#but its a bond nonetheless

[whatev-i-guess]

Ghost never shows many emotions. But whenever Johnny is around you can see a glance in his eyes. A bit of amusement, happiness, almost. Whenever Johnny is around he likes to tell jokes, knowing that Soap will laugh about them even if no one else does.

Whenever Johnny is around his eyes follow his movements, blurring out most of their surroundings. Because his Sergeant is captivating. Almost making him forget to breathe sometimes.

Whenever Johnny is around he yearns for a secluded moment of safety to hug him and say thank you. Thank you for making me feel human again.

[timetravelstudies]

ok ill just say this i was one of the “girls” salò shit was being done to in ms like straight up movie style psychological torture type bullying and tbf i dont tend to use the phrase “female camraderie” in general or esp about myself since im a man now. but if you asked me if I’ve experienced it i would say yes for instance in the countless intimate hushed conversation in bedrooms ive had with cis, straight women (same type of girl that was torturing me in ms) bonding over shared madness inducing experiences such as being in extremely abusive relationships with men. So i wouldnt jump the gun on that one. But whatever

[dirtytransmasc]

just like... a thought, not necessarily an original one, but one that's chewing at my brain like a rabid dog.

Ed sustaining a fatal injury on the field, and Roy being with him, knowing that this son will die, and he might lose the other too, and he can't be with both, that he might lose both of them and he never even got a chance to truly hug his youngest.

like, if he has the chance, he makes a desperate call to whoever is the closest to Al, begging them to find him, to stay with him, to tell him that he loves him because he can't.

he's already watching one son die, feels him dying in his arms, and his mind is on his other son, who's probably feeling the soul bond getting weaker and weaker, who probably knows his brother is dead/dying, who's just a scared little kid and he can't be there with him.

its even better(?)(in my own sick and twisted mind) if he has enough time to get to a phone himself (maybe a hospital) so he can watch his son die and be on the phone with another, trying to comfort both as they slip right through his fingers...

I'll be quiet now, I feel like i've said enough

[tara-the-star]

how are zahra and jun doing this fine day?

jun invited zahra to watch inside out 2 and zahra confessed to never having seen the first one so theyre currently watching the first movie together while jun yaps about the psychological accuracy of the movie ("its a children's movie, can you shut the fuck up" zahra said once. jun 100% ignored her)

[cryptidcurrencies]

Little sister saves tiktoks to show me when we see each other and I save Tumblr shit posts to show her

[tarotsoul]

ghost in the wind — part three

summary: as feelings progress and truths unfold, you're left with a decision that could end your entire existence as you know it. the mother has a path for every soul, perhaps this was where yours was supposed to end.

warnings: swearing, mentions and brief descriptions of sexual abuse, consensual sexual themes, mentions of death and suicide.

word count: 5.8k

series masterlist

Feyre Archeron could never begin to imagine the pain and horror her older cousin had faced in the mortal lands. Rhysand hadn’t shared that image, hadn’t shared the memories he’d witnessed when he took some of that pain away from you. 

She didn’t need her mate to share those visuals. Not when she felt every ounce of anguish through their bond. And every day since then, she had not been able to forget it. 

Another two weeks had passed since your arrival, three in total of your being in the Night Court, and you were finally beginning to work through your trauma. 

The offer had been there to find your own place of residence, to have that independence if you so wished. But after speaking with Feyre and Rhysand, after learning it was in fact Nesta who had imposed the leave Y/N be rule… you realised just how much you loved living in the House with your family. 

Your friends. 

So when you’d finally accepted Mor’s desperate pleas to take you shopping and fill your empty wardrobe…

“You’re going to need another dresser.” 

You blinked, taking in the mess around you. Your entire closet was stuffed to the brim with dresses, blouses, sweaters, coats…

And the pile on your bed…there was no chance of those articles of clothing fitting in the closet too. Nesta was right, you definitely needed another dresser. 

“Rhys is going to lose his shit when he finds out how much we spent.” 

Your eyes widened at Nesta’s words, not quite picking up the teasing tone she spoke in. Mor shot her a look and threw a sweater at her face. 

“She’s kidding,” Mor reassured. “My dear cousin has more money than sense. This won’t have even made a dent in his wealth.” 

A relief, but that guilt began to creep its way into the pit of your stomach nonetheless. You were ashamed to admit that while you had fun shopping with Mor and your cousin, you hadn’t even taken a moment to realise how much everything had cost. 

Nesta threw herself onto your bed, right on top of the throng of clothes you needed to find a place for. “I’m thinking we raid Rhys’ wine cellar tonight…”

A gleaming smile radiated off Mor’s face in agreeance and they both turned to you with upraised brows, expectant. 

You pursed your lips, an apologetic smile on your face. “I told Rhys and Feyre that I’d babysit Nyx tonight.” 

Nesta huffed and threw herself back on the mattress again, clothes bouncing and crinkling as she did so. Mor raised another brow, as if that wasn’t a good enough excuse. 

“So? I’ve gotten drunk while watching Nyx loads of times.” 

Nesta seethed at her. “One, that’s my nephew and I never want to hear you doing that again. And two, Y/N’s tolerance to alcohol won’t be as strong as ours. Two glasses and she’d be borderline incapacitated.”

Despite the slight insult, a laugh bubbled up your throat at just how right she was. Because you’d never even drank a sip of wine in your life, and Nesta knew that. 

“I’m surprised you don’t have plans with Azriel…” 

Mor was prying, you knew that. But you had no control over the heat that made its way across your neck and face. 

“We’re just friends.” It wasn’t a lie. You’d spent a lot of time together the past couple of weeks, and he was one of the only people you felt truly comfortable around. 

Mor gave you a knowing look. “Mhm, tell that to his shadows.” 

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nesta scoffed, sitting up again. “Az’s shadows are basically an extension of himself.”

Mor hummed. “They don’t do anything unless Azriel commands it. Or sometimes, they’ll do something based on his emotions or thoughts. They’re so friendly with you because Azriel likes you.” 

Your cheeks burned. You hadn’t realised his shadows touching you was a product of Azriel’s emotions. And the more you thought about it, there hadn’t been a time since you met him that they hadn’t touched you in some way. 

You didn’t say that, though. No. Azriel clearly had no qualms about other people noticing, but that did not mean you were willing to gossip about it. 

You did not need to allow silly fantasies to root their way in your mind. Azriel was your friend. And you were okay with him only wanting you as such. 

Within an hour, Mor had disappeared to tend to her own duties and just as Nesta was about to leave for hers, she grabbed your wrist and motioned for you to look at her. 

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

She didn’t need to say anything more. Those words were enough—more than enough. She saw you, she recognised everything you had been through and everything you did every day to overcome it. 

I’m proud of you. 

The last and only person to have ever told you that was your mother. 

And because you saw her too, because you remembered fhe young mortal woman she was before her own struggles of turning Fae and adjusting to her new lifestyle, you found yourself saying, “I’m proud of you, too, Ness.”

Nyx had been wonderful to look after that night. 

You’d gotten all the cuddles and boyish giggles, the beautiful little smiles and a few stinky diapers to go with it. You loved every moment with the little babe, and when Rhys and Feyre returned from their night off early in the morning, you offered to sit with him again whenever they needed it. 

But despite how fulfilling and wonderful it had been, it had also hurt. You wondered if you’d ever be blessed with the opportunity to carry and birth your own child. Wondered if you’d ever even find someone to want you in that way. 

Especially within Prythian. 

It was another late night for you, though your reading sessions had taken you from the lounge to the library. And you no longer spent them alone. 

Azriel sat on the couch opposite you, his nose deep in a book as you watched him. In the past week, you’d spent a lot of time together. It ranged from walks into the city to sitting and reading in the library until early hours of the morning. 

You’d grown accustomed to his presence, his scent often able to calm any anxiety or qualms you felt. He had noticed, of course, he wasn’t a Spymaster for nothing. But Azriel did not mention the change in you whenever he was around. 

He basked in it, in the way you appeared so much more comfortable with him. You weren’t afraid to speak up, to ask questions or acknowledge whatever was on your mind. 

You were coming out of your shell and it warmed Azriel’s heart to know that he was somewhat of the cause for it. 

“What does salacious mean?”

Azriel blinked repeatedly as your voice broke him from his thoughts. Salacious? His throat tightened. You’d often ask for definitions of things you were unsure on, sometimes even asking how to pronounce words you had never come across. 

But salacious? 

“Are you reading Nesta’s romance novels?” He quirked a brow. 

Your lips involuntarily pouted at him, your own brows furrowing just slightly as you rested the open book back into your blanket-covered lap. “Yes. Why?”

Anxiety creeped its way into your stomach, rooting deep into your flesh from the inside out. Reminders of how this used to go flashed through your mind and suddenly, it felt like you were back in the village, back in the mortal lands and living with Rafe. 

A tendril of darkness peaked at the corner of your vision and you focussed on it, watching it slowly dance across your knuckles and weave between your fingers in a calming manner. 

Shadows. Azriel. Library. Velaris. Safe. 

And just like that, the anxiety un-clawed its roots and crept away. 

Azriel nodded ever so slightly to the book, knowing exactly what had just happened with you but acting as if he didn’t. “Salacious means…having inappropriate interest in sexual matters.”

There was no hiding the heat on your cheeks—the way it burned your soft skin. You tore your gaze from his as quickly as you could, unable to contain your slight shame and embarrassment. 

But Azriel did not mind one bit. 

Azriel had secrets. He supposed that being the Night Court’s Spymaster, it was to be expected. But these secrets were different from the others, something he kept locked tight in his mind for the past month. 

And it wasn’t the secrets that had him moving closer and spending all of his time in the lower level of the House. No. That was very much you and your presence and whatever it was in your soul that called out to his. 

He couldn’t stay away—though, it wasn’t like he even tried—for that pull was far too strong for even his willpower. 

He had suspicions. Suspicions of a golden thread that started in his chest and ended in yours. He knew it was far fetched, knew he was only hurting himself by entertaining the complete insanity of the idea. 

You were human. Mortal. And mortals didn’t have mates. He told himself so every day, and right after, like clockwork, he countered his own sound advice with the one thing that had been troubling him the most.

Because what mortal could plant and bloom a patch of tulips with nothing more than a thought and a touch. What mortal could speak so clearly to the earth and create life right before another’s eyes. 

Despite the possible threat that could pose for his court and his family, Azriel had kept that tidbit of information to himself. Just for now. Just until he could make sense of it. Then, and only then, would he bring that information to light. 

Because Azriel did not feel any ounce of danger or ill intent from you. He did not feel anything but warmth and intrigue and that godforsaken sensation when you grew excitable over something. 

He couldn’t take that from you. Not when you were finally coming out of your shell, finally talking and laughing and going as far as joining him and Cassian for training twice a week. 

“If sex makes you uncomfortable, there are other romance novels without that.”

Heat warmed your skin again. Shadows dared to intertwine with your fingers. 

“No, it’s not that.” You played with his shadows, allowing them to caress your skin. “Sex doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’ve just never had a good enough experience to understand much.”

He didn’t push, didn’t ask further questions. You wouldn’t be embarrassed for this, for something that was not your fault. You wouldn’t cower anymore, hide what you felt or thought. No longer would there be repercussions for speaking your mind. 

So you spoke again. 

“Rafe was the only person I’d ever…it’s just different to read it, to have it described as something enjoyable.”

Azriel’s knuckles turned white. Something enjoyable. He’d never experienced it to be anything but. His soul almost cleaved in two at the thought of what you’d endured. 

Azriel dared to glance at you again. “Sex with the right person can be very enjoyable. It should be nothing but beautiful.”

He stiffened then, blood thumping in his ears. His shadows stilled, noticing the shift in your scent just as their master had. Sweet, all consuming arousal, and Azriel did not miss the way your thighs pressed together in impulse. 

He swallowed thickly. 

You broke his gaze, your own heart thumping sporadically as you stared at the pages on your lap. You couldn’t help your mind wandering to thoughts of him, of experiencing that with him. You knew it was wrong. So, so wrong. 

“The thought of being intimate like that with someone new…” You couldn’t find the words to express the fear and anxiety that came with that thought.

Azriel listened intently, breathing deeply. 

“I want to experience life the way it should be experienced. Not the way others have pushed it upon me.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his book on his knee. “You control your life now, nobody else. If you want something, despite how wrong that desire may feel at first, take it.”

You wondered then if he could see into your mind as Rhysand could. If he could feel that shift in the air. If he could smell it on you. That want and desire. You would not apologise for it. Not anymore. 

“But if it feels wrong, is that not my guts way of warning me?” You countered. 

Azriel smiled, just barely. His knuckles still white. “It’s your guts way of protecting you. Because you’ve never experienced anything beyond what others bestowed upon you.”

Gods above. 

An ache fluttered in your chest, just above your breast and you absentmindedly rubbed at it, disrupting the neckline of your shirt. Azriel’s eyes squinted at the exposed skin, at the mark that adored your flesh. 

“Are you hurt?” His tone was primal, protective. 

You paused your movements, following his gaze. “Oh, no.” You pulled your shirt a little lower. “Just a birthmark.”

He needed to compose himself, needed to stop allowing his mind to wander about other areas of your concealed skin. He felt like nothing more than a big brute. 

Your soft, airy giggle woke him from his daze and he looked over to find tendrils of darkness caressing any inch of your skin that they could. Gods, if he didn’t have a leash on his emotions around you, how could he control his damned shadows. 

“It’s like they have a mind of their own.”

They didn’t. But he couldn’t correct you. Not without exposing the fact that they only fed off their masters emotions and desires. Not without exposing the fact that Azriel wished he was the one touching your skin and not his shadows. 

He swallowed again, throat dry. 

“Nesta told me that they’re an extension of yourself. That they only act if you will it.” You didn’t know why you said it, why you thought you had the right to speak that truth. 

But you would not apologise, even as Azriel remained silent for a few moments. Partly out of shock, partly in awe. But that was another thing he would not speak aloud. 

“Sometimes they can act on behalf of my emotions. My desires and wants.”

You dared to meet his honey eyes. “And that’s what you want?” You were breathless, a feeling in your stomach that you’d never once experienced before. “You want to touch me?” 

Neither of you knew where this confidence had come from, but Azriel did not question it and you did not apologise. 

He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t repeat the words that echoed in his mind and soul and body. But, Gods…he could not seem to regain any semblance of control when he stared into your eyes. He could not lie to you, could not hide what he felt. 

“I want to do a lot of things.” The admittance was barely audible, nothing more than a breath he’d been holding but you heard it all the same. As though you’d demanded the words out of him. 

You couldn’t look away, even if you tried. Your entire being was encapsulated by him. Your chest heaved, legs ached. The shadows slowly left your shoulders and neck, returning to their previous position at your fingers. 

“But above all, I want you to be comfortable. Happy.” 

Something compelled you to stand, the shadows seemingly guiding you to their master as your book toppled to the couch. He watched with a hungry gaze, one full of faltering self-control. 

If you want something, despite how wrong that desire may feel at first, take it.

Take it. 

Take it. 

“I’m comfortable with you.” 

The shadows moved like a breeze between you both, tugging you closer and closer. Nothing else mattered, not in that moment. Not when your soul felt like it was singing, like it was exactly where it longed to be. 

Azriel stood slowly, towering above you once at his full height. You strained your neck to meet his gaze and he bent his to come closer. You could feel his breath dance with yours, could feel his hard chest press upon your soft one. 

No part of you felt nervous, no part of you felt unworthy. 

But Azriel…he didn’t know what to do. For weeks he’d been dreaming of this moment, dreaming of the taste of your lips, the touch of your skin. He slowly raised a scarred hand to caress your warm cheek, and you didn’t cower or shy away from his touch. 

A test, perhaps. To see if you really could handle the intimacy of another male so soon after what you’d endured. You didn’t falter, didn’t break his gaze. He wanted you, more than he ever wanted anything else before. 

“What you went through…”

“I don’t want to talk about what I went through,” you cut him off. “That was then, this is now. I don’t want to live in the past.”

Take it.

Take it. 

Your lips…so close to touching his. 

The shadows swirled in delight, excitement.

Azriel knew this wouldn’t be just a kiss. This wouldn’t be meaningless. He felt it, in every part of him, he felt the way your entire being sang to his. He wanted to lay his soul bare before you. 

He itched to brush your hair behind your ear, to hold you and taste you. But Rhysand’s voice echoed through his mind, beckoning him for his assistance. He closed his eyes, huffed out a breath.

“Rhys is calling for me.” 

Azriel stepped away, removed his palm from your skin. You swallowed, stepping back and letting your eyes fixate on the rug beneath your feet. He cleared his throat, struggling to reign in those shadows of his. 

“I’ll come to you tonight…we can talk then.”

But had Azriel waited just a few moments longer, had he given into the urge to brush your hair from your face, he would’ve noticed the slight point that had formed at the top of your ears. 

Azriel didn’t meet you in your chambers that night. And you didn’t see him the next morning. Or the day after that. 

Cassian had mentioned that Rhys sent him on a mission. That he would be back in a few days. 

But something was wrong, you could feel it in every inch of your body. An ache that only got worse with every passing moment. You tried to ignore it, tried to relax in a hot bath with soothing lavender oils. Nothing relieved the pain. Nothing soothed the ache.

And when you left your bathroom and found your once round ears now pointed, and a trail of tulips following in your wake, your legs carried you toward the kitchen before you had a moment to consider it. Cassian and Nesta sat at the table, giggling over their breakfast when you stumbled toward them. 

“What’s happening?” Your panicked tone caught their attention, eyes wide as they stood and took in what lay before them. 

From the stone ground, moss and grass and flowers bloomed as though you stood in the middle of a field. Daisies and buttercups sprouted in your hair, roots of trees tangling around your limbs. 

Everything was so loud yet muffled. Like every word was screamed in your ear but somehow underwater as Cassian called out frantically to Rhysand. Neither of them went near you, even when Rhys flew through the open balcony doors, Feyre in tow. 

They looked at you with nothing less than concern and fear. 

“What in the Gods is happening to me?!” You demanded. 

Rhysand held Feyre back as she attempted to near you, his gaze locked on you as he assessed the situation. But it wasn’t the flowers or grass or roots that he watched. It was you, and the way your crescent-moon birthmark glowed something violet. 

Rhys had known, had suspected something lay dormant within you. From that moment he entered your mind, when he gazed upon that luscious field that seemed to call to you with promises of something new. 

He’d never witnessed such before. Not in the most powerful of Fae had he ever stumbled across that. 

With a very careful step forward, his gaze demanded yours. Feyre had told him of your mother, of her death and your marriage to Rafe. And his voice was soft when he finally asked the question that had been on his mind ever since. 

“What happened the night your mother died?” 

The world went still, cold. Feyre whirled to him in protest. 

“Rhys—“

“—it was a house fire.” 

All eyes turned to you, to the patches of bloom that haltered their growth. 

Rhysand took another step closer. “Where were you?” 

“I—“

A heat unlike any other licked at your skin, waking you from your peaceful slumber. A heat so unwelcomed that you bolted upright in a sheen of your own sweat. 

You could hear the wood of your cottage crackling under a burning flame, and smoke quickly infiltrated your room. You coughed, attempting to swat it away as you squinted in the darkness. 

“Mama!?” You called out, panic stricken in your voice and body. 

Fear began to cripple you, began to take away any sense of self preservation. You couldn’t leave your bed. Your door now engulfed in flames, you screamed. 

“Help! Someone, please help!”

No one was coming. This was the end. You couldn’t move, couldn’t get to your beloved mother. A shrill cry, unlike anything you’d ever heard before, split your heart in two. 

A scream of pure agony and fear tore through your throat, your eyes clenched shut as you gave your body over to the fire. 

Only the next breath you breathed was clean and cold. And your sheets were no longer beneath you, no. Now you laid on the rich soil outside of your home, your fingers rooting themselves into the dirt. 

You screamed and sobbed, unable to do anything but watch as the fire claimed your home and your mother. 

You were sobbing, collapsed to the ground as you struggled to breathe at the memory. 

Rhysand dared another step closer, kneeling before you now and his eyes held such sorrow, such remorse. 

“Y/N…” he spoke softly. “Was your mother ever accused of being a witch?” 

Nesta seethed, threatening. “Rhysand, that’s—“

“How do you know that?” Everything felt very, very still. No one should have known that. No one of these lands should have known that. 

Rhys didn’t answer your question. And despite the sound of large wings breezing through the sky, you did not look away from the High Lord. Not even as Azriel rushed into the House and his heart sunk at what he bore. 

“The day I entered your mind and took some of your pain away, I felt something. Something within you that I have never, in my 500 years of life, felt before.”

Azriel took a step closer. He should have said something when he first noticed the flowers. Because now, whatever power you had…it was consuming you. 

“I’d like to try something,” Rhysand proposed. 

You struggled to keep your breathing even. “What is it?” 

Another step closer, a warm hand on yours. 

“I’d like to enter your mind as far back as it will allow me. Just to see if I can find something.”

Violet eyes watched yours. “Find what?”

He squeezed your hand in reassurance. “Something to make sense of this.”

A moment of pause, to take in your surroundings. The flowers and soil had sprouted to cover the entire expanse of the lounge floor, your friends and cousins standing just beyond the brush of it. 

Eyes flickered to something hazel. Azriel. He stood in the soil, flora coating his ankles and he struggled to keep a tight leash on the shadows that fought to reach you. 

You looked back at Rhysand. 

“Will it hurt?” 

He shook his head. “No, not if you don’t resist.” 

That suddenly sounded an awful lot like your past. Memories of Rafe pinning you to the bed—scolding, reprimanding, promising no pain if you didn’t resist. 

This wasn’t like that, you had to remind yourself. You were safe. They only wanted to help. To understand. 

Azriel stepped closer, ignoring the silent warning that Rhysand whispered into his mind. A scarred hand out held, you took it. And Rhysand took that moment of distraction to enter your mind. 

The first memory he saw was one from just days before. You and Azriel reading in the library, the shadows that swirled your fingers and arms, the near-kiss that escalated into nothing. 

He dug deeper. The next, of you and Azriel again, exploring the city where you left a trail of green and brown tulips in your wake on the embankment of the river. 

Deeper and deeper, until the memories showed you living in the mortal lands. A blow to the face, to your stomach and your head. Rafe seething above you as he shouted and belittled you. 

Deeper, to a memory of your husband pinning you to the mattress, of his body crushing yours as he stole everything you never offered. 

Every memory Rhysand met, you re-lived them. 

A little deeper and he was watching you at the Archeron household, helping Elain plant seeds, watching Feyre paint, reading with Nesta. 

Deeper and deeper he went, passing the memories of the fire, of your mother, until he found exactly what he was looking for. 

“She is my child too, Selenthia. You cannot keep her from me.” A voice you did not recognise. A memory you did not recall. 

“For her protection, I will do what I must.” Selenthia seethed, coddling you closer to her chest. “No one can know what she is, or she’ll be hunted for the rest of her life.”

The unknown male huffed. He was beautiful. Tall and lean, strong and commanding. But there was something about him. Something not quite right. 

“So you plan to lock her away for the rest of her life?”

Selenthia bared her teeth. “I would never lock my child away. She will live her life as a mortal. I won’t subject her to a life like mine or yours.”

A moment of silence. “You cannot hide her from what she is.” He spoke softer now, edging close to peer at you, his daughter. 

“What do you plan to do when she first bleeds? When her ears point and her power grows—“

“That won’t happen.” There was no room for discussion in Selenthia’s voice. She placed a finger over your heart, a familiar violet glow permitting from her skin to yours. 

“What are you doing?” That male’s voice, cold once more. 

“I’m burying her power. So long as this wyrd remains on her skin, she’ll be safe.”

Selenthia pulled away, just enough to take a look at the mark that marred your skin. A mark two shades darker than the rest of your flesh, the shape of a crescent moon and no larger than a fingernail. 

“There. Nothing more than a birthmark.”

Rhysand retreaded from your mind, panting and shaking. Tears streamed down his flushed face, your own skin staining with silver, too. 

“What is it?” Nesta demanded, daring a step closer. 

But those tulips and daisies and buttercups…the soil and grass and roots, they all began to sink into the ground until nothing but the florals in your hair remained. 

“My mother…she…she was a witch. A healing earth witch. And my father—he…”

“Your father was Fae.” Azriel breathed, his eyes focused on the point of your ears that peeked through your hair and flowers.

“He was of the Night Court. A High Fae male.” Rhysand added gravely. 

Azriel’s hold on the shadows loosened and he allowed them to caress you, comfort you. Your hand never left his. 

You pulled away from Rhysand, clutching at your chest—at that crescent moon you always thought was a birthmark. Your mothers protection all along. 

“When you crossed the wall into the Fae lands, your power tried to break through. It was your mothers mark that had been keeping it buried with you all these years.” 

You dared a look at your cousins. But they looked at you with nothing but sorrow and anguish. No fear. They did not fear you, they did not pity you. In their eyes all you could see was longing. A longing for you to no longer live in such agony and hardships. 

“Our mothers were sisters. Does that mean—“

“I don’t think so,” Rhysand cut you off. “If they held the magic you do, I believe their power would have shown by now. They were Made. So it’s possible the Cauldron could’ve interfered with it if that were the case.” 

It was too much. All of it. Reliving those memories again, seeing your father… You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have magic and powers. You could not be half Fae, half witch. 

It would be easy to give up. It would be so easy to ignore it until it killed you. So easy to just let go of everything. But a pounding in your soul begged you not to. Begged you to fight with everything you had. Begged you to live. 

“Burn the mark.” 

All attention snapped to you, flickering from your face to the mark on your chest that finally stopped glowing. 

“Are you insane?” Nesta seethed. 

You looked at her. “I don’t think I’d be far off to guess that if I don’t burn this mark, this…power will consume me entirely. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be so lost because I have no idea who I am. This is who I am, whether I like it or not. I won’t run anymore.”

Feyre stepped closer, crouching to your level and taking your spare hand in hers. Azriel still held tight to the other. “If you wish to burn it, it will unleash whatever power you have at full force. You don’t have any training, any control over it.” 

You felt sick to your stomach. “I don’t want to die, Fey.” 

And that was enough to enrage Feyre in a way she’d never once felt before. “You are not going to die. Do you understand me?”

Azriel squeezed your hand, begging for you to look at him. You couldn’t. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him looking at you any different than he had three days ago. 

“Rhys, fetch Madja. We will burn the mark in a controlled environment. Where any fallout can be contained.”

You shook your head, not willing to risk a single soul because of your selfish decision to live. 

“No,” you said. “Drop me to the mountains and I’ll burn it myself.”

Nesta scoffed. “Oh, you are insane.”

You seethed at her. The first ounce of anger you’d truly shown. The first time you’d ever directed it at anyone but yourself. 

“This isn’t your decision. I will not risk anyone. Azriel can take me to the mountains and you can all keep your distance. At least until it’s safe.”

Until it’s safe. As if you knew for certain you’d survive it. You truly weren’t sure you would. There was nothing more to discuss, your tone made that clear enough. 

“Fly me, winnow me…whatever. Just do it now before I change my mind.”

Within a blink, your body was shivering and you were no longer in the House of Wind. Shadows encased your entire body, darkness swarming every inch of you. You said nothing as Azriel held you, nothing at all as he flew you across Velaris and toward the highest mountain just outside of the city. 

Only when he landed, when he refused to remove his hold from you, did the darkness dissipate and hazel eyes gazed into yours. 

“I’m staying with you.” 

“No, you’re not. I won’t risk your life, Azriel.” 

He set you to your feet, holding your hands now to keep you close. A plea of desperation swam in his eyes, his entire body yearning to take you and find another way to fix this. 

“There is no other option. If I don’t burn this mark, I don’t know what my power might do. It might kill me, it might destroy this city. I cannot risk anyone’s life for mine.”

Azriel parted his lips to speak but you shook your head, squeezing his hands. 

“If I don’t survive this—“

“Don’t.”

“Please, listen to me.” Silver lined your eyes, blurring your vision. “If I don’t survive this, I want you to know how special your friendship has been to me. How much I care for you, for your family.” A sob tore through your throat. “And I am so incredibly sorry for burdening you all in this way.” 

You reached on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his. Warmth and love and the most raw emotion could be felt between you both. An apology for not having longer, a prayer that there would still be time. 

A fuse lit within the pit of your stomach, in the pit of Azriel’s. Tears stained your lips, stained his. In that moment, you were one. Whole, as though you always should have been. 

You pulled away first, forcing your hands from his hold. You took several steps back, blinking through the distorted vision and swiping away and evidence of the fear that crippled you. 

A puff of violet darkness misted beside Azriel as Rhysand winnowed to the mountains. Pain flicked through his eyes, regret and the same sorrow you saw in your cousins. 

You did not meet his gaze. 

“Summon a fire.”

He did as you asked. And handed you a blade. 

You did not grant them another look, did not give into the pleading in your mind to watch them leave. Or else you would’ve seen Rhysand drag Azriel off that mountain. You would’ve seen the anguish on the Shadowsingers face. 

Alone. As you had been your whole life. Though the weeks spent in Velaris had given you a taste of what could’ve been. You’d treasure those memories in the Hereafter. Those and the precious ones of your late mother. 

For they were all you had left. 

You did not allow another tear to fall. Not as you hovered the blade over the flame, not as you tugged your shirt down and took a deep breath. 

For if all you were ever meant to be was a ghost in the wind, you were content to know you’d reunite with your mother soon. Where you would no longer feel such pain. 

You didn’t want to die. But if this was all the time you were fated to have, then so be it. Better you than someone else. 

“Keep them safe.” A whisper to the winds, if they deigned to listen. 

With a final breath, you pressed the scorching blade against the mark on your skin and the entirety of your captive power unleashed upon the mountain as your body allowed it to consume you. Until you saw and heard and felt nothing at all. 

From below, the city shook, a thundering boom and a gust of aftershock and pelting mountain debris that blew the Inner Circle back. 

Then there was silence. 

And Azriel’s soul bellowed. 

a/n: so a LOT happened in this chapter and there is still a lot more to happen, i'm hoping i can fit it into two parts but it may be stretched into three, we'll have to see!! i'm so grateful for all the love you guys have been giving this series and i am so excited for you to find out how it all ends!!

if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated <3

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[aemondapologistfrfr]

His Princess

fancast!bloody ben x targ!fem!reader

Summary: During Rhaenyras absence Jace and Baela deploy you out to deal with the Blackwoods and the Brackens, atop Silverwing. You treat with Lord Benjicot and prepare for a battle with the Brackens. You both can’t help the feelings that arise from working closely together.

Warnings: 18+ swearing, drinking, blood, blades, death(not mc), burning, foul language, political plotting, oral (f receiving), p in v

Authors Note: no bc i got caught up in the plot for a sec 😵‍💫, the rider dragon bond is diff than show, I would say I proofread this like 90%

Word Count: 6.2k

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“I’m done fucking waiting.” Jace paces around the painted table cursing under his breath. Baela goes to Jaces side and offers him hushed words of support.

The council stares at Jace in anticipation to finally make an appearance in this war. Rhaenyra has been gone for days without so much as a word while Jace and Beala are getting eaten alive by the men surrounding this table. Daemon is doing Gods know what in Harrenhal while we’re on the brink of battle.

“The Riverlands grow restless, my Prince. The Blackwoods and Brackens are at each other’s throats. There’s been no word from Daemon so we must assume no one is there to rally them together.” Lord Massey states with a clipped tone.

“We must send a dragon to amass them to our cause. Or to help the Blackwoods defeat the Brackens. Regardless something needs to be done and soon.” Lord Celtigar nods his head and looks around at his fellow vultures.

“Y/N take Silverwing.” Jace turns to me. “Go to Raventree Hall. Speak with Bejicot Blackwood and do whatever it takes to get him and his men to join our other army. If you can get the Brackens to bend the knee: Great. If not: Burn them. We are done sitting aside in this war.” Jace says with a boisterous voice.

“I heartedly agree with this decision.” Lord Emmon nods his head along with the other Lords.

“Then I shall see you when I return victorious, brother.” I smile to Jace. “Sister.” I smile and nod to Baela before exiting the war room.

Once in my chambers I hastily pack a couple of bags. I change into my riding armor and place my sword in its sheath down my back. I dart down the stairs to greet Silverwing before anyone changes their mind on sending us out. My dragon and I have been itching to take to the skies and begin bending knees.

“Hello, my beautiful girl.” I coo as I approach her and offer her pats. “We’ve finally been given leave.” I say with a playful tone as she chuffs and turns to me.

I quickly mount her and she brings us to the lip of the cave. As she steps over the ledge she lets us free fall which always makes my heart drop. Her wings catch the breeze and we shoot forward as I wildly laugh while clinging to her.

During the flight to the Riverlands I keep my eyes peeled for any armys. I have yet to see anything concerning, but keep a vigilant watch nonetheless. We fly a couple miles away from Harrenhal, but we still faintly hear Caraxes high pitched song.

We thankfully hear no other dragons and have no vision on any army’s as we begin our approach on Raventree Hall. Silverwing circles the castle and gives out a fearsome cry before landing on the outskirts of the city walls. I leave my bags attached to the saddle incase I don’t receive the welcome I’m expecting. Once I make it to solid ground guards start to approach, but keep their distance as they take in my dragon hovering behind of me.

“I come as an extension of the Crown. I must speak with your Lord at once.” I look to the guards expectantly.

“And which Crown might that be?” one guard is brave enough to question me.

“The only rightful Crown. That sits atop my mother’s head. Queen Rhaenyra.” my tone clipped as I start to approach and then men back up.

“I’m sorry, Princess.” they all bow their heads deeply as they bend the knee to my mothers cause. “These are strange times.”

“Indeed.” I hum as I look down at them.

“I’ll go get Lord Benjicot.” one guard raises his head and rushes through the gate behind him.

I turn back to Silverwing and she seems to roll her eyes at the men behind of us. I climb back to retrieve my bags and offer her words of praise and thanks for a smooth flight. As I turn to dismount once more there is a handsome man looking up at me with a slack jaw. I look down at him with low lids and wicked smile.

“Who might you be?” I call down to him as I toss my bags next to him.

“Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Ben if you wish.” he calls up to me as he falls to his knees. I smirk as I slide down the side of Silverwing and stand in front of him as he continues to look at my boots.

“Rise, Ben.” I say hushed as his eyes travel up my body until they lock with mine.

“Is it too forward to say that I much like this position?” Ben offers me a wink and devilish smirk.

“Is that so?” I hum as I bring my hand to the side of his cheek. He grabs my hand with his own and brings it to his mouth to place a kiss on the back. He rises and towers above me never breaking our eye contact.

“What can I do for you, Princess?” he asks, smirk still plastered on his face.

“I wish to have an audience with you and your advisors in the council chambers.” I remove my hand from his and get to the more pressing matters. “I should also like live feed brought for my dragon. She’s hungry and I wouldn’t want her to pick through your men.” I looks to him expectantly waiting to be invited inside.

“Yes,” he clears his throat. “I’ll have some of my guards bring some cattle. Will she harm them?” he whispers the last part to me.

“Not unless they deserve it.” I chuckle as I grab my bags.

“Perfect.” Ben claps his hands together. “Then let’s have a meeting.” he takes my bags from my hands and leads me into the gate.

He hands my bags to servants and tells them to have them brought to the guest chambers. He leads me straight to the council chambers and offers me the seat next to him. Slowly members begin to filter into the room and once everyone takes their seat Ben rises.

“Gentlemen, this is Y/n Targaryen. Queen Rhaenyras first daughter. Rider of Silverwing.” he tells them, his words sounding like adoration.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware war is on the horizon, if not already here. After the battle of the burning mill it’s clear tensions have been high. I want to thank you for fighting in the name of my mother. I am here to ask you to pick up your swords for her again.” I look to all of them to read their expressions.

“What do you propose we do?” one of his advisors asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Call your banners and follow me and Silverwing to the Brackens. I shall ask them to bend the knee to the rightful Queen. If they refuse I shall burn them at your sides and we will continue on to meet the rest of our army to continue to battle and glory.” I say hoping they accept my more than generous offer.

“And what if the Brackens bend the knee? You expect us to fight alongside them?” another advisor speaks up, disgust heavy in his voice.

“I expect you to fight for your Queen.” my voice rises as I stand looking to him.

“We will fight for you. I’m just not sure if the Brackens share the same sentiment, Princess.” Ben adds, eyes shooting daggers to the advisor who spoke to me in such a manner.

“Then they’ll die.” I say flatly as I reclaim my seat.

“Then it’s settled.” Ben announces as no one else has any other grievances. “I’ll be able to have my men ready in two days time.” he nods his head to me.

“Excellent. I have nothing further to discuss at this moment.” I say waving my hand.

Ben dismisses his advisors and servants flood in and offer me beverages and food. I accept a cup of wine and sigh as I lean back into my chair. This went smoother than I anticipated, but I still think there will be work to do to prepare the Blackwoods before I ask the Brackens to bend the knee.

“I must send a raven to Dragonstone.” my eyes glide to Ben who has been staring at me.

“Yes, of course.” he rises from his chair quickly causing the legs to groan against the stone. “I’ll fetch you some parchment and ink.” he rushes out the door and leaves me blinking after him.

I scribble out a note to Jace and tell him of what’s happened and how I expect the meeting with the two hosts to go. I tell him I’ve secured the Blackwoods and intend to try my best with the Brackens but make no explicit promises. I seal it with red ink and hand it off directly to the maester.

“Allow me to show you to your chambers.” Ben says offering me his arm.

I look him over and decide it’s not terrible if I hang off of his arm like a simpering fool for a couple of days. There’s something alluring about him. I can feel the violence bubbling under the surface which excites me to no end. He begins to parade us down the halls with a ridiculous smile on his face as he looks down to every man we pass.

“Here we are, Princess.” he hums as we stop in front of a large set of double doors.

He opens the doors and escorts me in. I spot my bags on a chair near the freshly lit hearth. I peer into the bathing chambers and hum in appreciation at the small pool I have for a bath. Candles are lit throughout the chambers making them feel warm and inviting beside the dark stone and wood.

“I’ll admit I’m surprised you brought me to my own chambers and not yours.” I turn to Ben smiling as I see his cheeks redden.

“Is that disappointment I hear?” Ben cocks his head, matching my smile.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I playfully roll my eyes.

“Change and I’ll show you around Raventree Hall.” Ben’s smile lingers on his face. “If you want.” he backtracks slightly nervous.

“Come collect me in an hour.” I smile as his eyes alight with excitement as he slips out of my chambers.

Why couldn’t Jace send me to a house without such a handsome flirt of a Lord. I sigh out as I fall back into my bed. I rise and begin to remove my armor. I place my sword on the bed unsure if I’m ready to not have it on my person, armor or gown. I slip into a black form fitting gown and settle for a hidden dagger on my thigh. The sheath can only be seen if one is looking for it or if their hands found themselves traveling somewhere they shouldn’t. I braid my silver hair out of my face and leave the rest flowing down my back. I go to the couch and watch out the window until Ben comes to get me.

“Princess?” Ben’s voice carries through the door followed by a couple knocks.

“Come.” I call as I begin to rise off of the couch. Ben stands in the doorway staring at me with wide eyes. “Is this not appropriate for a tour? I can change.” I look down smoothing my dress slightly embarrassed and confused.

“No,” he breathes out. “No, you look perfect Princess.” his eyes meet mine and I can feel my cheeks flush at his compliment.

“Thank you.” I look up to his eyes and smile softly.

“A true Targaryen beauty.” he hums as he places a kiss on my hand lowering his head.

“You honor me, Lord Benjicot.” I say flustered at his words and actions.

“Ben,” he corrects me, smirking.

“Ben.” his name falls off of my tongue breathlessly.

“Come, let me show you my home.” Ben offers me his arm, which I accept as he leads me out of my chambers.

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Ben and I shamelessly flirt over the next two days as we ready our host. We plan strategies with his advisors on the best way to go about speaking with the Brackens. I’ve flown Silverwing near the border and seen the host they’re amassing for themselves. I’ll admit I hope to turn them to my mother’s cause but I can only do so much. This feud between these two house has lasted many generations and I’m not sure that the presence of a dragon will make much of a difference.

Jace has sent back word confirming and allowing me leave to do what must be done to secure a host from the Riverlands. There has been no word on Rhaenyra much to my concern and frustration. Hopefully the next time I see her I’ll have an army raised in her name. I send another raven back stating I plan to meet the Bracken host on the morrow and will send him word of the outcome.

“Are you scared?” Ben asks me, looking over his cup of wine as we dine alone.

“I think Silverwing and I can handle this.” I shrug, biting my lip.

“I know you both can. Doesn’t mean you can’t be scared.” he offers me a soft smile.

“Is it bad to admit that I am?” I asked hushed looking to him.

“No, it makes you smart. I haven’t seen you fight or duel. But from looking at the armor and sword you wore the first time I laid eyes on you, I would say you’re no stranger to what may come.” he surmises looking to me intently.

“I do well with a blade, better with fire.” I smile deviously. “How do you fare? Are you scared, Ben?” my smile widens as I suck in my bottom lip.

“Why should I be scared? I have a Targaryen Princess and her dragon flying above me. I think I can manage with a blade from below.” his eyes filled with shameless admiration as he looks to me.

“Don’t be so humble. I’ve heard your nickname and stories throughout your host.” I raise my eyebrow to him across the table.

“What nickname is that? I’m afraid there’s a few floating around.” he chuckles lowly.

“All I’ve heard is the whispers of Bloody Ben leading them to victory. How you come out of battle covered in blood with a wicked smile painted through it.” I look to him as his smile widens.

“Does that scare you?” he tilts his head studying me.

“Not in the slightest.” I gently shake my head.

“We shall see if that’s true on the morrow.” he hums, still looking over my face. “Allow me to escort you to your chambers.” he rises and walks over to help me rise from my chair.

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I rise early in the morning before the sun has started to rise. I begin fastening my hair into two long braids that flow down my back. I begin to stretch out some before covering myself in my armor. Once everything is secured I slide my blade down my back and check to make sure I have everything I should need. I quickly exit my chambers and as I’m turning the corner I clash into a man.

“Good morning.” I look up at Ben’s voice as his arms steady mine as I sway. “I was just coming to wake you.” he smiles still holding on to me.

“I always break fast with Silverwing before we do something strenuous. Would you like to join us?” I offer with a soft smile.

“I’d be honored, Princess.” he bows his head lowly as I playfully push him back.

“I thought we were done with the formalities, Lord Benjicot.” I chuckle as he regains his composure.

“Oh no, you will always be my Princess.” he licks his lips as I feel my cheeks start to heat.

“Mm, your Princess?” I raise my eyebrows trying to pretend my cheeks aren’t the color of dragon fire.

“Yes, mine.” he says lowly as he pinches one of my cheeks. “Come, let’s go get some cattle for Silverwing. I want to make sure she’s well fed for today, along with you, my Princess.” he whispers my title into my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

I follow after him as he takes us to the dining hall. He tells a servant to have a couple plates made for us and brought out near Silverwing for us to eat. He leads us out of his castle and over to the rows of stables and barns. He offers men more than enough coin and soon we have five cattle trailing behind us as we make our way to Silverwing.

As we approach we see our breakfast laid on a blanket near my sleeping dragon who is now starting to wake at my approach. Ben lingers by our breakfast with the string of cows as I approach her. I rub her snout and walk down the length of her body to her tail, trailing my hand all the way. She begins to stir and offers small chuffs. As I walk back to her head she nudges her snout into me and huffs out.

“Oh come on, it’s not that early.” I chuckle as I scratch under her jaw. “That handsome man over there has brought you some gifts.” I hum as she rises her head and looks to Ben.

I nod my head encouragingly to Ben to bring over the cows. He walks over with a stiff spine but is sure to show no fear. Silverwing stares down at him as I walk to his side. She looks at both of us and comes to eye level. I look to Silverwing like a mother warning her child to be nice.

“He’s not your treat, he’s mine. He brought these cattle for you to indulge yourself on.” Silverwing chuffs at us and turns to the cows waiting for us to back away.

“Come.” I say, pulling Ben away.

Once we’re a safe distance away Silverwing dowses the cattle in fire until they’re burnt to a crisp. She lays back down with a thud and leisurely begins to eat her meal. Ben looks on at the scene as I leave his side to return to our breakfast. He claims a seat next to me, still looking to Silverwing.

“So how does that work? She can understand you?” Ben asks taking a sip of juice.

“She can understand me, yes. We have this sort of bond. It’s like a mutual respect of each other’s feelings and boundaries. Kind of as if our souls are molded together as one.” I look to my beautiful dragon as I speak with admiration.

“I can’t even begin to imagine the strength it takes to do that. To command the skies with her. You both are just so other-worldly.” Ben looks to me with reverence.

Silverwing chirps a soft song at Ben’s words and she continues to feast upon her cattle. I smile at her acceptance and happily eat the meal prepared for me. We eat in a comfortable silence as the men begin to rise for the upcoming day.

After we finish our breakfast Ben goes to speak with his fellow commanders and finalize the plan. I lounge with Silverwing watching the men run around camp. She grumbles when some walk a little to closer for her liking and I chuckle as they’re quick to run back. Once everyone seems scarce I rise and see that they have begun to fall into lines ready to march.

“It’s almost time for us to fly. I know not what today holds for us, but I know we will be victorious.” I talk to Silverwing patting her as I start to mount.

“A moment, my Princess.” Ben calls from afar and I turn to see him running to me.

“Yes?” I return to the ground and await for him to come to me.

“I seek your favor.” he pants, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “For luck, on our endeavors.” his cheeks become red from more than just his short run.

“I-“ I pat my armor knowing I have nothing on me to offer him. “I have nothing on me to-“ Silverwing chuffs and snaps a cattle bone, looking to us expectantly.

“Thank you, my beautiful Silverwing.” Ben smiles widely at my dragon as he bends down to claim the now bone knife from her claws.

“It seems she’s taken a liking to you.” I gasp as Silverwing nudges my back pushing me into Ben.

“And what of you?” he hums holding me.

“I suppose I have.” I try to look anywhere but in his eyes as my face heats.

“You have what?” he asks with a smirk, tilting my chin with his fingers so I have to look at him.

“Taken a liking to you.” I reply breathlessly looking at him through my lashes.

“May I have your favor?” Ben looks to my lips and then to my eyes in a silent question to which I nod my head vigorously.

His lips crash down into mine and his teeth are quick to bite down on my lower lip. I gasp out and his tongue slips into my mouth to dance with mine. One of his hands finds its way to the back of my neck molding me to him. He pulls back from my mouth as our breath mingles. I kiss him quickly one more time and a smile splits across his face. He kisses my forehead softly and steps back from me.

“Our host awaits your command, my Princess.” he looks at me with heavy lids.

“Begin marching, we should make it to Stone Hedge a little after midday. If you don’t see me, we’re in the clouds, but I’ll always be above you. I will see you for negotiations.” I nod to him.

“Understood. I will see you in a couple of hours.” he returns my nod, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

“Do not die today.” I call out as he begins to walk away.

“Your wish is my command.” he turns to me and bows deeply before continuing back to his men.

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I fly ahead of the Blackwood host to see if there are any traps waiting for us. We have a clear path directly to Stone Hedge. I hear no other dragons in our vicinity and sigh in relief. As we approach the outskirts we fly in closer to see if there are any scorpions that I should take out before even thinking of landing in an open field. I mark no weapons of note that make me unsure of my landing.

I circle back to our host and coast on the breeze as they make their way closer. They stop on the other side of the Brackens wooden barricade and await for my arrival. I fly over the approaching Bracken host taking in their numbers. We have about couple hundred more swords than they do and a dragon so I have no worry. Silverwing gives out a high pitched screech and the Blackwood hosts recedes allowing us land in front of them.

As we approach I can see the Brackens pushing back to their gates and chuckle. I slide out of my saddle and make my way to solid ground. The Blackwood host looks at me as if I’m a goddess stepping onto their battle field to bless them.

“How was the flight? What did you gather from up there?” Ben peppers me with questions on approach.

“We have more swords than they do. There were no weapons of note that I was worried about or we wouldn’t have landed here. On approach they pulled back. I’m going to have to lure the Lord out.” I list off what I’ve observed from the skies.

“Noted.” Ben nods his head. “And how was the flight?” his face softens as he smiles.

“Absolutely delightful.” my smile matches his as I look back to Silverwing.

“I’m glad to hear.” he looks down at me tenderly.

“Let’s go see if there’s a way to talk this through.” I sigh and begin leading us to the barricade.

As we begin walking to the middle I see small group of men approaching from the Bracken side. We wait at the edge expectancy and they stop a couple hundred feet away. I groan out in annoyance as I climb over the wooden fence. Ben is right behind of me as we cross the line.

“Thank you for meeting us away from your beast.” one of them says foolishly.

“My beast?” I bark out a laugh at his audacity. “She’s had quite the large breakfast, but surely she could always eat more?” I tilt my head, squinting my eyes at him.

“What is it that you’re here for?” Lord Bracken steps out from behind his men.

“Bend the knee to my mother, the rightful Queen of the realm. Join your host with hers and ride with her into battle and glory.” I hold my chin high as I study them as they take in my words.

“Alongside Blackwoods?” Lord Bracken scoffs looking to Ben.

“Alongside fellow Queensmen.” I correct through my teeth trying to cool my temper at his tone and disrespect. I’m trying to avoid what I know is coming and soon I won’t have patience for words anymore.

“What do I get in return? Her brazen daughter who stands to inherit nothing? Does she truly think your cunt is worth my army?” Lord Bracken looks at me with a smile as his words slam into me.

“As if you would’ve ever deserved her.” Ben breathes out in a chuckle and he lunges at Lord Bracken and slams the cow bone knife into the side of his throat. “You don’t speak to her like that.” he grits out twisting the bone.

The world slows as the next seconds play out in front of me. He pulls the bone out as blood splatters across his face he quickly slams it into the leg of the man next to him. I quickly grab my blade from my back and slice open the man who began to run towards Ben. The last man grabs me harshly and I grab the dagger from my ribs and slam it up into his jaw. I pull the dagger out of the man’s jaw causing blood to spray across my face. Time resumes normally and I’m quick to hear shouts from either side of the army.

“Get to Silverwing.” Ben shouts to me as he turns to face the army pulling out his long sword.

As I run back to the barricade men begin pouring over and running past me. They keep a clear path away from my dragon and I’m able to get to her quickly. I clip into the saddle and she shoots us into the air. We fly low as I look on at the brazen violence. We fly near the back of their lines so they’re not safe on any front.

“Dracarys Silverwing.” I cry out and the entirely of the back of their host is doused in dragon flame.

As I look down I see burning men running for their life. I fly to undefended western side of the Bracken host and Silverwing is quick to bathe them in flame. After burning as many as I could without getting too close to Blackwood men we circle our host and land at the back. I quickly dismount from Silverwing preparing to go into the thick of the battle.

A horn blows and all fighting ceases. I climb back up Silverwing to look on at the bloody mess to see what’s going on. I see my mother’s flag raised in the center of the field. I lay back into my saddle and smile that everything is done. I dismount once more and wait at Silverwings feet for Ben to come find us and tell us of his victory.

“My Princess.” Ben’s voice carries through the crowd as they part to make way for him.

“Bloody Ben indeed.” I hum as I look over him in his disheveled state.

“You’ve got a bit on you too.” he smiles wiping at my face.

“How did it go out there?” I ask pulling back to look him over, scanning for any injuries.

“Very good.” he nods and I can still feel the adrenaline pouring off of him. “You and Silverwing did so well. Amazing to be honest.” he showers me with praise causing my cheeks to redden under the blood.

“Thank you.” I reply bashfully.

“Blushing like I didn’t watch you stab a man in the jaw.” his eyes worship me as he shakes his head.

“You are such a fool for doing what you did.” my eyes narrow on him remembering the start of this.

“I was willing to listen to what he wanted until he brought you into it.” he says approaching me. “I told you that you’re mine.” he says only audible for me.

“Ben-“

“You as a person are worth more than any army. Or any kingdom. Or any realm.” he whispers to me. “I would’ve fought alongside all of them if it meant I could stay by your side.” his eyes scan my face as it softens.

My hands reach up to bring his face down to mine. I place a soft kiss on his lips and pull back to look up at him. He captures my lips once more and pulls me tightly to him. Men begin to cheer and clap around us much to my embarrassment. I pull back giggling as he continues to pepper kisses around my face.

We separate and begin to assess the losses. We were fortunate not to take many causalities or injuries. Ben’s most trusted men take the castle at Stone Hedge and raise my mother’s banners in the usurpers stead. Once the castle is deemed safe we walk through the gates.

Upon entering the castle we have a servant lead us the council chambers and see if there was any information left about the Greens movements. Ben’s advisors join us for a debriefing and I quickly write out a note to send to Jace of our victory in the taking of Stone Hedge and raising an army.

Ben dismisses his advisors and then it’s just the two of us lingering. I take in his bloodied state and shake my head. I know I’m not in a much better state either and begin to rise to seek a servant to make me a bath.

“Where are you off to?” Ben is quick to rise at my side.

“To find a bath. I suggest you do the same.” I raise an eyebrow to him as a smile plays at my lips.

“We could bathe together.” Ben whispers against my lips.

“Mm, come find me once you’re clean, Lord Benjicot.” I smirk against his lips and then slip out of the council chambers leaving him alone.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

A moan slips from my lips as I sink into the hot water. I scrub at my skin and splash water against my face watching the water turn pink and then maroon. I pick my nails clean and once I’m satisfied I rise out of the water wrapping a towel around my body. I groan as I remember the only thing a servant could seem to find me is a sheer slip.

I throw my towel to the ground and huff out as the slip only reaches to the top of my thighs. I make my way over to the vanity and begin to take my braids out. I praise the gods that my hair was spared from the blood. I shake my hair out helping relieve some of the tension that remains. I begin to make my way to my bed as there’s a knock at my door.

“Yes?” I ask from the other side of the door not wanting to be seen in such an exposed state.

“I’m clean.” Ben chuckles from the other side of the door. I crack open the door and take in his freshly bathed state.

“Of course they’d be able to find you proper clothing.” I roll my eyes and allow him in.

“You are absolutely divine.” Ben’s eyes finally land on mine after drinking in my exposed body.

“You clean up nicely yourself.” I appreciate his clean face and body as he stalks over to me.

“My Princess.” he breathes out as he kneels before me, his breath fanning across my thighs.

“Hmm?” I hum, looking down at him as my fingers travel through his hair.

“May I taste you?” he asks softly as his hands trail up my bare legs.

“Please, Ben.” I reply breathlessly nodding my head.

As he rises from his knees, he takes my slip with him. I stand before him completely bare as his eyes dart across my body. I help him remove his clothes as we make our way to the bed. He pushes me on the bed when the back of my knees hit it. He kneels before me once more and pulls my core directly to his awaiting mouth.

“Fuck,” I cry as his tongue lashes against my clit.

With every swirl of his tongue my hips are rising off the bed. One of his hands finds its way between my thighs and he teases two fingers at my entrance. His slowly pushes his two digits in as whimpers fall from my mouth. He begins to pump in and out of me slowly as my hips grind onto his face and hand.

“Ben, please,” I whine as he begins a fast pace.

I lose myself to the pleasure as my moans travel throughout my chambers. My thighs quake at his relentless pace as his name pours from my lips. I explode around his fingers as his tongue continues to lick softly at my clit.

“Ben,” I breathless sob as my hand pulls his hair harshly away from my sensitive bud.

“You taste so good, I could eat you all night.” he places soft kisses on my thighs.

He snakes his way up my body and claims my mouth in a heated kiss. I feel his hardened length slide through my wetness causing me to whine. He chuckles against my lips as my hips continue to squirm.

“Are you ready, my Princess?” he whispers against my lips as he lines himself up at my entrance.

“Yes, please,” I arch my hips up to his begging for friction.

A moan tears through me as he slides into me. He wastes no time and fully pushes himself into me. The stretch of him causes my eyes to screw shut as I focus on the feel of him. I begin to slowly rock my hips once I’ve adjusted and he claims my lips once more as he starts to move his hips.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” he plants against my lips as his pace increases.

My legs wrap around his waist as I cling to him as he continues to pull pleasure from my body. His hips snap into mine at the new angle, stealing my breath. Our breathes become one as our hips meet in a rhythm that has us both panting. Pleasure washes over me, catching me off guard as my nails dig into Ben’s shoulder.

“Fuck, princess.” he grits through his teeth as he keeps pounding into me.

Tears begin to prick at the edges of my eyes from the pleasure he’s repeatedly wringing from my body. One of his hands slide between us and attach to my sensitive bud. I cry out and clench around him and he groans into my neck. I feel him begin to fill me as his hips falter and I explode around him once more, his name falling from my lips as if it’s the only word I know.

“You did so good for me, my Princess.” he whispers as he slowly pulls out.

He pulls me to his side and covers us with the blankets. I curl into his side and hum at his words of adoration and praise. My eyes begin to feel too heavy as I allow sleep to consume me.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

Part 2

full masterlist here

ongoing aemond fic plug tho

[crimsonspring]

"What do you think our wedding will be like?" She asks, and Rafayel feels his heart still immediately. He gives it a second, letting the two opposing sides of his heart battle it out.

A part of him feels giddy - she wants to be his bride again. It will happen again, because they are fated mates! All of the worrying was for nothing because look - she wants to get married, bonded to him again! Sure, the "sanctity" of marriage amongst humans on this earth is laughable and ludicrous compared to the solemn oath he literally has embedded on his chest... but he'll take it nonetheless. He'll take anything she has to offer, honestly.

Albeit, the other part of him wants to sulk and throw a tantrum. Because this question is simply yet another reminder of what was left forgotten. The fact that she had already been his bride, but that fact to be so horridly and devastatingly taken away from him. Ripped away from his clutching fingers. Sea of God he may be, but the strength of fate has no competition. What a painful reminder that question is, to be reminded that... Oh yeah you were my bride... until?..

Rafayel doesn't realise that dancing between the two emotions has taken some time. Purple eyes swirling with mixed emotions as his lips pursed to the side in silence. This reaction causes her to shift nervously, afraid that she's made him uncomfortable with the question.

She clears her throat soon after, sitting up after spending hours on the couch with him, slouching against the backrest as his purple hair splays out against her chest. The movement shakes him out of his trance, a brief moment of confusion (and a dramatic look of "how could you!”) plastered on his face as he turns around, sitting up for the first time in 2 hours as well. He faces his blushing partner who is clearly flustered at his lack of response.

"Um.. I mean - I'm not saying we will definitely get married or like whatever, it was just a question! I don't even know if you wanna marry me. again, it was just a question, you don't have to answer it if you-"

He gasps dramatically, brows furrowed deeply as he scoots away from her in bewilderment. "Did you say you don't even know if I want to marry you?" He scoffs, standing up and begins to pace around the room. "Is my devotion - and quite frankly - obvious and constant yearning for you not enough? For you to even question that?"

"Rafayel, I-" "Maybe the hunter's association should put you on bed rest if your brain's not functioning properly. Oh perhaps, it's not the brain, it's your heart and its inability to feel the love I have for you. Is that right, hm?"

"Rafayel," she repeats louder this time, sighing. "That was not what i meant - I just.. You went completely silent on me when I asked the question, so I thought you felt uncomfortable with the topic of marriage." shrugging, the red on her cheeks deepens as a replay of the scene comes to mind. she shrivels into herself, crossing her legs as she begins to play with the loose threads of her sweater. "And I know we’ve never talked about it either, so I shouldn't have just sprung it on you like that."

His face softens immediately, guilt pricking his chest as he watches the vulnerability she was expressing. While she isn't exactly wrong - the topic of marriage does make him uncomfortable. As much as he wants her to be his bride, it’ll undoubtedly open new doors for pain all over again. But as uncomfortable it is, Rafayel knows that she is someone he'd carve his own heart out for (well....).

"You have nothing to apologise for.," He reassures her gently, the tone contrasting the loud rant he performed earlier, and he's back on the couch, crawling onto the space next to her. His fingers are careful, he reminds himself he's holding onto his reason of being, his kryptonite, the atoms of sunlight itself. He feels his stomach flip, and the soft warmth that begins to exude from the side of his chest tells him that if she peeked underneath his shirt, she'd bear witness to the physical embodiment of his sacred vow. "It threw me off guard, yes. But only because i've been keeping it myself for far too long, cutie," he smiles, still ever so gentle as his thumb caresses the smooth of her cheek.

"I’ve known that i have wanted to marry you for years now," and while she'll take that as a mere dramatisation (Rafayel being Rafayel), he means that as literally as it gets. Only he is well versed with the pain, humiliation and fear that comes with the wait and longing, and for a moment, he's almost grateful that she doesn't know. He doesn't want her to be burdened with such hardship-filled emotions, so he'll carry it for the both of them.

"You won't be in white - maybe a light shade of blue. I'll obviously wear the best suit ever to be worn. We'll have a ceremony by the beach," he's speaking straight from the vision he's replayed in his mind countless of times, the smile on his face unconsciously growing as he mindlessly twirls a piece of her hair. "You'll have your hair down, and it'll probably get caught in the sea breeze - but it just makes sense to me."

"and," he pauses for a moment, hesitating before he continues. "We'll say our vows twice. One for everyone to bear witness to, and one just for you and me." A vow so sacred and intimate, Rafayel refuses to share with the world. He refuses to taint it even a little bit, it should simply be meant only for his lover and him, and his pure everlasting love for her.

"Oh," he has rendered her speechless, and now it's Rafayel's turn to be nervous, fearing he has made her uncomfortable. Hiding the embarrassment behind a scoff, he pulls away with a pout. "Y-You were the one who brought it up first!" Immediately, she shakes her head and pulls him back into her chest and Rafayel doesn't fight his body when it relaxes immediately. "I was just a little surprised, Raf - in a good way. Didn't think you would've had all these little details in mind already." Her voice mirrors his previously gentle one, and Rafayel feels his eyes flutter shut, coaxed by her fingers running through his hair.

She hesitates, but braves herself to say it. time and again, once peeling off his layers, she's beared witness to his endless courage so why not walk in his footsteps? "I do hope we get married." Her voice is quieter, but it speaks volumes to him. He feels a lump form in his throat at the emotions that begin to overflow within him. He reaches out to catch onto her hand that's combing through his hair and brings it to his chest in attempts to quell the tears that threaten to form behind his closed lids.

Shakily, his lips whisper against her knuckles, "In my mind, we already are."

In his world, they already were. How lucky is he to get married to her, again and again, and again.

God, he'd do it a million times over.

[batboysanonymous]

Shadows Between Us (Pt. II)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: As Y/N wrestles with the pain of Azriel’s rejection, Nesta uncovers a dangerous way to break the bond. But some bonds are unbreakable, no matter how much they hurt.

Pt. I

Pt. III

Word Count: 1k

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The walls of the house seemed to close in around Y/N as she hurried down the hallway, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Azriel’s voice still echoed behind her, low and gravelly, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name.

“I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.”

The words had lingered, clinging to her like his shadows often did—unwelcome, unshakable. She shoved open the door to her room, the cool air hitting her skin like a slap. Her chest heaved as she tried to push the confrontation from her mind, but it was no use. His face, his voice, his shadows haunted her every waking moment.

Y/N pressed her back against the door, sliding to the floor as her breathing evened out. She felt like she was falling apart piece by piece, the bond a cruel thread keeping her together, forcing her to endure when she wanted nothing more than to break free.

She’d thought that maybe, somehow, Nesta would find an answer in those ancient books. That the words scrawled across the brittle pages could untangle the threads binding her to Azriel, freeing them both from this torment.

But every solution comes with a cost.

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Azriel leaned against the doorframe of his room, his hazel eyes staring unseeingly at the shadows curling and coiling at his feet. They whispered to him, voices too low for him to make out but insistent nonetheless.

Elain.

Her name flitted through his mind like a fleeting warmth, but it didn’t ignite the fire it once had. The soft smiles, the lingering glances—it was all… different now.

He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the wood with a heavy thud. The space Elain once occupied in his mind felt smaller, quieter. And Y/N—gods, Y/N—was everywhere.

She’d always been there, hadn’t she? On the training grounds, her laughter light and free when she sparred with Cassian. At family dinners, where her sharp wit rivaled Nesta’s. Even in battle, fierce and unwavering, her determination cutting through his chest like a blade.

Azriel groaned, raking a hand through his hair. He couldn’t—shouldn’t—let his thoughts stray to her. She was Cassian’s sister, his best friend’s family. And, worse, she was his mate.

The word felt like a brand, scorching him with its weight. He hadn’t wanted it. He hadn’t asked for it. But now, the bond sat heavy in the air, a faint hum he couldn’t quite ignore.

The way she’d looked at him earlier—her eyes filled with fury and heartbreak—made something crack inside him. He’d hurt her, over and over again, and still, she stood there, defiant and strong.

And yet, she hated him. She had every right to.

“Azriel,” Cassian’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, pulling him back to the present. His brother leaned against the wall, his wings draped lazily behind him, though his gaze was sharp.

Azriel straightened. “What?”

Cassian’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “She’s breaking.”

His chest tightened, though he kept his face blank. “I know.”

“Do you?” Cassian pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Because I don’t think you have a godsdamned clue what you’re doing to her. You’re the most calculating bastard I’ve ever met, Az. You know every move before your enemies make them, but when it comes to her, you’re blind.”

“I didn’t—” Azriel cut himself off, the words catching in his throat. “I never meant for this to happen.”

Cassian laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You didn’t mean for it? You think that matters to her? You think she cares about your intentions when you’re tearing her apart every time you push her away?”

Azriel looked away, guilt churning in his gut.

“Fix it,” Cassian said, his voice low and dangerous. “Before there’s nothing left of her to fix.”

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Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, the book Nesta had left her lying open on her lap. The language was incomprehensible, the words twisting and curling in ways that made her head ache.

Nesta entered the room without knocking, her arms full of more books. Her face was pale, a bead of sweat sliding down her temple.

“You’ve been at this all day,” Y/N said quietly, closing the book.

Nesta’s jaw tightened. “I’m not stopping until we find something that works.”

Her voice was resolute, but Y/N saw the exhaustion pulling at her features. She reached out, placing a hand on Nesta’s arm. “You need to rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“There might not be a tomorrow,” Nesta snapped, her voice cracking. She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes. “If we don’t act soon, this bond will destroy you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat burning. “It already has.”

The admission hung heavy in the air between them, the weight of it pressing down on her chest.

Nesta set the books on the bed, sitting beside her. “I think I’ve found something. But it’s… dangerous.”

Y/N’s blood ran cold. “How dangerous?”

Nesta hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “It’ll sever the bond. But it could kill me in the process.”

“No,” Y/N said immediately, shaking her head. “I’m not letting you risk your life for this.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Nesta said fiercely, her eyes blazing. “This is my choice, and I won’t watch you suffer any longer.”

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Azriel was walking down the hall when it hit him.

A searing pain tore through his chest, and he staggered, clutching at the wall for support. The bond—the bond he’d spent months ignoring, dismissing—roared to life, a fire burning through his veins.

Y/N.

Her name tore through his mind, her presence flooding every corner of his being. The bond wasn’t just a hum anymore. It was a roar, a deafening, undeniable connection that consumed him.

He saw her.

Saw her curled on her bed, her face buried in her hands as Nesta sat beside her, gripping her shoulder. He felt her heartbreak, her anguish, her desperation.

And he knew.

He’d been wrong.

Elain had been a distraction, a mirage he’d clung to because it was safe. But Y/N—Y/N—she was everything.

Azriel stumbled back, his wings flaring as his shadows shrieked around him. He had to get to her, had to—

But when he reached her door, he heard Nesta’s voice, calm and determined.

“This will work. It has to.”

And then Y/N’s quiet response: “Do it.”

Azriel’s heart stopped.

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Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[saltywritings]

The Bonds of Blood (Aegon Targaryen II x Reader) Dark Content

Summary: Aegon visits Aemond's wife at night.

Warnings: very dark fic, noncon/dubcon, somnophilia, slight stalking, envy, descriptive smut, blackmail, and trickery. adults only.

You've been married to Aemond for three lunar cycles now. He had shown glimpses of kindness in his own way… when he was present. Yet, to call him merely "kind" felt too generous—he merely existed. He was passive, seemingly disengaged. You endeavored to spark his interest. You inquired about his dragon and extended offers to share books with him. Nevertheless, the moments spent together felt devoid of life. Even amidst conversation, the emptiness hung heavy in the air.

Passion was absent, and intimate moments were few and far between, lacking any semblance of desire. His gaze scarcely met yours, and his departures were swift. The only instances when Aemond displayed any semblance of spousal behavior were in the presence of his elder brother. It seemed as though Aemond harbored a tinge of jealousy towards Aegon, perhaps protective of you from his brother's attention. Despite Aegon being among the few at court who showed genuine interest in you, Aemond repeatedly cautioned his brother to steer clear of his wife. Nonetheless, Aegon's presence always found its way back to you, defying Aemond's warnings.

At times, you found yourself pondering the possibilities of a different marriage, yet you endeavored to remain grateful that your husband was not cruel or violent. Despite this, the weight of duty pressed heavily upon you. Three moons had passed, and still, your womb remained empty, testing the limits of your hope. This was of course until the night you woke up.

As your eyes begun to flutter you first noticed the pressure on your body. The rhythmic creaking of the bed caught your attention, though initially, you were uncertain of its cause. This was until you could feel him, inside of you. He was engulfed in you, your tight pussy clinging around him. Aching for a sensation that he, your husband, had not provided you with this moon. A moan had parted from your lips, remaining in your throat as you pushed yourself up slightly.

"A-Aemond?" You questioned; a hand quickly pushed down on your back, holding you down against the bed. Your body obeyed, though your lips continued to spill the sweet sounds of desire.

There was a feeling inside of you. It was unfamiliar, foreign. A tightening deep within your womanhood that clung around your husbands length.

"A-Aemond, I-I-"You did not even know how to form words to explain what was happening, however, his hand hard against your back his length continued. Hard, smashing into you as you begun to spasm around him. Your first release would consume you- It made sounds that never left your lips bounce on the stone walls of the room causing him to push your face down into the bed to silence you. His trust quickened and soon you could feel him fill you.

This feeling was familiar, the other was not. You could feel his seed, sticky and thick, as he fucked every last drop into you. His trust becoming lazy as he kept you pushed down on the bed. He stayed there like that and while you wanted to question him you could not move. When he did pull himself from you he left the room before you could even fully turn around. Leaving you to sleep, sticky, and unaware of what your husband's brother had just done to you.

For you had thought that your husband had come to your room, late at night, to finally fulfil his desires . . . or his duty. Regardless you were finally happy to be fulfilling yours.

Aegon would come to you when you were asleep each day that week. He pushed you down on the mattress, face down, and always left without saying a word.

Tonight was no exception for Aegon. He had managed to slip into your room undetected, pausing for a moment at the foot of the bed. As you slumbered, as you often did, he couldn't help but notice how your features seemed almost angelic in the moonlight, reminiscent of a painting he had once seen of the Mother. Aegon's eyes were fixated on your chest, watching your breast as they rose and fell with your breathing. What he would give to fuck you in the day light. Aegon crept onto the bed, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he deftly peeled away the blankets. Your legs were apart, waiting for him, he was certain.

Aegon normally flipped you over but tonight was different. He could not resist, for his hands carefully removed your undergarments. He brought them to his face and took an inhale of your sweet scent. His cock had become rock hard, stirring in his trousers as he brought them down. He did not wat a moment longer, for he soon pushed down on your thighs and slid himself inside of you. Even after nights of stuffing himself inside of you, your cunt was deliciously tight. Aegon begun to thrust into you, concerned about his own pleasure.

Your body became tense with him inside you, he watched as your face contorted; soft sounds falling from your lips as he thrusted into you.

The sensation was no longer unfamiliar. As you stirred from your slumber, you found yourself beginning to embrace the feeling. Yet, as your eyelids fluttered open, you gazed upward. For the first time since your husband had started visiting you at this late hour, you were able to meet his gaze. However, now eye to eye, you were able to see that this was not your husband. It was Aegon who had welcomed himself into your body, hands gripping on your waist as he spit you on his cock, grunting into you, and filling you with his seed each night.

"A-Aegon!" You asked in an out rage, a smile creeping on his lips as he placed his hand over your mouth.

"Shh-" He ordered as he started to thrust into you at an accelerated rate. Without mercy. You were tightening around him, involuntarily. You were trying to fight off the feeling of your own release; tears had been pooling in the corners of your eyes as you whimpered for mercy.

There was no mercy here.

Aegon knew what you were doing and continued until you spasmed around him causing him to hum. "Good Girl." He cooed to you, taking his fingers and now shoving them into your mouth. Looking at you, your hole full of his cock and another full of his fingers. "Fucking look at you, getting fucked by your husbands brother. You whore." Aegon said in a grunt as he continued his speed, slowing down slightly to savor this moment.

"You love this, don't you?" Aegon asked, his fingers pushing down on your tongue, causing you to gag on his fingers. You could not answer, you didn't have to. The slickness between your legs said more than any defense you would have given.

"Ah, Gods- I'm close. It's so hard to last inside you." Aegon spoke in a grunt as he continued to fuck you teasingly slow. "Aemond doesn't know what he's missing." He continued on.

Aegon would pick up his speed, unable to hold off any longer as he soon tense his body, his cock spasming inside of you. "Fuck- fucking milk me you whore." Aegon says as he fills you, ensuring that not a drop of his seed is leaking out of you, his free hand pushing down on your thigh so you have no option but to take it. He soon pulls his finger from your mouth and slowly unsheathes his cock from within you.

Aegon turns over to you and without a moment hesitation informs you, "You'll have to fuck Aemond here soon, convince him that he actually managed to get you pregnant."

[harunayuuka2060]

*Sebek and a few Diasomnia students assigned to guard MC are watching Azul, alert and on edge.*

Azul: *contemplates whether it was a mistake to come to Diasomnia alone*

MC: ...

MC: Are you here to submit and agree to my terms?

Azul: ...

Azul: What is it that you want?

MC: It's not anything complicated.

Azul: *smiles skeptically*

MC: Oh, but it would undoubtedly be tedious.

Azul: Huh?

MC: What I need is for you to revise the remaining contracts that are still in your possession.

Azul: ...Wait. You're not going to ask me to terminate the contracts?

MC: Would you be willing to do that if I asked you?

Azul: ...

MC: Once you're finished, please provide me with a sample. If I find it reasonable, I will return the photo.

Azul: *smirks* How can you be certain that I won't attempt to deceive you by presenting a perfect contract?

MC: The reason you were able to take advantage of the students is that you never compromise on the quality of service you provide.

Azul: ...

Azul: I'm delighted I gave that impression.

MC: *smiles* Nonetheless, that doesn't justify your greed.

Azul: ...

Malleus: I'm pleased you agreed to stay for lunch, Ashengrotto.

Azul: *tries to mask the awkwardness with a smile* I had no reason to turn down a sincere invitation.

Malleus: *smiles* Of course.

Azul: ...

Azul: (I should've left while I still had time...)

Malleus: Dear, pass me your plate, and I'll remove the bones from the fish for you.

MC: Oh, it’s okay, Dada. I can handle it.

Azul: (Dada?)

Lilia: Dear, would you like some frog soup?

MC: ...

Sebek: THAT LOOKS DELICIOUS, LILIA-SAMA!

Silver: *mutters* Me when I lie.

Malleus: Lilia, get that abominable thing away from my child.

Azul: (Child?!) *stares at MC with wide-eyed expression*

Azul: ...

Azul: Excuse me, Malleus-senpai? If you don't mind me asking...

Azul: Have you adopted MC?

Malleus: *smirks* Adopted? No.

Malleus: They're my biological child.

Azul: HUH?!!

Floyd: Haha! See? I told you!

Jade: ...

Azul: ...

Jade: Still, it doesn't add up. How could he know that a human from another world was his child?

Azul: I learned from books that dragons imprint on their children, and that bond can never be erased, regardless of the circumstances. Additionally, they have been recognized by the Queen of Briar Valley and its people.

Jade: Oh.

Floyd: Why should we care about details?

Floyd: Are you tryna start a conspiracy~?

Azul: Of course not.

Jade: ...

Jade: Azul, I think you can use this chance to form a connection with them.

Azul: ...

Azul: You're right.

Floyd: Seashell-chan wouldn't like you as a friend~.

Azul: Why not?

Floyd: 'Cuz you're not honest~.

Azul: I'm hones—

Azul: ...

Floyd: But me~ I could~. Actually, we're kinda besties now~.

Azul: In that case, Floyd, can you help me—

Floyd: No. Haha! I'll be hanging out with Seashell-chan~! Bye-bye~!

Azul: Floyd— *sigh*

MC: Dada, why did you reveal the truth to Azul?

Malleus: *brushing their hair* It's meant to frighten him, dear.

MC: ...

MC: You're being overly protective.

Malleus: *smiles* Do you not like that?

MC: ...

MC: No, because if I were in your shoes, I would have done the same to protect you, Dada.

Malleus: ...

Malleus: Your Nana has sent yet another letter.

MC: ...

MC: Is it an angry letter?

Malleus: *chuckles*

[ms-snape]

Omg please write an imagine in which reader and snape are in a relationship and she never calls him by his name, only nicknames and stuff like that (baby, darling, love, different nicknames, etc.) one day either the fight or he tells her off about it and suddenly she stops and calls like everyone else (Severus/snape/whatever) and only then he realizes how much he loved the way it previously was and it drives him mad trying to get her to go back without out right saying it (cause the grumpy proud man that he is😂)

Title: Grumpy Proud Man

Warning: A bit of angst

Words Count: 2000+

___

The warm, golden light of the early morning filtered through the greenhouse windows, casting intricate patterns across the floor. Y/N hummed softly to herself, her hands deep in the soil of a Venomous Tentacula pot. The plant quivered slightly, its tendrils curling inwards as if it recognized her gentle touch. Herbology was her passion, and every day spent tending to the vibrant flora of Hogwarts felt like a dream come true.

She glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled. Severus would be finishing his first class of the day soon. Her heart gave a little flutter, as it always did when she thought of him. Severus Snape, the enigmatic Potions Master, with his sharp wit and sharper tongue, was a man who had captured her heart entirely. She adored him, though he often pretended to be immune to such affection.

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron and set the Venomous Tentacula aside. She wanted to surprise him with tea in his office—a small token of her love. As she prepared the tray with precise care, her mind wandered to the first time they’d spoken. It had been over a shared interest in rare magical plants. What had started as professional respect had grown into a deep bond, though they couldn’t have been more different in temperament.

Where Y/N was warm and openly affectionate, Severus was reserved, his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall. But she saw through it—the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, the way his voice lowered when they spoke. He loved her, even if he struggled to say it aloud.

Over the following days, Y/N made a habit of showering Severus with affection in small, thoughtful ways. She would slip into the dungeons with a fresh cup of tea or a plate of his favorite biscuits, always accompanied by a soft kiss on his temple or a playful ruffle of his hair. “My Sevvy,” she’d call him, her voice dripping with adoration. “You work too hard. Take a moment to breathe, love.”

Severus would sigh, his expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “You’re incorrigible,” he’d mutter, though he never truly pushed her away. He didn’t know how to respond to such open affection, but he found himself craving her presence nonetheless.

In the evenings, she’d join him in his quarters, curling up beside him on the worn sofa as he read through his notes. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. “Sevvy, darling, have I told you how much I love you today?”

“Only a dozen times,” he’d reply dryly, though his lips would twitch as if suppressing a smile.

“Well, it bears repeating,” she’d say, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re brilliant, and I’m so lucky to have you.”

These moments brought a flicker of warmth to Severus’s otherwise somber world, though he struggled to reconcile them with his own guarded nature. While he appreciated her love, he often found himself retreating inward, unsure of how to handle such unabashed devotion.

One morning, as Y/N prepared a basket of pastries to bring to the staff lounge, she couldn’t resist adding a small bouquet of flowers from the greenhouse. Severus had been particularly terse the day before, and she wanted to brighten his mood.

When she arrived at his office, she found him hunched over his desk, his hair falling in dark curtains around his face. She knocked lightly before stepping inside. “Sevvy, love, I brought you something.”

He looked up, his expression immediately guarded. “What is it now?”

She set the basket down, her smile unwavering. “Just some pastries and a little something to make your office feel less dreary.” She held out the bouquet, her eyes shining with hope.

Severus stared at the flowers, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Y/N,” he said, his tone measured, “this isn’t necessary.”

“Of course it is,” she replied, undeterred. “You deserve to be surrounded by beauty.”

“I’m quite capable of managing without,” he said sharply, pushing the bouquet away.

Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked her disappointment. “Alright,” she said softly, setting the flowers on the windowsill instead. “I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.”

The tension reached its breaking point a few days later. Y/N had come to his office after dinner, her arms full of papers she’d been grading. She’d planned to sit with him while he worked, enjoying their usual quiet companionship. But when she called him “Sevvy” for the third time that evening, his patience snapped.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “must you persist with these ridiculous nicknames?”

She blinked, startled. “I didn’t think you minded,” she said, her voice tinged with hurt. “It’s just my way of showing you how much I care.”

“And I have tolerated it,” he said, standing abruptly. “But there are limits. I am not some simpering fool to be coddled with pet names.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger rising within her. “I never meant to make you feel that way. I just… I thought it made you happy.”

“Happy?” he repeated, his tone biting. “Do I strike you as a man who delights in such trivialities?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize my affection was such a burden to you.”

“Y/N,” he began, but she shook her head, cutting him off.

“No, I understand,” she said, her voice firm despite the crack in it. “If it bothers you that much, I won’t call you those names anymore.”

She turned and left, her footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor. Severus watched her go, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache. He didn’t try to stop her.

The days that followed were marked by a distinct shift in their dynamic. Y/N kept her promise, addressing him only as Severus or Professor Snape, even when they were alone. She no longer reached for his hand during their quiet walks around the grounds, nor did she surprise him with kisses on his cheek when they crossed paths in the corridors. Her vibrant warmth seemed to dim, replaced by a careful restraint that mirrored his own.

At first, Severus told himself it was a relief. He valued order and discipline, even in his personal life. But as the days turned into weeks, he began to notice the absence of her usual cheer. The way her laughter no longer echoed through the greenhouse, the way her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was still kind, still attentive, but there was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before.

One evening, as they sat together in her quarters, the silence between them felt heavier than usual. Y/N was curled up on the sofa, a book in her lap, while Severus sipped his tea. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth did little to dispel the chill in the room.

“Y/N,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

She looked up from her book, her expression neutral. “Yes, Severus?”

He hesitated, the words forming and reforming in his mind. “Have I upset you?”

Her brows lifted in mild surprise. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You…” He gestured vaguely. “You’ve been different.”

She closed her book and set it aside, turning to face him fully. “I’ve only been doing what you asked. I’ve respected your boundaries.”

Her words were calm, but there was an edge to them that made his chest tighten. “I didn’t mean for you to… withdraw entirely.”

“I haven’t,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “I still care for you deeply, Severus. I’m just… trying to be what you need.”

He frowned, leaning forward slightly. “And what of what you need?”

Her lips curved into a sad smile. “I thought what I needed was you. But perhaps I’ve been asking too much.”

Her words hung in the air, and Severus had no reply. The fire crackled, filling the silence as the space between them seemed to grow wider. For the first time, Severus realized just how much he missed the sound of her calling him “Sevvy,” of her warm laughter echoing in the stillness. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

The following week brought more moments of realization, though Severus kept his thoughts buried. One afternoon, as they worked side by side in the greenhouse, Y/N handed him a cutting from a Fanged Geranium.

“Here, Severus,” she said, her tone polite but distant. “This one’s ready for potting.”

He took the cutting, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment. The usual spark of warmth was absent, replaced by an emptiness that gnawed at him. He watched her as she moved to the other side of the greenhouse, her focus entirely on the plants. She didn’t hum as she usually did, and the silence felt oppressive.

Later that evening, during dinner in the Great Hall, Y/N addressed him in the same formal tone. “Severus, could you pass the salt?”

He complied, the simple act feeling strangely hollow. As he glanced at her, he noticed the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes. She was smiling at something Professor Sprout had said, but it didn’t reach her eyes. He looked away, a knot tightening in his chest.

By the time the evening ended, Severus found himself lingering in the corridor outside her quarters. He raised his hand to knock but hesitated. What could he say? That he missed her warmth, her nicknames, her unbridled affection? The words refused to form, and after a moment, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

As the days stretched on, the distance between them became almost unbearable. Severus found himself longing for the very things he’d pushed away—the sound of her laughter, the way she’d light up a room just by being in it. But his pride held him back, keeping the words locked inside.

One evening, as they passed each other in the corridor, Y/N offered him a small, polite smile. “Good evening, Severus,” she said softly.

He nodded, his throat tightening. “Good evening, Y/N.”

As she walked away, the realization struck him with full force: he’d driven away the one person who had ever truly cared for him. And though he desperately wanted to fix it, he didn’t know how. Instead, he stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared around the corner.

The following night, Severus sat in his quarters, the air thick with the scent of brewing potions and the faint crackle of the fire. A small vial of calming draught sat untouched on the edge of his desk. He had been staring at it for an hour, his mind replaying the moments of their relationship, the brightness she brought, the warmth he hadn’t realized he depended on.

He set the vial aside and stood, his resolve hardening. Enough was enough. He couldn’t undo the pain he had caused her, but he could at least admit he was wrong. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and left his quarters, his strides purposeful yet hesitant.

When he reached the greenhouse, he found her bent over a table, tending to a row of Flutterby bushes. The moonlight streaming through the glass panes caught in her hair, making her look ethereal. For a moment, he simply watched her, his chest tightening with a strange mix of longing and guilt.

“Y/N,” he said finally, his voice low but steady.

She straightened, turning to face him. “Severus,” she said, her tone neutral but not unkind. “What brings you here so late?”

He hesitated, his usual composure faltering. “I need to speak with you.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “Of course. What is it?”

The words stuck in his throat for a moment, but he forced them out. “I… I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “Your affection, your warmth… I took it for granted. Worse, I dismissed it as trivial when it was anything but.”

Her expression softened, though she still looked guarded. “Severus…”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching hers. “I thought I needed distance, control. But all I’ve managed to do is drive you away. And in doing so, I’ve come to realize how much I miss… everything about you. Your laughter, your kindness. Even the ridiculous nicknames.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, though tears glistened in her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I do,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m not good at this, Y/N. I don’t know how to show love the way you do, but… I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

She closed the distance between them, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. “Oh, Severus,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to be you.”

His hands came to rest lightly on her waist, his touch tentative. “You deserve so much more than I’ve given you.”

“What I deserve,” she said firmly, “is a partner who tries. And if you’re willing to do that, then that’s all I need.”

He nodded, a faint sheen of tears in his own eyes. “I’ll try.”

She smiled then, the first genuine smile he’d seen from her in weeks. “That’s all I ask, Sevvy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. “You’ll be insufferable with those names again, won’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she teased, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “But only because I love you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Severus allowed himself to smile—a small, hesitant smile, but genuine nonetheless. Together, they stood in the moonlit greenhouse, the distance between them finally bridged.

[taskforce420]

tap out. simon 'ghost' riley

it didn't take a genius to know that simon riley, had been through hell. no family, close to no friends outside of his line of work. he was the shell of a man, a living ghost if you will; but people knew he was not one to be taunted or made fun of. sure he was a broken man, but he'd never take disrespect.

it did take a genius to know that you, had been through hell. no family, close to no friends outside of your line of work. you were quiet, always kept to yourself, never caused much trouble, unless you were on the field getting your hands dirty- bloody even. no one knew about your past, your story. but you liked it that way.

so, here you and ghost stood. arms behind your back, standing at ease, looking straight ahead.

as of right now, a common army tradition was ongoing, 'tap out' it was called, where the soldiers stood at ease as they waited for their loved ones to tap them out, letting them move, talk, interact with their family etc.

your gaze slowly shifted from the ground, to the families crying tears of happiness as they saw their son or daughter again after months or years of them being gone. mothers held their sons close to them, fathers cheered and praised their daughters for their accomplishments.

and you? well, you stood there, wishing to yourself, that maybe seeing your mother and father pass away was all a dream and that you'd see them walking over to you any minute, with wide smiles and excited cheers.

and ghost? well, he didn't care about the fact that no one was there to see him, to congratulate him; he cared that you, his closet friend since the beginning of training, was stood there. alone.

he didn't understand why, but he could probably guess. nonetheless, he watched as you uncomfortably shifted your weight from one foot to the other. he noticed you didn't want to be there, didn't want to have to listen to the laughs and 'hellos' of mothers and fathers.

ghost could relate, he let out a deep sigh; letting his arms drop to his side, he moved from his spot. he knew full well that he was breaking rules but as of now, he didn't care. not one bit. he walked over to you, eyes meeting with yours almost instantly.

"come on, luv." he said, as comforting as he possibly could. he raised his hand to your shoulder, officially tapping you out. he could see the hurt in your eyes.

"thanks, si" he nodded as you thanked him, he felt horrible knowing your pain.

you let your hands come to your sides, subconsciously, you started to fidget. your rough fingertips played with the hem of your t-shirt. "its not fair that they make us do this.." you said softly, head hanging low, watching your feet as you both walked back into the base, knowing you had nothing better to do.

"mhm" is all ghost said as he looked down at you, clearly seeing your defeated mood. "i wouldn't dwell on it, sweetheart. i know what your thinking" you nodded, not really bothered to speak. you appreciated ghost walking with you though, keeping you company.

"your family is here now, us, me...soap, gaz, price. the whole force, your brothers, your sisters" ghost spoke. you knew he was right, you got along incredibly well with the members of Task Force 141, there were many years full of core memories with the lot of them.

like the time when you and soap got bored one night so you snuck out of the base and found yourselves at a water bank, completely soaked from jumping in. you both laughed uncontrollably as you splashed one another.

or even when you and price sat in his office, having a deep conversation about previous missions, his past, life in general. you two agreed that you had bonded, ending the night with a simple hug.

or that time when you and gaz decided to go a nearby bar, its safe to say that you both got absolutely hammered from the mixed alcohol in your system. you laughed with one another as you stumbled back to base, holding onto one another. laughing even harder as price and soap caught you in your drunken state.

or...or even the time with ghost.

when you two lay on his dishevelled bed, your back to his chest, his arm lazily thrown around your waist, holding you against him for comfort. his hand traced the scars on your waist, your hips, your legs. you stared out the window, smiling to yourself. nothing serious had happened...you both just adored the company of one another, which is why you found yourself falling asleep to the feeling his breaths on your shoulder, and his hand caressing your skin. "you okay?" he had asked you, moving to lie on his back. you had turned to face him. smiling when you saw him already looking at you, his arm rest behind his head. "mhm, always" you had softly spoke.

you smiled to yourself as you finally walked into the base, simon still by your side. "yeah..you're right" you said looking up at the large man. he happened to look down at you, you swear you could see him smile beneath his mask.

"i know..."

lemme know if you guys would like a pt. 2 :)

[mygnolia]

JUST ANOTHER LOVE SONG ୨୧ l. heeseung

୨୧ -› he's your high school sweetheart; something that was meant to be, written in the stars.

pair -› (student body) secretary!heeseung x vice pres! reader | wc -› 1k | cw -› just lots of kisses! | for @jlheon 's entopia event!! proud of u for 1k!

highschool is for growth, youth, and naivety. but highschool is where you meet lee heeseung, which makes all those other factors insignificant. 

highschool relationships aren’t easy; if everything in your lives is tumultuous and ever changing, how can you expect your love with lee heeseung to stay the same? it’s like a field of flowers- and as much as you wished its beauty to be forever, it wilts, and sprouts with the seasons. 

and things are never perfect, but you two make it work, through the good and bad, and that’s what makes it worth fighting for. and you love heeseung, enveloping him in all of those ‘disgusting, couply’ feelings that make life more memorable. 

you bump into student body secretary heeseung one time in the hallway, and he helps you carry one of the many bags you had prepared for decorations headed to the student body classroom. it’s tidy, as your president and friend jungwon likes the classroom to be, with one of your favorite kind-hearted teachers looking over your meetings every week. 

and you’ve known of lee heeseung. you’ve heard his singing as you pack up after long and tedious days full of planning. you’ve done student body bondings with him not quite by your side- but with you nonetheless. but this is the first time you’ve seen him in a more romantic light- and you like it more than you expect. 

as heeseung still carries your bags, you tell him about how stressful planning winter formal is, considering how the venue was secured with immense luck. usually, in october, there’s nothing left for schools who procrastinate, but your principal didn’t make it easy to be proactive in the first place. 

your love blossoms here, where he opens the door for you and laughs at your little jokes- where lee heeseung is in his element with park jongseong as treasurer and jungwon helping you all. it blossoms easily, when you two snicker in the back of the classroom and poke lighthearted fun at jay when he talks about his emails and responses. it’s fleeting- almost impossible to catch, but there’s a shift in the air after he really meets you. he helps you plan a bit more after hearing your struggles, and you make neat folders for his documents and reach out about government in hopes of starting conversations, even if it was about school. you two sit near each other, buy food for each other after stressful finals, and to be honest, it all goes by fast. it’s scary to know you’ve developed solid feelings by his birthday where you write him a sweet note with a meaningful gift, or by winter when you kiss him for the first time. 

your love is young, and full of recklessness- but you two work through all the problems that comes with being so hopelessly in love in a time like highschool. 

and within moments where you cry to him on the phone, or times where either of you mess up and have to apologize, there are moments that make your heart swell, too. like, when he tells you he loves you for the first time as perhaps a slip of the tongue, apologizing. “i always say it to my mom before i hang up.” he explains, picking at his nails from nervousness as he waits for your response on the other line. “but it’s not like i don’t mean it.” 

and you giggle before repeating the words, stuffing your face into your pillow before you hang up and dream of heeseung. 

or, that time where he blasted a song from his car and sang along to the lyrics as he asked you out for prom, his trunk propped open with flowers, and a huge smile on his face. and heeseung’s not afraid to love you in public, in a way that displays his grad gestures without the privacy of your intimacy behind closed doors. 

and you think about it; the kisses you two share when impossibly close, with lovesick grins and warm, sweaty palms as heeseung would reach out to tuck your hair behind your ear and scrunch your shirt in his other hand to pull you close. and you are assured by him that you are loved with how he looks at you, with his gentle gazes and warm embraces that calm your bubbling feelings. 

it is in the quiet moments where you two are most vulnerable. where you cry and tell him he’s hurt you (seldomly!), or when he kisses your temple and whispers his words of affirmation. 

even still, even three years later when your friends marvel at how your relationship still holds true despite the distance and longing, you’re at a loss of words as to how to explain it. heeseung loves and loves, like he was born to reassure your worries and comb his fingers through your hair. how do you explain a feeling so invigorating yet serene at the same time? and your friends tell you that heeseung would do anything for you, and they tell you he would turn back an entire train just to hold your face in his hands and seal your lips with his just once more before the end of the day. 

and your love with him continues to grow and change over time. like how flowers leave all of their fate to the sun and storm, you two try not to overthink the little things and let your relation run its path. and it’s been three years from highschool ever since junior year when you two got together, so you’re not the same snickering duo in the back of your classroom. but sometimes, heeseung presses a searing kiss to your lips after having not seen you for a while, and it makes you feel the very same as you did those days in october, hands intertwined under the desks with looks of longing. 

and with how easy it is to talk about how heeseung loves you wholly, you think, you could write one, or maybe even two lovesongs about him. 

REN SAYS... this was a little messy but full of love nonetheless. i heart lee heeseung

© all rights are reserved to mygnolia 2024. republished, translated, and/or heavily referenced work will be reported and removed immediately.

[pinkberrytea]

If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins.

O, Fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here? And what may the young bride be doing?

Vanitas—Life is vain. As the true nature of their bond is revealed, the Vampire Ascendant’s Dark Consort is reminded of the futility of swimming against the currents of fate, and must decide whether she shall drown in its river of blood, or let herself be gently carried to the shore.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 12.8k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! i decided to attempt something a little more plot heavy this time, hopefully it is an interesting read! again i would like to dedicate this work to @locallegume and hismostbelovedspawn. thank y’all for being always so kind and supportive!

( part 1 here ) ( part 3 here )

tags: blood drinking; non-con blood drinking; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; hurt & comfort; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; intercrural sex; frottage; mind control; aftercare; choking; piv sex

He will notice. He will know.

The metal surface of the key on your hand feels cool against your skin; lifeless and cold, not unlike yourself. As you look down at it, the world dissolves into darkness, a sickening surge of dread welling up from your stomach and running down your spine. Its serrated edge is stained with red—your red. Even if you wipe it, wash it with soap and water, rub it vigorously until all traces of blood are gone, remnants of your scent will linger on it still. Maybe not to the untrained nose, no; but to a vampire, it would most definitely be noticeable, of that you are certain. Your darling is, however, no mere vampire, but the Ascendant, whose consort’s distinctive bouquet he would undoubtedly be able to recognize anywhere, even more so while it is still fresh. There is no escaping your fate, and as that merciless truth dawns on you, you curse yourself for your own foolishness, for your vain stubbornness. Was it worth it? Whatever did you gain from this? Knowledge? For what purpose? To what end? You find answers to none of these questions, and yet another plagues your mind—once the truth is uncovered, what will happen then?

“My lady. The master is home.”

If your inert heart was capable of skipping a beat, it would have done so just now. You turn around in a swift movement, only to be met with a pair of ruby red eyes staring back into your own, their gaze ever so apathetic, unemotional, yet you see a spark of something in them that worries you greatly: cognizance. She knows; the one your darling calls your “lady-in-waiting”, who you are nonetheless very well aware is loyal not to you, but to him, and him alone. She is the only one who remained from the very first batch of spawn he sired, other than you. Shortly after you both moved into what would come to be known as the crimson palace, now his by right following his triumph over his old master, he decided that all the mortal servants who survived were to be turned, for he aspired to make an army of spawn, and where better to start than by turning those who would willingly surrender themselves to him? 

She was one such servant, of course; a human, whose short lifespan would be made inconsequential by the gift of immortality. And yet, as he would soon come to learn, not even the Vampire Ascendant is immune to the dangers of siring those who have yet to prove themselves worthy. One fateful evening, upon walking into one of your fellow spawn trying to force himself on you, he would kill them all in a fit of rage, taking back the gift he had so generously offered only to be repaid with such vile betrayal—all except your lady-in-waiting, whom he had grown to trust, for she was hauntingly fascinated with his eternal adoration of you. As it were, she was the one who warned him of what had been about to happen that night; not out of fondness for you, naturally, but rather as a desperate measure to protect from corruption what she worshiped as the purest form of love, one so raw and so relentless that not even the gods themselves would dare quell its vicious, unforgiving flames. She would not allow anyone to rob you from him, nor anything to stand between you—not even yourself.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be there in a moment,” you say, trying to sound as collected as you possibly can, yet failing miserably at it. The situation you’ve been caught in looks incredibly suspicious as there would otherwise be no reason for you to be in your lover’s study, crouching behind his desk, and both you and your lady-in-waiting are fully aware of this. She can probably smell the scent of your blood, too, as the papercut on your thumb leaks still, a thin red trail running down your hand, smudged on the spot where it came into contact with the object that is now evidence of your misdeed. Neither of you acknowledge this, yet the oppressive silence lingers, perhaps even more unnerving than it would have been if she said something, anything about it. But she doesn’t—in fact, she remains completely still, standing in the doorway and watching you quietly, knowingly, her sharp eyes boring into your jittery self. She doesn’t intend to leave, not without you at least. 

You look at the documents scattered over the desk, and then back at her, almost as if to ask for permission; she doesn’t react to this, which is as good an answer as any. With trembling fingers, you awkwardly gather the papers and put them back inside the open drawer as discreetly as you can, praying that she hasn’t noticed which drawer it is, yet knowing full well she likely has. One paper remains—the one whose rugged edge cut into your flesh, and that which you’d been reading before it spilled your blood and stained the drawer’s key. It is the sole reason why you are even here, stuck in this predicament. 

Earlier in the day, one of the maids had brought a letter that had arrived that morning to your darling while you were both sitting at the breakfast table—a letter addressed to you. You questioned him about it, asked him if you could read it, yet as he’d done with the many others that had arrived before it, he’d lay it aside and tell you, “Dearest, let me spare you the trouble of worrying your pretty little head about such trifling matters.” And as always you’d comply, because you trusted him. Still and all, when hours later he’d inform you he had some urgent business to attend to in the upper city and that he wouldn’t be back for supper, your mind would sneakily wander to thoughts of stealing into his study while he was gone. Could those letters have been sent by your old companions? Those who had once traveled alongside you—those who you had once called friends? It would be easy, so easy to just grab the key to the drawer where he’d toss your correspondence, for you knew he kept it in the pocket of his overcoat, yet you trusted him, did you not? You’d tell yourself you did, and then let the matter rest; for a few minutes at least, before your wandering thoughts would inevitably circle back to the tantalizing prospect of seizing that golden opportunity. You managed to suppress the ever growing temptation for the rest of the day, but when the clock struck nine, that fading last chance became too hard to resist, and curiosity emerged victorious in the fierce battle raging within you.

Your prize now lies before you, for better or for worse, although as you’ve come to find out, and to your utter disappointment, the sender is in fact not any of your old companions. As for the contents—too much information, too little time to process, and you’ve yet to make sense of it all. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, you take one last look before tucking the letter back inside the envelope, eyes lingering on the sender’s initials: 

To the bride of the Vampire Ascendant,

I hope this letter finds you well. As with my others, I don’t expect a response, yet ever so often I feel compelled to write to you on the off chance that the information I share may somehow be of use. I suppose I may have something of a soft spot for you, for I have once been in a position I consider very similar to yours. I would even go so far as to call you kin. Yet as I have done in the past, I would remind you that there will always be a way out. You are not trapped, regardless of what your sire would have you believe. 

Observations I’ve made over the past few years have all but confirmed my thesis that you are indeed no spawn—not of the common variety, anyway—and while I empathize with your unwillingness to put that theory to the test, the evidence leaves little room for interpretation. I understand my… surveillance of you may be unsettling, but I cannot ignore what is to me now clear as day: you do bear three bite marks, do you not? One on your neck, the other on your shoulder, and the last one on your wrist. 

I implore that you think back to your turning: was there pain? Was it agonizing? Terrifying? A spawn’s turning is a terrible, terrible thing. Do you remember the gruesome feeling of all life being drained from your body? Because if not—well, that would be most unusual. Did you partake of your sire’s blood? Not that you’d be able to remember that, of course. The usual turning rite is nothing like what you probably experienced. Three bites, delirious pleasure, drinking from your sire: all hallmarks of a vampiric bride’s creation. The dark kiss, they call it. Has your sire ever compelled you? Surely not. You retain your free will, after all, unlike common spawn. And that is my point: the connection needs not be severed for you to leave. 

If you ever reconsider my offer, our small settlement in Gillian’s Hill would welcome you with open arms. Some of us are also runaway brides, although none are sunwalkers like yourself, of course. Our community would benefit greatly from your presence. Should you decide to join us, just say the word—I will come to you. 

Your friend,

L.I.

The hour of reckoning is upon you.

There he stands, near the entranceway, surrounded by the servants who have come to greet him. He is giving instructions to one of them—you will be hosting another of his infamous soirees soon it seems. Some patriar’s niece has apparently taken a liking to him, puppy love no doubt, an excellent opportunity to make yet another powerful ally. You watch him silently from your position a few feet away, your lady-in-waiting close beside you, and the pit of your stomach tightens every time it seems he is about to turn in your direction. It takes but a few minutes for him to finally acknowledge your presence—his stern gaze immediately softens once he lays eyes on you, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips, and for a moment you almost lose yourself in the gentleness of his expression.

“...Astarion,” you softly say his name, your voice quiet, uncertain. His smile widens as he turns away from the servant and approaches you; the closer he is, the better you can see him, and you can’t help but think of how very handsome he looks in his black waistcoat, embroidered with red spinel gemstones. The overflowing love you feel impossibly warms your chest and causes tears to well up in your eyes at the mere sight of him, yet the creeping guilt haunts you still, impossible to ignore.

“My love,” he coos, bringing his hand to your face and lovingly brushing his fingers against your cheek. You lean into his touch, yet the tenderness is short-lived; with that same hand, he then grabs your neck—his grip firm, but not tight—and leans down to press his mouth to yours while holding you in place. His lips are soft, warm—you close your eyes and try to revel in the comforting feeling of your skin against his, but that too doesn’t last long. He lets you go, smiling still, and tucks a few strands of stray hair that have come undone from your hairdo behind your ear. You look up at him from under thick lashes, trying your best not to lose your composure, yet something in your gaze apparently gives you away. As his eyes meet yours, his smile slowly fades and he raises a brow ever so slightly, puzzled countenance inconspicuous to all but you. 

“My lord, would you have the maids prepare the—oof,” you hear your lady-in-waiting start to say, only to be abruptly cut off as she trips over her own feet and bumps into you. Your body sways with the impact, not enough for you to fall, but with just about the force required for your torso to slightly bend over.

Clang.

All those present turn to the source of the metallic sound in the otherwise quiet room, you included, and upon seeing the object that now lays on the floor, so close it almost comes into contact with the tip of your shoe, the already cold blood in your veins congeals into ice—the key. You had hurriedly cleaned it and stuffed it under your petticoat before leaving the study with your lady-in-waiting in tow so you could later get rid of it while no one was watching, yet it seems that plan is now no longer an option. You press your lips together and slowly turn your head to the side, tentatively glancing at your lover, and what you see causes any remnants of color to drain from your already pale face. Any semblance of joy in his expression has completely vanished as his now darkened eyes glare fixedly at the unassuming piece of metal by your feet. Without uttering a word, he leans down and picks it up. The atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife; no one dares break the foreboding silence, and all you can hear is the now painfully loud ticking of the grandfather clock adorning the grand foyer.

“How… curious,” he finally says, voice low, seemingly calm, yet your trained ear can discern the underlying anger. You gulp uncomfortably and wipe your sweaty hands on the skirt of your house dress, eyes never leaving his face, studying every twitch of his muscles. “Has the key to my drawer created a life of its own, I wonder? There can surely be no other explanation. How else would it have made its way here? Unless of course…” he raises his head to meet your stare, and you instinctively recoil at the seething ire building up underneath his otherwise impassive visage, “it had some help.”

“I…” you stutter, your throat completely dry, causing your voice to crack and come out raspy, so hushed it is barely above a whisper. You turn to your lady-in-waiting, brows knitting together in your desperation, but she doesn’t look back at you, coldly avoiding your gaze. All the other servants watch you silently, apprehensively, exchanging knowing glances. “The—the laundry basket. It could have been thrown in there. Transferred from one pocket to the other…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and as a surge of blind panic rises within you, wild and unruly, you start feeling nauseous and light-headed, your trembling knees threatening to give out. “If not that, then—I don’t know… I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have it…”

“Oh?” His fury becoming increasingly more difficult to subdue, the flames of anger now lick through Astarion’s eyes; you can see yourself reflected in them, one of the boons he so lovingly extended to you, and despite knowing how lucky you are for having never been required to let go of your own image, staring back at your pathetic, quivering frame makes you wish for a moment you were like the other spawn, with whom he would refuse to share his ascended blessings—yet as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you shun your own petty egotism, for you know how much he has sacrificed—how much you have both sacrificed—to ensure neither you nor him would have to hide in the shadows ever again. “Is that right? I suppose that could be possible. Except,” he scowls, and you feel all hairs on your body stand on end in anticipation for what you predict will come next, “that doesn’t explain why it smells of your blood, of all things. Does it, darling?”

This is it. You always knew it was pointless to come up with excuses, yet you tried to deceive him anyway, foolishly both underestimating and defying the person whom you were supposed to trust the most. Your eyes ashamedly leave his face and you lower your gaze, not bothering to answer—at this point, there is nothing you could say that would avert or deescalate the situation. You’ve made your bed, and now must lie in it. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, to think you’d still betray him, lie to him; it is despicable, indefensible. 

“To the boudoir. Now.” Each word he articulates drips with contempt, the hostility in his voice now undeniable. Your eyes sting as the tears start to form and bead your lashes, blurring your vision. Shame, guilt, fear, regret—the unsightly commingling of emotions comes to a head, making you feel unworthy of even being in his presence.

“I—”

“I was not asking, darling.” He grabs your wrist as he says this, his grasp so strong you’re afraid he may dislocate it. You let out a yelp, and he turns your hand around, exposing the bright red papercut at the base of your thumb, maculating the thin, sensitive skin between it and your palm. It no longer bleeds, but even your enhanced vampiric healing talents have not been enough to allow the still fresh wound to close in the short time that has transpired since it was inflicted upon your flesh. As you anxiously raise your eyes to meet his gaze, your heart sinks at the realization that he is not only furious—he is hurt. He is scared. He is heartbroken. 

“Astarion, please—” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you finish, closing his fingers around your upper arm and forcefully dragging you across the foyer. The servants know well not to follow; they say nothing as you both make your way down the main hall, Astarion’s feet heavily striking the ground with every step, and you treading close behind, stumbling and trying to keep pace with him. You’re unsure what to think, unsure what to feel. While he was always prone to outbursts of anger, you have never before seen him react so viscerally to anything—not like this, not even in his most vulnerable moments. You know him better than you know yourself, maybe even better than he knows himself; in the many years you’ve spent in each other’s arms, you have always been able to read his every expression, decipher his every thought—but this, this you don’t understand. It’s novel, foreign, terrifying. 

“Astarion…” As the two of you turn a corner, finally no longer within the servants’ line of sight, you try to speak once more, fighting back the tears. “Please…” you whimper, your forlorn supplications going unanswered, unheeded, as if never uttered at all. “Please… you’re hurting me…”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he abruptly stops, and you feel his grip on your arm tighten. When he turns around to face you, you cower at the wrath you had never before seen manifest with such intensity in his eyes, and mixed with it, although less discernible, fear—raw, violent and hellacious. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, and the loud thumping of his heart sounds like an accusation, a condemnation of your wretched selfishness. It now only beats once more because of you; because of your complacence, your foolishness, your blithering, pitiful neediness. You wanted him to love you, feared that he’d leave you, and while telling yourself it was because you wanted him to be happy, you sentenced him to eternal guilt. All the sacrifice, all the hurt… and now you’d turn your back on him? You’d make light of the bond of trust you had so earnestly forged and nourished throughout the years—the only reason why you both live still?

“I am hurting you?” Astarion hisses through his teeth, letting go of your arm only to use that same hand to fiercely grab your throat and shove you onto the sill of a nearby window, forcing you to lean against it in a half-seated position, yet at the same time cradling the back of your head with his other hand to cushion the impact. “You come uninvited into my study, rummage through my things, lie to me about it—yet I’m the one hurting you? Do you even hear yourself?” He straddles you and brings his face close to yours, his nails digging into your neck, squeezing it to the point of slightly choking you. 

“...You—you’re the one who’s lying…” you manage to say between pants and squeaks, for despite having no need to breathe, it is difficult for you to talk or emit any sounds at all with your windpipes crushed under his grasp. “You’ve been lying to me… all this time…” He buries his fingers deeper into your skin, but that doesn’t stop you from finishing, it doesn’t prevent the impending disaster about to strike. “I’m not your spawn… I never was.”

You don’t know what has come over you, but the words are spoken before you can swallow them. Astarion seems as taken aback as you are at your defiance—he looks stunned for a few seconds, yet as soon as he recovers, his eyes narrow and glow with sanguineous intent, a darkness so ghoulish and vile festering deep within them that for a moment, you become genuinely frightened. His hand lets go of your neck to then aggressively pull at the hair on top of your scalp, forcibly tilting your head upwards, and he slams the other on the wall next to the window, entrapping you against it.

“No, darling, you are my spawn. My spawn. Mine. Your body, your mind, your soul, they all belong to me. I’ve made you. You are mine to use however I please,” he growls, spitting each word with viperous malice.

Before you can react to this, or even begin to process what is happening, shock waves are sent through your body in the wake of the lancinating pain that suddenly shoots up your throat as he violently sinks his fangs into the hollow at its base. You let out a soundless gasp and your eyes widen in shock, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally streaming down your cheeks. Him feeding on you is a daily occurrence, something you were supposed to already be entirely used to, but never before had he been so forceful, never before had it hurt this much. He sucks with such vigor and so sloppily that the blood spills from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the white fabric of your clothes, speckling them red. His fingers remain tangled in your hair, keeping your head in place as he drinks, and your hairdo partly unravels. You are unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, even, but not unable to feel: you feel shame, you feel guilt, you feel remorse, for betraying him when trust was the only thing you could ever offer, the only thing that was even left.

“I’m sorry…” you lament, your voice so quiet you are unsure if he is even able to hear you, so you say it one more time. And then another. And you keep repeating it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much effort it takes to voice each word, you apologize again and again hoping your feelings will somehow reach him, hoping he will somehow understand how ashamed you are of yourself, how regretful you feel, how deeply you love him—and you do, you love him, so profoundly that life to you has no meaning without him by your side. If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins. He is your sire, your darling, your master—he is your everything. In hurting him, you hurt yourself, and in breaking his trust, you destroy the very foundation of your existence. 

I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

As your crimson runs down his throat, Astarion can feel it. Your anguish. Your sorrow. All of it. He can feel them so intensely, that it’s as if your feelings are his own—and they are, for he too feels scared, he too feels ashamed, he too loves you, just as desperately, just as ardently. He is scared of losing you, ashamed of hurting you, and the love you share has ascended to such heights that it needs not be voiced, it needs not be reaffirmed. Nothing terrifies him as much as the idea of being apart from you, and he’d do anything to keep you close; if that implies lying to you, inflicting pain on you, then he’ll gladly embrace the shame, for he never thought himself worthy of your love to begin with. And despite it all, you’d still have him—you’d still join him in immortality, trust him beyond reason, bow down and accept your position below him, for power is all he has ever known, all that has ever mattered, and wielding power over you is his only way of ensuring you will never be taken from him. 

I want you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

The tears you shed fall from your eyes and drip onto Astarion’s face as if wept by him; the sensation brings him back to reality, and as the fog clears, he is relentlessly assailed by the regret welling up within his heart. Finally unlatching his mouth from your neck, he slowly lifts his head up to look into your eyes, releasing his grip on your hair and using the newly freed hand to wipe his lips and chin, which are now smeared with blood—with that same hand, he then cups your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your skin, and in doing so, painting a red streak across it.

“Forgive me… please forgive me…” you plead between soft sobs, the teardrops uncontrollably pouring and mixing with your crimson. Cupping your cheek still, he uses his other hand to dry the now ruby-colored beads, his caresses ever so tender, ever so gentle. Although the darkness has not entirely faded from his eyes, it is eclipsed by the genuine warmth blooming on their dewy surface. He rests his forehead against yours, sliding his fingers which are now wet from the bloody droplets down your shoulders, gliding them across your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. His touches are so incredibly delicate, tentative almost, that it’s as if you were made out of porcelain and applying the slightest amount of pressure would cause you to break into a thousand pieces.

“Shh. It’s over, my love. It’s over.” He is so close to you that his breath tickles your face and his lips graze yours as he speaks, the soothing tone of his voice lulling your frenzied mind. After hesitating for a split second, his wandering digits venture further down, toying with the hemline of your dress, hiking the bloodstained fabric up just enough to expose the waxen skin of your thigh, only to then slip under it. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, and still unsure what to make of his advances, you let your eyes fall shut, savoring the moment as if waiting for the spell to break, as if the illusion is about to shatter, yet it doesn’t—instead, he finally closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and spreading your crimson that still trickles down his jaw all over you both. As you kiss, some of it makes its way onto your tongue, the coppery flavor so very familiar, for your blood is one and the same, and tasting yourself is as if tasting him.

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be mine? Forever?”

His lips never leaving yours, Astarion moves his hand on your cheek to the side of your head so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face, now damp from your blood only as the tears slowly dry. The hand under your dress finds its way to your backside, splaying across its soft curve and slightly lifting you up from the windowsill, supporting your weight as he leans his body into yours to pin you against the glass. You hold onto his shoulders with both of your hands and wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself from slipping, bringing him closer and pushing his crotch flush against your stomach; doing so allows you to feel the obvious erection under his pants, which you hadn’t yet noticed was there. While this would be a common effect of feeding under other circumstances, it startles you at first, flusters you almost, yet the reason for his sudden wantonness notwithstanding, even if you can’t fully understand it, what you do know is that the two of you may need this just as urgently—to lose yourselves in lust and hunger, feel each other, be reassured that you are both still here, that you are both still real. 

Letting out a low groan, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, burying the fully hardened bulge between your thighs. No less eager to touch him, you rock your own in rhythm with his movements, to which your body responds more willingly than what either of you would have anticipated, heat pooling in your abdomen and wetness collecting between your folds, some of which soaks through your underpants—the sweet scent of your budding arousal encourages him to keep going, and the fingers of his hand propping up your behind reach out for their waistband, slipping under the lacy fabric and pulling at it. With some effort he is able to get them to slide down a little, but not enough to expose your aching sex; deciding to try a different approach instead, he untangles his other hand from your hair and uses it to pull his own pants down, freeing his already leaking cock. Were this any other day, he would have taken his time teasing you, building you both up to the edge only to pull away at the last minute and start all over again, but not this time. Never before had Astarion’s urgency to take you been this great; never before had he felt like he must make you his as quickly as possible, lest you are forever lost to him.

Lifting up your petticoat to gain access to your still clothed core, he slides his cock under it, your underpants now the only layer separating your flesh from his. You moan against his lips at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his warm tongue inside your partially open mouth. As the petticoat falls back down, he has his freed hand join the other, using both to cradle your ass, his long digits groping and fondling the soft skin. While rolling his tongue over yours, he resumes his hip movements, massaging your dripping slit with his length and squeezing even more slick out of you, drenching the fabric that envelops it in your juices; due to the friction and the wetness, the flimsy piece of cloth starts wrinkling and sliding to the side, revealing more of your swollen folds with each thrust. Noticing this, he tilts his pelvis, angling himself to help push it out of the way, and it doesn’t take long before your skin finally comes into contact with his—once it does, you jerk your hands away from his shoulders to then wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and he avidly sucks on your bottom lip, fighting off the urge to sink his fangs into it, drawing even more of your blood.

Wet as you are, he glides effortlessly along your now partially naked mound, gently nudging your twitching entrance with the velvety tip of his cock, only to then back away slowly, spreading your folds apart and massaging the engorged bud atop them as he moves. Although his pace is languid, you can tell by his small grunts that he is growing more desperate, more impatient; once your mouths unweave, a thin string of saliva forming between your bruised, reddened lips, you are unwittingly sucked into the endless vortex of passion and yearning lurking within his crimson irises, his feelings flooding into your own heart as you lock eyes with him. Without you, there is nothing—without you, he is nothing. He offered you eternal life, and in return, you promised him eternal love; you cannot, you will not back away now. Only by feeling you, tasting you, ruining you can he convince himself that you remain within his reach, that you belong to him still. The intensity of his gaze overwhelms you, yet as you turn your head to the side to avoid it, he brings one of his hands up from under your dress and grasps your chin, forcing it back into its previous position.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Astarion says, his voice soft, but his tone firm, commanding; as if under a spell, you obey unquestioningly, staring back at him as intently as you can manage while he grinds against the raw, sensitive skin of your center, sliding along the wetness between your puffed folds and coating his cock in your sticky essence, the lewd squelching noises that ensue echoing in the empty hallway. Now increasing the tempo of his thrusts, he presses his throbbing cockhead harder and harder against your cunt with every jerk of his hips, threatening to stretch its tight borders open only to then pull back, the agonizing anticipation of it setting your nerves on fire. The coiling tension in your abdomen grows tauter by the minute, begging for release, and you can no longer feel the searing pain of the gaping wound on your neck, your mind shamelessly burdened with naught but thoughts of him—of how much you love him, how much you want him, how desperately you need him inside you, buried soul-deep, filling you to the brim. 

His appetites mirror your own, for he too craves nothing more than to have you wrapped around him, ready and primed for him to use however he wishes, for you are his, and that is his prerogative—but first, he would have you come undone, watch as you crumble into nothing at his behest. Without ever breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss a second of your unraveling, he pounds into the outer edges of your entrance with ever increasing furor, dipping his cockhead deeper within it each time, while simultaneously holding back the overwhelming urge to stuff you full in a single thrust. He can tell you are close, so close; as you have not fed since morning, the color of your flushed cheeks is not nearly as bright as it would have otherwise been, but he can still hear it—what little remains of your cold blood rushing through your veins, frantically flowing to your face and cunt, puffing up your skin and painting it a pale pink. 

You’re a vision like this, parted lips reddened with dried blood, half-lidded eyes curtained by long wet lashes, nipples pebbling under the thin chiffon of your bodice; his pretty consort, his sweet spawn, his good girl, so foolishly trusting, so naively kind. When did he lose sight of you? When did your blind devotion turn into treacherous cynicism? When did the desire to bring you to heel consume him, when did the darkness within start to take hold? As these thoughts sweep through his mind, Astarion forfeits all self-control—he needs to feel you, deeper, closer; conquer your soul, dominate your body, devour you whole. He plunges into you without warning, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering and contracting around his cock, creaming and coating him in your sweet come, as having him finally buried deep inside you pushes you over the edge of your release. You shut your eyes close and let your head fall back, only for him to firmly grab your jaw and force it up again, intent on having you face him as you dissolve into pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, the look in his eyes expressing adoration and subjugation in equal measure. “My sweet girl. My good girl.” Holding your jaw still, he slides in and out of your spasming slit without giving you time to recover from your orgasm, and the pain from the overstimulation overlaps with the high of the afterglow—rather than shun the sensation, you welcome it, for its paradoxical nature at once grounds and comforts you; the greater the pain, the more intensely you can feel him, the more entangled your souls become. The fingers of the hand still holding your ass tighten their grip, pushing your hips against his, tilting them to allow his cock to sink as deeply within you as possible. Although he refuses to avert his gaze, looking upon you with bone-chilling fierceness, the sweat beading his forehead and the growing fervor of his lust-ridden expression give away his ascent to his own rapture. To him, there is no greater bliss than feeling you clench around him as he massages your slickened walls, his velvety tip ever so slightly brushing against the spongy skin of your cervix with every thrust. He belongs inside you, and you belong to him; your body is more his than yours, your heart less yours than his.

“All mine,” he grunts between ragged breaths, the thought of you completely submitting to him, letting yourself be ravaged and debauched for his pleasure alone racing through Astarion’s mind as he reaches his climax, spilling himself all over your walls and flooding you with his warm seed. His hand that had been keeping your jaw in place lets go of it to then splay across the side of your face, affectionately caressing your cheek, and he finally lets his eyes wander away from yours, lowering his head to nuzzle into the crook of your neck while basking in his release; yet the moment is short-lived, for once he catches sight of the still bleeding mess right below his nose, two crimson gashes carved on the pale skin of your throat, his mind suddenly freezes and his gorge rises. All his—but at what cost? Was this what you wished for? Was this what he wished for? You agreed to eternity, accepted your share of the burden, became his of your own volition; but doesn’t a toy become useless once it’s broken? Doesn’t love turn into hate once it’s ruined? He knew the time would come when you’d finally see him for who he truly is, when the pathetic, repulsive rot festering under the husk of shallow charm would be laid bare before you, but why now, when he had gathered enough power to offer you the world and everything in it? Was not even that enough to keep you by his side? Feeling you squirm under him, hearing your pained whimpers and tearful pleas—he was not supposed to take joy in any of it, yet his body would betray his mind as he drained you dry. The more you pull away, the more his obsession grows; the more you try to escape, the less you are likely to get away. So why would you reject a fate you had once embraced? Were you his obedient girl no longer? Would you doom yourself, doom your love, let the dam in his living heart burst and the murky waters within consume you, him, and all in their wake?

“I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

You wince as Astarion pulls out of you, the sensitive flesh of your core now red and tender, slathered with his thick come, which runs down your entrance and onto your thighs. Raising his head back up, he brings his face close to yours, tenderly pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hand on your cheek lingering for a moment before making its way downwards, sliding under your petticoat and reaching for the space between your legs. Once his fingers come into contact with your still exposed wetness, you instinctively roll your hips into the long digits, eliciting a faint smile from him; however, rather than indulging you, he grasps the wrinkled fabric of your underpants, so drenched they have stayed put on your groin ever since being pushed there, and smoothens it as best as he can to cover your dripping sex. Planting another kiss on your bloodstained skin and lovingly rubbing his forehead and nose against yours, he uses that same hand to tuck his softening cock back inside his pants; with one last peck on your temple, he then moves his other hand away from its place on your rear to wrap both of his arms around your waist, hoisting you up. No longer pinned against the glass, legs still around his midriff and arms around his neck, you tighten your grip on him to keep yourself from falling, leaning your upper body forward and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, bringing one of his hands up to cradle your head and affectionately run his fingers through your hair. Backing away from the window, he then turns around and sets off towards the living quarters, all the while carrying you as if you were unable to walk on your own. Not bothering to question his reasons, you close your eyes, intent on enjoying his uncharacteristic gentleness while it lasts and surrendering to the overwhelming allure of his warmth, his scent, his soothing touch and the soft thumping of his heart, which you can feel with your chest flush against his, as if it beats for the two of you. The familiar aegis of his embrace offers solace and protection in equal measure, and for however long he holds you, you feel safe, you feel loved, and nothing else matters—not the guilt, not his darkness, not your selfishness.

“Astarion…” 

You whisper his name as if chanting a mantra, not really for any other purpose than to comfort yourself. The throbbing pain on your neck, the unpleasant sensation of your fluids and his drying on your thighs, the blood all over your face, hair and clothes; somehow, you care about none of it while in his arms, feeling your body rock gently as he moves, the world an endless void behind your shut eyelids. Before the moment ends, it’s just you and him, him and you—no souls weighing down on either of you other than your own, no phantoms from the past lingering in your memory, no outside voices joining in the chorus and challenging your undying love. The voices within remain, however, loud as ever, questioning if you’ve been forgiven, pondering if you’d even deserve it; while he has yet to let go, they have no power over you, but you’re no stranger to the ephemeral nature of his tenderness. Be that as it may, what scares you more than anything are not the loud accusations echoing on the surface, but rather the quiet murmurs rousing in the depths of your heart—those suggesting that time will erode his essence, stripping him off everything but the desire to consume you.

“I’m willing to share all of this with you. What’s that, if not love?”

“Bring me clean towels and lukewarm water. Make it quick.” His voice sounds muffled as you drift in and out of consciousness, and for the first time you notice you can’t feel the tips of your fingers, the blood loss clearly too great a challenge for even your undead body to overcome. The servant whom he is addressing answers something you can’t quite make out, and with a reverent nod, turns away and takes her leave. You slightly open your eyes to get your bearings, and the first thing you see once they adjust to the sudden brightness is the ornately hand-carved frame surrounding the door to your private chambers, its gilded accents glinting in the light of the candelabra, left behind you as Astarion makes his way further inside the room. Upon reaching the grand canopy bed, draped with opulent velvet curtains, he gently lays you down onto the soft mattress, using the hand still tangled in your hair to support your head. The instant you part with his warm touch, the ever constant coldness of death seeps through your skin, its icy tendrils grazing the fringes of your soul; the sudden loss is, however, somewhat subdued when he then circles the bed and sits down by your side, bringing his fingers to your face to glide their soft pads across your brow, studying your features in reflective silence.

“My lord.” No sooner has she left than the servant is back with a pile of plush cotton towels in her arms, one of your handmaidens following close behind, carrying a wooden wash tub that looks far too heavy for her scrawny frame. You prick up your ears at the sound of the familiar voice, and upon discreetly raising your eyes to take a better look at her, you recognize said servant as none other than your lady-in-waiting; it strikes you as no mere coincidence that she’d been waiting for your arrival with the necessary provisions ready, but you decide not to dwell on it. Likewise, there is no effort on her part to acknowledge you as she sets the towels on the eiderdown duvet, gesturing to the handmaiden to put the wash tub down near the bed.

“Leave us,” Astarion says, addressing them both yet not for a moment letting his eyes drift away from yours. Each gives a brief curtsy before doing as told, carefully closing the door behind them on their way out. Once they’re gone, he reaches out for the towel on top of the pile and dips one of its edges in the clear water inside the tub, letting it soak for a few seconds before pulling it back out. Remaining silent and with his gaze fixed upon you, he then brings the now drenched cloth to his own face and rubs it against his mouth and chin, removing the crimson still spattered over his skin with relative ease. You timidly meet his stare from under thick lashes, feeling a bit faint, your limbs heavy and numb from the lack of blood within your veins.

“...Astarion,” you tentatively call for him, your voice so low you wonder for a moment if he is even able to hear you at all; rather than answering you, he places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently. His jaw now rid of stains, he lays the bloodied towel aside and grabs another, soaking it as he did the first, only this time, he presses it to your cheek instead. The damp fabric feels soft and warm against your gelid complexion, and he dabs at it so delicately, so soothingly, that you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your eyelids start threatening to fall shut again, your mind bereft of all thought, but just as you are about to nod off, he starts speaking, snapping you out of your torpor.  

“I never lied to you. Not really.” As the words leave his lips, Astarion’s eyes darken with an intensity you can’t quite make sense of. Deeming your face to be satisfactorily clean, he lowers the towel to massage the pale skin of your throat, letting his gaze wander away from yours to rest upon the grisly puncture marks left by his own fangs. “You are my spawn. My creation. Born from my blood,” he says, the softness in his voice contrasting with the sobriety of his words and the somberness of his expression. After pausing for a moment, not so much out of hesitation as to stall the inevitable, he continues, finally unearthing that which had been hidden for so long with confounding casualness, the revelation likely to have gone by unnoticed if meant for slightly less attentive ears. “My consort—my bride.”

Neither of you utter another word in the minutes that follow. He remains focused on your neck, undoing the top buttons of your bodice to gain better access to it, thus baring your shoulders and collarbone, carefully patting the towel around the ruptured flesh and wiping the encrusted blood off its swollen borders. You, on the other hand, can do anything but focus, unable to process what has just been exposed or the significance of it. Your body is like a doll’s under his; you do not blink, muscles stiffened and chest unmoving, an inanimate object with no will of its own—but you do have a will of your own, do you not? If the letter is to be given any credence to, then wouldn’t the implication be that he let you believe that he could control you when he in fact could not? And if so—what were you to call it then, if not a lie? Did he not trust you to stay? (Had he no trust in your bond?) Was that the source of his fear? (Were you the source of his fear?)

“Is it true, then?” you hear yourself ask, your mouth moving on its own as you let the surge of emotion guide your actions in the absence of coherent thought. “Can you really not compel me? Am I free to do as I please?” Despite the quiet pitch of your voice, and although it trembles ever so faintly, there is a hint of what Astarion can only discern as resentment laced with it. He suddenly stops moving, the now red towel in his hands still pressed against your skin, remaining motionless for a moment before slowly raising his head to lock eyes with you—and there it is again, that raw, visceral dread, only this time masked with a thin veil of arrogance.  

“Oh, sweet thing. Shouldn’t you know it by now?” His lips slightly curl into a humorless smile, voice smooth as silk, yet the words are spoken with deliberate inflection, eerily measured and dangerously sharp. He discards the towel, having it join the other, and casts a predatory gaze upon you, leaning down until the tip of his nose is only inches apart from yours. Bringing both of his hands to your face, he then gently cups your cheeks, fondly caressing them with his thumbs. “I’m the Vampire Ascendant, bound by no such petty rules. That some meddling busybody would underestimate me is not surprising, but I expected more from my good girl.” To your disconcert, although he says this, glimmers of affection peek through the shadows lurking within his eyes. “I’ve spoiled you.” 

You look up at him in confusion, brows lowered and drawn together, trying and yet failing to read his expression. The smile stays on his lips for a moment, but before long, any warmth in his countenance suddenly vanishes. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach in anticipation, your body’s primal response signaling the imminent threat, but like a mouse caught in a trap, you are helpless, pinned under him in more ways than one. As you lose yourself in the ruby red pools of his irises, the subtle scent of his cologne, that intoxicating brew of bergamot, rosemary and brandy, grows stronger and more concentrated, filling your nose and wafting down your throat. And then, you feel it—a tingling sensation in your fingers, climbing up your arms, spreading to your ribs and chest. It builds up, intensifies, until it is no longer tingling, but shooting pain, radiating outwards in searing waves. Your every muscle screams in protest, throbbing and burning and aching, but when you try to move your limbs, you find them unresponsive; neither can you open your mouth when you try to scream, not even close your eyes once you feel them brim with tears, which then roll down your temples.

“Ah—ah…!”

“Shh. Don’t fight it, my love. It’ll be over soon.” Astarion says as he softly dries the falling droplets with his thumbs, the words slipping from his pretty lips in dulcet whispers. Once you heed his advice and stop struggling, the pain subsides—you remain, however, a passenger in your own body, unable to do anything but stare into his eyes. Within them, the fear still lingers, but it no longer muddies its bloody waters, suppressed by the confidence now sprouting in their depths; and that’s when you notice that this is to him as much of a novelty as it is to you. Despite his haughtiness, he couldn’t have been sure that it would work, for he had never attempted such a feat before. But alas, any concerns prove now unfounded—you are, and were always his thrall. His puppet bride, subject to his every whim.

“My dark consort. My right hand. My most beloved spawn.”

The compulsion persists for no more than a few minutes, but once he finally loosens his hold on you, it feels as if it’s been hours since last your body was yours to command. With a loud gasp, sucking in the air desperately as if your undead lungs would have any use for it, you are back in control, for what that’s even worth now. Pressing his forehead to yours, he hushes you tenderly, breathing words of comfort as if soothing your unrest after a bad dream. Tears continue pouring from your eyes even as they fall shut, yet the source of your grief is unclear; your mind is, however, in too great a turmoil to allow you to sort out your feelings, so you try to focus on his touch instead, yielding to it as he moves one of his hands from its place on your cheek to lovingly brush your hair away from your face. Regardless, the moment lasts only for so long—once you are no longer as agitated, he pulls away, his expression undecipherable, an uncanny blend of darkness and placidity, dolefulness and sobriety.

“Pay attention, my dear, for this is an offer I will make but once,” he says, the danger in his voice underlying its velvety slickness, reflecting the ambiguous glint in his eyes. As you open your own, you see him take and soak another towel from the pile, which he then brings to your neck to continue removing the dried blood, by now almost completely gone from your skin, yet staining your clothes still. “Freedom. That’s what you wish for, isn’t it?” Smiling bitterly, he undoes the remaining buttons of your bodice, exposing the narrow valley between your breasts, yet his gaze remains drawn to the fresh set of bite marks on your throat; he seems distracted for a moment, but soon enough, his lips continue moving, the tone with which he speaks taking on a deceptively poised quality. “Say the word and I shall unmake our bond. Refuse, and resign to your fate as my eternal spawn.”

Astarion doesn’t look your way even as he tells you this, focusing on the wound still—a manifestation of his inner demons, the sigil of a man who chose to fully embrace the shadows, and whose only remaining light he now tries to dim. Oh, how he wishes the illusion would have lasted forever; you in his arms, eternally his, a bird singing beautifully in its gilded cage. Not clipping your wings was his biggest mistake, for he had always feared that sooner or later, you’d give into the desire to soar high, leave him to waste away, consumed by power and shame. So now he opens the cage himself, before you lose your voice, before the song is silenced. He wants to see it, he needs to see it—hear your denial, feel your rejection, taste your betrayal. Whether he means what he says is inconsequential, for he himself knows not the answer to that; his wish is but to have you confirm what he already understands to be true, so that he may finally snuff out that trembling flame and surrender to lonesome oblivion.

Your answer to him is, however, nothing but silence; having by now wiped most of the stains off your neck area, he straightens his torso, and his eyes finally make their way back to yours—which, to his astonishment, are not only misty and glistening with the tears still pooling in their corners and flowing down your cheeks, but wide and unblinking, unrelenting terror etched across your face. Terror? Why terror? No, no, this makes no sense. Is he to believe you’re crying tears of happiness? Could these be complicated feelings surfacing now that you’ve finally been given that which you’d always wished for? Freedom—that is what you wish for, surely? He never doubted your love, for he could feel it just as you could feel his, but he did question whether just love would be enough to keep you by his side, whether even a love as real as yours would stand the test of time. Never had he been able to understand your love for him, but he knew it to be true, and he would protect it in whatever way he could; as the Ascendant, there was very little he could not do, thus taking away your freedom was the obvious course of action. And yet, now that he offers it back, you react not with relief or gratitude, but terror?

“I would sooner die again,” you finally say, voice quiet and strained, raw emotion pouring from your every word. Astarion stares at you in complete shock, frozen in place, and time seems to come to a standstill while each of you wait for the other to break the silence. As he disconcertedly studies your face, trying to make sense of your unexpected fretfulness, a realization dawns on him—are you perhaps afraid of spending eternity by yourself? Is it not his promise of making you into a full vampire, independent of its creator, but rather the prospect of total separation that upsets you so? That must be it, that has to be it—why else would the offer of freedom, that which has always driven him, the ultimate goal, sound so appalling to your ears? Although it is no less surprising that you wouldn’t use your newfound autonomy to turn your back on him at the first opportunity, as far as his proposal is concerned, this is but a misunderstanding; he should clarify, then.

“You—”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Your words ring in Astarion’s ears as if spoken by you, yet your quivering lips remain sealed. Hah! How quaint, that such an ability would manifest now. As your thoughts flow from you to him, he notices you don’t seem to be aware that you are speaking into his mind. Of course not, why would you? He had kept the nature of your bond a secret, and thus, your mental connection was too concealed. Oftentime you’d unwittingly let your inner voice seep into his head, but never had you noticed, and never had he brought it to your attention. It feels invasive, peeking into your heart when you haven’t let him in, but he can’t help himself, for he needs to know; he needs to be certain that this is what you want, that this is the fate you’ve chosen, no matter how grim, no matter how hopeless.  

I promise I’ll be good. I need you. Please.

Raising your upper body into a seated position, you reach out for his arm, and your fingers tentatively grasp at the sleeve of his shirt. You can’t bring yourself to voice your feelings, yet you hope that the earnestness in your tear-filled eyes somehow is enough to convince him of your sincerity, for the thought alone of having your souls ripped asunder horrifies you. You had accepted your circumstances once, and you’d do so again—bearing the guilt and remaining his spawn for the rest of your days is too low a price to pay for his freedom, for his life, for him. All for him. It always was, it always will be. You failed him once; not again. Never again. For however long he’ll have you, you’ll remain by his side, pay your penance, atone for your sins, love him with all of you, body, mind and soul, until there’s nothing left but dust and blood. 

As the confusion in his eyes gives way to gentle warmth, Astarion brings one of his hands to your face, tenderly cradling it and brushing his long fingers against the damp skin. After letting go of the towel which he had been holding still, he leans forward, pausing for a moment to meet your weepy gaze before pressing his pillowy lips to yours, and relief washes over you like a balm. You relax your muscles which you hadn’t noticed were tensed until now, and although you have yet to stop crying, the salty droplets are no longer an expression of fear and regret, but of succor and deliverance. Timidly starting with a sequence of soft, chaste pecks, the kiss gradually becomes more sensual, more passionate, and soon you feel his tongue flick at your bottom lip, asking for passage. Once you comply, he begins eagerly exploring the inside of your mouth, the digits of his other hand running through your hair as he tastes you, unweaving what still remains of your hairdo and letting the tresses fall over your shoulders. Longing to be as close to him as physically possible, you tighten your grip on his sleeve, lovingly nuzzling your nose and cheeks against his, and in doing so, making them wet with your tears. 

Kissing you still, he untangles his fingers from your now freed locks and splays his hand across the small of your back, using his body weight to gently pin you down until you are both lying on the mattress, him on top of you. The hand on your cheek leaves it to reach for the last towel in the pile, which he then blindly soaks in the water remaining within the wash tub; your skin now completely rid of bloodstains, he sticks it under your petticoat instead, bringing it to your groin and tugging at your underpants with one of his digits. This time successfully managing to get them to slide down enough to gain access to your wetness, he delicately presses the soaked cloth to it, eliciting a soft mewl from you. All the while massaging your mouth with his, he rubs the towel up and down the still tender flesh of your sex, thus removing the remnants of earlier activities, yet at the same time nudging your slowly swelling clit with every stroke. Feeling the familiar tautness building up low in your belly, you roll your hips into his hand, squeezing your thighs together and clenching them around his arm, any pretenses of playing coy completely discarded as you helplessly plead for his touch.

Rather than mess around with you like he would on any other occasion, Astarion yields, and as two of his fingers feel up and circle the now twitching bundle of nerves through the wet fabric, another slides further down and rims your slickened entrance. You wantonly whimper against his lips, wrapping both of your arms around his neck, and his hand on your back makes its way to the front of your torso to unfasten the lacing keeping your unbuttoned bodice in place, thus revealing your breasts and stomach. As soon as they come into view, his skilled digits quickly find one of your hardened nipples, pinching and playing with the swollen nub as his tongue continues hungrily swirling around yours and his hand between your legs fondles your aching arousal, coaxing pants and all sorts of cute noises out of you.

“Sing for me, little bird,” he breaks the kiss to purr the words in your ear, fangs gently grazing your earlobe. You readily do as told, moaning and whining with your drying eyes closed, teardrops no longer escaping through your long lashes, and his face creases into a smuggish smile as he watches you writhe and squirm. Once he withdraws both of his hands, you let out a displeased sigh, in response to which his smile widens; finally tossing aside the towel, he then leans back to finish undressing you, and as you help him peel off both your dress and undergarments, you suddenly notice neither of you are wearing shoes, though you can’t recall at which point they were lost. Tucking a hand inside his own pants, he pulls out his cock, still partially soft but rapidly hardening again, yet there seems to be no intention on his part of removing the rest of his clothes, a fact which neither of you seem to mind—if he would rather have you naked and exposed before him, then so be it; if he finds strength in your vulnerability, then you won’t deny it to him, for his comfort is your atonement, even if it costs you your dignity.

“You wouldn't just be some spawn—you’re far more than that to me.”

“Come, pretty vampling,” Astarion beckons, intertwining his fingers with yours and helping you rise to his level. Once you are both sitting up and facing each other, he tenderly kisses the back of your hand, letting go of it to then wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull your chest flush against his, squishing your soft breasts between your bodies. After planting a loving peck on your brow and affectionately rubbing your noses together, he then slightly cocks his head to the side, exposing the smooth skin of his neck, marked only by two shallow indentations, so similar, yet so different from your own. It takes you no more than that to realize what he means, and you gingerly press your mouth to a blue artery pulsating right under his jawline, looking up at him demurely with lamblike eyes, as if waiting for his approval. With an affable simper, he brings one of his hands up to cradle the back of your scalp, which you understand as an assent; parting your rosy lips, you thus brush your fangs against the throbbing vein, only to then sink them into the sensitive flesh, as gently and carefully as possible. He groans at the sensation, not from pain, but pleasure, and you feel him lightly tug at your hair.

His blood tastes rich and angular on your tongue, and your hazy mind slowly clears as the thick crimson starts spreading to your extremities. You suck so delicately that he can barely feel your fangs piercing his neck—instead, he feels the plushness of your lips, the softness of your curves, the heat irradiating from your cold pale skin as it turns warm and flushed. He hugs you tighter, yearning to have you pressed even closer against him, letting out low grunts and quiet moans as you drink, his cock now fully hardened into an angry, painful erection. Bringing both of his hands down to your ass, he firmly squeezes your buttocks and slightly lifts up your body to sit you on his lap; following his lead, you position yourself while feeding still, bending your knees to support your weight on them and lining up your entrance with his leaking tip. However, instead of immediately lowering your hips, you start languidly rocking them back and forth, burying the engorged cockhead between your folds and coating it in your juices.

“Oh, you cheeky brat…” he says, yet the playful tone of his voice encourages you to keep going, even if from your position you can’t see the matching expression on his face, eyes closed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gods, you feel good…” His fingers press down harder on the supple skin of your behind, and his crimson takes on a sweeter flavor the more aroused he becomes; as it flows to your center, your rouged clit too grows tumescent with desire, slick dripping from your needy cunt. Setting an agonizingly sensual pace to your rhythmic movements, you bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders, a trail of red escaping from your lips and running down your chin. You can feel his cockhead twitching madly as you engulf it in your wet heat, hungering for the tightness of your walls, but the blood high emboldens you, and you continue stubbornly refusing to give in, even if you want nothing more than to have him stuff you full.

Astarion has, however, only so much patience, and being on the receiving end of teasing doesn’t sit well with him; once he feels the tip of his cock nudge the borders of your slit, he tightens his grip on your ass and yanks your body down, stretching your entrance open and sinking you to about half of his length. You unlatch your mouth from his neck and yelp in surprise, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips into yours, lapping at the blood staining them red. While you kiss, he gives you time to adjust, and his hands move up to your waist, his touch at once firm and gentle. Despite the pain of the sudden intrusion, being filled with him is pure bliss, and as your walls accommodate his size, you start almost imperceptibly undulating your hips, although the slight friction serves only to fan the flames of your desire. Upon taking notice of your shy grinding, he eggs you on, pulling you downwards with only about enough force to encourage you to follow suit. Not willing to hold back any longer, you eagerly comply, lowering your rear until you are fully seated on him, buttocks pressed against his thighs. Stifling a groan, he nips at your bottom lip and sucks on the ruby droplets seeping from the small lesion, your taste indistinguishable from his own. If you’d give yourself to him, then he shall unapologetically take that which he is owed; from the marrow in your bones to the crimson flowing through your veins, you are wholly his to consume.

“You're the one that I want—the one that I love.”

“Hnng—Astarion…” you moan his name as your mouths come apart, so sweetly that it stirs up in him the urge to again sink his fangs into your flesh. Yet he doesn’t; instead, he bucks his hips upwards, prodding your cervix with his cockhead, and an amused glint appears in his eyes as you react with a high-pitched squeal. Trying to hide the blush spreading across your face, you lean forward, resting your chin on the curve between his neck and shoulder, warm cheek pressed to his, and biting back a whimper, you timidly start sliding yourself up and down his cock. With your ear so close to his mouth, you can hear the soft grunts and shallow pants slipping from his lips whenever he disappears into you, the lewdness of it setting ablaze the waves of fire seething under your skin. Your leisure gait doesn’t last long, and you ride him more energetically with each bob of your body, which he reciprocates by burying his fingers deeper into your waist and pulling you down harder, feeling the pert nubs of your plump breasts brush against his chest as they bounce.

“You’re doing so well, little love,” Astarion says while peppering kisses across the delicate skin of your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can feel him pulsing inside you, bulging veins vibrating against your gummy walls as they are distended to their limit the stiffer he becomes. “Such a good pup for me, taking me so nicely,” he coos, bringing one of his hands to your navel, gliding the pads of his digits along the soft curve of your stomach and towards the ache throbbing in your crotch, where he then grasps your flushed clit between two deft fingers, massaging the tender knot with seasoned adroitness. The sound of smacking flesh grows louder as he pushes against your hips with his own, and you sink down his cock with greater abandon the more you approach the peak of ecstasy, your body glistening with sweat and burning red with his crimson. 

“Ah! I’m—close…” you stutter, your voice trembling as you work your thigh muscles with even greater ardor, letting go of his shoulders to lean back on your outstretched palms. With the fingers of his hand wedged between your legs, he continues stroking the rose-pink bud crowning your mound, moving the other from its place on your waist to gently squeeze one of your breasts, teasing the puckered nipple with his thumb. While watching you lose yourself in the rising crescendo of your release, he accidentally lets his gaze wander to the wound on your throat; promptly averting it, he chooses to focus instead on the luscious expression etched on your pretty face, his lifeblood blooming under your cheeks and nose—the moment you lock eyes with him, the tension finally snaps, and you buckle your elbows as your arms go limp, walls spasming around him and creamy pearls of come leaking from your stretched entrance.  

Spellbound by your cock-drunk image, Astarion pushes you down on the bed without warning, and cradling your face with both of his hands, pulls you into a lustful kiss, forcing your mouth open with his tongue. Still high off your climax, you don’t resist, obediently parting your lips, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist. Shoving his thighs against the back of yours, he bends them into a mating press, and wasting no time, starts ferociously thrusting deep into you, setting a brutal pace; your walls contract and twitch around his enlarged girth, the ripples of your orgasm yet to peter out, making vulgar sucking noises as you swallow him whole. He moans into the kiss with every roll of his hips, blood buzzing in his ears and heart pounding violently inside his chest, fucking you greedily, indulgently, minding his own pleasure and naught else. Your body sways weightlessly like a ragdoll’s each time the base of his cock strikes your groin, but you care not about his rough treatment of you, for nothing brings you greater elation than knowing you can make him feel this way.

“So tight…” he growls with his mouth still pressed against yours, his voice muffled and breathy. Propping his torso up with one of his arms, he brings the hand of the other to your throat, squeezing it firmly, and pulls away to admire his handiwork, a dark intensity blazing within his eyes. “Oh, darling, you look so precious with my fingers around your neck.” His silvery curls fall over his brow as he says this, tousled and dripping with sweat, his appearance at once statuesque and animalistic. He ruts into you in a disorderly fray, his movements messy and sloppy as they usually are in the short moments preceding the culmination of his desire, and with one last powerful thrust, he empties himself inside your fucked out cunt, feeling your fluttering walls clench around him, milking him to the last drop.

“Sweet gods…” Slumping down on top of you, he embraces your sore body and buries his face in your hair, taking in your scent as his cock continues convulsing inside your raw, tender slit, hardened still. Filled with him and his seed, nestled in his arms, you feel comfortably full, warm, safe. Your eyes fall shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking your weary mind, and although erratic thoughts run through it, you hold onto none of them, deciding to just for today, just for this night, turn a blind eye to all implications, all the ill omens, and let yourself be; be by his side, be his spawn, be his bride forever more. 

As you drift off into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of his heartbeat, oblivion tenderly cradles you against its merciful bosom, and the clarity of the precipice of unconsciousness rips your burdens from your soul and makes your every worry seem so futile, so meaningless. Your fate is inevitable, as certain as death itself, and following the precepts of life is a vain undertaking, for they are not the same as those ruling over undeath. Astarion knows this; so should you. Existence is transient, but his dark love is everlasting.

There is a light in every living thing.  It’s crawling t’wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We’ll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

[mistific]

Hiii <3 i really like your writing so i would love to request something actually.

I thought about how the Hashiras (or whatever characters you aren’t tired of writing for) would be with an taller female partner/crush ?

If it would bother them etc…

I‘m 1,79m and since that’s taller than a lot of them i sometimes feel a little weird when reading fanfics or whatever and they often describe the reader as small/petite/short.

Would highly appreciate a response!! 🫶 Thank you!!! <3

⋆˚✿˖° 高い // Tall ! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

╰┈➤ The Hashiras admiring you and their reactions but you're a tall lady :3

( Active ) Hashiras x Fem!Reader ( Implied crush, romantic :3 )

Canon AU, Fluff !

A/n : Hopefully this is to satisfaction !! Had a hard time trying to accurately picture some Hashiras personalities since its my first time writing them lol, thank you for the request anon !!

✮ ⋆ ˚｡ Begin !⋆｡°✩

⋆˚✿˖° Tomioka Giyu

• When an announcement of a new Hashira settling in the corps, Giyu was simply neutral about it. Just his emotionless, stoic self.

• Seeing the said new Hashira during the semiannual Hashira meeting, he did not expect to meet someone his height.

• In truth, he was used to females significantly shorter than him, so he wondered if your family were extremely tall as well.

• For a while, Giyu was quite literally eyeing you. You were ethereal in his eyes, your height was an amazing feat for Giyu, it made it an eye candy for him.

• Though his deep insecurities knew better than to selfishly keep you to himself, however it seemed you had different plans. Recently, Giyu noticed that you've been slowly but noticeably interacting with him.

• Not that he's complaining.

• As you two bonded, the stronger the connection became. You had found out his own vulnerabilities as well as vice versa, and you two often get paired during missions, so that's a plus in bonding.

• Your height doesn't bother him at all, in fact he finds it quite charming. The way your eyes will constantly meet and not having to adjust his head or his eyes, it just perfectly clicks.

⋆˚✿˖° Himejima Gyomei

• Oh, I doubt your height would compare to his. He'd honestly find you small nonetheless.

• He was delighted to know yet another member of the corps has been promoted to the Hashira title, knowing yet another person was determined to save humanity heals his heart.

• Gyomei.. I have a feeling capturing his heart would be complicated, but not impossible. I just have a feeling your personality should be motherly like him naturally being fatherly.

• Where Gyomei finds you fitting for his standards, he will be very subtle about it. However, the difference in the treatment is also quite clear.

• Secretly, he wraps his prayer beads around your neck as a necklace to feel your overall height around him, and I can tell you he was very pleased that you were significantly taller than some females.

• As the usual, your height does not bother him at all. He'd be quite glad to have yet another tall person around him.

⋆˚✿˖° Rengoku Kyojuro

• Oh he is ECSTATIC to hear a new Hashira member, he probably prepared a bento box just for you when the semiannual Hashira meeting commences!

• Oh boy was he amazed and intimidated by your height; it was shocking to see someone as tall as him, if not taller!

• With his welcoming and warm personality, you got along with him within seconds! Like his breathing style, you both had a spark and just connected just like that!

• Kyojuro loves giving you some of his bento boxes that he made. He made sure to make extras for you as well! He says, quote on quote: "You should eat more so you can become much more taller than I am! Haha!"

• This man has absolute no problem with your height either, he loves patting your shoulders as a subtle way of praising you, and he loves tapping your elbow with his during missions as a little warning since you're both probably the same height.

⋆˚✿˖° Kanroji Mitsuri

• Oh she was so happy to see yet another female Hashira was in the corps, seeing a female promoted to the Hashira title was so uncommon!

• "Oooo!! I will totally befriend her! This is all so exciting!!"

• As the affectionate Love Hashira she is, meeting her was quite overwhelming. The sudden exposure to large energy was shocking at first, but you soon got used to it.

• When Mitsuri fully registered that you were taller than her, she let out a loud audible gasp and her mouth goes agape.

• Mitsuri noticed she was unattractively gaping, she covers her mouth and blinks twice. It was a shocker, seriously! The way she has to physically turn her head to look at your eyes!

• It made her feel reeaaaallyyyy flustered, but she absolutely ADORES you. She always looks forward to your occasional meetup & missions when paired up together, she was originally thriving with life but with you added to the mix + her little crush on you? Her life is BOOMING.

• Your height? She's head over heels for it. No other necessary words.

⋆˚✿˖° Tokito Muichiro ( reader is the same age as him )

• Pre Swordsmith Village Arc, Muichiro didn't really pay attention to you. Like at all. Sure, he'd look your way and stare for a good few seconds then he'd walk away.

• You ALWAYS found him weird, but learning his backstory, you couldn't judge the boy for having rough memory. He didn't choose to be that way nor asked to experience such traumatic event.

• Since Muichiro is someone close to your age and the Master personally request that you talk with Muichiro, you decided to walk up to him.

• Well things didn't work out according to your plan, since he blatantly rejected your offer to be friends. Well, he walked away, didn't reject per se, but it stung.

• But you knew how Muichiro was from past experiences with him, he struggled with genuine emotions, and you understand that, so you chose to be patient with him.

• Except sometimes it was irritating.

• Post Swordsmith Village arc and you managed to secure a proper relationship with him, he remembered you miraculously!

• He was pretty soft spoken with you too and he smiled a lot around your presence, so that threw you off.

• During this duration, Muichiro had always acknowledged your height, genuinely looking irritated that he always has to look up JUST to speak to you.

• While it doesn't bother him per se, he would just really appreciate if he wouldn't get a neck cramp from constantly looking up at you just to form a proper conversation with you.

⋆˚✿˖° Iguro Obanai

• Well we have mister grumpers in the club /j

• He wasn't TOO ecstatic to hear that yet another woman was joining the Hashiras, two was already enough. You can blame him, his past was rough.

• it really doesn't help your height was unbelievably tall in his perspective, it somewhat reminded him of his past in a way, not a pleasant thought, he's aware.

• Though after seeing and observing your moves, it seemed you weren't that bad. To him, you had pure intentions like any other Hashiras, but still refused to speak to you.

• The first few interactions with him was just him speaking to you in a sharp and stern manner, it honestly made you feel intimidated and unwanted, but oh well.

• Kyojuro informed you one day that Obanai struggles with women due to his past and kindly asked that you take it easy with him. You knew there was more to it, but you didn't want to pry any further as it wasn't in Kyojuro's place to speak.

• So, as asked, you decided to soften up your approach with him but also make it seem that you're ecstatic. even when you're quite literally intimidated to your core.

• Things just escalated from there, it took a while for Obanai to actually be gentle towards you, but at least you gained his respect the few days you interacted with him.

• Your height doesn't bother him, he's just simply neutral about it after learning you as a person and your personality. It makes you seem strong, and he genuinely likes it that way.

⋆˚✿˖° Shinazugawa Sanemi

• Similarly to Muichiro, he didn't really pay any mind to you. Yes, even with your extraordinary height, he didn't really care.

• Honestly just trying to get a proper conversation is tough, what more if you want to capture his attention? Sanemi is a tough nut to crack, after all.

• Luckily for you, you were also pretty stubborn headed! And you genuinely wanted to befriend Sanemi.

• Many, many attempts has been made. I mean many. That man is so angry all the time, it leaves you baffled sometimes. But that won't stop you, would it?

• Inevitably, Sanemi warmed up to you. Unwillingly, in his words. He noticed your company wasn't so bad, and you were quite the attractive one.

• In many and similar cases, no one in the corps was as tall as you. In the current era, females are known to be short, so he took that feat or yours in mind.

• Your height doesn't bother or irritate him, similarly to Obanai, he's just neutral about it. He's able to speak with you eye to eye easily otherwise he didn't care.

⋆˚✿˖° Kocho Shinobu

• She was quite happy and satisfied that yet another member was promoted into a Hashira, hearing someone that's willing to risk their lives for the safety of others brings her heart and mind at peace.

• Meeting you, she somewhat felt safe. Perhaps because your height reminded you of her older sister and your aura was comforting, it was admirable in her eyes.

• In a few months, Shinobu was greatly close to you, choosing to open up about her tragic past and her sense of hatred for a specific demon, you understood her rage and grief.

• There was something about you that Shinobu couldn't explain, you were so approachable for her and she feels extremely secured as long as you're around. It was an odd feeling Shinobu is experiencing, indeed.

• Shinobu knew she didn't need any protection, she knew she was capable of herself. But asking for help isn't so bad either, whether it'd be emotionally or mentally.

• Your height is something Shinobu loves yet envies. She envies you for being blessed with your height and she feels so small compared to you, yet she loves your height because it just makes you so eye-catching, it makes you stand out.

⋆˚✿˖° Uzui Tengen

• Oh we already know he's super excited to hear about the said new Hashira.

• An odd ball, he was. Constantly talking about being flamboyant and being flashy.. Your first impression on him was amusing to say the least.

• He was really respectful though, so that's additional points to your already amusing first impression. He even complimented your height, saying it's an attractive height for a lady.

• Missions with him felt like a breeze, with his carefree personality, it just feels like you're both playing some game with the demons. It's also quite cool he can easily blend in the shadows, so that's yet another additional points.

• Meeting his wives were even CRAZIER, you didn't expect him to literally THREE wives?! But you three soon became super duper close.

• Your height doesn't bother him at all, with his height? You're still small in his eyes, just a few inches taller than the usual ladies. Similarly with many, he finds your height very, very attractive.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡ Finish !⋆｡°✩ made by MISTIFIC please do not repost anywhere else!

╰┈➤ MASTERLIST HERE