and cling aggressively to his crush. He has a pretty high tolerance though and doesn't like to drink so it's unlikely to see him like this.

Axe -Is a tired drunk and seems very relaxed. His reflexes slow down even more and he has a great difficulty following along with conversations. He will often just stare at his S/o in bliss and sit in his drunk state. He has an average tolerance but for his size that's more alcohol than most can handle.

Crooks -He is almost impossible to get drunk and when he does he's a clinger. His back will be mad at him in the morning but he goes around and hugs literally everyone. Showering his S/o with kisses as he does.

Error -Can't get drunk on alcohol, he has experienced it with an electric magic surge that hit him once and he was just bit dizzy and giggly but that only happened once and he can't get drunk

Ink -alcohol doesn't effect him so he can't technically get drunk but he would mirror everyone around him and act drunk. He'd mirror his S/o the most though so whatever they are like he would act like.

Nightmare -If he's drunk he'll pass out could. It's almost instant, as soon as he hits that threshold he's just gone. Unconsciously his magic tentacles will grab his S/O and pull them close to insure they are safe if his S/O is close to him when he's passed out. He has an average tolerance.

Dream -Is a teasing drunk. He seems almost mean as he just says whats on his mind but he's also very giggly. He'll tease his S/o and try to get her to laugh. He has an average tolerance.

Killer -Is a tired drunk. He gets more sleepy then relaxed and goes into a disassociated state as his different personalities argue. He will just grab onto his S/o sleeve and stare into space. He has a lower alcohol tolerance.

Daydream -Is a flirty drunk and a pretty light weight. He also lets his perverted thoughts out so he can be pretty forward. His only goal is to make his S/o blush.

Mint -He blushes a lot when he's drunk. He has an average tolerance but when he does get drunk he can start to feel emotions again and it just messes with him a bit. The warm feeling in his chest irritates him and he wants his S/o close so he can protect them.

Mango -Is a complete lightweight but a calm drunk. He doesn't act much different other than his shyness disappears and he can hold conversations with people. With his S/O though he gets really loud and has no volume control.

Roulette -Is a teasing drunk with an average tolerance. He likes to laugh and make fun when he drinks in a friendly way. He teases his S/O a lot more with the goal to make you both laugh.

Sniper - He is almost impossible to get drunk but when he is drunk he is a clinger and excitable. He gets loud and just wants to talk and be with the people he cares about.

Colt - Is a sad drunk and will often cry when he drinks. He has a sweet spot though when he laughs and is really fun to be around and he knows exactly where his limit is.

Musket -Much like Edge he is a secret drunk. No one knows when he's drunk though even his S/O as he is pretty complimentary towards them normally. He has a high tolerance too.

Carbine -Flirty drunk with a lower tolerance. He gets a bit handsy with his S/o but will back down if they tell him too.

Rifle -Is a fun drunk he jokes and laughs a lot. A very giggly and entertaining skeleton to watch when he drinks. He's not that much different with his S/o when he's like this. He has an average alcohol tolerance.

Lust -Is an aggressively perverted drunk. He will flirt with anyone and everyone and it's clear just how horny he is. He's whining to his S/o a lot about exactly what he wants and is defiantly feeling them up. He has an average tolerance.

Charm -is a jovial drunk. He's just here to have a good time and loves telling stories. He's here to make sure that everyone is having a good time and will constantly be checking on people. He has a lower alcohol tolerance than average

Wine -He has a high alcohol tolerance and is an evil scheming drunk. Just doing things that mess with others, either for the drama or his own personal game or to entertain his S/O.

Coffee -He is a quiet drunk and often won't talk but will cling to his friend or S/o. He's also a tad scary, glaring at others who come near him and his friends. He has a surprisingly high tolerance.

Black -Is a tired drunk. He just wants to rest yet when he's drunk someone else is usually dragging him around. He has an average tolerance and wants to just go to sleep with his S/O.

Mutt -Is a flirty drunk with a low tolerance. He will flirt with anyone and with his southern drawl it packs a punch. He talks a lot more when he's drunk and will be very flirty with his S/o.

Vi -he's a ranting drunk. He will just rant about anything that's been irritating him and it's hard to get him to shut up. He has a pretty high tolerance and just want's to talk to his s/o.

Money -Doesn't drink. He is five years sober (narcotics) and probably could but he doesn't want to risk a relapse and will stay away from consuming alcohol. He's fine with others drinking around him though and is the designated driver.

#undertale #undertale headcannons #underfell #underswap #swapfell #fellswap #mafiatale #mafiaswap #swapfell kh #horrortale #mafiafell #outercodes #hnd #house next door #housenextdoor

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ancha-aus · 2 months ago

Text

RealAgeAU Drabble - Trial

I am back! With another drabble :D @spotaus are you ready friend :3

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

As always. No beta. We die in drabble land with these!

*------------------------------------*

Dust holds unto Nightmare as Error and Dream discuss how to easiest get to the realm of the gods. Something about needing a large enough portal but worrying about the traces that will leave.

Dust isn’t paying it much attention. Why would he when he is holding his baby?

Dust nuzzles Nightmare as Nightmare hums happily to lean into his hold. Very comfortable.

Cross hums “I am honestly shocked Ink didn’t have anything to say about the whole… us holding him and stuff. Normally people who we tell get hung up on that.”

Killer snorts “I don’t think we matter that much to him.” he nods to Ink and Dust follows his sights. Blue and Ink are talking and Ink seems to just be staring at Blue. Now that he thinks about it Ink hadn’t seemed willing to look away from Blue at all and- oh.

Dust tilts his skull “Since when does Ink have a crush on Blue?” he couldn’t remember ever noticing this behaviour in battle “Wait since when can Ink develop feelings without a soul.” Did he gain a soul somehow?

Horror shrugs “Not our problem.”

Killer nods “True! Just means he is willing to help because Blue wants it. Which works for us.”

Nightmare hums as he watches “Good for Blue. He has been interested in Ink for a long time now.”

Dust blinks and looks at Nightmare “You are six. How the hell do you know that for sure?”

Nightmare looks up and tilts his adorable little skull “I used to be an empath? Blue is not subtle with his feelings that he feels. Honestly how dream missed it for so long is what really confuses me.”

Dust hums as he watches the interaction. Yeah now he thinks about it it does make sense with how they acted before.

Cross pulls a face “Damn… Blue needs better taste in man.”

Killer laughs “For real.”

Dust shrugs “He is probably moronsexual.” Which just causes killer to laugh even more and lean against him.

Horror nods and speaks deadpan “A terrible loss. As no one can pick who they find attractive.” Killer gasps between his laughing as Dust just lets the other lean on him.

Nightmare leans a bit closer and pats Killer’s shoulder.

Killer keeps snickering but nuzzles Nightmare “I am okay… I am okay.” more chuckles sneak out.

At least they gods finally decide how they would get to the right realm.

One teleport later and they are in the realm of the gods.

And Dust must admit. It is fucking unreal to see the people you killed in another life as gods. Some very weird DeJa’Vu right there.

Those gods are staring at him. Mostly at Nightmare.

Dust pulls him closer and nuzzles the skull. Let them stare. He will fight all of them before ever letting Nightmare go.

Cross is shadowing him very closely and Killer walks by his side. Both pretty much having the ‘go not even fucking try’ vibe going on around them.

Dream keeps looking anxiously over his shoulder to check on Nightmare too. Blue pulls him along by his arm as Ink remains right by Blue’s side as well. Reaper is leading them through the area towards a large castle.

Dust frowns “What is it with gods and castles?”

Killer snorts “Think he is compensation for something?”

Dust snorts as Cross shoots Killer a glare “Not in front of Nightmare Kill!”

Horror chuckles “He has heard worse when he was an adult.”

Cross sputters “Doesn’t mean we have to continue making comments like it with him near!” he huffs.

Killer laughs.

Dust smiles along with their joking but can’t help but stay focussed on the looks thrown their way. Specifically at Nightmare. Dust rubs Nightmare’s back and spine and Nightmare just leans into his hold. Trusting him with everything that makes Nightmare him.

And Dust will not let anyone harm him ever again.

The rest of the walk is mostly silent but they get to this giant golden hall.

Reaper does most of the talking and Dust isn’t paying nearly enough attention. No the thing he pays attention to is his Nightmare holds unto him tighter. How Nightmare’s soul beat tries to speed up but Dust manages to coax it back to calming down again.

Dust pays attention again as the god version of Asgore speaks “I see.” he leans back “Very small domains compared to what you both did before. Strange choice.”

Dream looks mostly relaxed as he answers “Well it was a lot of pressure! We both want to take it easy and relax for a while. A long while.” And he smiles.

Asgore nods as he taps his chin. Dust can’t help but note he has the same tells as the Asgore he knew. The same behaviour and way of speech. Dust can tell Asgore is thinking about something else than what they are talking about. Asgore is looking thoughtful as he shoots Nightmare looks.

Dust remembers the story of the children and holds Nightmare closer.

Asgore smiles “Interesting that you made four acolytes! Quite the accomplishment.”

Nightmare shoots him a glance before pushing closer to Dust. Dust makes sure his arms are tightly locked around him. His body feels ready. His magic is ready. Dust isn’t even sure for what but Cross explained long ago that their powers work with their instincts.

If his instincts are telling him to be ready he will be ready.

Asgore nods “It can be rather disbalancing.” He looks proud of his word play “To suddenly find yourself weaker and without powers. Making acolytes as a good way to make defences but there are better options.” He smiles and waves a hand out “Your fellow gods!”

Killer snorts and crosses his arms “Nah. Dream already offered this idea but we got this.”

Dust just keeps watching Asgore.

Asgore frowns “You think you four mortals can raise a god? You are mistaken. The best for him would be to reunite with his fellow gods and remain here. Where others cannot easily reach.”

Killer growls but Dream is faster “No! He is happy and safe where he is! He doesn’t need protection from this realm.” He smiles nervously “this is just to make sure everyone knows his new role and position on it.” he smiles brightly. “With that done. It is best we leave again I think. We don’t want to overstay.”

Asgore frowns “It wasn’t arequest or question. He will remain here to relearn his powers the safe way. The way it is intended.”

Reaper frowns “asgore. He isn’t from this realm. You don’t get to decide this over him. This is beyond this universe-”

Asgore glares “I have decided.”

Dust glares and speaks calmly “If you try to steal him from me. I will kill you.”

Silence.

Every god in this hall is quiet.

Asgore laughs loudly “Oh such hubris. You give a mortal just a small powerboost and he thinks he can fight gods.”

Ink and Dream give each other nervous looks. They should know after all. That Dust was able to fight them long before he got this powerboost.

Dust just keeps staring at Asgore “I will kill you.” He turns to Cross “Cross?”

Cross knows and is by his side right away and he carefully hands Nightmare over to Cross. Nightmare takes atight hold on Cross but looks nervously back to Dust.

Dust looks at Cross “No one can get him.”

Cross grins and disappears from view.

Dust watches closely as Asgore sits up fully and looks around shocked. As Dust had thought. Cross’s invisibility isn’t as much just invisible but becoming fully unnoticeable from an outside force. Even the gods can’t locate him easily.

Asgore waves out a hand “find hi-”

Dust doesn’t wait and summons a blaster. Aimed at the king of gods.

Once again silence in the hall.

Dust glares “Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence.” He cracks his neck “You want him? either of them?” any of his family? “You will have to go through me first.”

Asgore just looks at the blaster curiously. Still looking bored before focussing on Dust himself. He smirks “Oh I see. You are his first picked acolyte. No wonder you feel as if you stand a chance. You amuse me mortal. Stand down and maybe you will still be allowed to visit your god.”

Dust makes the blaster load magic “Goodbye.” And he shoots.

Asgore sighs and dodges, clearly more out of amusement than actual worry. And the blast misses. That is okay. Dust hadn’t wanted to hit him right away, this is a warning shot.

The blast obliterates the crown and wall behind him. It keeps going and Dust can now see the sky through the other end of the tunnel of destroyed walls.

Asgore looks back before staring at Dust “You should not have been able to destroy that.”

Dust hums and readies another attack.

Something attacks him from the side but Horror is faster and blocks it with his axe before forcing the other god away with a quick move of his arm.

Horror huffs unimpressed as he is clearly ready.

Killer grins widely as he pulls out his knife “You are aware that we were the ones assisting Nightmare way back right? With almost daily fights against Dream, Blue and Ink? You know. Two being gods themselves? Back before we got our powers?” Killer grins widely and leans on Dust’s shoulders. “You really want to challenge our claim over our babybones?”

Asgore readies a bolt of lightning but an arrow hits his hand. Asgore glares over and Dream has another arrow aimed. Dream glares and doesn’t bother to say a word.

Asgore stops and sighs as he rubs his face “This is idiotic. Do you really want a multiple god fight?”

Dust huffs “Then we don’t do that. You vs me.” The implication of the end of the fight is implied. Not that Dust ever plans on honouring it. He fully trusts that if he is about to lose Killer will use his silver tongue to help cheat Dust to victory and Cross and Nightmare will escape with Error’s help.

Dust just needs to distract him.

Asgore frowns “And if you lose?”

Dust shrugs “You prove you would be better at protecting him.” Not that it would matter much.

Asgore laughs and looks amused “and if you win?”

Dust raises a brow “I prove that you are weaker and we are perfectly able to protect Nightmare.”

Not that the end conclusion will be different. The only honourable one amongst them is Cross and Cross is ready to cheat to protect those he cares about.

Asgore laughs and gets ready “Very well. Everyone. Step back.”

Dream shoots him a nervous look “Dust.”

Dust looks at Dream and winks with the eye not in view of Asgore. He glances at Error and dream seems to figure out the actual plan. He still looks unsure but nods and steps back “show him what for.”

Ink grins and cheers “Kick ass! I would be pissed if you can defeat me but not that guy!” he leans towards Blue “Hey Blue? Who was the big goat again and why is he important.”

Blue snorts and laughs as the other gods look insulted.

Dust grins. They should take Ink to places more often, the guy is a riot to have around. Dust walks forwards as the others back up to the side of the hall. Asgore looks smug as he readies his weapon.

Dust takes a deep breathe and lets it out. The electricity in his body and along his mana lines. It is still a lot but it will feel amazing to actually go all out in battle instead of the careful discharges he has done until now.

Asgore attacks with his trident and a bolt of lightning shoots out at him. Dust holds up a hand and lets the lightning strike him headon.

A moment passes. Then the charge turns from the bright cyan to a purple of his own magic as Dust takes the electricity offered to him and makes it his own.

Asgore looks shocked as Dust lets the tiny sparks of lightning go between his phalanges. Dust looks up and hums “spicy.” Then he puts his hand on his blaster. The blaster crackles with magic and electricity as Dust grins “My turn.”

The blaster shoots out the blast, now containing some of Asgore’s own magic and powers.

Asgore dodges again but the damage is much worse than his first blast did. Dust doesn’t bother to turn as he just turns his neck and skull to keep staring at Asgore “You were saying about us being too weak to take on gods?” his blaster loads another attack “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your bullshit.”

Asgore glares but seems to take him more seriously. Good. Dust hates it when others underestimate him.

Asgore throws more lightning and Dust just catches a few more bolts before taking the energy from those. Asgore frowns as he readies his own trident and blocks the blast send his way, even with blocking it still takes a chunk of his HP right out.

Asgore rushes him and Dust starts dodging the attacks. His body moves as he charges electricity to make sure to zap Asgore.

Dust smirks “Fascinating. Isn’t it? Aren’t you supposed to be like. The god of the sky or something? Shouldn’t you be able to handle electricity? Or.” He grabs his shoulders and channels the lightning right into Asgore. Electrocuting him “Or doesn’t lightning fall in your domain after all? just the sky that holds it? aren’t you mad about it? that a lowly mortal can so easily defeat you?” he makes sure to purr his sentence out. Rub extra salt into the wound.

He lets go of the giant and steps back to watch Asgore fall to his knees before him. His HP dangerously low. Dust readies a blaster and aims it at the so called king of gods “Done already?”

Asgore pants and glares at him but mumbles “fine… you win.”

Dust grins more “They can’t hear you…”

Asgore glares more but speaks louder with anger in his voice “Fine. You win. We. We won’t step in.”

Dust watches him before grinning “Much better.” he dispels his blaster and turns away. He hadn’t even needed to summon more than one blaster. Honestly why they called this guy the king of gods is beyond him. Nightmare could have defeated him back when he was still goop.

He joins his mates sides and Killer shoots him a look as he leans close “You look so hot when you fight. I barely could stop myself from throwing myself before you.” he has a grin on his face.

Dust raises a brow “Maybe at home.” For now he looks around and Cross appears. Cross has his own slight blush on his face as he hands Nightmare back before invading Dust’s personal space with a happy hum. Cross nuzzles Dust’s skull and neck with a happy hum.

He whispers “Killer is right… you are so hot when putting people in their place.”

Dust is starting to see a very fun evening ahead of him. A glance at Horror confirms he is three for three and Dust is even more impatient to get home.

Nightmare just looks at him with a grin “Knew you would defeat him easily.”

Error and Reaper talk a bit with Asgore and Dust can see Blue lean closer to Dream in shock “That is acolyte power?”

Dream shrugs “Apparently? I never met an acolyte before. I don’t know their rules.”

Ink meanwhile has wandered over to the destroyed walls as he picks up pieces to look at them. He grins back at Dream and Blue and rushes over before blabbering about how he could use this material and texture for stuff and if he can take it along. Blue shrugs while Dream laughs and tells him to ask the other gods. Ink cheerfully skips over to another god, who backs up from the skeleton, and asks them about the properties and if he can take a piece.

Huh.

Seems like Dust made quite the name for them. Especially with the only other skeletons they know to be gods of dead.

Dust probably made skeletons seem like terrifying creatures at this point. Which honestly? Probably for the best.

They end up leaving soon after. They are offered a meal but they politely decline. Mostly because they promised Life that they would join her for dinner after this trip.

They are walking back towards the spot to make the first one of a series of teleports as Dust hums “that could have gone better.”

Killer laughs “What? Could have finished it in one move or something?”

Dust nudges him “Not that. This was supposed to be a visit to get good standing with them and reintroduce Nightmare. I don’t think that all went well.” He just… the idea of these stupid gods who never helped Nightmare and never supported him taking him away from them? Dust got pissed.

Reaper shrugs “euh. It is fine. You proved that you won’t get scared away by anything and that you got the power to back you up.”

Dream looks worried “It is really fine? They won’t be a problem with Fate or Balance?”

Reaper nods “I am very sure it is safe. They will all prefer to seem like they supported you from the start over admitting you defeated them.”

Error nods “Those gods are obsessed with seeming perfect. They will just say how they were worried you would not be able to handle it and that they tested you. That they went easy to get an idea for your power. That you proved yourself worthy to defend Nightmare.”

Killer frowns “And Fate and Balance will be chill with it?”

Ink shrugs “Not exactly? But they will act that they are and not interfere… They like to appear put together and seem like they know everything. If they admit they didn’t see this coming they will have to admit they are not all knowing and they don’t like that.”

Reaper points at Ink “What he said. They know they won’t be able to just force Nightmare to change domains now without making a mess of a lot of things. And with you guys being more powerful than they probably expected they will be more nervous about stepping in. Even getting hurt or any of you getting one good hit will be a bad look on either of them because they are supposed to be untouchable.” Reaper grins “And you four already proved you aren’t afraid to go on the attack and you won’t be intimidated.”

Cross looks nervous “They already know?”

Dream shakes his skull “Not yet. But this information will spread. And eventually reach them. By then everyone will know about Nightmare’s new role and about what happened. They will be too late to force a change.”

Killer grins “So we are good right? it is over? We will be left alone now?” he looks hopeful.

Reaper shrugs “probably? We can only wait and see.”

Dream nods “I think it is looking good so far! They let me alone as soon as it became obvious everyone knew. I am very hopeful for this.”

Dust hopes it really is that easy.

They get to Life’s domain and are welcomed to the table which is covered with all kinds of delicious food. Dust relaxes in the safe area and helps Nightmare select some things to eat.

The meeting with reasonable well. Now there is just one meeting left to do and get over with. At least that should not get as aggressive. The council is never known to throw punches before talking after all.

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#utmv #realageau #nightmare sans #deaged nightmare #dust sans #killer sans #cross sans #horror sans #reaper sans #dream sans #ink sans #blue sans #error sans #reapertale asgore #The gang is so big!#I think i got everyone lmao #More importantly.#Why would anyone expect dust not to be able to thrown down with gods?#This guy figured out there is some time traveling anomoly controlling the human vessel (the player) and is like.#Bet. I can 1v1 that.#and proceeds to get the power needed (by ambush because he couldn't win 1v1 first) and actually manages #he manages to BREAK the players will.#sure it sucks he got stuck in a dead au all alone. but also. doesn't change the fact he did it.#and then later after joining the gang (fanon) he fights either ink god of creation #or dream. god of balance (positive emotions)#and he manages.#and only AFTER ALL OF THAT #he got another powerboost.#Dude is a one man army/super weapon.#but he prefer to take naps and help his child with his homework.

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