#cold chamber die casting

[kbwrites]

The Lord's Favorite CH.2

synopsis: "He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury.."

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⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x fem! reader, slightly suggestive, mentions of blood and gore

⚝wc: 1.5k

⚝a/n: I'm still shocked this got as much attention as it did! Thank you for reading, I hope this next part pleases you.

“Please, do your best to remain still,” Uraume chides gently. They press the cotton swab soaked in alcohol to your face, the stinging sensation causing you to wince as it penetrates the cuts on your cheek. Uraume offers a sympathetic glance. “I apologize for this…”

“You don’t need to-“

“Please.” They say firmly “I was aware of the tension between the servants, I... never thought they would do something to harm one of their own.” Uraume’s voice wavers slightly. They move to the wounds on your arms.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Sukuna stands in the threshold, leaning one arm nonchalantly against the doorframe. He surveys your battered form sitting on the edge of the bed—a trace of annoyance etched on his face. Uraume rises swiftly to bow before the king, but he dismisses the gesture with a casual wave.

“My lord, I’ve treated her as best as I can.” Uraume reports.

Sukuna’s gaze shifts to your face, his demeanor cold yet betraying a hint of concern.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.. my lord and I’m sorry-“

“You are not at fault.” He interrupts you, his voice firm as he strides over, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room. Clad in a black robe with a purple sash tied around the waist, his rippling muscles are visible through the cascading fabric. Uraume steps back, offering a brief bow before exiting, leaving you alone with him.

He scans your face with a piercing gaze, lowering himself to your level. His eyes drift to your empty wrist, narrowing with a mix of concern and intensity.

“Where. is it.” He demands. Your eyes widen as you realize the bracelet you were given today was missing.

“I… it must have fallen off when they attacked me” You piece together aloud. 

“So they would harm you as well as steal…” Ryomen’s voice grows taut with anger he clenches his fist, body tensing up. He rises from his kneeling position, figure looming over you.

“Are you able to stand?” He questions lowly. You nod.

“Good. We will be going now.”

You look up at your king, his expression is unreadable, but there’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes—a silent promise of retribution. 

You lag behind him as he strides purposefully down the dimly lit  hallway. The evening light leaks through the dark red curtains of the hall, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. Each step of his echoes with a menacing authority. He stops abruptly at the entrance to the servants quarters. Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“Do you wish to watch?” He inquires, voice low and steady.

“W…watch?” 

“Yes, do you wish to watch as I kill the ones who hurt you.”

“I—“ your heart races, Was this really happening? “No… my lord I do not.” You speak quietly. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, opening the door to the room.

The servants look upon him in reverence… or fear. Ryomen Sukuna did not bother himself with his servants, so seeing him generally meant bad news. He scans the room at the trembling help who shrink under his scrutiny, ‘utterly pathetic..’ he thinks. Their eyes drift to you, standing behind him. Ryomen shoots you a sidelong glance, awaiting you to point out your offenders. 

You look up at him, conflicted. Do you really wish for them to die? He scoffs as if reading your mind.

“You would protect them, even after what they did to you?” He sneers.

 He directs his attention back to the line of servants, all bowing their heads in fear. His gaze lands on one woman, and he notices the bracelet on her wrist—identical to the one he had painstakingly crafted for you.

At the sight of the bracelet, his demeanor changes abruptly. His expression darkens with a fierce intensity. With a swift motion, two of his arms encircle you, gently but firmly covering your eyes.

“Do not open them, until the screaming stops.”

Screams of horror reverberate through the room. You hear slashes mingling with the sound of Sukuna chuckling darkly. All the while two of his arms remains protectively around you, shielding you from the brutality he’s inflicting upon the ones who dared to harm you.

The screaming fades, his breathing slows, upper left arm lowers from your eyes.

“It is done.” And as your eyes slowly open, the sight before you is gut-wrenching. Blood and carnage litter the servant’s chambers. You clasp your hand  over your mouth as you fight back a gag. 

Ryomen looks at you, a hint of annoyance for your lack of appreciation. You gaze upon his bloodied form, he was covered in it. He wipes face, turning his back on the lifeless bodies.

“Let’s go; I require a bath and new clothes.”

You sit on the edge of the porcelain tub, adding oils and dried petals. The act of bathing Lord Sukuna had become quite routine. And yet every time he entered the room your heart would skip a beat. He stood at over six feet tall, his four muscular arms and broad, chiseled chest commanding attention. The tattoos that adorned his toned body only added to his already imposing presence.

He strides confidently over to the bath, crimson eyes never leaving yours. The scent of lavender and roses wafting through the tiled room. He lowers himself into the water, groaning as the hot water enveloped his powerful frame.

You grab a sponge, wiping the dried blood from his chest. Ryomen leans his head back against the edge of the tub, sighing in relief under your touch. He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the water sloshing around echoes throughout the room. One eye opens slightly to observe you, your gentle hands erasing the evidence of his carnage. Massaging away his stress and tension. He speaks in a low, commanding voice.

“Join me.”

You abruptly cease your movements, looking at him in disbelief.

“You mean—“

“In the tub, yes.” You hesitate, glancing nervously between him and the water. Knowing it was not wise to disobey your king, you begin to shed your clothing, covering yourself modestly as you allow the bathwater to cloak you. You settle on the opposite side of the tub, his eyebrow quirks in mild annoyance.

“I will not harm you.” His voice almost… gentle.

You move closer to him. Albeit too slow for his taste, one arm pulls you towards his chest, settling on the small of your back. The unprecedented position of intimacy with your lord both thrilling and unsettling.

“Are you… unhappy with my actions today?”

"No… my lord." It was partly true. You were still reeling from the events that had transpired. The king to whom you had dutifully bowed had unleashed his fury... for you? The man you willingly served, had been so enraged by your injuries that he had taken the lives of those who wronged you. He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury..

“Good.” Another hand reaches to stroke your hair, a touch so feather light you wondered if he thought you’d break. “I… do not wish for you to be unhappy.” He speaks softly. His finger traces your jawline. You shiver under his touch, but don’t pull away. If your heart were to beat any faster you feared it might give out altogether.  His hand trails down to your chest, placing his palm flat against the valley between your breasts.

“Your heart is racing…Are you frightened of me?” He questioned, feeling the rhythm quicken beneath his touch.

“F…frightened?” You try to keep your voice from shaking, but it betrays you quivering with uncertainty.

“It is understandable; I could kill you right now.” He grins as his words make your heart beat even faster. “I am merely stating a fact. Do not think of it.” His gaze travels from your face to your chest, lingering at the point where the water begins.

He stands up, water dripping down his body, your gaze travels down his abs to his v-line. He only grins as he sees your curious eyes widen at his lower half. It was quite hard not to look when he was so… big. The screams from his bedroom made sense after you were called to his bath the first time. 

“You are permitted to touch.” He declares, snapping your out of your daze, a shaky hand comes up to feel his abs. He groans softly under your nimble fingers, feeling his muscles tighten in response. He was a work of art, as if the gods themselves sculpted his figure.

You knew that after his bath, Lord Sukuna would typically summon one of his concubines to his chambers. This would inevitably result in several hours of indecorous moans and pained screams, audible through the door connecting your room to his. As his servant, you wanted to adhere to your place, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder... what it would be like to bask in your lord’s presence in such an intimate way.

“My lord, shall I summon someone to… attend to your needs?” 

He only chuckles darkly, one arm reaching down to gentle cup your face. His crimson eyes feasting upon your wet, naked form committing this scene to memory.

“No need,” He murmurs, his voice deep and resonant.

 “I believe your presence is precisely what I crave.”

taglist! (I know a lot a people in the previous post asked for a part two but idk if that meant you wanted to be tagged, lmk!) @haruchi-slit @gg-trini @pastelbunnelby @cauqhtz @shadava

[lizzyiii]

Hello, I would like to make an obscene yandere request to Aemond Targaryen for a cousin who is a Helen of Troy, she never met her cousins ​​and Gwayne locked her in the lighthouse because the children in Antigua have already declared duels and fights for her, please

“Alexa play Angel by Massive Attack.”

A Beauty Too Tempting

pairing | aemond x cousin!reader word count | 5.4k summary | when aemond targaryen learns of his cousin—a beauty so captivating that men are willing to die for you—he becomes dangerously obsessed, determined to claim you for himself. tags | 18+ MDNI! smut, p in v, slight dubcon, fingering, oral sex (f) receiving, possessive sex, rough sex, virginity kink, breeding kink, obsession, dirty talk, no description for reader, creampie, religious guilt, guys this was crazzzyyy, yandere aemond, delusional aemond, obsessive aemond. a/n | this was such an interesting and creative prompt, damnnnn. also I think this might be the best smut I've ever written. KEEP BOTH HANDS ON THE PHONE (NOT PROOFREAD)

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Aemond had finally ascended.

His reckless, wine-soaked brother was a shadow of the past, burnt and broken beyond repair. Though the Seven Kingdoms still called him “Prince Regent,” Aemond knew he held the true power of a king—and wielded the might of a dragon unmatched in all the realm.

He was Prince Regent, yes, but also the rider of Vhagar, the Queen of Dragons, the slayer of Daemon Targaryen, the butcher of his treacherous half-sister and her rabble of bastards.

At God’s Eye, he had cast Daemon down, wresting from him the title of warrior to which he clung so stubbornly. And when Alys Strong’s deceit led him astray, she too had met the edge of his blade, her charms and false promises extinguished in the cold stone of Harrenhal’s dungeons. Now, what was left of his family was but the bones of the house.

Only his mother and his niece remained, the ones bound by duty and blood. Helaena, broken by grief and driven mad with sorrow, had thrown herself from her chamber balcony, finding an end that her shattered mind had long sought. Aegon, the crown’s fool, lay in a stupor of smoke and agony, burned and nearly lifeless after his fall from Moondancer’s flames.

But Aemond ruled now—his alone was the realm’s rightful power. The Seven Kingdoms were his to bend, as was his every desire. He had broken his betrothal to the Baratheon girl without a second thought; a warlord and dragonrider of his stature deserved a bride worthy of his legend. He was the last dragon of House Targaryen, and his queen would be a beauty revered, one whose grace and purity might rival the Maiden herself.

And that was when Aemond first heard of you.

Fleeting whispers had reached him from Oldtown, speaking of his uncle Gwayne’s daughter—a maiden so beautiful that men spoke of you as if you were touched by the gods. Tales claimed you had been cloistered away in the Watchtower’s highest chamber, veiled to protect the eyes and sanity of any man who caught sight of you.

There, concealed behind shadows and stone, you were kept far from the reach of suitors who risked life and honor in duels, each vying for even a single glimpse of your face.

Your father, Ser Gwayne Hightower, had fallen in the fires of the Dance, and your mother had died bearing you, leaving you alone in that desolate tower—an unclaimed jewel, hidden and waiting.

The thought stirred something fierce within Aemond. He would go to you, he decided. He would see this beauty so lauded, this Hightower daughter untouched by the world’s corruptions, and he would decide if you were worthy to become his Queen, his Targaryen bride. For if your beauty proved true, you would belong to him alone, bound by devotion and a loyalty owed only to the dragon and its rider.

After landing Vhagar just outside Oldtown, Aemond took a horse into the city, riding with the air of a conqueror. But even he was taken aback by the scene awaiting him. High walls surrounded the Watchtower of House Hightower, fortified and stern, yet it was the gathering outside that seized his attention.

Hundreds of men crowded the courtyard and spilled into the streets, shouting, some nearly brawling as they jostled against one another. Their voices rose in a fervent cacophony, names and cries echoing like a battle chant.

Aemond’s gaze swept over them with disdain. Fools, all of them, clamoring over the mere hope of being in your presence. As he approached the Tower’s gates, the guards lowered their spears and bowed their heads, recognizing the rider of Vhagar, the One-Eyed Prince who now held the realm in his grip.

They opened the gates without question, allowing him through to the Tower’s base, where a young servant girl waited nervously.

She kept her eyes down as she led him up the spiraling stairway to the highest chamber. But Aemond’s curiosity simmered, and his tone was sharp when he finally spoke. “Who are these men gathered outside? What madness drives them to swarm like starving wolves?”

The servant’s face went pale, but she dared to glance up briefly, voice trembling. “They’re suitors, my prince…men from every corner of the realm. Many have traveled from the Reach and the Riverlands, even as far as Dorne and the North, all to seek my lady’s hand.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, a dark satisfaction curling at the edge of his lips. While the Dance Of Dragons had gone on, you had become something of a legend—a prize for fools and hopeful knights. But you were not for them.

“Let them scream themselves hoarse,” he murmured coldly, mostly to himself, as they reached the final stretch of the climb. His voice softened, though the weight of his words was fierce. “By nightfall, they will know she belongs to me alone.”

The servant kept her gaze down, fearful of the silent promises in his tone. They finally reached the door to the high chamber, and with a deep breath, she pushed it open, bowing as he strode past her.

As Aemond stepped inside, the air was thick with expectation, and he knew: he would let none of those suitors have you—not while he still breathed.

A figure stood near the narrow window, framed by the dim light filtering through the high stone walls. Draped in a gown as pale as starlight, a delicate veil fell over your hair and face, obscuring your features with an ethereal softness.

You looked less like a woman of flesh and blood, more like some forgotten goddess cast down from the heavens, your beauty hidden behind gauze and shadow. Almost nervously, the servant girl who had led Aemond withdrew, sparing one last, uncertain glance before closing the heavy door, leaving him alone with the lady in white.

The room was silent but for the faint rustle of fabric as the veiled woman turned, your movements graceful yet guarded. You saw him—a tall, imposing figure shrouded in the black and crimson of House Targaryen, his silver hair gleaming like the steel at his hip.

Though your vision was blurred by the veil, there was no mistaking him. Even in the isolated walls of your tower, you had heard tales of him, whispered rumors that crept into your dreams. Aemond Targaryen—the One-Eyed Kinslayer, the dragonrider who had torn through his own blood, leaving most of House Targaryen ashes in his wake.

A shiver coursed through you as you lowered your head, barely daring to meet his single, penetrating gaze. You bent your head respectfully and murmured, “Your grace.”

At the sound of your voice—soft and lilting, as if it had drifted down from the heavens—Aemond’s breath hitched, and he paused, his gaze never wavering. You sounded like the very embodiment of the myths that had reached him, a voice so pure it defied the violence that had carved his path to you.

He took slow, deliberate steps toward you, each one bringing him closer to the veiled creature he had come to claim. “I am not only your Prince Regent,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “I am your kin as well.”

You nodded, your lashes fluttering beneath the veil. “Of course…cousin,” you replied shyly, your voice no more than a murmur, though it reached him clearly in the silence of the chamber.

Aemond’s lips curved, a hint of satisfaction flickering across his face as he closed the distance between you. “You must know,” he continued, his tone possessive yet calm, “that I have not come all this way merely out of kinship. You are spoken of as if you were a queen in waiting…your beauty, your grace. Men would kill for a single look upon your face.”

Your cheeks warmed beneath the veil, though you dared not lift your head. The idea of such fierce, consuming attention unsettled you, yet you could not deny the pull he exerted on your senses—a dark, magnetic power that seemed to draw you closer, even as your instinct told you to step back.

“And now,” Aemond murmured, lifting a hand toward you, fingers ghosting over the edge of your veil, “it is I who have come to see if these tales hold truth. To decide if you are worthy…to stand beside me as my queen.” He let the words hang in the air, laden with meaning, with possession.

Beneath the veil, your lips parted, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The One-Eyed Prince had not come to court or woo you like the other men clamoring below; he had come to claim you, with a certainty that brooked no refusal.

“Tell me, cousin,” he whispered, his tone heavy with dark intent, a veiled promise lying beneath each word. “Would you defy me if I named you mine?”

He drew closer, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a shiver through you as your heart hammered against your ribs. The weight of his claim felt as tangible as the stone walls around you, and in that instant, you knew defiance was a luxury that held no place here.

Before you could gather the breath to respond, Aemond’s hand rose toward your veil, his fingertips hovering just above its delicate fabric. A sense of desperation seized you, and your voice broke through the silence, raw and pleading. “Don’t! Please… I only wish to spare you.”

Aemond’s lips curved in a faint, humorless chuckle, his eye gleaming with something far more dangerous than mere amusement. “Spare me?” he murmured, as though the very idea amused him.

“You misunderstand, cousin. I do not seek to be saved.” His voice softened, yet the iron in his tone was unmistakable. “I seek only to behold my future wife.”

Your heart raced, every instinct urging you to step back, but your body seemed to betray you, rooted to the spot as Aemond reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of your veil. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it, casting the thin fabric away and laying bare the face that had haunted his imagination.

The moment the veil fell, silence claimed the room, broken only by Aemond’s sharp intake of breath. His gaze devoured each feature of your face, sweeping over you with an intensity that bordered on reverence, as if he were drinking in the sight of a rare and coveted treasure.

He exhaled slowly, a low growl rumbling in his chest as his fingers traced a line along your cheek, his touch both possessive and tender. “Beautiful…” he breathed, his voice thick with awe and something deeper, something darker. “Far more than any tale could capture. You are… a vision.”

A flicker of fear mingled with the warmth on your cheeks, and you dared to lift your gaze to his, the intensity of his stare almost unbearable. He studied you, and you sensed it was not mere admiration that darkened his eye, but hunger—a need so consuming it seemed to radiate from him.

“From this day forward,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw, “you are mine. And I… I will allow no one, not even the gods, to take you from me.”

Your breath caught as Aemond’s fingers ghosted over your skin, sparking a fire that seemed to radiate through every inch of you. For a fleeting moment, your eyelids fluttered closed, helplessly savoring the sensation. But reality, sharp and undeniable, tore them open again, reminding you where you stood—and with whom.

“C-Cousin, please…” you murmured, your voice trembling as your hands pressed against the hard plane of his chest, a fragile attempt to create space. “This… this cannot be. You should not…”

The words stumbled from your lips, half-hearted at best, even as your body betrayed you, arching subtly toward him, drawn like steel to a magnet. A flush of warmth rose beneath your skin, pooling in your cheeks, and beneath the thin fabric of your gown, your nipples peaked, aching under his gaze. The rush of sensations nearly overwhelmed you, each one more intoxicating than the last.

Aemond’s lips curved in a knowing, wicked smile, his eye gleaming as he took in your struggle, your futile attempts at resistance. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours, so close that his breath mingled with yours, warm and heady.

“Wrong?” he murmured, his voice a dark, velvet caress, each syllable dripping with unrestrained desire. “There is no wrong between us, cousin. Only what was always meant to be…only fate and desire.”

Your heart raced, pounding against his chest, each beat echoing the dangerous thrill of his words. His hand slipped to the nape of your neck, his touch firm and possessive, as though he could bind you to him with that single gesture. He tilted your head ever so slightly, his mouth hovering just above yours, his gaze burning with intent.

“We are bound by blood,” he whispered, his words low and fervent, “by something far stronger than any foolish notion of right or wrong.” His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, a featherlight touch that set your skin alight. “Do you not feel it, the way I do?”

You barely managed a nod, your mind clouded by the closeness, by the undeniable pull of him. With a fluid, almost predatory grace, Aemond’s arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, so close you could feel every contour of his lean frame pressing into yours.

His chest was a wall of heat, solid beneath your touch, and your breath hitched as you became all too aware of the hardness pressing insistently against your belly.

“Let me guide you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and laced with promise, “to pleasures beyond the realm of mortal imagination.” His voice was low, dark, each word dripping with seduction as he continued, “Yield to me, and I shall make you mine in ways the world could scarcely comprehend.”

Every syllable curled around you, dissolving your remaining resistance like morning mist. Against all sense, your body softened, your resolve unraveling beneath his spell. Aemond’s words, woven with desire and power, coaxed you toward surrender. You melted against him, instinctively seeking the warmth he offered, your heart racing as his grip on you tightened possessively.

“Cousin…” you whispered, barely a breath, a mingling of plea and prayer.

Aemond’s lips curved, and he let out a soft, almost condescending click of his tongue, a smirk flickering in his eye. “I ask for so little,” he said, his tone deceptively light before his voice softened, becoming tender, almost reverent.

“Simply allow me to reign over you, to be the master of your heart and soul. Give me your loyalty, your love, your fear… let me own you in spirit and in flesh. Do that,” he murmured, his mouth grazing your jawline, “and I will serve you, worship you, slave to your every desire.”

A tremor ran through you as his hand drifted lower, fingers grazing the swell of your breast. Your nipple pebbled instantly, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting straight to your core. You gasped, your hips involuntarily rolling against his straining erection.

“Please... ” you whimpered, your resistance breaking in the face of such carnal temptation. ”I-I am a maiden, a child of the Seven.”

A low chuckle rumbled in Aemond's chest as he felt your delicate form yield to his touch, your body betraying its innate desire despite your protests. His fingers curled around the plump mound of your breast, kneading the soft flesh through the thin fabric of your gown.

“Child no longer,” he rasped, his thumb circling your aching nipple, coaxing it to an even harder peak. ”Maidenhood ends today, and a woman shall be born.”

With a swift tug, he ripped the laces of the front of your gown, exposing the swells of your breasts to his hungry gaze. He palmed them roughly, thumbs teasing the stiff peaks as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss, plundering the sweetness within with his tongue.

"Mine," he growled against your lips, his hands roaming your body possessively

Your cry of shock morphed into a moan of ecstasy as Aemond's mouth ravaged yours, his dominant presence swallowing your very essence. The rough handling of your breasts sent sparks of delight coursing through your veins, your nipples throbbing in time with the pounding of your heart.

"No...no," you breathed against his lips, the words tumbling out unbidden. "This is wrong... this is sinful."

Ignoring your feeble protests, Aemond continued to explore your body with unrestrained lust. His hands roamed freely over your curves, tracing the contours of your body with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts.

“Sinful indeed,” his voice was a husky purr against your lips. “Yet how sweetly addictive it tastes.”

His hands trailed lower, bunching your skirts to your waist to find the damp curls at the apex of your thighs. He groaned at the wetness he found there, a testament to your body's readiness for him.

“Such a delectable little cunt...” he whispered, his fingers slipping between your folds to test your readiness.

Your head fell back, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat as Aemond's skilled fingers delved deeper, stroking your slickened flesh with a confident touch. A shudder rippled through you, your hips canting upwards in desperate pursuit of more.

“P-please...” you gasped, your voice trembling with devastation. “I...I've never...”

Aemond's knowing smirk only heightened your mortification, yet it couldn't quell the inferno building inside you. Your body was aflame, craving the release only he could provide.

“I'm afraid...” you murmured though your eyes were glazed with desire.

Aemond's eye gleamed with triumph as he watched you squirm under his touch, your innocence and inexperience only fueling his desire. He pressed a finger inside you, feeling your tight walls clench around the invading digit.

“Fear not, sweet cousin,” he cooed, his voice dripping with false reassurance. “I will be gentle... at first.”

He pumped his finger slowly, savoring the exquisite sensation of your virgin passage yielding to his touch. His thumb circled your pearl, applying just enough pressure to send jolts of pleasure racing through your nerves.

“You're doing wonderfully,” he praised, his free hand sliding up your thigh to grip your hip firmly. “Now, let's see if we can't coax out that pretty little scream, hmm?”

Your mind reeled, struggling to comprehend the onslaught of sensations assaulting your senses. Aemond's fingers moved within you with a practiced ease, each thrust and twist sending waves of pleasure crashing over you.

“N-no...stop!” you managed to choke out, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. “It's too much!”

Aemond's grin widened, his eye flashing with dark amusement at your futile attempts to resist. He withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and aching for more.

“Foolish girl,” he chided, his tone dripping with condescension. ”You crave this, every bit of it. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind doesn't.”

He seized your wrists, pinning them above your head against the window as he loomed over you, his face inches from yours. His hot breath fanned across your cheeks, carrying the scent of smoke and masculine musk.

“Now, be a good little maiden and spread your legs for me,” he commanded, his voice low and commanding. “Let me taste you.”

Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, your body thrumming with a mix of fear and exhilaration as Aemond's dominance asserted itself. Despite your reservations, a traitorous part of you yearned for the promised pleasure, your core clenching in anticipation.

"N-no...I won't...” you stammered, even as your thighs trembled, betraying your resolve. Aemond's grip on your wrists tightened, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he forced you to submit.

“Please...” the word escaped your lips before you could stop it, a plea for mercy that sounded suspiciously like a plea for more, though confusion filled you, ”Why would you wish to taste me?”

Aemond's gaze raked over your trembling form, drinking in every quiver and gasp with sadistic delight. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke, his words dripping with dark promise.

"Because, my dear cousin," he purred, "I want to devour every inch of you until you forget your own name. Until all you know is my touch, my taste, my possession."

With a wicked grin, he released your wrists, only to grab your waist and throw you down upon your bed. You had no time to react before he settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart as he lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh.

Your heart raced, pounding in your ears as Aemond's words painted a vivid picture of degradation and desire. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly at his mercy as he positioned himself between your spread thighs.

“And then, once I've had my fill,” he continued, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of your slit, “I'll make you beg for more.”

“No...please...” your protests dissolved into a whimper as his tongue made contact with your aching sex, the wet heat of it sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

Aemond chuckled darkly at your feeble attempts to resist, the vibrations of his laughter sending shivers through your core. He increased the pressure of his tongue, lapping at your slick folds with relish, savoring the taste of your arousal.

“It's too much...I c-can't take it...” even as you spoke, your hips bucked upward, seeking more of that intoxicating sensation. Your hands flew to his head, tangling in his hair as you tried to pull him closer, to grind yourself against his questing mouth.

“You lie, sweet cousin,” he murmured against your flesh, his voice muffled but unmistakable. “You crave this, crave me. Your body sings for me, begs for my touch.”

He sucked gently on your pearl, the suction pulling a sharp cry from your lips. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he feasted on your cunt, his skillful tongue driving you closer to the edge with each passing moment.

“Release for me,” he commanded, his eye locking onto yours, burning with an intense, possessive hunger. “Let go and give me everything.”

Your entire being was consumed by the inferno of pleasure that Aemond ignited within you. His words, his touch, his very presence overwhelmed your senses until nothing existed beyond the coil of ecstasy winding tighter and tighter in your core.

“Ahh...oh gods...Aemond!” your cries echoed off the stone walls as you said his name for the first time and he pushed you relentlessly towards your peak. Your back arched off the bed, your nails raking down his scalp as you held him close, grinding shamelessly against his face.

“Yes...yes! Don't stop...please don't stop...” you babbled incoherently, lost to the maelstrom of sensation. And then, with a final flick of his tongue, you shattered, your release ripping through you with the force of a tidal wave.

As your climax crashed over you, Aemond drank in your essence, reveling in the taste of your release. He lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure until you finally went limp beneath him, panting and dazed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he gazed up at your flushed face. He crawled up your body, claiming your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to plunder the sweetness of your mouth.

“Now, let us see how well you respond to other pleasures,” he murmured against your lips, his hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple into a stiff peak. “We have only just begun to explore the depths of your devotion.”

Your mind reeled, struggling to process the intensity of what had just transpired. Aemond's control over your body was absolute, leaving you weak and pliant in his grasp. Yet even as you trembled with aftershocks of pleasure, a thrill of anticipation coursed through you at his words.

“Other pleasure?” you managed to stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. Despite the fear that lingered, a spark of curiosity ignited within you, drawing you deeper into the unknown realm Aemond promised to show you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your breasts heaving with each ragged breath as he fondled them. The sensation of his calloused palm against your tender flesh sent jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core, making you ache for more.

Aemond's smile was a wicked curve of his lips as he watched your reaction, delighting in the way your body responded to his touch.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “I speak of the exquisite agonies of pleasure, cousin. The kind that make you scream and beg for mercy even as you crave more. The sort that leave you trembling and spent, yet yearning for the next touch, the next thrust...”

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the juncture of your thighs before dipping into your drenched folds. He circled your sensitive pearl, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

“Shall I show you these delights, Beloved? Shall I push you to the very brink of madness and back again, all for my own entertainment?”

A shiver ran down your spine at Aemond's words, a delicious chill that mixed with the heat building inside you. His touch was both gentle and ruthless, coaxing out responses you didn't know you possessed. Your hips bucked involuntarily as he stroked your most intimate places, seeking more friction and relief.

“Y-yes please...” you breathed, the word torn from you on a moan. Your hands came up to tangle in his long silver hair, holding him close as if to anchor yourself against the storm of sensations he unleashed.

Aemond's fingers danced across your sensitive flesh, pushing you higher and higher until you teetered on the edge of another release. Your vision blurred, your lungs burned for air, and still he teased, denying you the release you craved.

“Please...I need more,” you whined.

Aemond chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending vibrations through your quivering form. He released your pearl, his fingers trailing up your inner thigh before gripping your hip possessively.

“More, hmm?”

He leaned back, his piercing gaze drinking in every flush of color on your skin, every hitch of your breath. “Very well, cousin. Let us see how you fare against my cock.”

With a swift motion, he shed his trousers, freeing his rigid length. It stood proud and unyielding, the tip already glistening with pearly wetness. Aemond grasped your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he positioned himself between them.

Your eyes widened as Aemond revealed his manhood, the sight of it making your mouth go dry. The size and shape were intimidating, but a part of you thrilled at the prospect of being stretched so completely. You nodded, unable to find your voice as he spread your legs wider, exposing you fully to his hungry gaze.

“Are you ready to be filled, to be claimed in the most primal way possible?” He asked, his voice a husky growl.

"Yes...” you managed to whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.

Aemond's grip on your ankles tightened as he aligned himself with your entrance. The head of his cock pressed against your slick folds, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. You bit your lip, bracing yourself for the intrusion.

“Please don't hurt me,” you whispered, your voice tinged with desperation.

Aemond's expression softened slightly at your plea, though the intent in his eye remained unchanged - a fierce, almost feral hunger. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “I would never harm you, sweetling," he paused, "at least not unless you begged me to."

With that, he surged forward, his thick cock driving into your welcoming heat in one powerful stroke. Your cry echoed through the chamber as you were split open around him, your body stretching to accommodate his impressive girth.

“Fuck, you're tight,” he groaned, pausing for a moment to let her adjust. His hips flexed, pulling nearly all the way out before plunging back in, setting a relentless pace. So fucking perfect...

A sharp cry tore from your throat as Aemond's massive cock impaled you, the sudden invasion sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your core. You arched your back, nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move within you, each thrust driving deeper and harder than the last.

"Gods...it's too much..." you panted, struggling to breathe through the intensity of the sensation. “You're so big...”

Despite the discomfort, your body seemed to mold itself to his, craving the stretch and fullness he provided. Your inner walls clenched around him, trying to draw him in even further.

“More...give me more...” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet his punishing rhythm.

Aemond grunted in satisfaction at your wanton pleas, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. The obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, punctuated by your keening cries.

“That's it, take it all,” he growled, his hand fisting in your hair as he angled your head back. “Scream for me, let everyone hear how thoroughly I'm claiming you.”

His free hand slid between your joined bodies, finding your swollen pearl and rubbing mercilessly. The dual stimulation had you writhing beneath him, your body wound tighter than a bowstring.

"Come for me, Beloved,” Aemond demanded, his voice rough with lust. “Come on my cock like the desperate little maiden you are.”

The words fell from Aemond's lips like honeyed poison, stoking the flames of your desire until they consumed you whole. Your release crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision blurring at the edges as ecstasy coursed through your veins.

“Yes! Oh gods, yes!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the stone walls.

Your inner muscles spasmed wildly around Aemond's pistoning cock, milking him for all he was worth. The pressure building at the base of your spine reached a fever pitch before exploding outward in a burst of pure bliss.

“Aemond!” your name was a ragged gasp as you convulsed beneath him, wave after wave of pleasure washing over you.

Aemond threw his head back with a triumphant roar as your orgasm triggered his own. His cock pulsed inside you, spilling his hot seed deep into your clencing cunt. Each jet seemed to last an eternity, marking you as his in the most primal way possible.

“Take it all,” he snarled, grinding his pelvis against yours to ensure every drop was absorbed by your eager flesh. “You're mine now, forever and always.”

As the final spurts subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, breathing heavily as he savored the aftermath of their coupling.

When Aemond's release flooded your womb, you felt a sense of profound completion wash over you. Your body went limp beneath him, utterly spent yet deeply satisfied.

“Yours...” you echoed softly, the word falling from your kiss-swollen lips in a daze. “Forever and always...”

As exhaustion tugged at you, your limbs grew heavy, and the events of the day settled over you like a warm, thick blanket. Nestled in Aemond’s arms, you felt a strange comfort, a warmth you’d scarcely known, drawing you closer into his embrace as sleep beckoned. The solid strength of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it was all that held you tethered as your eyes drifted shut.

“Rest now, my love,” he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rasp, laced with a possessiveness that left no doubt of his intentions. “We have much to discuss when you’ve recovered.”

Even as you slipped into the gentle embrace of sleep, Aemond remained vigilant, his gaze never leaving you. His mind churned with plans and possibilities, already anticipating the obstacles that lay ahead. He knew that securing his claim upon you—upon both of you—would not come easily.

His arm tightened around you, a silent vow to protect, to possess, to keep you from any force that might try to tear you from him. Whatever it took, no matter the cost, you would remain his. He would allow no other fate.

A faint, triumphant smile touched his lips as he studied your sleeping face, taking in the softness of your features, the way your hair curled against your cheek. Tonight, he would let himself bask in the satisfaction of knowing you were his, that he had claimed your body and heart as surely as he had marked it.

“Sleep well, my queen,” he whispered, reaching out to brush a stray curl from your brow with uncharacteristic gentleness. His thumb lingered a moment, tracing the curve of your cheek, committing every detail to memory.

“Tomorrow, I take you to your new home.”

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[theculturedmarxist]

In 2020, Robert Kuciemba, a woodworker in San Francisco was infected with covid by a co-worker after his Nevada-based Victory Woodworks transferred a number of sick workers to the San Francisco site for a few months. 

Through the proceedings of the case it turns out that the employer knew some employees might be sick but they transferred them anyway and ignored a San Francisco ordinance in place at the time to quarantine suspected covid cases.

Kuciemba was subsequently infected and he then infected his wife, who ended up in ICU on a ventilator.

The California Supreme Court just ruled against Kuciemba on the basis that a victory, while, in the court's words, "morally" the right thing to do, would create "dire financial consequences for employers" and cause a "dramatic expansion of liability" to stop the spread of covid.

There’s a few stunning details to note in this case. First, the court agreed that there is no doubt the company had ignored the San Francisco health ordinance. In other words, they accepted the company had broken the law. And then concluded “yeah, but, capitalism.”

Secondly, the case was so obviously important to the struggle between capitalism and mass infection that the US Chamber of Commerce, the largest business lobbying organisation got involved and helped the company with its defence. Remember, this is a tiny company in a niche industry. The involvement of the biggest business lobbyists in the country tells us a lot about the importance of the principle they knew was at stake.

Thirdly, the defence of the company is very telling. They said “There is simply no limit to how wide the net will be cast: the wife who claims her husband caught COVID-19 from the supermarket checker, the husband who claims his wife caught it while visiting an elder care home." 

Well, exactly. Capitalism couldn’t survive if employers were liable for covid infections contracted in the workplace, and the ripple effect of those infections. And they know it. 

This case is something of a covid smoking gun, revealing what we always suspected but had never seen confirmed in so many words: the public health imperative of controlling a pandemic virus by making employers liable for some of that control is, and always must be, secondary to capitalist profit. 

This ruling is also saying out loud what has been obvious to anyone paying attention for the last two years: employers don’t have a responsibility to keep your family safe from covid. You have that responsibility. And if you give a family member covid that you caught at work and they get sick or die – even if it was a result of law-breaking by your employer – that’s on you buddy.

It is the same old capitalist story: the shunting of responsibility for ills that should be shared across society, including employers in that society, onto individuals.

This ruling essentially helps codify workplace mass infection and justifies it as necessary for the smooth functioning of capitalism.

This is not new. This is where the ‘just a cold’ and the ‘mild' narrative came from. It came from doctors and healthcare experts whose first loyalty was to capitalism. Not to public health. To money, not to lives. Abetted by media who uncritically platformed them.

While this ruling tells us little that we couldn’t already see from the public policy approach of the last two years, it is revealing (and to some extent validating) to see it confirmed by the highest law of the land in the United States. 

[hisfavegirl]

Obsession's Edge - Maegor Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : He was a man of war, a conqueror forged in battle and bloodshed. But tonight, as he stood before you, his eyes held something else—something more dangerous than rage. Expectation. You knew what he meant. Your fate had been decided long before this moment. You were to be the last. The final wife. The one who would give him what he desired most. A son. A legacy.

Word Count : 8k

Maegor Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.

The scene unfolds in the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep, where tension clings to the air like a heavy shroud. You stand at the edge of the grand chamber, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as your eyes rest on the imposing figure of your brother, Maegor. His towering frame radiates power, and the infamous Blackfyre sword in his hand glints ominously in the flickering torchlight.

Once again, Maegor’s guards carry the lifeless body of his latest wife, his fifth attempt at securing a son and heir. The sight is as grim as it is familiar. The bloodstains on her pale dress speak of another failed birth, another sacrifice in Maegor’s unrelenting quest for a legacy.

Your stomach churns as you glance at your mother, Visenya, who stands by the hearth. She holds Maegor’s infant daughter—another girl—in her arms. Her face is a mask of cold indifference, her piercing gaze fixed on her son. The child wails softly, but Visenya pays her no mind, cradling the babe as if she were holding a mere object, not flesh and blood.

You take a hesitant step forward. “Brother,” you begin, your voice steady but cautious. “How much longer will this… madness continue? The gods—”

“The gods have cursed me!” Maegor growls, his voice echoing through the chamber. His knuckles whiten as he grips Blackfyre tighter. “They deny me a son, but I will not be denied. I am the blood of the dragon. I will have an heir.”

“And how many more must die for you to prove that?” you ask softly, though your words are like daggers. Your heart aches at the scene before you, but you know better than to openly defy him. Maegor’s wrath is as legendary as his strength.

His dark eyes meet yours, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something— frustration, desperation. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar coldness. “You speak of things you do not understand,” he snaps, his tone brooking no argument.

Visenya finally breaks her silence. “Enough,” she says, her voice calm but commanding. “This is not the time to quarrel. There is work to be done.”

You glance at your mother, noting the faint lines of weariness on her face. Even Visenya Targaryen, the indomitable matriarch, cannot entirely mask the strain of watching her son spiral further into darkness.

Maegor steps closer to you, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over your smaller frame. “Do not speak to me of curses or consequences,” he hisses. “You do not bear the weight of a throne, sister. You do not understand the price of power.”

Your throat tightens, but you hold your ground. “And you do not understand the price of the lives you destroy,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, silence stretches between you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, without another word, Maegor turns on his heel and storms out of the chamber, the echo of his boots fading into the distance.

Visenya approaches you, the infant still cradled in her arms. Her expression softens slightly as she looks at you. “Do not provoke him,” she says quietly. “It will do no good.”

“And neither will enabling him,” you counter, though your tone lacks the fire of before.

She sighs, a rare sign of weariness. “We are Targaryens. We endure. We survive. That is what matters.”

As she walks away, the child’s cries growing fainter, you’re left alone in the chamber. The weight of your family’s legacy presses down on you, and you can’t help but wonder: How many more will suffer before the madness ends?

The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily silent as you made your way back to your chambers. The events of the night weighed heavily on your mind. You tried to banish the thoughts of your mother and Maegor, of the infant girl whose cries still echoed faintly in your ears. You didn’t want to think about what would become of the child—or what decisions your family might make under the cover of darkness.

Entering your chamber, you let out a soft sigh and closed the heavy wooden door behind you, shutting out the world beyond. The flickering light of the fireplace cast long shadows across the room, offering a small semblance of warmth in the cold, unforgiving keep.

You approached the dressing table and began to undo the clasps of your gown. Your hands moved mechanically, your mind still racing with questions you dared not voice. Was it truly the gods who cursed your brother, or was this all a punishment of his own making?

The silk of your gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled around your feet. You exchanged it for a simpler nightgown, one that offered comfort over extravagance. The soft fabric brushed against your skin as you pulled it over your head, and for a moment, you felt a sense of relief, however fleeting.

But before you could settle in, a quiet sound behind you made you freeze—a faint shuffling, as if someone was in the room. Your heart quickened, and you turned sharply, eyes scanning the dimly lit space. Then, you saw it: the hidden door in the far corner of your chamber, one you hadn’t even known existed until recently, creaked open.

From the shadows emerged Maegor, his imposing figure casting a long shadow on the stone floor. He stepped into the room with a purposeful stride, his expression unreadable, though his eyes were intense. He had shed his armor, but Blackfyre was still strapped to his side, a constant reminder of who he was.

“Brother,” you said cautiously, your voice low. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed the hidden door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. His gaze swept over you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the soft fabric of your nightgown.

“You shouldn’t leave yourself so unguarded,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact but carrying an edge.

You frowned. “I am in my own chambers. Do you expect an assassin to crawl out of the shadows?”

“In this keep?” he said with a dry chuckle. “You’d be a fool to think yourself safe, even here.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you tried not to show it. “Why are you here, Maegor? Did you come to discuss safety, or is there something else on your mind?”

He moved closer, his heavy boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. “Do you think me a monster?” he asked abruptly, his voice low but sharp.

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated, searching for the right words. “I think…” you began slowly, “that you’ve done monstrous things. But I also think the weight of the crown has hardened you more than it should.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked away, as if considering your words. Then he turned back to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“I do what must be done,” he said firmly, though there was a flicker of something—doubt, perhaps—in his voice. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I take pleasure in burying wife after wife, child after child?”

“I don’t know what you feel,” you admitted softly. “You don’t let anyone see that part of you.”

He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating. “And what would it change if they did? Would it bring me a son? Would it silence the whispers of weakness?”

“No,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “But it might remind people that you’re still human. That you still bleed like the rest of us.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he studied you for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached out and cupped your face in his hand. The gesture was almost tender, a stark contrast to the coldness you had come to associate with him.

“You’re different,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You see me, not just the crown. Not just the king.”

“Because I’m your sister,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “And because I know there’s still something good in you, no matter how deeply you’ve buried it.”

For a moment, it looked as though he might say something more. But instead, he released you and stepped back, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it had come.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone colder now, though there was a hint of softness beneath it. “Tomorrow will bring more battles, as it always does.”

You took a deep breath and turned toward Maegor before he could step back into the hidden passage.

“Stay,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence.

He turned to look at you, his sharp features shadowed in the dim candlelight. “It’s late,” he replied curtly, his tone clipped. “You should rest. So should I.”

“I’m asking you to stay with me,” you said, stepping closer. Your voice was steady, though your heart was racing. “You’re my brother, Maegor. I don’t mind your company, and you need the rest just as much as I do.”

He hesitated, his piercing eyes narrowing slightly. “I am not in the habit of seeking comfort,” he said gruffly, though the way his hand lingered on the hilt of Blackfyre betrayed some inner conflict.

“You don’t have to seek it,” you replied gently, moving closer until you stood directly in front of him. “I’m offering it to you.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The air between you was tense, and you could see the walls he kept around himself, the ones he refused to let anyone breach. But then, with a reluctant sigh, he nodded.

“Fine,” he muttered, as though he was doing you a favor. “But don’t think this will become a habit.”

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Of course not.”

As he stood there, unmoving, you reached for the heavy belt that secured Blackfyre at his hip. Your fingers brushed against his as you began to unfasten it, and for a moment, his hand lingered before he let you take over. Carefully, you slid the belt free and placed it on the small table near your bed.

“You don’t always have to carry it, you know,” you said, glancing back at him as you gestured to Blackfyre.

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “I do,” he replied simply. “It’s who I am.”

“You’re more than that sword, Maegor,” you said, your tone soft but firm. “Even if you don’t believe it.”

You paused, your breath hitching as Maegor’s words hung in the air.

“Perhaps the reason my wives have failed me,” he said, his voice low and almost thoughtful, “is because they are not of the blood of the dragon. But you…”

He let the statement linger, and you turned your head to look at him. His piercing gaze met yours, unflinching, filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Maegor,” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly. “You can’t mean that.”

“Why not?” he replied, his tone unwavering. He leaned closer, his hand sliding to your arm and pulling you gently into his embrace. “You are of the blood of Old Valyria, born to the same fire and blood that flows through my veins. If anyone could give me a son—a true heir—it would be you.”

Your mind raced, his words sinking in. You had always known that your mother, had plans for you—plans tied to your brother’s throne. She had often spoken of uniting the bloodlines to strengthen House Targaryen. But hearing Maegor speak of it so plainly, so deliberately, made your chest tighten.

“That’s why Mother promised me to you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, his hand moving to gently cradle the side of your face. “She sees what I see,” he said, his voice softer now. “The strength in you. The fire.”

You tried to look away, but he held you there, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Do you think I want this, Maegor?” you asked, your tone laced with a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

“I think,” he began, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke, “that it is not about what we want, but what we must do—for the house, for the throne, and for the bloodline.”

You shivered as his words sank in, and though you wanted to push him away, his warmth was oddly comforting. He tightened his hold on you, his strength both intimidating and reassuring.

“You could give me what no one else has,” he whispered against your ear, his voice sending a chill down your spine. “A son. An heir. You could ensure the strength of our house for generations to come.”

“Maegor…” you started, but your words faltered as his hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Think about it,” he said, his tone still calm but laced with something darker, something possessive. “It is your destiny. You were meant for me.”

You felt your resolve waver, torn between the weight of his words and the emotions swirling within you. You had grown up knowing your place in the family, knowing what was expected of you. But this… this was more than you had ever anticipated.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

“You can,” he said firmly, his lips brushing against your forehead. “And you will. Together, we will be unstoppable.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into his embrace, your mind a storm of doubt and confusion. Whether it was fate or folly, you couldn’t yet say. But in that moment, as his arms tightened around you and his whispers filled the silence, it felt as though you had no choice at all.

You stood frozen as Maegor’s words hung in the air, the mention of your mother, making your chest tighten. You did respect her—more than anyone. She was the guiding force of your life, her word as close to law as the Seven themselves. Refusing her was unthinkable. Maegor knew this, and the faint smirk on his face revealed he was fully aware of how deeply her influence bound you.

Maegor stepped closer, his fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You will not refuse me,” he murmured, though there was no real question in his voice. “You would not dare defy mother’s wishes.” he murmured, his voice low and confident.

You glanced at him, lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. He was right. You could already hear your mother’s voice in your head, her arguments laid out plainly, reminding you of duty and legacy.

Maegor stepped closer, his imposing frame towering over you. “You’ve always followed her commands,” he continued, his voice softening but losing none of its authority. “You’ve never failed her before. And this? This is what she wants.”

Your silence made him chuckle—a rare, low sound that startled you. He was so often stoic, cold even, but now there was something different in him. Something almost… warm.

He raised a hand, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You think too much,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just let it happen.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It was not the demanding kiss you might have expected from him—it was slow, careful, and deliberate, as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. His hands cupped your face, holding you gently but firmly, ensuring you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.

You froze, unsure of what to do. But as the kiss deepened, you felt yourself melting into it despite the swirl of thoughts in your mind. The warmth of his lips, the way his touch seemed to steady your trembling form—it was disarming.

When he finally pulled back, his violet eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of rejection. But you remained silent, your breath uneven, your cheeks flushed.

“You see,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your jawline. “It feels… right. Doesn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, unable to deny the strange pull you felt toward him. He had always been a part of your life, a figure of strength and dominance. And now, as he stood before you, so certain and unyielding, it was as if the world itself had conspired to place you in his arms.

“What if I’m not enough?” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “What if I fail you, too?”

His expression softened, his hands moving to your shoulders. “You won’t,” he said firmly. “You are of the blood of the dragon. My equal. My match. Together, we’ll do what no one else has.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine as his words sank in. There was no escaping this—no denying what your mother had already decided for you, what Maegor had clearly longed for.

As he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your knees weak, you realized that this was no longer just about duty or tradition. This was about Maegor’s unwavering belief in you, his determination to claim you as his own. And for the first time, you wondered if perhaps you didn’t mind being claimed.

Maegor’s hands gripped your waist as he effortlessly lifted you, settling you onto his lap as if you weighed nothing. The strength in his touch was undeniable, and yet there was something careful about the way he held you, as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever claimed.

Your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the thick, silver strands of his hair. He pulled you closer, his lips pressing firmly against yours, deepening the kiss with an intensity that left you breathless. His confidence was overwhelming, but it was also intoxicating, pulling you further into his orbit.

You hesitated for only a moment before giving in, letting yourself lean into the kiss. When your lips finally began to move against his, Maegor let out a low hum of approval. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his voice low and laced with amusement. “There she is,” he murmured, his smirk unmistakable. “I knew you wouldn’t resist me for long.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the weight of them sinking into your chest. He leaned in again, his lips ghosting over your jawline, trailing down to the curve of your neck. You gasped as his teeth grazed your skin, his tongue quickly soothing the spot he’d bitten.

“Maegor…” you whispered, unsure whether it was meant as a plea or a protest.

He chuckled against your neck, his hands roaming over the curve of your hips. “Say my name again,” he commanded softly, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

You hesitated, but when he nipped at your skin again, a quiet, breathless “Maegor” escaped your lips. He growled in approval, his grip on you tightening as he kissed his way back to your lips.

“You’re mine,” he said against your mouth, his tone firm and unyielding. “Do you understand that?”

You nodded, your mind spinning as his words and actions consumed you. His hands moved back to your waist, holding you steady as he pressed you closer to him.

“You’re the only one who can give me what I want,” he continued, his lips brushing against yours with every word. “A son. A true heir. And I’ll make sure of it.”

His words should have frightened you, but instead, they filled you with a strange sense of purpose—a feeling that you belonged here, with him. When his lips met yours again, you found yourself kissing him back with a fervor that matched his own, your hands tightening in his hair as the room around you seemed to fade away.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’ll see. This is where you were always meant to be—by my side, as my queen.”

And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to argue. Instead, you leaned into him, letting his words wash over you as you surrendered to the fire that burned between you.

Maegor’s hands were rough as they slid up your back, pulling your nightgown up and over your head in one swift motion. The cool air of the room brushed against your skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his touch. His eyes darkened as they roamed over you, his lips curling into a smirk before he leaned in to claim your lips once more.

This time, his kiss was hungrier, more demanding, as if he was staking his claim all over again. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers threading through his hair and pulling lightly, earning a low growl from deep in his chest.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured against your lips, his voice laced with warning and amusement.

You smirked in return, rolling your hips slightly against his lap. The way his body reacted to you—his sharp intake of breath, the way his grip on your hips tightened—only emboldened you further. “Maybe I like the flames,” you whispered, your tone teasing as you brushed your lips against his again.

His laughter was low and dangerous, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Careful,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “You keep pushing me, and I won’t be able to hold back.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” you replied, your tone filled with challenge.

That was all the permission he needed. With a swift motion, he shifted, pinning you beneath him on the bed. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, his body pressing against yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said as he pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “But don’t think I’ll stop once I start. You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You gasped as his lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin. His hands explored your body with a mixture of gentleness and possession, leaving no doubt in your mind that he meant every word he said.

“Maegor…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you arched beneath him.

Hearing his name from your lips only seemed to spur him on. His lips curled into a smirk against your skin as he moved lower, his hands sliding to grip your hips. “Say it again,” he commanded softly, his voice filled with raw desire.

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He growled in satisfaction, his grip tightening as he began to guide your movements against him. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable as he watched your every reaction, his own control slipping with every passing moment.

“You wanted this,” he said, his tone low and dangerous as he leaned closer. “And now you’re going to take everything I give you.”

And as his words sank in, you realized there was no going back—not that you wanted to. You surrendered to him completely, letting him pull you deeper into the flames as the night stretched on.

Maegor’s eyes burned with intensity as he discarded his trousers, his movements deliberate and unhurried. You couldn’t help but smirk, shifting your hips slightly to tease him. The way his jaw tightened and his nostrils flared only encouraged you further, knowing you were testing the limits of his control.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, his voice low and rough as he stepped closer.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Why, brother, I have no idea what you mean.”

He growled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’ll regret that,” he said, his tone a dangerous promise.

Before you could respond, his hands were on your hips, pulling you toward him with a force that made you gasp. In one swift, decisive motion, he buried himself within you, tearing a cry from your lips as pain and pleasure collided.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you struggled to adjust. “Maegor!” you cried out, your voice trembling.

He laughed softly, the sound dark and laced with satisfaction. “Does it hurt, little dragon?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your ear. “Good. You’ll remember this moment every time you think you can defy me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your body stretched to accommodate him, the sensation overwhelming and unfamiliar. “You’re… you’re too much,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grab your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’ll take all of me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered as he began to move, each thrust sending a new wave of sensation through your body. The initial pain began to fade, replaced by a heat that spread through your veins like wildfire.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with both admiration and possession. “So beautiful, even when you’re trembling beneath me.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn’t deny the way they made your heart race. Despite his roughness, there was a strange sense of care in the way he touched you, as though he was staking his claim but also ensuring you wouldn’t break beneath him.

As the rhythm of his movements increased, your cries turned into soft moans, your body slowly surrendering to the intensity of the moment. “Maegor…” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with need.

He smirked, leaning down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. “That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. “Say my name again.”

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice louder this time, filled with both pain and pleasure.

His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he thrust deeper. “You’ll learn to love this,” he said, his tone both commanding and soothing. “And soon, you’ll crave it as much as I do.”

You could only nod, your body and mind completely consumed by him. In that moment, there was nothing else—just the two of you, bound together in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

Maegor’s heavy, calloused hands pinned your wrists above your head, his grip firm but not painful. His towering form loomed over you, his silver hair falling into his face as he gazed down at you with a mixture of triumph and hunger. You had always been the one to tease, the one to provoke—but now, under him, you were at his mercy.

“You’ve always been so bold,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “Always looking for my attention, always testing me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words turned into a gasp as his hips moved, a sharp thrust that left you breathless. Your body arched instinctively, pressing closer to him as he continued his relentless pace.

“Look at you now,” he said, his tone laced with dark amusement. “So quiet. Has the little dragon finally met her match?”

Your cheeks burned at his teasing, but you couldn’t form a coherent reply. Every movement, every thrust, sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maegor…” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

He smirked, leaning down until his face was just inches from yours. “Say it louder,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice cracking as he drove deeper, his movements precise and unyielding.

“That’s better,” he said, his smirk widening. “You look beautiful like this, you know. Completely mine.”

You tried to squirm beneath him, your body desperate for some sort of release, but his strength kept you firmly in place. His hands tightened around your wrists as he held them above your head, his grip a reminder of just how powerless you were in his grasp.

“You’ve always thought you were in control,” he continued, his voice low and dangerous. “But here, like this, you belong to me.”

His words sent a thrill through you, even as you tried to deny the effect they had on you. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

Maegor chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “And yet, you can’t get enough of me.”

Before you could respond, he shifted his weight slightly, angling his hips in a way that had you crying out his name again. The sound only seemed to spur him on, his movements becoming rougher, more deliberate.

“You drive me mad,” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “But I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

His free hand trailed down your side, his fingers brushing over your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Every inch of you,” he said, his voice filled with a dark promise. “Every sound you make, every breath you take—it’s all mine.”

You couldn’t argue with him, not when your body was betraying you so completely. Instead, you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations, letting Maegor claim you in every way he desired. And as his laughter echoed in your ears, you knew there would be no going back.

Maegor’s relentless pace left your mind spinning, every sharp thrust erasing any coherent thought from your head. The world around you blurred, and all that remained was the man above you—his weight, his heat, and the overwhelming power of his movements.

“Maegor…” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Say it louder,” he demanded, his tone a deep growl as his piercing gaze locked onto yours. His face was a mix of smug satisfaction and raw intensity, his silver hair damp with sweat as it clung to his forehead.

You cried out his name again, louder this time, unable to stop yourself as he buried himself deeper, the force of his thrusts stealing the breath from your lungs. Maegor grinned, his lips curling into a dark smirk as he watched you unravel beneath him.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with pride and something darker. “Completely at my mercy. Does it drive you mad, little dragon? Knowing that no one else could ever ruin you like this?”

Your only response was a strangled moan as your body arched into his, seeking more of him despite the overwhelming intensity. Maegor leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, “You’re mine, now and always. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and surrender.

“That’s right,” he purred, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. His hands gripped your waist tightly, holding you in place as he drove into you with even more force, drawing another scream from your lips.

“You feel so perfect,” he said, his tone softening just slightly, though the fire in his eyes never dimmed. “Like you were made for me. Tell me, little dragon—do you feel it too? That you were meant to be mine?”

You nodded frantically, unable to find the words as waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you trembling in his arms. Maegor chuckled darkly at your helplessness, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck. “Lost in me, lost to me.”

As you cried out again, your body clinging to his in desperation, Maegor groaned, the sound low and primal as he felt your walls tighten around him. His pace faltered for just a moment before he drove into you one last time, his head falling to your shoulder as he growled your name.

The room was filled with the sounds of your labored breathing as the two of you came down from the heights of your passion. Maegor didn’t pull away immediately, instead leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his touch surprisingly tender after the intensity of his movements.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his voice soft but firm, as if sealing a promise. Maegor smirked, his confidence returning as he gazed down at you. “I’ve made my claim on you, little dragon. Don’t ever forget that.”

As you lay in his arms, your body still trembling from his touch, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of inevitability. You were his now, completely and utterly, and there was no going back.

Maegor’s strong hands gripped your waist tightly, holding you in place as he lifted you with ease and settled you on his lap. You gasped, your hands bracing against his broad shoulders for support, but before you could utter a word, his deep, commanding voice interrupted.

“If I am to have a son, little dragon,” he growled, his violet eyes dark and blazing with determination, “then I will not stop now.”

Your lips parted to protest, but the words never left your mouth. In one swift motion, Maegor thrust himself upward, pulling your hips down to meet him. The intensity of the movement made your head fall back as a loud cry escaped your lips. The sensation of him so deep, so overwhelming, was too much for your trembling body to process.

“Maegor!” you screamed, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life as he began to move, his pace relentless and unyielding.

“You can take it,” he said, his tone almost mocking, though there was an edge of possessiveness in his voice that sent shivers through you. “You were made for this—made for me.”

Your breathing came in short, desperate gasps as he guided your movements, his hands firmly holding your waist as he controlled the rhythm. The combination of his strength and the sheer intensity of his movements left you unable to do anything but follow his lead.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding. When you didn’t respond, too lost in the sensation, he reached up and tilted your chin toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I said, look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his piercing violet stare. The raw hunger in his expression made your heart race even faster.

“There you are,” he murmured, his tone softening ever so slightly. “I want to see that pretty face of yours when I give you what we both know you want.”

You whimpered in response, your hands gripping his shoulders even tighter as he pulled you down onto him again, deeper than before. The new angle sent shockwaves through your body, and you couldn’t stop the loud moan that escaped your lips.

“To much?” he asked, his smirk returning as he studied your reaction. “Or is it exactly what you need?”

“Maegor…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you struggled to catch your breath.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say my name, little dragon. Say it so the gods themselves hear you.”

You obeyed, crying out his name over and over as he continued to guide your movements, his strength and determination leaving you completely at his mercy. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve as if claiming you all over again.

“You’re perfect,” he growled, his lips trailing down your neck. “Perfect for me. Perfect to bear my sons.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t hold back the way your body responded to him. Maegor chuckled darkly, clearly pleased by the effect he had on you.

As he quickened his pace, his movements became even more demanding, pushing you closer to the edge. Your cries grew louder, filling the room as he drove you higher and higher.

“Give it to me,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Give me everything.”

And with one final, powerful thrust, you shattered in his arms, your body trembling uncontrollably as waves of pleasure washed over you. Maegor followed shortly after, his grip on your waist tightening as he buried himself as deep as he could, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips.

As the two of you came down from the intensity of the moment, Maegor’s hold on you remained firm, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’ll give me a son,” he murmured, his tone resolute. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, one he believed with every fiber of his being.

You nodded weakly, still trembling in his arms as you leaned against his chest, too overwhelmed to respond with words. Maegor smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tightened his embrace.

“This is only the beginning,” he promised, his voice filled with dark determination.

Maegor didn’t give you a moment to recover. His strength was overwhelming as he lifted you effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs firmly, and carried you to the sturdy table in the center of the room. Before you could fully register what was happening, he placed you down with precision, positioning you exactly how he wanted.

“Did you think I was done with you, little dragon?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing growl.

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a sharp gasp as he buried himself inside you again in one swift, forceful motion. Your hands instinctively reached out, grasping the edges of the table for support as he set a punishing pace, his movements quick and unrelenting.

“Maegor!” you cried out, your voice echoing in the chamber, but your pleas only seemed to spur him on.

“Louder,” he demanded, his tone thick with authority. “Let everyone in the Keep know who you belong to.”

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he leaned over you, his large frame completely dominating yours. The table creaked beneath the force of his movements, but you didn’t care. Your body burned, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

Suddenly, Maegor’s hands gripped your waist, lifting you slightly before pushing you to lie flat against the table. Your gaze shifted, and that’s when you saw it—the large mirror across the room, perfectly angled to reflect the two of you.

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson as you took in the sight. Your disheveled hair, your trembling body, and Maegor’s powerful figure towering over you, his muscles flexing with every movement. His face was a mixture of focus and satisfaction, his violet eyes locking with yours in the mirror.

“Look at us,” he said, his voice rough yet filled with pride. “See what we are.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the rawness of the moment. Your arms reached out, wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer, hiding your face in his shoulder to escape the intensity of your own reflection.

“Oh no, little dragon,” he murmured, chuckling darkly as he lifted your chin with one hand, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Don’t look away. Watch how perfectly you take me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop the way your body reacted, arching into him as he continued his relentless pace. His free hand traveled to your hip, gripping it tightly as he adjusted the angle, drawing out even louder cries from you.

“Maegor, please…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure what you were begging for.

“Please what?” he asked, his tone mocking yet filled with hunger. “Tell me what you want.”

“I-I can’t,” you stammered, your voice trembling as he pushed you further and further toward your limit.

“You can,” he countered, his lips brushing against your ear. “You will.”

Your body trembled beneath him, your mind clouded with nothing but him—his touch, his voice, his presence. The sight of the two of you in the mirror only added to the overwhelming sensation, and you felt yourself nearing the edge once again.

“Say it,” Maegor demanded, his voice a low growl as he drove you closer and closer to the brink.

“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking as the words spilled from your lips. “I’m yours, Maegor.”

A triumphant smirk spread across his face as he slammed into you one final time, sending you spiraling over the edge. Your cries filled the room, your body shaking uncontrollably as you clung to him, your nails digging into his skin.

Maegor followed moments later, his grip on your hips tightening as he buried himself as deep as possible, a guttural groan escaping his lips. His forehead pressed against yours as he caught his breath, his hands gently stroking your sides as you lay sprawled on the table beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “Always.”

You nodded weakly, your body too exhausted to respond with words. Maegor smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“And I’m not done with you yet,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eye as he lifted you once more, carrying you back toward the bed.

Maegor showed no mercy as he pressed your trembling body into the mattress, his large hands gripping your hips tightly while his movements remained unrelenting. You were sprawled out beneath him, barely able to catch your breath as he continued his punishing pace.

"Maegor… please…" you whispered weakly, your voice muffled by the soft fabric of the bedding.

"Please, what?" he asked with a mocking laugh, his tone dark and teasing as he leaned over you. His weight pressed you further into the bed, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you want me to stop?"

You knew he didn’t expect a reply—he already knew the answer. The smirk on his face widened as he felt you unconsciously arch your back, your body betraying you as it sought more of him despite the overwhelming sensations.

"That's what I thought," he growled, one hand slipping around your waist to pull you closer, making his thrusts even deeper. "You’re mine, little dragon. You’ll take everything I give you."

You could only whimper in response, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your mind spiraled into a haze of pleasure and exhaustion. Every inch of your body felt consumed by him—by his strength, his dominance, and the sheer heat of his touch.

When you tried to lift your head, Maegor’s hand came to rest on the back of it, guiding you to stay down. "No, stay just like this," he ordered, his voice softer now but still firm. "You look perfect beneath me."

"Maegor…" you whispered again, your voice breaking as you tried to form coherent words.

"Say it," he demanded, his tone sharp yet filled with desire. "Say you're mine."

"I’m yours," you gasped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

His deep chuckle rumbled through the room, and he rewarded your surrender with a sharp thrust that made you cry out his name. "That’s right," he murmured, his voice filled with pride. "You’ll never belong to anyone else."

Despite your exhaustion, you couldn’t help but shiver at the possessiveness in his tone. He leaned down further, his lips brushing against the back of your neck as his pace quickened once again.

"Look at you," Maegor muttered, his voice filled with admiration as his hands slid over your trembling form. "So beautiful. So perfect. You were made for me, weren’t you?"

You couldn’t respond—your voice was lost to the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. All you could do was grip the sheets tighter, your body giving in completely to his relentless claim.

When he finally reached his peak, his grip on your hips tightened, and he buried himself as deeply as possible to make sure that he's seed go deep in you, a guttural groan escaping his lips. The sheer intensity of the moment left you breathless, your body trembling as he collapsed beside you, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

"You’ll never escape me, little dragon," he murmured, his voice soft but laced with a promise. "Not now. Not ever."

You closed your eyes, your heart racing as you felt the warmth of his presence beside you. Despite everything, you couldn’t deny the way your body craved his touch, the way his words seemed to root themselves deep within your soul.

Maegor shifted his weight, rolling your trembling body to face him. His piercing gaze roamed over you—your flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and quivering form. A smirk spread across his lips, a dark chuckle rumbling deep in his chest.

"Look at you," he said, his voice filled with both amusement and satisfaction. "Utterly spent, yet still so beautiful."

You tried to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you met his gaze. "Maegor…" you whispered, your voice barely audible, a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours with surprising tenderness. "You’re perfect like this," he murmured, his hand trailing down your side, sending shivers through your already sensitive body. "Made for me. And only me."

Just as you thought he would let you rest, he pulled back slightly, his smirk fading as his sharp eyes traveled lower. His expression darkened when he saw the evidence of his release dripping from your swollen cunt. A low growl escaped his throat, filled with frustration and possessiveness.

"No," he muttered, almost to himself. "I won’t have that."

Before you could process his words, he pressed you down firmly against the bed, his hands gripping your thighs to spread you open. You gasped, weakly reaching for him, but he didn’t give you a moment to protest.

"Maegor, wait—"

He didn’t. With a deliberate, forceful motion, he pushed his fingers inside you, his touch firm yet calculated. You cried out softly, your body jerking at the sudden intrusion.

"Be still," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. "I won’t have what’s mine dripping away so easily."

Your head fell back against the pillows, your body arching instinctively as he worked with a steady rhythm, pushing his release back into you. The sensation was overwhelming, sending a mix of pleasure and overstimulation coursing through your nerves.

"Maegor, I can’t…" you whimpered, your voice trailing off into a broken sob.

He leaned closer, his face hovering just above yours as his free hand cupped your cheek. "You can," he whispered, his tone surprisingly gentle despite the fire burning in his eyes. "And you will. You’ll take all of me, no matter how many times it takes."

Your breath hitched as his movements became slower, more deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. "You’ll give me a son," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I’ll make sure of it."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Maegor leaned in to kiss it away, his lips lingering on your skin. "Don’t cry, little dragon," he said softly, his voice almost tender. "This is what you were meant for. To carry my blood. To give me what no other could."

His words, though harsh, carried an undeniable weight. You felt the heat of his possessiveness searing into your very being, leaving you no room to escape his claim.

When he finally pulled back, satisfied, he gathered your trembling form into his arms, holding you close. His hand rested protectively over your stomach, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"You’ll see," he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of certainty. "You’ll give me the legacy I deserve. And you’ll be the queen by my side when I do."

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you could only nod weakly, the gravity of his words settling deep within you as sleep began to overtake your tired body.

Tag List : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @callsignwidow @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[bobbedazzled]

TIDAL

pairing: rafayel x reader | sea god x bounty hunter  word count: 3.3k content: enemies and lovers (?), some violence, stabbing, dub con, hypnosis/spell casting, minor blood/knifeplay(?), fingering, unprotected sex, tongue branding, blood tasting, wound licking, idk why I wrote this  a/n: taking a break from the college au, sorry I disappeared I got sick and had to study for a final for a class I hated. I got lazy near the end so in case the fight scenes don’t make sense…yes theyy do.

Under the shroud midnight light, your work is whispered about in the gilded halls of nobility. An assassin of efficiency, and utter discretion. Your blade serves the highest bidder, those draped in velvet and adorned by rings and guilt alike. You are both a sword and shadow hidden in the thick of political disputes.

Yet, even the bloodied hands of nobility do not require constant cleansing. When the seasons shift and the power struggles settle, your contracts grow sparse, and you are left to seek coin by other means. Bounties. Less refined, less personal, but profitable nonetheless. The work is grittier, the targets less acclaimed, but coin is coin, and survival does not afford you the luxury of idleness.

It is during one lull, while scanning the ever-changing board of wishes and hastily scribbled contracts, that your gaze lands upon a peculiar ticket. Unlike the others, it bears no name of a scorned lover or a debt-dodging merchant. Instead, it is a plea, written not by a single trembling hand, but under the weight of collective desperation. The nobles one again, faceless in their cowardice, have set their sights on something they cannot control.

The God of Sirens. A rebirth of the God of the Tides, awoken with a fire that replaced his missing heart. He reclaimed the seas and went after those who enslaved his children. A myth from long ago that reentered chamber walls after a city went to ruins for reasons unknown. It’s said he sits in the palace idly, waiting to be challenge.

A trickster, a lingering echo of something too powerful to be dismissed yet too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely. He is the embodiment of temptation, of illusions spun so intricately they unravel the minds of those who listen.  He stands before you, neatly condensed into a single offering of wealth great enough to make even the most seasoned hunter hesitate.

"Wrong." His voice cracks through the dawn like a snapped wire. A second later, the world twists as gravity betrays you, the air slicing past your ears before instinct takes over. A pivot, a breath, and the cold marble railing catches your boots. You crouch low, steady, but his scrutinizing glare chases after you like a predator unwilling to let its prey recover.

"Try again," he calls from above, lounging in his window like a bored god surveying those below. 

Your face contorts at his tone. You have no interest in being toyed with. Your bounty has already spotted you, there’s no point in staying. It’s time to retreat, to cool down. But as you turn, a flicker of fire licks your cheek, searing the skin before you can react. A slow burn spreads across your face as you cup the scorched surface, eyes snapping upward.

He leans further out of his chamber, expression unreadable. 

“I don’t usually repeat myself.” He goads. His gaze does not meet you as an adversary’s would, not even as a nuisance. But as something far worse. A plaything. His smirk holds the mirth of a child poised over an anthill. You narrow your eyes, fingers twitching toward the blade at your belt before walking away.

When you return to the bounty board, you toss his ticket back to the merchant who had so smugly handed it to you. Laughter erupts around you, rolling in waves of mockery. You ignore it, though the sting to your reputation is undeniable.

Not every bounty can be fulfilled, and it’s better to admit that than to die for the money.

The others are too proud to concede. One by one, they pick up where you left off. None return. The dunes outside his palace swallow their remains. 

Under the moonlight, the sand glows like a sea of silver, its ripples forming a pathway that calls to you, daring you to return. A question sat in your mind. 

Why didnt he kill you as quickly as the others? Is this a game worth playing?

──   .⋆｡𖦹 . ঔঌ ˖°

Flames flicker at your feet. They curl around your boots, beckoning you to come forward. You don’t immediately obey, wincing as it burns through your sleeve.

“Careful,” he murmurs, back still turned. “I don’t conjure natural fire.”

You seize the moment, fingers tightening around the weapon hidden at your side. The instant you raise it, he scoffs. A snap echoes through the air. Instinctively, you drop your weapon as it’s set ablaze, ash scattering to the ground.

“Sloppy.” He exhales, more disappointed than amused. “I expected better.”

He rises from his lounging position, movements unhurried.

“I’ve never met a female hunter before,” he muses, eyes smiling. “Has my bounty gone down?”

“You’ve killed plenty,” you counter. “Naturally, that’s done the opposite.”

“So, my price has turned me into nothing more than a lottery?”

“I’m not confident. I’m curious.”

“Curious?” His voice lilts upward, mockery woven into the syllables. “How insulting.”

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

At this, he turns. His gaze is an ocean, dark and endless, with pink gleaming in its depths. You understand, now, why others have fallen under his influence. The thought makes your stomach twist.

Something sharp glints in your periphery—you duck, evading his blade and returning a weapon in one breath. He catches it between two fingers, unimpressed.

“Sloppy,” you echo.

He hums, stepping forward, the room shrinking between you. “You think I find you entertaining?” He flips the blade in his grip, offering it back to you. “To call you that would be an understatement.” He leans in, close enough that your breaths mingle. “I find you fascinating.”

You shove a hand against his chest. He barely budges. In one swift motion, he seizes your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you back against the cold stone wall.

“Compared to the others, you’re far less desperate.” His nose grazes yours, lips a mere breath away. “It’s disappointing.”

You turn your head, unwilling to meet his gaze. He tuts, grasping your jaw and forcing you back to him. His grip is firm but not painful, fingers featherlight as they trace your cheek.

“You saw my bounty,” he murmurs, voice lowering, “and had the audacity to trespass just to marvel at me.” His lips brush yours as he speaks, a phantom touch. “I find that rather offensive.”

The flames at your waist flicker higher, eating away at your clothing . The hand pinning you move to the skin uncovering at your waist. You refuse to cry out as the dull drag of his nails mark your skin. Instead, with your wrists freed, you strike.

A razor, hidden beneath your sleeve, slices across his torso. He barely reacts, expression unreadable as he watches the surrounding flesh redden, blood staining his garments. Then, with a single effortless movement, he retrieves his dagger from the wall, steel gleaming. The blade bites deep into your shoulder. You choke on a gasp, shoving him away and stumbling back, your arm quickly slick with crimson. He exhales, slow and deliberate, pressing two fingers to the shallow cut at his stomach. A smirk tugs at his lips as he watches you falter.

His blade twirls between deft fingers, feet bringing him closer until he towers above you. Your knees scrape against the tile as his fire coils around you, framing your silhouette in flickering gold. He halts an inch from your whitening knuckles, gaze alight with amusement.

He extends the dagger to you once more. “Try again.” His smile barely hides his teeth, his pupils blown wide. His very presence hums with something heady, intoxicating.

Your pulse quickens, adrenaline crackles beneath your skin. As you reach for the dagger, it flicks out of your grasp before you can claim it. 

Pain ignites in your palm. A ball of fire unravels where the blade separates your flesh. Your scream rips through the chamber, raw and unbidden.

“You were taking too long.” He teases through your cries, slipping the metal from your flesh. His voice is silk, his eyes gleaming. He watches, enthralled, twirling the knife in his grasp before  tossing the dagger.

You collapse against the wall as his gaze engulfs you. When losing, you’re used to looks of disgust, disdain. But him, intoxicated by his excitement, your body trembles. He kneels before you, his presence suffocating. The heat of his flames flickers dangerously close, picking at the edges of your tattered frame. Fingers tighten along your jaw, tilting your face toward the fallen dagger across the room. His lips ghost along your cheek, voice velvet, poison-laced.

"Fetch."

For a moment, you don't move. Won't move. Your pride coils in your gut, hissing, demanding you refuse him. But then his grip shifts— just enough to let you feel the raw strength beneath his amusement. Your voice cracks through the cold air, “Does it always take you this long to kill?”

“Kill?” His voice lowers. “And what fun would that be with you like this?” He leans away from your face and grabs your wrist, marveling at the blood painting your skin. He lifts your palm, still raw and bloodied, to his lips. “Why would a fish play with their food?” He murmurs.

His thumb slides beside the opening of your wound, pressing down against the flesh. His mouth is agape as you scream, watching, as if truly entertained by your agony. His tongue slips slowly over the raw opening, setting your nerves on fire. 

“It’ll be easier to eat after breaking you down.” 

His mouth is dirtied by your blood. He leans in, fingers press against your pulse. His nails ghost down your throat as if debating whether to carve further.

"You're hesitating," he taunts, grip loosening just enough to let you scramble free. The moment your feet touch the ground, you bolt. But you don’t run for the dagger— you run for the window.

He watches as you leap, landing hard in the palace garden. His dagger nearly misses your ankle as you gather yourself, dashing through the lush palace yard to escape his heavy glare.

──   .⋆｡𖦹 . ঔঌ ˖°

The memory of his fire clings to you like the scent of something burned too deep into fabric. A single spark from a passing lantern makes your fingers twitch. The smallest ember makes your breath hitch.

The bounty board is quieter now, the crowds that usually gathered has thinned. The Siren’s posting remains, its price climbing higher with each passing week. As he said, he became a game of chance. A death wish dressed in gold. You trace a scar along your hand, a parting gift from the last time you entertained the idea of collecting.

And yet, despite the warnings carved into your own skin, your feet still hesitate before walking away. Nobles continue to complain as they lose hunters by the day, and you can’t help but be proud at how desperate the city is to have his head. 

──   .⋆｡𖦹 . ঔঌ ˖°

Rafayel lazed over his furniture, the ornaments adorning his body gleam against the setting sun. Fish swimming at his fingertips ignite and scatter around the room, lighting his candles. Melted wax hangs from their silver plates, branded with a royal emblem he does not own. A hum escapes him as the breeze tickles his neck.

“A visitor?” He sings. His head tilts upward to hang from his seat, a smile already playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve missed you, my dear.”

Your laugh is short, amused at how quickly he recognized you. Your heart quickens under his gaze. “Have you charmed me, siren?”

He smiles knowingly, “Amplifying the emotions that are already present is far more exciting. Why else would you come back to me?”

You shrug, “I’ve come to congratulate you. Your life bothers the inner city so much that your head no longer has a set price.” 

It’s true. After collecting from another mission, you noticed his poster. His face decorated a large canvas, emboldened by red spelling. Under his picture, the price tag reads: 

⋆ ANY ⋆

His bounty is now a blank check.

“Ugh, that explains why I’ve been so bored lately.” He swings his head, leaning over the lounge chair to meet your eyes.

“How should we celebrate?”

A dullness stirred in your stomach. The orchid in his eyes bloom as a smile dances across his face. His color becoming clearer, more vibrant, more beautiful than before.

“Come closer, my love.”

Your heart pounds, you fully acknowledge that you’re under his spell but feel no need to fight the thoughts his power amplifies.

Slowly, you approach him. “Curious, what does a fish want to do with a palace anyway?”

He laughs slightly, “Humans. Curious but not cautious.” he mutters, reaching a hand out to you. Your palm slips into his grasp, body following as he guides you on the lounge chair. “Invade my kingdom, take my children as pets.. . and then question why I retaliate.” He lies in the chair’s silk as you climb in. The room shrinks at the sound of his voice, melodic and heavy. 

“Such filthy resolve.”

You sit atop him staring into the colors of his eyes. Your fingers brush against his lips as they move, inattentive to the scorn leaving them.

“You, Ms. Hunter.”

An idle hand explores his chest, drawing lines in his neck down to his collarbone. His darkening gaze flickers through his lashes as your hand treads down, tracing the muscle of his torso. 

“You’re getting cockier with every visit.” 

You lean dangerously close as you study the jewelry that wreathed his hips. His nose nudges your cheek, he speaks against your lips.

“Do you enjoy how I favor you?”

“Favor?” a small laugh leaves you. “Do you scar all your toys?”

“With my reputation, would it make sense for you to leave me unscathed?” He hums as his fingers trace your jawline. “I’m protecting you, my love.”

Inattentive to him undressing you, his hand slips past your clothing as his voice continues to charm you. He feels cool against your flushed body, dragging against the uncovering skin. You lean into him the lower he trails, accepting his touch. 

“You’re so cute.” He murmurs.

His hand drags down your body before slipping between your legs. Your breath hitches as he fondles your slicked folds. A moan escapes you as slender fingers slip into your slit. Shallow breaths settle in the haze between the two of you. He becomes restless, his free hand roaming your waist. His cock twitches at the sight of you grinding against his hand, almost jealous of the hand surrounded by your soft velvet. He pumps another finger inside, taking in the cries escaping you as he maintains his rhythm.

“Almost there baby?” 

Your grip on him tightens as you nod against his shoulder. He watches as your hips roll into his knuckles, body twitching as you inch closer to your release. Suddenly, his ingers slip from your warmth. Irritated and empty, you whine— body searching for something to finish you off. He kisses down your neck as he pulls away from you.

“Do something for me first.” He cups your face, planting tender kisses against your lips, “Then I’ll reward you.”

He holds you by the waist, tapping a finger to your lips with his other hand.

“Open.” He commands, voice colder than before. You follow, parting your lips and meeting his gaze. His thumb glides against your tongue as another hand holds your face steady. His nail pierces through the surface of your tongue. You flinch as his fire carves lines down the muscle.

“Shhh, almost done.” He coos, watching you wriggle in pain.

A hint of smile tugs at his lips as his thumb rubs against the scar. The softness of your tongue is disturbed by the roughness left behind. He presses against the muscle and is pleased by your obedience. He watches you shamelessly wrap the injured muscle around his finger as he retrieves his thumb.

“A brand for my favorite pet.” He murmurs. His lips rake up your jaw, settling against the tender skin under your ear. “You’re mine now.” He says, voice rough.

His hand presses against the small of your back, pushing you close once more. “Want your reward?” His cock springs from the easy access of his garments, the heat of him rubbing against you. You grind down on him as his lips find yours, hungry and eager as he tears off what’s left of your clothes. 

He teases himself between your folds, rimming the tip around your throbbing entrance. You grip his shoulder, breath uneven as he lowers you down his length.

“That’s it, take me like a good girl.” He purrs. An encouraging hand holds your waist, directing your body to move. You melt into him as you moves. 

His breath is hot against your neck as the pace quickens. Your moans echo through the night as your hips collide. Hands finds solace on your ass, kneading the skin as you lose yourself in his ecstasy. He feels so soft, his embrace suffocating yet addictive. You cant help the noises that escape you as the knot in your stomach aches to unravel. A trail of kisses tickle up to your neck while a hand holds your waist, “That’s it baby, leave yourself wide open to me.”

Rafayel stills himself, watching as you ride closer to release, as you unravel against him. A dull pressure breaks through your skin— A blade penetrates your dorsi. You suddenly stiffen, body twitchy from your interrupted orgasm. Your wails rip through the haze thickening the room as he nuzzles his smile into your neck.

“You sound so beautiful, my love.” He pulls you closer to continue his praise. His kisses do nothing to distract from the pain welling around your wound. 

Hand prints stain your skin as he strokes your cheeks, untucking the hair past your ear. “Why aren’t you moving? Have I played too rough?”

You find the strength to fight out of his hold. You knock him in the head as you lift a leg, kicking him away and off the lounge chair. You both fall to the floor, a strained groan escaping from you as you unsheathed the blade from your flesh. A hand ghosts over your figure, desperate to keep you from escaping. The blade twirls in your palm before you turn to face the figure behind you. You pin his hand to the floor with the blade, imitating a move done to you nights before. 

You don’t meet his eye, hurrying to your feet. The siren sits there silently as your blood trails out the nearest exit. He scoffs, tossing the weapon aside. The wound barely bleeding as it closes itself. He lies on the ground, chest still heaving from the fight he started.

“Ah, I wasn’t finished.” He sighs. 

The sand is still warm between your feet as you run through the desert. The city’s light reflects off the dune’s curves, guiding you to its gates. His voice echoes through your ears, his unwavering spell following you through the darkness. You shake your head, heart thumping with adrenaline. You’re far enough from his palace walls but it feels like he hasn’t let go of you. 

You return to the city completely tattered and injured. The people of the night quickly look over you in contempt as you drag your body through the crowded streets. 

──   .⋆｡𖦹 . ঔঌ ˖°

His oceans are strongest the nights he craves you most. Nights you spend fighting against his spell, ignoring his melodies. You see him, hear him, feel him. His whispers and praise tickles your neck. The ghost of his fingertips graze your skin and prickles its surface. His voice taunts you the more you try to ignore.

“Come to me. Return to me.”

Nights have passed and your return to the city has left you restless. The scar he left on your tongue brushes against the roof of your mouth as you stroke the wound healing on your back. You so carelessly allowed him to brand you, leaving his spell to continue to haunt you. 

ه*:･゚ঔঌ ৡ

[andreawritesit]

can i request cregan and targ reader where he gets her a wolf and its all sweet and stuff ❤️

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen Reader

Synopsis: You had been living in the North for quite a while now but nothing felt quite as welcoming as receiving a warm bundle of joy as a present.

It was not morning yet. Or perhaps it was. Wrapped in the dark grey clouds, the sun often played hide and seek in the Northern skies. It was difficult to tell what time of the day it was. You got out of bed and immediately, the sudden chill enveloped your entire body, down to your bones. Quickly grabbing the fur blanket from the bed, you wrapped it tightly around yourself. The cold was your worst enemy, your soul was forged out of fire after all. Even after an entire month, you still couldn't understand why your mother would betroth you to a Northern lord. You were the same girl on the side of whose bed she had spent countless nights awake. As soon as the weather became colder, you'd catch a fever. Throughout your childhood and even now, in your adolescent years, Rhaenyra has been on her toes constantly because of how the cold affected you. And yet she had sent you to marry Lord Cregan Stark. Why? That's not to say that your betrothed wasn't the most respectable man you had ever met. Cregan was cold and stoic as Northerners tend to be, but he was also honorable and extremely kind to you. As soon as you had arrived at Winterfell on dragonback, he had done all he could to make sure you were comfortable. He made sure you got plenty of warm clothes and furs and despite being the lord of Winterfell, he came to your chambers every day to see if you needed anything.

You had both decided that you would marry only after the war was over. He didn't want to tie you to himself knowing very well that he could die in the war and leave you by yourself. And you didn't want to marry him so soon either because you still wanted to partake in your mother's efforts to get her throne back from the usurpers.

You walked to the window and looked outside. Everything was covered in pristine white snow. It was so different from Dragonstone and Kings Landing. Instead of the hustle and bustle of the South, there was a calming silence in the North. Soon enough, the sun's rays began to pierce through the dense clouds, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered landscape. You couldn't help but smile at the view outside. The tranquility was suddenly broken by a soft knock at the door.

"Come in", you called, walking away from the window.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing the Lord of Winterfell. His tall and imposing figure was contrasted by a warm smile on his face, a sight you had come to cherish over the past month.

"Good morning Princess. I hope I didn't disturb your rest."

You shook your head, "Not at all, my Lord. I was already up." Your eyes went to a bundle of blankets in his arms. "What brings you here so early?"

Cregan's smile widened as he walked to where you were standing. "I come bearing a gift for you, my Princess." He stepped closer, revealing a small, furry creature nestled in the crook of his arm. "I hope this will make your stay here easier. He's a wonderful companion." He removed the top blanket a little and a small head peeked out.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "A dire wolf pup?" you breathed out as you reached to gently stroke his fur. "He's so precious and small."

"One of the she-wolves gave birth to many pups this morning. When I saw this one, I knew I had to give him to you." The dire wolf pup, with its striking blue eyes and white fur, nuzzled into your touch, eliciting a soft laugh out of you. "Here, hold him", Cregan whispered as he softly passed the pup into your arms. You cradled him close and looked up at Cregan, your heart swelling with affection.

"Thank you. He's perfect."

"Much like you", he said while stroking the pup's head gently.

"Is that why you brought him to me? Because he's perfect like me? Or was there any other reason?"

Cregan let out a small chuckle at your words. "It's one of many reasons I decided to gift this one to you. You see, just minutes after being born, he was already jumping around and causing mayhem in the yard. Reminded me of you and your dragon quite a lot."

You punched his arm lightly and a laugh left your lips. The pup nuzzled your neck and you couldn't help but giggle. Cregan's gaze softened as he watched you bond with the dire wolf. "He's strong and brave, much like you," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I thought he could be a symbol of the North's acceptance of you."

You felt a rush of gratitude and warmth, not just from the direwolf but from Cregan's thoughtful gesture. He had once again won you over, something that had happened quite a few times already.

"I know it's not easy for you to settle down here in the North. But I'm grateful that you're trying and I promise you, I will take care of you. I will make sure you won't have to miss the warmth of your home. Winterfell will be your abode one day and I hope I will become your family, someone you'll be able to trust and perhaps even love one day."

You shifted the pup into your right arm and held Cregan's hand with your left hand. "You have no idea how much you have already done for me. When I first came here, I was a scared little girl who was being separated from her family but now I feel like I was always meant to be here, with you. I can assure you that I will also do everything I can to be there for you. I am ready, to accept Winterfell as my home and you as my husband."

Cregan's expression softened, and he squeezed your hand lightly. "I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "I'm glad you came here."

"Me too."

Suddenly, the pup stirred, letting out a small, contented yawn. You and Cregan both laughed softly. The moment was broken but no less sweet. "I suppose he's tired", Cregan whispered as he covered the pup with a small blanket.

"Have you named him yet, my Lord?"

He shook his head, "No. He's your companion. You should name him."

You took a long look at the white fluffy ball of fur in your arms. "I'll name him Winter," you decided, looking up at Cregan with a smile. "To remind me of the kindness and strength of the North."

"Winter it is, then," he said. "May he bring you joy and protect you always."

Your heart swelled with emotion as you held Winter close. "He already has," you replied, your gaze locked with Cregan's. "Thank you, Cregan."

In that moment, the chill of the North transformed into the warmth of new companionship and a realization that perhaps your feelings for the Northern Lord had evolved into something deeper.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Where Loyalties Lie ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Six)

Masterlist

A/N: Caracalla is so cute and fragile, I need him

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Scary Geta, toxic vibes, broken Caracalla, mentions of Caracalla's mental health, Caralla's first outburst in fic, crybaby Caracalla.

Summary: Now imprisoned in the palace, the Emperors hold their grip on you. But what happens when Caracalla breaks and nobody can calm him?

Word count: 3.7k

Praetorians flanked you on either side, their armor shining even in the dim torchlight. Though your shackles had been removed, an invisible weight remained, pressing down on your wrists, your ankles- on your heart. You might as well still be bound. Each step echoed in the cold, hollow halls, a reminder that you were no longer walking these corridors as a noblewoman, but as something else entirely.

A prisoner.

The palace was eerily silent at this hour, shadows dancing across the marble floors, flickering in the light of the torches that lined the walls. The faint scent of burning oil mixed with the lingering perfume, wine and something faintly metallic. You walked on, the only sound beyond the occasional creak of armor being the quiet rhythm of your own breathing.

What would they demand of you? What price would you have to pay for their forgiveness?

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, though whether from fear or exhaustion, you weren’t certain. You ascended a set of stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, your limbs sluggish with weariness. More turns, more corridors- each heavily guarded, each an impossible obstacle if escape had ever crossed your mind. But it hadn’t. Not truly. Where would you go? Your fathers estate had been claimed by the Emperors.

You recognized the path the Praetorians set.

This was the secluded hall where Geta’s private chambers remained. You had been here before, in moments far different than this. But tonight, the air felt heavier and tense. But the Praetorians did not lead you to Geta’s door.

Instead, one of them stepped forward and turned the handle of a door you hadn’t noticed before- set discreetly into the wall at the end of the corridor, just to the right. The hinges groaned softly as the door swung open, revealing a chamber within. A luxurious one.

Lavish silks draped over a grand bed, warm candlelight flickering against golden accents. A bowl of fresh water sat on a low table, a carafe of wine beside it. Everything about this place spoke of comfort, yet it felt foreign, unfamiliar. Why was such a room hidden away here, so close to the Emperor’s own?

The thought barely took root before exhaustion overpowered curiosity. Whatever this meant, whatever plans they had for you- none of it mattered now. You were too tired to care. The door shut behind you with a decisive thud, the lock sliding into place.

Your body carried itself forward before your mind could process it, and soon, the soft embrace of the bed caught you, swallowing you whole. Yet even in the soft silks, in the supposed ‘safety’ of this room, fear gnawed at you. Sleep would not come easily tonight.

If Geta and Caracalla no longer trusted you, if they no longer loved you… your fate was sealed. The only thing you could do now was obey, earn their trust… or die trying.

Morning came far too soon, yet not soon enough.

Golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling onto the marble floor and casting  patterns across the painted fresco that adorned the walls. The lavish chamber, though unfamiliar, no longer felt as stifling as the night before. And yet, the weight in your chest remained.

Your head throbbed- a dull, relentless ache and your body still felt impossibly heavy, as though the very air pressed down on you. The events of the night before replayed in fragmented flashes, your mind struggling to piece them together; the accusations, the pleading, the Emperors’ searing gazes burning into your soul.

With some struggle, you forced yourself upright, wincing as your bare feet touched the cold stone. The smooth marble was dusty and clearly old, but you ignored it, dragging yourself toward the table that had been set for you. Food and water, a small mercy.

A fresh cloth had been left in a shallow basin, the water still cool to the touch. You dipped the rag in, bringing it to your face, savoring the refreshing sensation as you wiped away the remnants of restless sleep. For a moment, you simply stood there, the damp cloth lingering against your skin, grounding you in the present.

When you finally turned your attention to the meal laid before you, your stomach twisted with both hunger and unease. The bread was soft, the fruit ripe, the cheeses fragrant, but swallowing even the smallest bite felt like a battle. Still, you forced yourself to eat, washing it down with a sip of wine, the rich taste lingering on your tongue.

And then, something caught your eye.

Red and gold fabric draped over the back of one of the chairs. Vivid, regal, impossibly fine. A new toga, its embroidery gleaming in the morning light. Beneath it, a pair of elegant sandals, their leather pristine and untouched.

Jewelry had been placed on a nearby table, bracelets, rings, a delicate necklace glinting with gemstones. A silent message, an unspoken command.

You set down your cup of wine and stepped closer, running your fingers over the smooth fabric. The Emperors had thought of everything, ensuring you would be adorned in splendor. But to what end? Was this a show of mercy? A mark of possession? Or something far more ominous?

The absence of servants made the answer feel all the more uncertain. No hands came to assist you, no soft voices whispered guidance as they had in the past. You were left alone to dress yourself, an unfamiliar task made more difficult by trembling hands and the weight of your own thoughts.

When at last you finished, you walked toward the window, your fingers brushing the fine gold chain now resting against your collarbone. Peering outside, you studied the city below, the distant hum of Rome stirring to life with the morning sun. The sky was still painted in soft hues of dawn, the sun not yet at its peak. What now?

Would one of the Emperors come for you or would you remain locked away in this gilded prison until your father’s fate was sealed in the sands of the Colosseum? All you could do now was wait. Wait- and hope that you were still worth keeping.

The heavy wooden doors groaned on their hinges as they swung open, the sound slicing through the quiet air of your chamber. No warning was given, no knock to announce his arrival- just the quiet yet undeniable presence of power stepping into the room.

Geta.

Your stomach tightened, your heart quickening as you turned to face him. The golden embroidery of his tunic gleamed in the dim morning light, his posture regal, his expression cold. A moment stretched between you, before you finally dropped into a deep curtsey, lowering yourself until your knees, nearly touching the cold marble.

“Caesar,” you murmured, voice soft yet nerved. His presence filled the room, suffocating yet strangely magnetic.

“Rise.”

The command rolled from his lips, firm yet lacking its usual sharpness. You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.

For the briefest of moments, you swore you caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Subtle, fleeting, there and gone in an instant. His brown eyes lingered on you, sweeping over the toga draped around your body. His choice. His mark upon you.

“Have you slept at all? Eaten, maybe?” Geta’s voice was measured as he moved toward the table, fingers ghosting over the barely touched remnants of your meal.

“I have… a little, Your Majesty.” Your words were carefully chosen, your voice tempered with quiet restraint. A pause. You swallowed before pressing on. “And… I hope you can find it in your heart to have mercy on my father.”

The air in the chamber thickened, tension coiling between you.

Geta’s gaze snapped back to yours, and your breath hitched. His jaw tensed, his lips thinning as if restraining something.

“He is a traitor.” His voice was low, weighted with conviction. “And for all I know- so are you.”

The accusation cut deeper than you’d expected. You felt it like a stab to the ribs, a sharp, twisting pain in your chest.

“I understand, Your Majesty,” you whispered, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. “But I swear to you, I had no knowledge of this plot. I was kept in the dark. However…” you inhaled sharply, gathering what little courage remained within you, “I will do anything. Anything to prove to you and the Empire that my loyalty belongs only to Rome.”

A long silence settled between you.

Geta studied you, his unreadable expression betraying nothing- until, finally, something flickered in his gaze.

“I want to believe you so badly,” he murmured, his voice hushed, as though admitting it pained him. “But the insurrection is severe. I cannot simply take your word.”

You clenched your hands into fists at your sides, terrified that your voice might betray you if you spoke again. He took a step forward. Then another. Until he stood so close that the warmth of him seeped through the fabric of your toga.

A gentle touch, his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your face to meet his fully. His grasp was light, yet it restrained you completely.

“But,” Geta muttered, his voice softer now, nearly a whisper, “if you are loyal to Rome, and only to Rome… time will tell.” His thumb brushed absently along your jaw before his eyes darkened, his next words a quiet warning. “My brother and I, will tell.”

Geta released your chin, yet he remained close, his breath warm against your skin. His sharp eyes studied you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary..

“Speaking of my brother,” he began, his voice lower now, strained, “your ins- your father’s insurrection has wounded him deeply.” A shadow flickered across Geta’s face. “You know he is not well… but after last night, he has fallen into one of his outbursts. This one is worse than ever before. I cannot calm him.”

A rare vulnerability cracked through the hard edge of his tone.

He hesitated, exhaling sharply, almost as if it pained him to admit what came next. “So, I need you to come with me.” His hand twitched at his side. “I need to know if you are able to soothe him. It does not matter what you say or do- just do not mention last night.”

A glimmer of something wet shone in his eyes, though he quickly blinked it away.

“Anything, Caesar,” you answered without hesitation.

He nodded once, turned on his heel, and led you out of your new chambers, down the corridor.

The silence of the palace was calming, the usual murmur of servants and court life now absent. Only the rhythmic steps of the Praetorians surrounded you as you walked, their presence dominant. The deeper you ventured, the thicker the tension became.

Then, a sound pierced the stillness.

A scream.

Your breath hitched. The sharp crash of something shattering against stone followed, echoing through the halls. Geta clenched his fists at his sides. “It’s bad,” he muttered, his own shoulders tense. Even he looked uneasy- perhaps even afraid.

The Praetorians tightened their formation, their armor clinking softly as they moved. The scent of oil lamps and fading incense lingered, but it could not mask the metallic smell of blood.

As the doors to Caracalla’s chambers swung open, you were met with chaos.

Shards of porcelain and glass littered the floor, their jagged edges catching the dim light. The remnants of a shattered vase lay strewn across the marble, staining it with the juices of crushed figs and wine. And in the center of the destruction, Caracalla knelt, his body shaking, his fingers digging into the cold stone beneath him.

His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his white toga disheveled, his ginger curls tangled and damp with sweat. His lips were raw, bitten red, his eyes bloodshot and distant, lost in some storm of his own.

The moment the doors closed behind you, sealing the two of you inside with him, a hush fell over the chamber. Geta did not step in further. He watched, his presence looming near the entrance, unwilling, or perhaps unable to intervene.

You swallowed, steadying yourself.

“Caes-” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Caracalla?”

His head snapped up. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a second, he looked as if he didn’t believe you were truly there. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. The storm in his eyes calmed, confusion overtaking fury.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

His breathing remained uneven, but he shook his head slowly. Then, as if only now aware of his body, his fingers twitched- and you saw it. The thin line of red, the cut on his palm where glass had sliced through flesh.

Carefully, you came closer, moving around him, then you knelt before him, your movements slow, deliberate. You extended your hand, palm up, offering. He stared at it.

Then, without a word, he placed his own into yours. His skin was hot, trembling, a contrast to the cool marble beneath you both.

“You’re hurt,” you murmured. “May I clean it for you?”

His lips pressed together. Then, a slight nod. Geta, understanding without words, stepped back and signaled for a servant. The door cracked open briefly as fresh water and healing balm were brought in. You caught Geta’s lingering stare, his guarded expression, one that held something deeper beneath it.

“Would you like to stay here on the floor,” you asked gently, “or would you prefer to move somewhere more comfortable?”

Caracalla didn’t respond at first. His eyes flickered, moving past you, landing on his brother. His face twisted- whether in anger, shame, or something else, you weren’t sure.

“Caracalla?” you asked again, reclaiming his attention. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse, broken. “B-bed.” The single word carried the weight of exhaustion.

You helped him up, but the moment he was on his feet, he sagged into you, his body seeking comfort before his mind could resist it. His arms clung to you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, as if grounding himself in your presence. You let him stay there, letting him breathe.

Then, carefully, you guided him to the bed, lowering him onto the soft linens. As you turned to retrieve the water and balm, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist.

“Where are you going?” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you heard it, fear.

“I’m just getting the supplies,” you reassured him, covering his hand with your own. “I won’t leave you.” It was only after you whispered the words that he finally let go.

Geta handed you the tray, watching, always watching- as you dipped a clean cloth into the cool water and gently wiped away the blood from Caracalla’s palm. He winced only slightly, eyes never leaving you. When you applied the balm, he sighed, a slow, shaky exhale, as if the smallest relief had lifted a fraction of the weight pressing down on him.

“Don’t leave me,” Caracalla murmured suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip tightened on your wrist. “Not again.” Your heart ached at the sheer vulnerability in his plea.

“I won’t,” you promised, setting the tray aside.

Caracalla shifted, lifting his head slightly, and with a subtle motion, he gestured toward the empty space beside him. His meaning was clear.

You hesitated, turning toward Geta. Anything. Geta mouthed, soundless. Your eyes fell back on Caracalla, who was still looking up at you expectantly. When you moved your hands and lifted a knee onto his bed, he moved a bit to the side to make room. As your body got swallowed by Caracalla’s bed, he wasted no time in pulling you towards him. 

His head snuggled against your chest as his arms held you tightly. You felt a wave of protectiveness wash over you, a need to comfort and soothe him. A surge of love. Your own arms embraced him in a protective grip, one hand caressing his back. “I missed you.” Caracalla whispered. 

“I missed you too.” You responded. You then looked back at Geta who still stood near the door. His face was contorted in jealousy and what seemed to be sorrow. You contemplated your next words, but before you could think too much about it, you spoke. “Would you- like to join us? Geta?” Your words echoed gently through the room.

Caracalla did not look up, pressing his face deep in your neck and chest. Geta did not respond, he hesitated however, before he moved over to the two of you anyway. The mattress sunk as he climbed on. Moving behind you, he then too, put his arms around you. His face nuzzling your hair and the top of your shoulder, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, warmth and security intertwining, limbs tangled together tightly in a strong embrace. But eventually, exhaustion claimed you all, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and feel.

Taglist: @boywivlove

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : rough sex, degradation, anakin isn’t nice, PiV, mentions of slavery and whipping, swearing, pure filth. I’m not responsible for your own media consumption.

A/N : Here’s chapter two and it’s pure filth, reader’s a bit egoistical but who wouldn’t want to be close to their lover after centuries of not seeing them ? Anakin is not nice but he’s trying guys 😅 (no). Anyway enjoy. domina = my lady

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪɪ : ᴀ ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ |•

THE CHAMBER WAS DIMLY LIT, the flickering glow of torches casting long shadows over damp stone walls. The scent of blood and sweat clung to the air, thick and inescapable, but you moved through it untouched, a vision in silk and gold. Your presence here was unnatural—an intruder in the depths of the Colosseum, where men were caged like animals, their only purpose to fight, bleed, and die for the pleasure of Rome.

But you had not come for their spectacle. You had come for him. You moved untouched, veiled in silk, adorned in gold, your presence commanding obedience with nothing more than a glance.

A dominus had power in Rome, and tonight, you played the part of one. The lanista, a balding, thickset man with a face like a bloated corpse, counted the coins in his palm before giving you a wary glance. His reluctance was almost amusing. He did not know what you were, only that you were not like the other Roman nobles who sought gladiators for their amusement.

“He’s dangerous,” the lanista muttered, as if that would dissuade you.

Your gaze flickered to the heavy wooden door behind him, the iron bolts securing the beast within. “That is precisely why I chose him.”

The lanista exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing more. The metal groaned as he dragged the bolts free, stepping aside as the door swung open.

And then—

Anakin Skywalker emerged from the darkness.

He was shirtless, his body slick with sweat and streaked with blood, muscles taut beneath the dim torchlight. His wrists were bound in iron, the heavy chains rattling as he moved, but he carried them as if they weighed nothing. Fresh wounds striped his back from the lash he had taken earlier that day, punishment for his disobedience in the arena. The marks stood out like crimson sigils against his tanned skin, yet he bore them without flinching.

But it was his eyes that truly held you still—cold, sharp blue, a striking contrast to the golden curls that fell damp over his brow. He was bruised, bleeding, and yet he stood tall, utterly unbowed.

The lanista shoved him forward. “Kneel, slave.”

Anakin barely spared the man a glance. Instead, he looked at you.

And smirked.

You arched a brow.

“No?” the lanista snapped, stepping toward him, whip coiled at his hip.

“I do not kneel for Romans,” Anakin said, voice like gravel, rough from battle and pain. His gaze remained locked on yours, unreadable but heavy with something dark. “Especially not for their women.”

The lanista moved to strike him, but you lifted a hand, stopping him.

“Leave us.”

The lanista hesitated. “But, domina—”

“I said leave.”

A flicker of something—perhaps fear, perhaps confusion—crossed the man’s face before he reluctantly stepped away, muttering curses under his breath. The heavy door groaned shut behind him, and then, at last, you were alone with Anakin.

Silence stretched between you.

Anakin rolled his shoulders, the motion slow, deliberate. “So,” he drawled, glancing at you with something dangerously close to amusement. “Another Roman noble come to inspect her latest plaything ?”

Your lips curved. “I see the whip did not teach you humility.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you in a way that might have been insolent—if not for the fact that you allowed it. His gaze lingered on the silk of your robes, the gold at your throat, the faint scent of perfume that clung to your skin. When his eyes met yours again, they burned with something unreadable.

“I’ve learned that Romans enjoy a man who suffers prettily for them,” he murmured, a mocking edge to his voice. “Did you pay for a closer look at my cock ?”

You hummed, stepping closer. “I paid for your time, gladiator. What I do with it is my choosing.”

His smirk widened. “Then I pity you.”

Your brow arched. “Oh?”

“You must be terribly bored.”

Your fingers ghosted over the rim of your goblet, the wine inside untouched. “On the contrary. I find you fascinating.”

He let out a low, dark laugh. “A dangerous word.”

You took another step forward, closing the distance between you. The scent of steel and sweat mixed with the faint perfume of myrrh and spices, a contrast of brutality and divinity. The chains clinked as he moved, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath their weight. He was raw power caged in iron, a lion behind bars, and yet—he did not feel like prey.

“Why do you fight ?” you asked, tilting your head. “You do not strike me as a man who enjoys entertaining Rome.”

His expression flickered, just for a moment. “Perhaps I don’t.”

“Then why ?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if the question amused him. “What does it matter ? We are all slaves to something.”

Something inside you twisted. The weight of centuries pressed against your ribs, the knowledge that he was right. He was bound in iron, and you—goddess though you were—were bound by fate.

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, the chains rattling between you.

“Tell me, domina,” he murmured, voice dropping to something dark, intimate. “Why are you really here?”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you acknowledged but both understood. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his eyes traced the delicate goldwork of your jewelry, the fine embroidery of your silk robes, the way your presence itself seemed an insult in this place of sweat, blood, and iron.

Anakin stood before you, chained and bruised, a man made for war, for killing. And yet, even as a slave, he was untamed. He had not yet been broken.

But everyone had a breaking point.

You stepped closer, deliberately, your sandals whispering against the cold stone floor. He did not move, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture—the flex of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. A man prepared to endure, to resist.

You smiled.

“I own this time,” you said softly. “I own you for as long as I please.”

His smirk was slow, amused. “Do you?”

You lifted a hand. Not to touch him—yet—but to trace the air just above his skin, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the heat of a body honed for battle.

His breath hitched, barely perceptible.

“I paid well for you, gladiator,” you continued, tilting your head as your fingers ghosted over his arm, lingering just above the bruises left by the iron shackles. “Tell me… do you think your master would care if I took liberties with what I own?”

His eyes darkened, the smirk sharpening. “I think you enjoy pretending that you own things that can’t be owned.”

You traced your fingers up, featherlight, skimming over the curve of his collarbone. He was scarred, his skin marked by battles fought and won, each one a testament to survival. But beneath the wounds, there was beauty—undeniable, infuriating beauty. His body was carved by struggle, but his face… his face was a god’s mistake, too beautiful for a man meant to die in the arena.

He was looking at you the way a lion looked at the fool who dared step into its cage.

Your smile did not falter. “And you enjoy pretending you have a choice.”

The chain between his wrists rattled as he shifted. His head dipped slightly, his breath warm against your cheek, too close, too bold.

“I always have a choice,” he murmured.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Do you?”

Your fingers trailed lower, down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He was still, but not passive. This was a man who would let you touch fire just to see if you would burn yourself.

You could.

You should.

You wouldn't.

Instead, you leaned in, close enough that he would feel the brush of your lips without ever truly touching. A phantom promise. A whisper of power.

"You belong to me tonight," you murmured against his skin. "Fight it if you want. But you will lose."

For the first time, his smirk faded.

And then, slowly, dangerously, he smiled again.

"You paid for my time, domina," he said, voice low, rough, almost mocking. "I wonder… what will you do with it ?"

"You know what I want, gladiator…so give it to me." You returned his smirk. 

Anakin's eyes flashed at your bold words, a flicker of surprise giving way to a slow, wicked grin. He leaned in closer, until you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips, the scent of steel and sweat and something darker, more primal.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmured, voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "A man like me... I might just give you more than you can handle."

His gaze dragged over you, intense and hungry, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips beneath the silk of your robes. When his eyes met yours again, they burned with a feral light.

"Tell me, domina," he breathed, "do you want me to worship you like a goddess... or ruin you like the wanton creature I suspect you are beneath this fine silk and gold?"

He reached out, fingers grazing the delicate embroidery at your throat, a stark contrast to the rough, calloused skin of a warrior. His touch was fleeting, a whisper against your skin, but it left a trail of heat in its wake.

"Choose carefully," he whispered, a dark promise in his voice. "Because once I start... I don't think I'll be able to stop."

The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of his words hanging heavy. You could feel the power shift, the balance teetering on a knife's edge. He was a gladiator, a slave, but in this moment, he held the reins. He owned you with his eyes, his touch, his voice. And God help you, but you wanted him to claim you utterly.

You wanted him to take you.

To take you apart.

To put you back together again.

To make you feel alive again.

You trembled slightly under his intense gaze. "Tell me, do you see all your women like this ?"

Anakin's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something dark and dangerous passing through his eyes. He leaned back slightly, just enough to look down at you with a smirk that was equal parts cruel and amused.

"Women?" he repeated, a low, rough laugh escaping his lips. "You think you're like the others?"

He reached out, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a rough caress that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

"No," he murmured, voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. "You're not like the others. They don't have your... hunger."

His eyes searched yours, intense and unreadable. "They don't look at me like they want to devour me alive. Like they want to take everything I have to give and beg for more."

He leaned in closer, until you could feel the brush of his lips against yours. "You're not here to be worshipped, domina. You're here to be fucked. Hard. Until you forget your own name and remember only mine."

His other hand slid down your back, coming to rest at the small of your back. He pulled you against him, the hard planes of his body molding to the soft curves of yours. You could feel every inch of him, the thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, the coiled strength in his thighs, the unyielding power of his chest.

"You're not like the others," he breathed against your lips. "You're a woman who knows what she wants. And what you want... is me."

He claimed your mouth in a brutal kiss, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along yours, demanding your surrender. And God help you, but you gave it to him. You melted against him, your body softening, your lips parting in a silent cry of pleasure as he plundered your mouth.

He kissed you until you were breathless, until your head was spinning and your body was aching for his touch. He kissed you until you forgot where you were, until all that mattered was the feel of his lips on yours, the heat of his skin, the strength of his arms around you.

And when he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his expression fierce. "So tell me, domina," he breathed against your ear, his voice a low, rough rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. "What do you want from me tonight? And don't say you want to be fucked. I can give you so much more than that."

His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh. He pulled you harder against him, grinding his hips into yours, letting you feel the thick, hard length of him through the thin silk of your robes.

"I can make you scream until your throat is raw," he promised darkly. "I can fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll feel me for days. I can worship every inch of your body with my mouth and hands until you're trembling and begging for more."

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "I can bind you to my bed and tease you until you're sobbing, until you're so desperate for release that you'll do anything I ask. Anything."

His other hand slid up your side, cupping the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing over the peak of your nipple through the silk. "I can make you come so hard that you'll forget where you are, who you are, until all that exists is the pleasure I give you."

He leaned back, his eyes burning into yours. "So tell me, domina," he breathed, a wicked, dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What do you want from me tonight? And choose your words carefully, because I intend to give it to you. All of it. Every single, filthy, delicious inch."

"All of it, I want all of it. You hate me, I can feel it. So pour your hate in your thrusts. Hate Rome through me." You whispered breathlessly.

Anakin's eyes flashed with a fierce, feral light at your whispered words. A dark, cruel smile curved his lips as he stared down at you, his grip on your ass tightening possessively. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke in a low, rough growl.

"Hate you? No, domina. I don't hate you. I despise you. I loathe every inch of your Roman arrogance, your entitled cruelty. I detest the way you think you can own a man like me, that you can buy and sell me like a piece of flesh."

His other hand slid up to wrap around your throat, his fingers curling around your delicate neck. He didn't squeeze, not yet, but the threat was there. The promise of domination, of control.

"But you're right about one thing. I will pour every ounce of my hatred into you. I will fuck you with all the rage and fury I feel for your kind. I will make you feel the wrath of a man who has been enslaved, beaten, and degraded for the entertainment of people like you."

He spun you around and bent you over the table, sweeping the contents to the floor with a clatter. The cold marble pressed against your skin through the thin silk of your robes as he pushed your skirt up over your hips, exposing your bare ass to the cool air.

"Keep this up, domina. Beg for it. Beg for me to hate-fuck you like the Roman whore you are. Beg for me to ruin your tight little cunt with my big, hard cock. Beg for me to make you scream and cry and plead for mercy."

He undid his belt with a swift, rough motion, the leather straps hitting the floor. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking with arousal. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise as he rubbed the swollen head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your juices.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name. I'll make you scream until your throat is raw and your voice is gone. I'll make you come on my cock again and again until you're sobbing and begging me to stop. And when I'm done, when I've filled your greedy little cunt with my seed, I'll make you lick it off the cold marble floor, I'll make you taste the hatred I have for your kind. I'll make you choke on it, swallow it down until you gag and sputter, until you can't breathe for the taste of my contempt."

Anakin drove into you with a brutal, punishing thrust, his thick cock splitting you open, stretching you wide around his invading length. A guttural groan tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside your tight, clenching heat. He didn't pause, didn't give you a moment to adjust, but immediately set a hard, relentless pace, pounding into you with all the fury and hatred he harbored for your kind.

His hips slapped against your ass with each savage thrust, the lewd sound echoing obscenely in the chamber. One hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, while the other hand tightened around your throat, his calloused fingers digging into your delicate skin. Stars exploded behind your eyelids as he cut off your air supply, making your head swim and your heart race.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Anakin snarled, his voice rough and ragged with lust and rage. "Such a perfect little Roman cunt, squeezing my cock like you never want to let it go. But I'll ruin you, domina. I'll fuck you until you're nothing but a sloppy, dripping mess, until the only thing your greedy hole knows is the feel of my cock pounding into it."

He hammered into you harder, the force of his thrusts shaking the table beneath you, the marble biting into your hips. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock as it dragged along your sensitive walls, bullying your poor, unprepared cunt with its relentless assault.

"Scream for me," Anakin demanded, his voice a dark, cruel command. "Let all of Rome hear you being claimed by their enemy. Let them hear how a slave is ruining their precious noblewoman, how I'm using your body to unleash all the hatred I've stored up for people like you."

He tightened his grip on your throat, making your vision blur and your lungs burn for air. Your body clenched around him, the lack of oxygen heightening every sensation, every brutal thrust, every cruel twist of his hips as he ground against your cervix.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me," Anakin groaned, his breath hot against your ear. "You love this, don't you? Being used like a cheap whore ?"

"Gladiator…harder." You moaned loudly and arched your back, offering your chest to him.

Anakin growled in response to your wanton moan, a feral sound of pure, unbridled lust and rage. His hips surged forward with renewed vigor, slamming into you with enough force to rock the sturdy wooden table beneath you. The rough, calloused skin of his thighs slapped against the backs of yours as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

"Harder? You want it harder, you Roman slut?" Anakin snarled, his voice dripping with disdain and dark promise. "I'll give you harder."

He tightened his grip on your throat even more, cutting off your air supply completely as he redoubled his brutal assault on your cunt. The lack of oxygen made your head swim and your vision blur, but you could still feel every excruciating detail of his violation. The thick, pulsing heat of his cock plunging into your core over and over, the rough drag of his pelvis against your sensitive clit, the obscene squelch of your juices easing the way for his relentless thrusts.

Anakin leaned over you, his muscular chest pressing against your back, his breath ragged and hot against your ear. "I'm going to fuck you until you pass out," he promised darkly. "Until your mind goes blank and all you know is the feel of my cock splitting you open, claiming you, ruining you for all other men."

He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust, slamming into you so hard the table shook and creaked beneath you. One hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave vivid bruises, while the other hand slid up to wrap around your breast, squeezing the supple mound roughly. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, sending jolts of painful pleasure straight to your core.

"I can feel you shaking, domina," Anakin taunted, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "I can feel your greedy little cunt squeezing my cock, trying to hold onto it like it never wants to let it go. You don't want this to end, do you? You want me to keep fucking you, to ruin you, to make you forget everything but the feel of my cock splitting you open again and again."

He licked a stripe up your neck, his tongue rough and hot against your sweat-slicked skin. "I could fuck you forever, domina. I could keep you chained to my bed, keep your legs spread wide, and fuck you until you're nothing but a mindless, drooling mess. I could make you my personal fucktoy, my own Roman cocksleeve, ready and eager for me to use whenever I please."

Stars exploded in front of your vision and you climaxed harder than ever, your nails raking on his shoulders, accidentally scratching one of his wounds.

Anakin snarled in pain and rage as your nails raked down his back, your sharp nails digging into the fresh wounds from the arena. Hot, stinging pain lanced through him and he reacted on pure instinct, his hips slamming forward with a brutal, punishing thrust. He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers sinking into your soft flesh as he ground his pelvis against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your spasming, clenching heat.

"Fuck, you little bitch!" Anakin roared, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. "Did I say you could scratch me? Did I give you permission to mark my skin like the filthy whore you are?"

He punctuated his furious words with a series of rapid, brutal thrusts, each one harder and more punishing than the last. The table shook and creaked beneath you, the marble biting into your hips as he fucked you with all the rage and hatred he felt for your kind, for your careless, cruel touch.

"Punishment is in order," Anakin growled, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "I'll make you regret ever daring to mark me without my consent."

He pulled out of you abruptly, his cock slick with your juices, and flipped you over onto your back. Before you could catch your breath, he had your wrists pinned above your head, his much larger hand easily encircling them. He loomed over you, his muscular chest heaving, his eyes blazing with fury and lust.

"Apologize," he demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Apologize for daring to mark me like a cheap harlot. Apologize for forgetting your place, for thinking you had any right to touch me without my express permission."

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours. "Apologize, domina," he hissed. "Or I'll make you regret it in ways you never imagined."

Anakin's eyes flashed with a cruel, triumphant light as he watched you gasp and shudder through the aftershocks of your intense climax. He could feel your body still trembling beneath his, your cunt clenching and fluttering around his cock, trying in vain to hold onto him, to keep him buried deep inside your greedy heat.

"Look at you, domina," he purred, his voice a low, mocking rasp. "Coming undone on my cock like the desperate slut you are. I've barely touched you and you're already falling apart, already forgetting yourself in the throes of your pathetic pleasure."

Anakin stared down at your tear-streaked face, a look of utter disgust etched onto his handsome features. He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your cunt empty and aching, your juices dripping down onto the cold marble table. With a rough, jerky motion, he tucked his still-hard cock back into his breeches and stepped back, putting some distance between your naked, wanton body and his own.

"Damn Roman whore," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with contempt. "All the same. Thinking with your greedy cunt instead of your brain. Just like the rest of your kind."

He shook his head in disgust, his dark blonde hair falling into his eyes. "You think you can buy a man's loyalty, his devotion, his very soul? You think you can own a warrior like me with your gold and your pretty words?"

Anakin's lip curled in a sneer as he looked down at you, his blue eyes hard and accusing. "You're no better than the rest of them. No better than the crowds in the arena, baying for blood and spectacle. You just want to use me for your own twisted pleasure, to sate your base, animalistic urges."

He turned away from you, his broad shoulders rigid with tension, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Get dressed, domina," he ordered coldly. "Cover up your shameful display. And then get out. I have no more use for you tonight."

With that, Anakin strode towards the door, leaving you naked and alone on the table, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your intense climax. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at you over his shoulder, his expression hard and unforgiving.

"And don't think this is over," he warned darkly. "Your kind always comes crawling back for more, like the addicted sluts you are. But I won't be so easy to seduce next time. I know your true nature now."

"The gods will punish you…" You whispered, sitting up.

Anakin laughed, low and sharp, the sound cutting through the dimly lit chamber like a blade. “The gods,” he scoffed, rolling his shoulders despite the weight of his chains. “Tell me, domina, what use do men like me have for gods?”

You tilted your head, your expression unreadable. “You do not believe in them?”

“Oh, I believe in them.” His smirk was bitter. “I believe in their cruelty. In their silence. The gods watch men like me suffer and do nothing.” His blue eyes locked onto yours, sharp as the edge of a dagger. “I do not pray to them. And if they are watching me, then let them know I spit on their names.”

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, the wine within dark as spilled blood. “And yet, perhaps the gods have not forgotten you.”

Anakin's expression hardened. “I have no patience for riddles, domina.”

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to something softer, something almost intimate. “Tell me, do you ever dream of things you do not remember? Faces you have never seen? A life that is not your own?”

His smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second—so brief, so fleeting that another might have missed it. But you did not.

Anakin shifted against the chains, his wrists flexing against the iron shackles, the muscles in his arms taut. “You ask strange questions for a noblewoman.”

“You give strange answers for a gladiator.”

The tension between you thickened, something unspoken coiling in the air. You watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists as if bracing against something unknown.

You were playing a dangerous game. But then again, you always had.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and incense as Anakin’s lanista—his owner—sprawled lazily on his cushioned seat, swirling his wine with idle amusement. “He is strong, domina,” the man drawled, gesturing toward Anakin. “Undefeated. A rare breed.”

You kept your gaze on Anakin, who stood beside the lanista, arms bound, his skin marred with fresh welts from his earlier punishment. He looked at you with nothing but disdain, but beneath it, you could feel something deeper—an unspoken challenge, a warning.

“I could buy him,” you said simply.

The lanista chuckled. “A fine choice, my lady. He would make a strong bodyguard, or perhaps something… more.” His eyes gleamed with lewd suggestion. “For the right price, he is yours.”

Before you could respond, Anakin snarled, the sound raw and full of venom.

“I belong to no one.”

His voice rang through the chamber like a war drum. Even bound, even kneeling in the presence of those who claimed ownership over him, there was no submission in him. Only defiance. Only fire.

Your heart pounded in your chest.

Foolish man.

Foolish, beautiful man.

The lanista scowled, yanking Anakin’s chains so hard his head snapped back. “You will belong to whomever I sell you to, slave.”

Anakin’s eyes found yours then, burning with fury. “Kill me if you want,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “But I will never bow.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

And yet, as the lanista barked orders to have him dragged away, you could not stop watching him.

Anakin did not plead. He did not beg.

Even as he was pulled from the room, his head was held high, his gaze never leaving yours.

That night, Anakin slept on the cold stone of his cell, his body aching from the lashes, from the fights, from the weight of another day in chains. But when he closed his eyes, he did not dream of the Colosseum.

He dreamed of green fields, of wildflowers swaying in the wind. He dreamed of soft laughter, of hands weaving a crown of herbs, of sunlight on golden hair.

He dreamed of a woman.

He could not see her face, but he felt her presence—familiar, distant, like a name on the tip of his tongue.

When he woke, his breath was unsteady, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

And for the first time in years, he was afraid.

Even in chains, a lion does not forget the taste of freedom. Even in death, a man does not forget the echo of love.

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Day seventeen: Darling being sacrificed to Deity!Chrollo

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/n: Only thing I have to say is 🥺💕💕💕, I love him

The air was thick with incense and the soft murmurs of the cultists, their chants rising and falling like a tide all around you. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across the chamber walls, and despite the warmth of the room, a chill settled deep into your bones.

You were bound to an altar of cold stone, unable to move, fear coursing through your veins. They had called it a “gift,” this sacrifice they were making, but all you felt was the dread creeping up your spine.

“Great Chrollo,” One of them intoned louder this time, bowing so low that her forehead brushed the ground. “We offer this sacrifice in exchange for your infinite wisdom. Please, hear our plea, benevolent God and if were worthy, grace us with your presence.”

You wanted to scream at them, to swear at their existence but they put a gag over your lips so you couldn't interrumpt their prayers and summoning.

If you died, you wanted to return as a ghost, the most violent one, just so you could haunt them to the point that not even their god could help them.

There was a moment of stillness, and then, the very air seemed to bend, a presence sliding into existence as if it had always been there. Chrollo emerged from the darkness, his form solidifying from the shadows, and you felt a shiver run through you at the sight of him. He was unnaturally beautiful, a figure that radiated both menace and an inexplicable calm. The cultists remained praying and thanking him.

His eyes, dark as ink, met yours as soon as he appeared, and there was something ancient within them, something that spoke of endless years spent peering into the abyss.

“You summon me, as you always do,” Chrollo said, his voice soft, almost contemplative, its tone and syllables made you stop trembling as an unexplainable calm washed over you. “And as always, you ask for answers.”

He took a step forward, gaze drifting over you with a detached curiosity, as if studying a painting in a gallery. “You desire knowledge, yet you fear the cost. Isn’t that the paradox of humanity?”

One of the cultists dared to speak, voice trembling with reverence. “We understand the price, Great Chrollo. For each answer, a life must be given.”

Chrollo chuckled, a sound that was more thoughtful than amused. “Ah, but do you truly understand?” He turned his back on them, walking around you, his steps slow and deliberate. “Knowledge is a burden, not a gift. Every answer begets more questions, and every revelation strips away the comfort of ignorance. You offer a life for what? A fleeting moment of clarity in an endless sea of uncertainty?”

His fingers brushed against your cheek, and you flinched, the touch cold as ice. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly and then he smiled, but it was a distant, melancholic thing, as if he were reminiscing about something long lost.

“And yet,” Chrollo murmured, “here you are, placed on this altar, offered up as if you were nothing more than a token in a game they scarcely understand. How do you feel?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to find your voice as he took out the gag from your lips. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips. “I don’t want to die.”

Chrollo’s eyes softened and for a moment, there was something almost kind in his expression. “Few do,” He replied, “but that’s the nature of sacrifice, isn’t it? It’s rarely a choice. It’s something taken, something demanded, without regard for the will of the one who must pay the price.”

He tilted his head, considering you as if you were a riddle he was trying to solve. “Tell me, do you believe in fate? In the idea that some are destined to be pawns, while others move the pieces?”

You stared at him, struggling to understand his words. “I… I don’t know.”

“An honest answer,” Chrollo mused, a faint smile touching his lips. “How rare. Most people spend their lives pretending they have all the answers when, in truth, they’re adrift, terrified of the great unknown.” He looked back at the cultists, who were still kneeling, waiting for their moment of enlightenment.

“You seek knowledge,” He said to them, his tone gentle but laced with an unspoken warning. “But knowledge is not a gift freely given. It is something that devours, something that demands its pound of flesh.”

“Please, Great Chrollo,” one of them pleaded, “grant us the wisdom we seek!”

He sighed, almost as if he were disappointed, and then, with a wave of his hand, the room erupted into darkness. When the shadows receded, the cultists were gone, their bodies erased from existence, leaving only you and Chrollo standing in the silence.

You stared at him, heart pounding in your chest. “What… what did you do?”

“I gave them their answer,” He replied simply, turning his gaze back to you. “And in doing so, I took what was owed. That is the way of all things — equilibrium. For every truth, there must be a consequence.”

“Then… why am I still here?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper. "Wasn’t I your sacrifice?"

Chrollo’s smile returned, softer this time, tinged with an unspoken sadness. “Because you,” He said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face, “are a question I have yet to answer. You are an enigma, a puzzle placed before me and I am nothing if not curious, as you're so alike my past lover.”

"Whatever do you mean by that?" You asked, your eyes searching for something inside of his. But you were answered only with a simple smile of his, for a god of knowledge, Chrollo was fond of not giving any answer at all.

Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin and you could feel the weight of his presence enveloping you like a mantle. “It means what it means, dear Y/n. Until my curiosity is satisfied, you will remain mine.”

He pulled back, his expression thoughtful, almost serene as he worked to free your limbs from the ropes and caressed your skin softly.

“You see,” Chrollo continued, as if explaining something to his favorite student. Even if you were nothing but uncomfortable with the whole situation, it didn'tmatter in his opinion. “there’s a beauty in the unknown, in the spaces between questions and answers. That’s where the most profound truths lie. And you, in your fear and defiance… you are the embodiment of that mystery.”

You trembled under his gaze and Chrollo chuckled softly, an echo of amusement rippling through the still air as he pulled you closer. “Don’t worry,” He murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I have no intention to hurt you but I also can't let you go, you're rightfully mine, my sweet sacrifice.”

And as the darkness crept closer, swallowing the light, you realized that you had become another question in Chrollo’s infinite search for knowledge — a mystery bound to him, and him alone, until the day he decided that your answer was worth the price.

[lordofthescrolls]

Sweven (Adar x Elf reader)

Rating: Angst | Fluff

Summary: You did Sauron’s bidding because of a promise he made and when he was killed by Adar you were left with nothing… Or so you thought.

You didn’t know how long you had been kept in this prison, but you grew used to the dark, the lack of flames from torches you grew so accustomed to while living in the mountain. Now you were casted to the cold stones beneath Sauron’s chambers all because you had given him what you had promised… Power.

And you waited like any good servant would for his promise in return… One he did not give… Yet. You would constantly remind yourself. He will keep his promise, he will.

“My children told me there was one prisoner who refused to die.” A voice you have heard countless of times since you were taken, “Iston i nîf gîn.” He said. I know your face.

You knew his as well. You would admire him from a far as you both served Sauron in your own ways, never speaking to one another, but always there. You grew curious of the once elf now forged by darkness itself and created into a creature of the shadows.

It was his voice that intrigued you the most as it was the only thing you could truly hold onto here. A gruff and sad voice that you would hear in your dreams sometimes when the nights got too cold or the loneliness settled deep in your bones… Not that you would ever share that secret with anyone.

“I am an elf. Malnourishment does not kill me… You should be aware of that yourself… Elf.” You muttered quietly, your voice scratchy from the lack of use.

“Uruk.” He corrected you.

“Has… Sauron forgiven me?” You whispered brokenly as you blinked up at him, “I—” You coughed, “I did not mean to fail him. I swear. I didn’t have enough… I can try again. I can do better. Please tell him I can do better.” Your pleas were only met by silence and you watched him cautiously as he passed you a mug filled with water.

“Sauron is gone.” He replied, stepping back as he watched you gulf down the water in barely a second.

Your heart fell at his words, “He will come back for me then.” You murmured, shackled to the stone wall, “We have a deal.”

“Will he?” There was amusement in his voice, “It has been months since he had you chained down here.”

Months? Your throat felt dry again and you looked down at the now empty cup in your hands. Had it really been that long? “He could be continuing his plan.” You pressed wanting to believe that your wish will be fulfilled, “Him being gone doesn’t mean anything. He will return.”

“He could be...” He retorted, his gaze trailing over the tattered dress that you had been left in, “Or he could be dead.”

“He is not.” You seethed, your gaze snapping back to his.

“He is.” His grin was barely reckognizable but it was there.

“Your lies do not sway me.” You looked away from him, “Sauron isn’t dead. He can’t be, he is—”

“I killed him myself.” He proclaimed and he watched you lunge at him, the only thing stopping you was your chain.

“You…” Your breath caught in your throat as the first feeling that filled your chest was pure happiness. The joy that your master was finally gone and that you were free to do whatever you wished… To leave even, but then the loss settled in as you realized your wish would never be fulfilled. You would be left yearning for an eternity all because of a stupid elf.

“How could you.” You growled out as you slammed your fist into the ground, “Traitor!” You screamed at him, yelling profanities as he stood by and waited for you to calm down. You fell to your knees and began to weep not for your master, but for yourself. For the loss of a gift you so desperately wanted.

Adar crouched in front of you, looking down at you as if you were some wounded animal, “I have seen you in passing, always at his side. Never spoke a word, never showed emotion, always there… What did you do for him?”

“I healed him… Made him stronger…” You muttered broken as you recalled all those countless nights, brewing herbs in teas, using the magic you possessed to grow his power.

“And what did he offer you?” He asked gently as if trying to coax a wounded doe. That is what he deemed you were, a fragile doe left in a raging storm.

Your lips curled back as a grim expression took your face. Your tears falling freely as you cried in frustration and grief. You worked so very hard to please him and now here you were back to where you started… With nothing.

“I couldn’t…” Your throat tightened as you tried to speak through you cries, “I couldn’t have any… He promised he would fix me if I helped him… He promised and you took that from me!” Your anger grew as you lunged at him again, but he was quick and precise, always was with everything you have seen him do. He grabbed your wrist before you could fully swing at him and you felt yourself break in defeat as you sobbed.

“What did I take from you?” He asked again. His voice was low and gentle, his curiosity now growing.

“A family.” You replied barely above a whisper cursing the vacant womb you were blessed with since you were created, “All I wanted was a family.” Your voice broke.

He allowed you to pull your wrist free from his grasp and watched as you curled yourself into a ball, burying your face in your knees to hide your shame. Adar’s words seem to fail him in that moment as he looked at the broken elf maiden. He expected many answers to slip from your soft lips, but not that… Not when it was so close to the wish that he sought out for. The one that was granted when he was given his children. It was an answer that made him reach for your shackles and setting you free.

Your cries turned into sniffles as you felt the weight of the metal leave your ankles and you peaked up at him with hesitant curiosity.

“Are you hungry?” He asked in a gentle voice that was as rough as the stone you were used to sleeping against.

You didn’t answer with words, but a gentle nod of your head was all the confirmation he needed.

That was how you found yourself sitting at the stone table where Sauron used to dine. It was only on rare occasions that he would allow you to sit with him when he wanted to learn more about the slicers you created. You remember most nights however, you were left hungry because he was uninterested in your health. You were an elf, you only needed little to survive no matter how painful it was. Now the table was filled with orcs as they ate without fear of Sauron’s wrath.

“Why are you doing this?” You whispered sitting on Adar’s right as he sat at the head of the table. You had yet to touch your food and waited on his answer.

“He did not care for your wish as you thought he did. That is why he shackled you in such darkness after you provided no more use for him.” He explained as he took a sip of his wine.

“And you? Do you have use for me? Is that why I am up here?” You asked, accusing him of the same thing that Sauron had done.

“I am not him.” His reply was sharp as he stared at you, “I want nothing of you. You are free to leave now if you wish.”

You took in his words as you looked back to your plate. You could hear your stomach growl once the scent finally registered. You reached for the meat first and took a large bite as you contemplated on Adar’s words.

You were finally able to leave freely and that left excitement billowing in your chest, but it slowly fizzled away when you realized where would you even go? Who would want to take in a follower of Sauron? You thought and now your stomach filled with dread. They would kill you where you stood especially with the mark seared onto the back of your neck.

“Guren *glassui.”

It caught you off guard as you heard your mother language be spoken by the uruk sat across the table from you. It was clear he was speaking to you and everyone else continued with their conversation, everyone except for Adar who watched the interaction silently.

“You speak elvish? How?” You accused as your thoughts were scattered. It had been a long time since you were able to speak to anyone beside Sauron and even then it was only to agree to whatever he said. Your manners seem to evade you now as you pressed, “Thank you for what?” Was I being mocked? You weren’t sure.

This time the feast grew quiet as everyone listened in on your conversation. If uruk’s could blush you would see the poor uruk’s face turn bright red, “I asked Lord Adar to teach me your elvish words of thank you.”

Oh… Your gaze softened as you looked at him, “Why would you want to know my language?” You asked, but this time your tone was gentler.

“I was hurt badly… I would have died if not for your healing magic. That is why I thank you.” He explained, a shy expression overtaking his face.

“Ah…” Your voice trailed off in surprise.

You came to realize over the years you’ve been captive under Sauron’s hand that Uruk’s weren’t evil beings… Just forced to do bad things. This particular uruk, you vaguely remember helping one night while passing by the less then salvageable infirmary…

“You’re welcome.” You nodded towards the uruk, “I am glad that you survived. You did well. You all did well, truly.”

Your words seemed to brighten his and his siblings moods as the celebration continued in full. The dinning room and the rest of the mountain was filled with cheers as they celebrated their victory. Soon enough it was just you and Adar who were left at the table.

Your plate was wiped cleaned as you subtly looked for more food.

He noticed this and pushed his plate towards you, “Here.”

Your face heated up, “I couldn’t, that’s yours.”

“I’m not that hungry. Go ahead and eat before one of my children steal it from you.”

That was all you needed to hear before you were eating the rest of his meal, your stomach finally happy from being filled.

Adar watched you with mild humor and his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his seat, “Have you decided what you will do?”

You wiped your mouth with your sleeve after you drank your wine. You looked towards him a small frown on your lips, “I don’t think I can go anywhere… Not with who I am… What I’ve done… I have nothing left.” You looked at the table, “He took my old life from me.”

“But not your new one.” Adar responded and you waited for him to continue as you leaned back to stare up at the stone ceiling, “You have everything to look forward to and experience.”

“But where? Who would possibly take me in when I have a mark of evil on my neck.” You spoke in frustration.

“I would.”

It was barely a whisper, but it had you sitting up to face him fully, “What?”

“I would take you. As you are. Right now.” He repeated, clear and sure this time.

“Even if I offer nothing to you?” You muttered quietly.

Adar nodded and stood from his seat, “You wouldn’t need to do anything you don’t want to.” He looked down at you with a softness in his gaze, “You could stay with my children and I.” He looked away for a moment.

It was then that he held his hand out for you to take if you wanted too as he continued, “We are not welcome in that world, but when we find our home it can be your home too… If you wish.”

You stared at his outstretched hand for a moment with entirety of emotions swirling in your chest. Fear, gratitude, anxiety… Care… This was the most you felt in a very long time and it was him… The silent brooding elf… Uruk making you feel.

His hand felt warm as you took it, a redness brushing against your cheeks as he pulled you up to stand.

“Thank you.” You whispered quietly as you looked up at him, “For offering me a home.”

“Always.”

It was a year later when you were curled up under Adar’s arm and covered by furs that kept you both warm. You breathed in his scent and listened to his slowed heartbeat as you tried to fall asleep with him, but something felt different tonight. It was only when listening to the laughter of his children that you have grown attached to just outside of your shared tent that you realized in some twisted way Sauron had given you the dream you desired… You finally had a family.

[aemondsquill]

Forgive Me, My Lady, For I Have Sinned

Aemond Targaryen × Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Aemond is mean to his wife. Groveling ensues.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, terrible smut, oral (f receiving), Aemond is a rascal, slight mean!aemond, unedited we die like men A/N: heyyyy pookies thank you for being so patient! This is mostly just me practicing how to write smut since im not super familiar with it so just lmk what yall think

It was rare for Aemond to be absent from your shared chambers. Ever since your betrothal, the two of you would sneak through the winding halls of the Red Keep in search of each other’s warmth. It was scandalous, of course, but the Prince simply could not quell his growing passion for you, his lovely little woman. At first, he dreaded the thought of marriage—seeing how his mother was often discarded in favor of a dead woman by his ever-decaying father. It wasn’t until his lone violet eye landed upon your sweet face at the feast celebrating the announcement of your impending nuptials did Aemond feel a surge of protectiveness over you. He couldn’t help the flush of shyness that reddened his cheeks when you shared a sweet smile with him.

The several moons into your marriage had been utterly blissful. Aemond was attentive, often finding himself bending to your every command. In private, he was affectionate; always finding some way to hold or touch your warm skin or sharing tender kisses that left you both breathless and yearning for more. He often threatened lords who would boldly stare at your figure from afar, but he shielded his cruelty from you, not wanting to frighten his little wife. Nearly every night Aemond found himself nestled between your supple thighs, showing you just how much he worshipped you—licking and nuzzling your clit with his aquiline nose, hardened from the sweet moans and whimpers that fell from your lips. The thought of you being only his to please and breed made him feel nearly rabid from arousal—like a dragon with the scent of blood.

Married life seemed to agree with Aemond.

With war looming on the horizon, Aemond felt the increasing pressure beginning to chip away at his sanity. Long, torturous hours were spent locked away in the Small Council chambers and away from your cunt. This particular evening, Aemond was battling a searing ache behind his scarred socket, allowing him to only hear bits and pieces of various war tactics they could deploy against the Blacks. If he had to hear Tyland Lannister bitch about the dwindling funds that come with the cost of war he was going to smash his head in until his pretty golden locks are stained red.

With delicate fingers, Aemond applies pressure to his brow, desperate for any amount of relief.

His savior came in the unlikely form of his brother, the rightful King Aegon II.

“This meeting is adjourned, for fuck’s sake my cups have run dry and I’m in need of a whore.” Aemond rolled his eye at his brother’s vulgarity, but was thankful none-the-less. The only thing he wanted was to crawl into his feather bed and feel his little wife’s warmth, but alas, only he could be so unlucky. The ending of this meeting only means that he has to return to his study and attend to more sensitive matters of the Crown, but he was one step closer to being with his wife.

The fire flickering in the hearth cast long shadows in his study, where he sat behind a large desk made of darkened wood. Countless letters adorned with ornate wax seals littered and ink stained his pale fingers as he continued a correspondence with whatever small house that needed placating, the throbbing in his temples only increasing tenfold.  

Sleep seemed to evade you with the absence of your husband, the empty bed next to you growing cold from his desertion. The chill from the flagstones caused you to jolt as you stood up from your bed. You plucked your dark blue silken robe from the plush settee and pulled it onto your frame, tying it at the waist. Determined to catch at least a glimpse of your husband, you opened the heavy oaken door of your chamber and began your search.

The Small Council chamber and library were both empty. Your heart sank a little in disappointment when the thought of giving up crossed your mind.

That was until you spied a glowing light coming from beneath the door to his study. Giddiness tickled the inside of your chest as you entered through the portal and found your dearest Aemond seated behind his unkempt desk.

His eyepatch lay discarded amongst the piles of parchments and his long, elegant hair tussled from his growing frustration, yet he remained just as beautiful as ever. The site nearly steals the breath from your chest.

He did not look up, seemingly deep in thought.

“Husband? Are you nearly finished? I haven’t seen you since we broke our fast and I miss you dearly.” He looked up at the sound of his little wife and sighed heavily before shaking his head tiredly. “Perhaps you would benefit from a bit of rest?”

The inquiry was innocent enough, but Aemond could no longer bite his tongue as the last bit of his withering patience was fractured. He stood suddenly, looking down at you grasped your jaw in a firm grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to startle you.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he sneered, “unlike you, I have more responsibilities than just being a broodmare, so I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from parading yourself around like a common whore and return to my chambers.”

The cruelty he tried so hard to protect you from spilled from his lips so easily. Your eyes watered as you gasped at his words.

“You do not mean that, my love” you whimpered, tears cascading down your cheeks. You gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist, urging him to release you.

He only pulled you closer so he could growl into your ear, “do you wish to tempt the entirety of the Keep, hm? Should I allow every knight to have their turn with you? Would that sate your desires, wife?” His words dripped with a venom he had never used with you before.

You felt your heart crack painfully as you looked up at him with wide doe-like eyes that shined with unshed tears.

The sight of your anguish seemed to pull him out of the rage that had blinded him so and he released you suddenly. Guilt swarmed his veins and he felt sick that he had been the cause of your pain.

You scrambled away from him, holding a hand over your lips to stifle your cries.

Aemond wished for Vhagar to devour him where he stood. Tears of frustration burned his eye.

You stumbled through the halls, blindly searching for your chambers.

Once in the safety of your room, you collapsed on the settee, sobs wracking your body.

Your chambers were cold and lonely when you were finally lulled into a dreamless sleep.

You sent your handmaids away after they dressed you in a scarlet gown the next morning. You didn’t have to stomach to break your fast as the words from last night seared themselves into your memory. The ache that bloomed behind your breast had yet to subside. Your eyes were red and tender to the touch.

The words from your favorite tome seemed to melt together and you sighed before placing it at your side, content with just watching the flames dance against the stone hearth.

The heavy door to your chamber creaked open. Annoyance ebbed inside you.

“I already told you I do not wish to break my fast,” turning around you were met Aemond looming in the doorway. His eye was wide and shimmered with emotion.

No words were said as he approached cautiously, as if afraid of your wrath.

You only looked down at your hands, which were nervously twisting in your lap.

The proud Dragon Prince of the Seven Kingdoms fell to his knees, resting his head against your thighs. You couldn’t help but tremble in his presence, whether from fear that he would lash out again or from the desire you still had for him.

His warm hands enveloped yours as he pressed delicate kisses to your fingers, the tenderness causing your chest throb in sadness.

After a moment, he lifted his head and met your watery gaze with his own. Slowly, his fingers slipped around your ankle before gently wandering up your calf, lifting the ornate hem of your dress in the process.

Your breath caught in your throat as he reached your knee. You placed your hand on his suddenly, intending to stop him from advancing, but you helplessly felt yourself guide him closer to where you needed him.

Once your thighs were adequately exposed, he pressed spongy kisses to the soft flesh. You could feel the heat of arousal weigh heavily in your lower belly, your breathing coming out as soft pants.

Aemond intently watched your face contort in need as his kisses and suckling traveled towards your slickened cunt.

His leather-clad arms circled around your hips and pulled you closer towards to edge.

He licked a fat stripe against your dripping cunt and you gasped, fingers weaving through his silver locks.

Aemond moaned at your sweet taste, the vibration nearly overwhelming your little pearl. His tongue was soft against you, almost gentle as he continued to devour you.

Your arousal leaked onto the cushions below you as your mouth fell open, his lips circled tightly over your pearl, suckling gently.

Two slender fingers prodded against your drenched hole before fulling sliding in. The feeling of being stuffed with Aemond’s fingers nearly sent you over the edge. His fingers stroked your walls in search of the rough patch that made you see stars.

You moaned and clenched around him as he massaged the spot in a come hither movement. You couldn’t help but grind your hips, hurdling towards your peak at an unrelenting pace. Sweat beaded at your hairline and your eyes nearly rolled back into your head at the intense pleasure only Aemond could give you.

His eye was still trained on you in awe, as if you were a goddess and he a devout follower. In a sense it was true. He would worship the ground you walked on had you commanded him to.

“Cum against my lips, little wife, let me taste you.” His voice was husky with lust and you whined as he sped up the thrusting of his fingers. Aemond’s chin shined from your arousal.

The sight of him desperately lapping against your cunt sent you over the edge, waves of pleasure rolling through you as you screamed his name.

Your vision returned as your peak began to subside, your panting slowing down. You sagged against the cushions, feeling boneless.

“Give me one more, my love,” Aemond pleaded before prodding at your pearly with the tip of his tongue.

You writhed against him, completely overstimulated.

“I-I can’t…” you whined, “ ‘s too much.”

His violet eye darkened, your pleas only spurring him on as dove back in to devour your cunt. Your moans only grew louder as you tried to push his head away, the overwhelming sensation bringing tears to your eyes.

For a moment he allowed to you catch your breath as he spoke.

“I’m going to lick your cunt until you forget the insults I cast against you in my anger. I need you to see how I wish to worship you”, he pressed a kiss against your fluttering cunt, causing you to jolt.

“My sweet wife, you did not deserve my wrath.”

He planted another kiss against your pearl.

“I kneel before you and beg your forgiveness.”

A harsh suck caused you to yelp.

His words touched you. Your gentle, sweet Aemond had returned.

He kitten-licked your pearl unit you felt the familiar coil tighten in your belly, your second peak rapidly approaching. You moaned and wept at the sensations of his lips against you, lust clouding your thoughts. 

Your second peak nearly fractured your mind as white-hot bliss buzzed through your entire being, the only thing tethering you to reality was your grip on Aemond’s hair.

Aemond watched his beautiful little wife in fascination as your peak subsided.

Silence enveloped the room once more as you attempted to recover from your husband’s groveling.

Finally, clarity reached you and you were able to consider his words. While you were deep in thought, Aemond smoothed down your dress, but remained kneeling in front of you.

“I cannot find it within myself to forget the vile words you said to me. You hurt me greatly.”

Aemond’s eye widened, but he understood.

“I just need time. I love you deeply and I appreciate your apologies thus far,” you couldn’t help but smirk at your last words. Amusement sparkled in Aemond’s eye.

“Allow me to apologize once more, little wife,” his words were coated in lust. He stood and took your hand gently, before leading you to your shared bed.

[mumms-the-word]

Deep Past the Heart

Characters: Emmrich Volkarin x Rook (You) Summary: (Spoilers ahead!) You have accompanied Emmrich to his final test before lichdom. You stand in a cold Necropolis vault as he walks away from you toward possible eternity, knowing he will die the moment he crosses the threshold. The only thing you can do now is wait. Wait and hope that if he returns to you, when he returns, he will still be the man you have fallen so desperately in love with. Nothing is certain but death. Love...that is a different question entirely. A/N: I think this is my first official Veilguard fic? And it's angst haha classic. Anyways, I have mixed feelings about Emmrich's Lich route but the cutscene where he becomes a lich has stuck with me as one of the most beautifully choreographed moments in the whole game, so I couldn't resist writing the scene from a more focused, anxious Rook's perspective. Enjoy! Read it on AO3 here!

I am come to be judged by the dead.

They are the last living words on his lips. The last words of a man who will be dead soon, one way or another. Nine syllables formed on an eloquent tongue, breathed forth with warm air from healthy lungs. In mere moments, those lungs, that tongue, those lips will grow still, and never move again.

It isn’t his time to die. But it’s the time he has chosen, and now that the words are out of his mouth, you know there is no turning back.

His words echo faintly in the vaulted chamber you stand in, soft reverberations you will never get back. You want to reach out and catch them, just one word, maybe two, and hold them fluttering and whisper-thin against your chest until you have absorbed them. The last vestiges of his voice, perfectly preserved in your heart. Just in case you never hear that voice again.

Or if you do, it will be altered beyond recognition.

It’s strange. You’ve spent the last several weeks doing all that you can to save lives—freeing slaves, fighting ghosts, slaying dragons, eradicating darkspawn, stopping enemies before they can hurt anyone else. And yet here you stand hundreds of feet below the surface in a spacious, isolated crypt, bidding farewell to your lover as he faces the end of his life. 

You make no moves to stop him, despite your every instinct screaming that you can, you could, you should . But you don’t. Because this is what he wants.

Emmrich Volkarin, your beloved, is steps away from death, standing at the threshold of a chamber that will steal his life from him and present him with one final test. If he succeeds, he will become a lich, a powerful undead mage that will stand outside of time, a being both paradoxically within and beyond your reach and understanding. His life’s work, completed with his death. But if he fails…

It is death, either way. You both know it. The best you can hope for now is not that he will survive…but that he will transcend . If he does, then he achieves undeath. Lichdom. Forever.

A vast leap , he had once said. Flesh cast aside for bone. Returned, immortal, for all time. 

You wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Not for encouraging him to take this path, but perhaps for coming with him. 

His kiss is still on your lips, the warmth of it fast fading in the chill of this Necropolis vault. You wish, suddenly, that you had placed your fingertips at the base of his throat or against his chest when you kissed, cherishing the final beats of his too-soft heart, the fluttering of his pulse as it thrums beneath his skin. Or that you had inhaled deeply of his carefully cultivated scent, expensive cologne, soap, and pomade, scents he may soon abandon after death when his new form no longer requires them.

You glance at the Lich Lords above, their cold veilfire eyes glowing in the sockets of their bleach-white skulls. Cold, barren, still.

Dead.

That is what he will become…but only if he passes the final test.

Too late you wish you had paid more attention to the elements that made up your lover’s living, mortal self. Already you feel the finer details slipping from your grasp. The exact shades of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Where the last stubborn dark strands of his hair melt into the gray and white. The tones of his quiet laughter when something amuses him. The press of his lips on your knuckles when he kisses your hand.

There will be no more of any of that, either way. Already you miss those things. Ache for them.

Why is it so much harder for you to let go of him, than for him to let go of life?

Your time together has been cruelly short. You arrived too late, he walked toward death too early, and the world never settled long enough for the two of you to find any real time together. You want to kiss him again, but you know better than to move. Because if a single thing goes awry…

The doors swing open, spilling out a brilliant white light so bright it’s painful to stare into, but Emmrich doesn’t falter. Aside from a single flex of his hands, you see no evidence of hesitation or fear.

And yet you still wonder. 

How fast does his heart beat in his chest, as if defying him to stop it? Is every nerve alight within him, desperate to soak in each last sensation, the chill on his skin, the prickle of gooseflesh at the back of his neck, the brush of fabric, the creak of leather, the jingle of chains? Are there tremors in his fingers that you cannot see? Is he terrified, or at peace with this decision?

You hope he is at peace. Even as your hands clench at your sides and your ears start to ring with the stress of watching him step forward into eternity, knowing he will die, he will inevitably die, he will certainly die , you hope he, at least, has no more of the terror that has plagued him since childhood.

It’s the only way you’ll see him again.

You have to let him go. You curl your toes inside your boots as if to anchor your feet directly down into the stone beneath you. You hold your breath to keep from using your voice. You cannot stop him. You cannot intervene.

But dammit, it’s hard .

Every step he takes is another step away from you. Another step closer to death. You have prepared for this. Sat in his study, curled up by the fireplace, watching him review scrolls about the rituals, watching him practice his glamor. You’ve seen the way his eyes grew distant at the daunting trial before him, taking him to a place where you couldn’t reach him…and the way his eyes drifted around his study, looking for a figure you both know will never return to brighten the Lighthouse again. You prepared your goodbye …and your welcome back… and your final goodbyes if it all went wrong. You thought you had steeled yourself to the fact that he might not return at all.

But now the moment is here. 

Every step is like a death knell, the chime of a clock striking midnight. The sound of his boot heels on the worn paving stones rings in your head like the peeling of chantry bells, ten, eleven…twelve. 

Silence.

He stops and turns to face you. The light of the chamber beyond is too bright, too harsh, a wash of milky white fog and light that silhouettes him until he is a singular shape in black. You search for his eyes, desperate to read his thoughts, or perhaps to memorize that particular shade of hazel you took too much for granted, but his every feature melts into shadow.

You look anyway, mastering your expression for him just in case he is watching you too. You will not look anxious. You will not look like you have even a shred of doubt. He will come back. He will come back. You hang onto the thought like a lifeline, and you watch, unwilling to look away for a single instant.

This is your last view of him alive. One way or another, he has to die. You’re prepared to walk his undeath with him, but you want to soak in this last living sight. Just in case.

Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

Myrna and Vorgoth join him in the illuminated chamber and the doors begin to swing closed. You stare. You stare and you study and you will your feet to stay planted to the smooth stone floor and you look for a single glimpse of his eyes—

And you see that they are closed.

Your breath catches. You feel your heart start to crack, his name bubbling up from your chest into your throat, ready to be spoken, whispered, shouted, but you cannot let it escape. You swallow your voice as the doors shut with an echoing clang, a single note of devastating finality. 

Then…the silence of the grave.

—————

You stand as still as stone, imagining yourself as steady and cold as the carved marble and granite figures that line the vault. But your traitorous heart beats wildly in your chest, reminding you with every heartbeat that you are the last living thing in that room. You are the wrong thing here in this vault of silence, stone, and stillness. The audacious lover who dared to invade this sanctum of undeath and sully it with your mere presence.

You dare not invade any further. Emmrich is beyond your reach now. All you can do is wait.

You can feel the eyes of the Lich Lords upon you, veilfire glowing green and blue in their hollow eye sockets. Challenger of the gods , they called you. Volkarin’s beloved . You wonder if you are the first lover to stand at a lich candidate’s side to see them off for the final sifting of the soul. 

You wonder if you are the only lover who plans to stick around after lichdom has been achieved. Until death takes you, that is. You, but not him.

You know they are not there to judge you, and yet their faces remain fixed forward toward you, not the chamber beyond. You begin to feel as though you are as much a part of this final test as whatever it happening in the chamber beyond. Do the Lich Lords see you, truly, as they gaze out over the vault? Or do they see Emmrich’s soul, his thoughts, his memories instead?

Do they find you there among them? Is it better or worse if they do?

You know you’ll get no answers from the Lich Lords so you don’t ask. Which leaves you once again waiting. Listening. Hoping. 

Time crawls forward, impossible to track. Down here, deep beneath the earth, every light is artificial and cold, every chamber eternally lit by magical flame. It’s only the flickering of the torches and braziers that tell you that time hasn’t stopped altogether. 

And still you wait. It’s all you can do.

You breathe out, gently clouding the air. When did it get so cold? Or had it always been this cold in the Necropolis, and you never noticed it before? You rub your arms subconsciously, seeking warmth, but your hands do little to help.

What kept the chill at bay before? Was it Emmrich’s presence at your side, his hand eventually slipping into yours, that kept you warm among these patina green and slate gray halls? Or had he cast subtle spells over you, a bubble of warmth to carry you through the Necropolis, his mind on your comfort over his duty as a Mourn Watcher? Perhaps the chill had always been there, but you were too busy basking in the kindness of his hazel eyes and the soothing cadence of his voice to notice.

What happens now that those eyes, that voice, may be gone forever? 

You turn away from the Lich Lords and pace a slow circuit around the stone table. Over your head, the colossal sculpture of three crowned skulls looms like an omen, a second set of judges over the living and the dead. No matter where you turn, the hollow eyes of skulls peer down over you, reminding you of the inevitable. Now that Emmrich is in the chamber beyond, the only thing coming out of that room is a dead man.

How much of Emmrich will be left?

You strain your ears to catch any sound from the chamber beyond. The windows behind the Lich Lords appear open, letting in some of the white light, and yet you hear nothing. Even the crackle of the veilfire around you is muted and low. 

How much time has passed? Mere moments, or has it been an hour already? More than an hour?

You close your eyes briefly, your thoughts a silent prayer, the same as you prayed before. Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

It’s the same thing you told him just before he walked away. One last plea, pulled from the depths of your heart, uttered before you could think twice about the words. And in return, he had smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners the way they always do—always did.  

I will, my darling. I promise.

A promise. One you hope—you know he intends to keep. Yet you know that even if he does come back, he will come back different. Everything will be different. His appearance, his senses, his feelings. He warned you of that just days ago.

Lichdom is a transformation of body and soul. A change in how I sense and feel. And I will still feel, but—

But he will feel differently. You know that. He does too. At this point, change is unavoidable, but how he will change…that is less certain. What will he lose, even as he gains eternity and power?

You recall his soft musing words the day you picked flowers together in the memorial gardens, when you asked if he would still be able to enjoy the flowers if he became a lich. He had answered simply, an academic’s thoughtful reply, but you caught the hesitant sadness in his voice at the end all the same.

I can’t say if the flowers would still hold their bloom for me. 

But what about you? For him to lose his sense of smell is one thing, but to lose a measure of his heart…

You can still picture the flower he once picked for you, the thin stem in your hand, the white petals luminescent in the light of the gardens. The scent has long faded from memory, but the magic of it is burned forever in your mind from when he transformed the soft petals into glittering motes of light. You, in the bloom of your life, basked in the glow of his magic, melting beneath him as he pressed you gently into the stone of the memorial and kissed you for the first time. That was the moment you realized you loved him, alive or undead.

So is it selfish to long for, even mourn what you have already lost of him? For you have lost something . The moment he stepped into that chamber, you lost something. You can feel it, hollow in your gut, even though you can’t name it. If he survives this last test, you will gain something back, but even so…is it selfish that you already miss him as he was in life?

Is it too early to mourn, knowing he was a dead man the moment he uttered those words at the chamber doors?

I am come to be judged by the dead.

You know he is more than his appearance, more than the skin and muscle and sinew that makes up his living body, more than that common, fleshy muscle in his chest that pumps blood through his veins but to which everyone attributes the deepest of mortal feeling and desire. Even when that heart grows still, he will surely still love you, you remind yourself. He had all but promised before he left your side. 

Hadn’t he?

If anything should perchance go wrong… My dearest heart. You are the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me.

You stop. You realize now.

This is why he didn’t look back.

You are a temptation. His last tether to this mortal world. If he had looked back, he might have wavered. Decades of his life’s work, lost at a single glance.

If he had looked back, you would have almost certainly lost him for good. 

You pause at the start of your circuit again, turning to face the chamber doors, your heart racing. Does he think of you now? In his mind’s eye, do you exist as the path back home, a marker for his soul to return to his new lich body, or has he cast you aside, unwilling to let you become his final weakness? Have you ruined it all simply by being there?

You were the one to reach out when he first stepped away. The one who held him by the arm, desperate for another few seconds with him, a final kiss, a last embrace. I love you , you whispered as his lips left yours, a confession you should have said days ago. 

I love you too, my darling.

What if that final kiss, that simple confession, has doomed him? You think of Johanna Hezenkoss, the failed lich, her body slowly shriveling on her skeletal frame, eyes burning with veilfire inside a withered face. Wrong. Half-undead. Stagnant, yet decaying.

Is that the fate you sealed for Emmrich with your kiss?

Suddenly you would give anything, a measure of your strength, your power, your own lifeblood, to ensure that he passes through the Lich Lords’ final sifting of the soul to successfully enter lichdom. You want nothing more than to see him again, no matter what vessel his soul is housed in. Was it not ultimately his soul that you fell in love with? Time is a thief that would rob you both of vitality, strength, and beauty no matter how you attempt to slow it down, but the soul is eternal. Or so everyone says.

All you want now is his soul with you again, rather than passing on to the Fade, or wherever it is souls go when they die. 

Please, Emmrich , you beg silently. Come back.

Perhaps the Lich Lords or the spirits of the Fade will hear your silent prayers, drawn in by your deepest desire, since the silent gods are no longer listening and may not even exist. If the spirits sense your hope, perhaps they can intervene on your behalf, driven by the strength of your wish to lead Emmrich’s soul back again if he needs the help. 

But no, you must have faith in him. That is what he needs from you now. You clench your fists at your sides, determined to mold your anxiety and desperation into faith instead. You can do this, Emmrich. Death won’t keep us apart. You won’t let it. 

A light clamor draws your attention back to the chamber—the sound of the latch unbolting. The doors are about to open. The wait is over. 

The judges’ verdict is set. The scales have been weighed, the soul measured, and judgment passed.

Emmrich is dead. 

—————

Your blood pounds in your ears, a steady roar that drowns out everything else as the heavy doors groan open. You force yourself to watch, willing your eyes to adjust faster to the white light that spills forth. You have to see. You have to know. Death or undeath? A lifeless corpse or an eternal lich?

Come back to me, my love. Come back.

Vorgoth emerges first, a ceremonial knife in his gloved and bangled hands. Wet, red blood drips, fresh and lurid, from the black and gold blade. Emmrich’s blood, dripping down onto the Necropolis floor, each drop glittering ruby red in the light before it splashes dark and black on the stone. Vorgoth sheathes the blade, tucking it inside the depths of his cloak, his task complete.

Then Myrna appears, promenading forth with an urn cradled in her hands, a canopic jar with a lid carved in the shape of a skull. A thin trickle of blood trails down from the seam between jar and lid. You dare not wonder what lays inside, what part of your beloved Emmrich they carved away to preserve inside that funerary urn. The mere sight of it makes your stomach twist.

Did it hurt? What they had done to him? Were his final living moments spent in pain as cold metal carved through his flesh? The thought leaves you ill, your knees weak. But no, the Mourn Watch are not inhumane. Myrna and Vorgoth respect Emmrich. He calls them friends. Surely his death had been as painless as they could make it. You have to believe it, or else the world around you will tilt out of focus and leave you crumpled on the floor, and you cannot let Emmrich see you like that. 

At last Myrna steps aside, leaving your view into the chamber unhindered. To your relief, there is no lifeless corpse crumpled on the ground. Instead, a figure stands where Emmrich stood. With a shift, it begins to walk forward.

At first it’s no more than a silhouette to match the Lich Lords above. A dark, shadowed figure with a crown of spikes and eyes glowing with veilfire. A lich at long last. But is it–is he your Emmrich?

As he draws nearer, out of the white light, more details emerge. Glimmers of gold, the rustling whisper of grave linen, the thick drape of black crape fabric. The doors close behind him and the silhouette melts away to reveal him in all his undead glory, standing regal in black and gold.

For one terrifying moment, you don’t recognize him. His skull could be anyone’s skull. There is nothing left of the hazel gold or green in his gaze. The heart you yearned to capture, the one he once said beats for you and no other, now no longer beats in his chest at all. It is missing, along with every other organ, his gold-reinforced ribcage left open and hollow. He is a walking skeleton now, draped in rich armor and finery, brimming with new power. 

You can’t look away. He has to be in there somewhere. You take an unsteady step forward as he draws slowly nearer to you, searching the polished bone surface of his skull beneath his golden helm for something you can recognize as Emmrich Volkarin. Your beloved.

“Emmrich?” you whisper. Your heart is a drumbeat in your chest, tempo allegro , relentlessly pounding in your ears until you’re almost dizzy from the rush. Please be in there. Please.

He stops and you can sense his gaze, harder to track now that it’s all veilfire, moving away from you to the room around you. His jaw unhinges and though he no longer has a tongue, his voice emerges from somewhere within him, like a spirit speaking from the beyond.

“I see so much more clearly now,” he says. Your breath hitches as you recognize the tones and timbre of his voice. It has an otherworldly echo now, but it’s his . “The deeper eddies of the Fade. The pulse of the Necropolis.”

You can sense the new power he has gained. Magic shifts around him as though he is draped in more than metal and fabric. As if he stands with one foot in the physical world and the other in the Fade. Even his voice sounds like it begins in another plane and is carried forth over a vast distance.

You can’t help but feel awed. You stand before an immortal being now. Yet, unlike when you stood before Solas, Elgar’nan, or Ghilan’nain, there is no fear or wariness in your heart. This is not some cold, unfeeling god. This is Emmrich Volkarin.

You feel his gaze settle on you as he continues, his voice full of wonder. “I have been through blood and darkness, and I have emerged into light.”

You breathe for the first time in several seconds, your lungs shuddering at the sudden cold air. Relief floods into you, even as a smaller part of you aches to think how painful this last test was for him—what trials of blood, what depths of darkness had he endured to earn this gift of immortality? But those trials are in the past now. What matters is not that he experienced them, but that he endured and emerged victorious.

He has returned to you.

You wet your dry lips, the question on your tongue tasting metallic from fear, but you have to ask. You have to know. “Emmrich, now that you’re…do you still feel…” 

You can’t put the whole question into words. He is here, but he is changed. How much? How deeply?

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is like a lovestruck sigh from the depths of his soul, breath simulated by tone alone. “My love.”

This time, his words wrap around you, sinking into your skin and settling deep within you. It’s the feeling of returning home, of a world made right again. It’s the thrilling sensation of a loving whisper on your bare skin, a promise of devotion and a song of praise, the tenor of his soft voice perfected by the subtle, echoing embellishments of his new magic. You nearly weep for the love you can sense conveyed in so simple a phrase.

It’s really him. And he is really yours. 

It’s all he has to say to convince you.

“Come,” he says. “Walk the gardens with me.”

He offers you his hand, now wrapped tightly with grave linen down to the tips of his fingers. You recognize the rings he wears as his usual jewelry, and the sight of something familiar calms your still-settling heart even further. Without hesitation, you take his hand and let him lead you out of the vault.

You can feel the shape and rigidity of bone beneath the linen, but his touch is gentle as he folds his hand around yours, matching your pace as you venture out into the Necropolis proper. Each step you take with your hand in his quiets your lingering doubts. His measured strides are the same as they were in life, the pressure of his touch no different from when he had muscles and tendons to control them. Even his presence at your side beats back the chill of the Necropolis just the way it had when you journeyed with him earlier. 

Everything is as it was in life, simply made more by the aura of magic that follows him. The moment the two of you reach the gardens, your steps crunching the gravel of the cemetery paths, you feel him relax at your side. You wonder what he sees now, now that his eyes have been opened, his spirit awakened to the subtle movements and patterns of the Fade. Where you see veilfire torches and the carefully tended blooms of the cemetery flowers, the cool air broken here and there by the playful twirl of a glowing wisp, what does he see?

You think of that moment in the Lighthouse weeks ago, when he took your hand and placed it on a skull, instructing you to breathe, to focus while he spoke a solemn incantation, the weight of his hand covering yours. When you opened your eyes, you could see the currents of the Fade in motion—glimmers of light fluttering through the air, ribbons of color weaving in and out of sight, and blue and green wisps dancing playfully high overhead, or lingering serenely around the two of you. Is that what he sees now? Brighter, richer ribbons of light, glittering notes of magic, twirling wisps, even spirits walking the grounds? Does he see beyond the Veil, two worlds overlapping, mixing together in a sympathy of color and light, or simply what bits and scraps are strong enough to push through, eager to brush against the physical world? You wish you could see. You wish you could share in the vision with him.

“It’s…beautiful,” he murmurs. You look up, studying his new profile. It will take some getting used to, but it doesn’t frighten or disturb you. When he turns his face toward you, you can feel the warmth of his gaze again, even though there is nothing left of the hazel eyes you once fell in love with. “To think, I can share this first glimpse of wonder with you, my darling. It makes this moment all the sweeter.”

If he were still capable of tears, you know he’d be weepy right now. He always did get philosophical around flowers. And it’s you knowing that, sensing it in his voice, that dispels the last of your doubts. You squeeze the bones of his hand and whisper, “I knew you’d come back to me.”

His next words are confirmation and promise, reassurance and affirmation, his affection as clear and warm as it was in life, even despite the new echo. It is confident, certain, and tender, and as before, it settles somewhere deep past the heart, where nothing can ever take it away from you again.

“Always, my love.”

[belit0]

Would you do a second part of the OneShot in which Indra inspects various women to get married? I'm already working on that shot🫂, thank you very much in advance

You ask, I deliver, always available for my Indra baddies.🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

PART 1

The hands gripping her arms are firm, unyielding. She stumbles once as they force her forward, but they do not allow her to fall. No, there is no room for weakness here, not for her, not for any of the women whose bodies now litter the floor like discarded offerings to a god too cruel to accept them.

The screams have died down, the echoes of their deaths still vibrating in the vast hall, but (Y/N) barely registers them. Her mind spins as she is led away, her pulse drumming loud enough to drown out the wet sound of steel cutting through flesh behind her.

-I want her.-

Those words coil around her ribs and sink into her like venom. He did not phrase it as a choice because it wasn't.

It never was.

She allows herself to be dragged despite the tremor in her bones, despite how her body wants to shrink into itself as the doors ahead are opened, and the suffocating atmosphere of Indra’s domain engulfs her completely. She knows that stepping through means leaving behind the last remnants of her past life, whatever that had been worth.

As the heavy doors close behind her, she finally looks up.

He is there, waiting.

Indra stands at the chamber's far end, watching her as one might watch a caged animal, his unreadable gaze piercing, assessing, waiting to see how she will move. The air thickens, charged with something unspoken yet absolute, something that tells her that whatever life she thought she had before, no longer exists.

-Come here.-

Two words. The attendants release her at once, their grip no longer needed.

The command alone is enough to propel her forward.

Her steps feel too loud on the polished floor, each one an acceptance of what has already been decided. The closer she gets, the more the sheer weight of him settles over her, suffocating yet inescapable.

When she finally stops before him, her breath is shallow, controlled. She forces herself to meet his gaze, though everything in her screams that no one should hold Indra Otsutsuki’s eyes for long.

The silence stretches, heavy and unrelenting, before his voice slides through it like a blade.

-You will not waste my time.- He states.

Not a warning, but a command.

(Y/N) exhales slowly, steadies herself. If she is to face her fate, then she will do so as she always intended: head held high, spine unbroken.

-Maybe you should have let me die with the rest.- She says, voice level despite the pulse in her throat.

For the first time since she has seen him, Indra tilts his head slightly, a glimmer of something that could be amusement, or the first sign of her impending destruction.

-Maybe.- He smirks.

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

His palace is a cold, vast place, built more for domination than comfort.

It is a labyrinth of towering walls and marble floors that reflect the dim glow of candlelight, casting elongated shadows that seem to whisper as she walks. Servants do not speak to her, only bow their heads in silent acknowledgment before hurrying away, as if afraid to be caught lingering too close.

She is no prisoner, there are no chains on her wrists, no guards barring her exit, yet freedom is an illusion. She feels it in the way the air itself seems to press down on her, heavy with expectation.

(Y/N) is given a chamber fit for royalty, though it does not comfort her. The bed is too large, the silence too thick, and the walls seem to close in at night.

However, it is not all the luxury that unsettles her, but the knowledge of.... being watched. She does not see him, but she feels him. A gaze that lingers when no one else is around, a presence just beyond the veil of darkness.

Indra does not announce himself and never would, does not need to.

He is always there, somewhere, lurking in the periphery, studying her with that silent, clinical detachment of his.

He never steps closer, never forces his presence upon her, and yet he is inescapable. Every corridor she turns down, every window she stares out of, he is there in some way; a flicker of movement in the distance, a reflection in the polished floors, a whisper of fabric shifting in the night.

He does not say a word, playing a game of silence and analysis, a kind of passive hunting, waiting, toying with her in ways she does not yet understand, letting her grow accustomed to the weight of his attention before he makes his next move.

It is worse than outright cruelty. It is worse than being caged. Because this is not about control, at least, not in the way she first thought.

Indra has already decided her fate, and is now waiting for the right moment to strike.

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

The Prophecy Chapter 1: A Greater Woman Wouldn't Beg

Summary: After the death of her husband, Aurelia must make a decision to either die or marry the new ruler of Rome.

Warnings: 18+, talks of execution, talks of murder, Rome is in chaos, Lucius being Lucius, nothing too crazy right now

A/N: Hello! I decided to name the OC but honestly, you can replace her name with your name if you want to be a reader insert. It doesn't matter. Art is flexible. Anyway, this is for fun, not historically accurate. Also not bet read or proofread but I write for fun. Hope you enjoy! Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Aurelia had been standing on the balcony of her chambers in the imperial palace, her thoughts consumed by the heavy, oppressive silence that had fallen over Rome. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson, but she didn’t notice the beauty. She hadn’t noticed much of anything for days. The death of Geta—her husband—had shattered her world. The sudden violence, the brutal murder of both Geta and Caracalla, had left her numb.

The door to her chambers had crashed open, and there they were—storming in, their swords drawn. Aurelia's body had gone cold at the sight of them.

She had tried to flee the guards. Tried to run. Tried to make it out of the palace before they could seize her, but the soldiers were fast, their hands grasping her wrists and dragging her back as if she were a criminal.

There had been no mercy for the widow of an emperor.

The next thing she knew, she had been thrown into the cold, damp cell, the iron bars of the tiny window casting a faint shadow on the stone floor. She had fought them, of course, her pride burning like fire in her veins. She had called out for help, for someone—anyone—to come to her aid but no one had come. No one would come.  Not even the guards at the door, who she had once known, now looked at her with suspicion and fear, as if her very blood made her guilty by association.

She had spent days in that cell. Alone. Hungry. The flickering light from the torch outside the bars offered little comfort, and the cold stone walls pressed against her, making it hard to breathe. There was a part of her that wanted to give in to despair, to let herself curl into the shadows and forget everything—forget who she was, forget what had happened. But she wouldn’t. She couldn't.

The door to the cell creaked open, and Aurelia’s sharp, ice-blue eyes snapped up. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it, but then the figure stepped inside. A man in a dark toga, his face unreadable, his eyes cold. Aurelia’s stomach churned. The new emperor, Lucius Verus, stood before her now.

He wasn’t what she had expected. Lucius, the gladiator, the son of Lucilla, now the ruler of Rome. She had heard whispers in the halls—how he had killed Macrinus, how he had taken the throne in the wake of the murders. She had never imagined he would come for her, never imagined he would see her so low, so utterly powerless.

He surveyed her silently, his piercing blue eyes studying her as though she were an object of curiosity, something to be analyzed.

“You’re still alive,” he said finally, his voice low but commanding. “I had thought the guards would’ve killed you by now.”

Aurelia remained seated on the cold stone floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. She didn’t answer him immediately, just glared at him with defiance, her back straight despite the pain in her muscles.

“You were married to Geta,” he continued, the faintest hint of disgust flickering in his gaze. “It seems the Senate is unsure what to do with you. You’ve been a widow for only a few days and already they want to… settle this matter.”

Her lip curled in a bitter smile. "Settle what matter?" she spat, her voice hoarse but sharp. "You think this is about some matter? The Senate will decide my fate like I'm some common criminal, won't they? Just like Macrinus decided my husband's fate. My brother-in-law's fate."

Lucius gave a slight nod, though he didn’t look sympathetic. “The Senate is divided. Some say you should be put to death, to cleanse the last remnants of the old regime. Others suggest you may have been complicit in your husband’s death. After all, it was your family’s legacy that fell with Geta.”

She scoffed. “Complicit? You think I had a hand in killing my own husband?”

“I don’t know,” Lucius said quietly. “But that’s not my decision to make.”

He paused, and Aurelia could feel his gaze on her like a weight pressing down on her chest.

“I have come to offer you a choice,” Lucius continued, his tone cold, detached. “You will be tried in front of the Senate, but I’ve decided to intervene. You’re… valuable, despite the chaos surrounding you. You are the widow of an emperor. You have connections to the old regime and some factions within the Senate believe your marriage to me would solidify Rome’s future.”

Aurelia’s eyes narrowed. Her pulse quickened, the confusion and bitterness swirling in her chest. “Marriage to you?” She laughed, though the sound was bitter. “So now you want to use me too? Use my name, my blood, my title? Is that it, Lucius? Is that how you plan to secure your throne?”

Lucius stepped closer, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the cell. His eyes were as cold as the stone walls surrounding them.

“It’s not my plan,” he said, his voice low. “It’s Rome’s plan. I am offering you a way out, Aurelia. A chance to live. To keep your dignity intact.”

“Dignity?” she hissed, her eyes flashing with anger. “Do you think I care about dignity? Death would preserve my dignity more than marrying you to secure your throne, to put another puppet on the imperial seat? To sit beside you like some obedient wife?”

Aurelia stood, her body trembling with rage, her fists clenched at her sides.

“I never wanted this!” she shouted, her voice rising. “I never wanted to be a pawn. My marriage to Geta was a nightmare and now you want me to marry another emperor?”

Lucius regarded her quietly, as if studying her fury with the detachment of a strategist. “The Senate does not care about your wants or needs, Aurelia. They care about power. They care about stability. If you do not marry me, they will find another way to dispose of you. If you do not marry me, you will be executed.”

She swallowed, her throat tight, her pulse roaring in her ears. He was right, of course.

Lucius watched her carefully, his gaze unwavering. “You may not like it. You may not want it. But you have one choice: death… or marriage to me.”

Aurelia's heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the decision pressing down on her with crushing force. She looked at him, then looked down at the cold stone floor beneath her feet. The choice before her was cruel, stark, and suffocating.

She could die. Die with her dignity intact, die with her pride as the last remnant of her old life.

Or she could marry him.

Marry a man who had come to power through bloodshed and violence. Marry a man who didn’t love her, who would never love her.

The silence between them stretched, long and heavy. 

"I'll think about it," she said finally, her voice low, almost broken. It was all she could say. Because the choice wasn’t hers to make. Not really.

Lucius inclined his head, his face unreadable. "Take your time. The Senate expects an answer soon."

And with that, he turned and left the cell, leaving Aurelia alone in the darkness, the weight of her decision already pressing down on her like the chains of fate.

The grand hall of the Senate was filled with the murmurs of Roman senators, their voices a low hum of power and fear. The marble columns stretched high, reaching up into the vast ceiling, echoing the weight of centuries of rule. The Senate chamber, once a place of noble discourse and decision, now felt cold and suffocating to Aurelia. It had always been a room of intrigue, but today, it was a room of judgment.

Aurelia stood at the center of the chamber, her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, a sharp drum in the silence. She could feel the eyes of the entire Senate on her, watching, scrutinizing, waiting.

She had been brought here under guard, her wrists bound in chains, but even now, they were nothing more than a symbol. She was a prisoner. A prisoner of Rome, of the Senate, of her own fate.

Behind her, the throne was empty.

The throne her late husband had sat in.

 Lucius Venus had not arrived yet.

The murmurs grew louder as the senators took their seats, each one wearing their finely crafted tunics, their faces a mixture of indifference, curiosity, and judgment. The men of the Senate had always been ruthless in their pursuit of power and the death of Caracalla and Geta had left the empire vulnerable. Macrinus and his plot had sent Rome into chaos. 

For the Senate,  it was not about justice—it was about control. Aurelia was a relic of the old regime, an obstacle, and now she was to be disposed of. But in what way? In what way could they control her? 

The doors to the Senate chamber opened with a heavy thud, silencing the room instantly. Lucius Venus, now Emperor of Rome, entered. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room, his expression unreadable as he moved to the center of the floor. His presence was undeniable. The senators, who had once ruled Rome, now watched him with a mixture of respect and fear. The gladiator turned emperor was an anomaly, a force to be reckoned with.

Lucius ascended to the platform, standing beside the podium where Aurelia was forced to kneel. The contrast between them was stark. He stood tall, composed, his posture regal despite his origins. Aurelia, on the other hand, knelt on the cold marble floor in silence, her eyes still lowered.

A low, deliberate murmur passed through the Senate as Lucius raised his hand to silence them.

"Senators of Rome," Lucius’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “We are gathered here today not to deliberate on the future of this empire, but to settle a matter that will define the future of Rome itself. The widow of the late Emperor Geta, Aurelia Carina Cassia, stands before you today as both a symbol and a question. A symbol of the old Rome, the old blood, and a question of loyalty. The question of whether we allow the remnants of the past to threaten our future.”

Aurelia felt her pulse quicken at his words, her mind racing. A question of loyalty? She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked to be married off to Lucius, nor had she asked to be placed in the center of this political struggle. But here she was, forced into this trial, caught between the old regime and the new one.

Lucius turned his gaze toward her, and for a moment, their eyes met. His gaze was cool and distant, but there was something more beneath it—something she couldn’t quite grasp. For a fleeting second, she thought she saw a trace of sympathy in his eyes, but it vanished almost immediately.

“You stand accused of complicity in the deaths of Emperor Geta and his brother, Caracalla,” Lucius continued, his voice echoing through the chamber. “It is said that you, as the wife of Geta, played a part in the conspiracy that led to their deaths. Do you deny this, Aurelia?”

Her voice was steady, though it trembled with the weight of the question. “I deny it. It was Macrinus. I saw it…”

There was a murmur in the room at her response, some senators exchanging glances, others looking down at their scrolls in preparation for the next statement. Lucius didn’t seem surprised. His expression remained impassive as he looked back at the senators.

“The Senate will now deliberate,” Lucius said, gesturing for the first speaker to approach.

An older senator, his face lined with the marks of years of manipulation and power, stood and addressed the assembly with a voice that held no softness.

"Empress Aurelia, you have been a figurehead of the old regime. Whether or not you directly plotted the deaths of Geta and Caracalla is immaterial. You were Geta’s wife. You were complicit in their actions, and you knew the risks of such alliances." His words were harsh, accusatory, but there was no fury in them—just a cold, calculated desire to secure his place in the new order.

“You are a widow. We understand the grief of losing a husband, but you should know better than anyone that this is not a matter of emotion. This is a matter of stability for Rome. Your presence here is a threat. Your family’s bloodline is a reminder of a Rome that no longer serves its purpose.”

Aurelia’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. The senator’s words hit her like a blow, and yet, she held her ground. Stability for Rome? What was the point of Rome without love, without people who truly cared for the well-being of its citizens?

“Empress, the Senate proposes that you be executed for your role in this treason,” the senator continued. “For the good of the empire.”

Her heart pounded, but she did not flinch. This was not about her. This was about politics. This was about control. They would say anything to justify their thirst for power.

Another senator rose, younger than the first, with a look of thinly veiled disdain on his face. He glanced at Aurelia with a slight sneer.

“Though I do not fully support the accusations of complicity, the death of two emperors and the subsequent collapse of their line cannot be ignored,” he said. “Her very existence challenges the new order of the empire. If she is not put to death, then what is to prevent others from following her path? I suggest we put the question to the emperor: If not death, then marriage. Let her be a bride to the new emperor, a tool to bring the people of Rome together, to prevent further dissent. What better way to silence any rumors of betrayal than to unite her with Emperor Lucius?”

The words struck Aurelia like a blow to the chest. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her knees tremble slightly as the full weight of the situation pressed down on her.

Lucius stood silently beside her, his gaze fixed ahead. She could feel him watching her, his presence a constant reminder that, even in this moment of supposed judgment, he was the one who held the final say. He had given her the choice before, but now it seemed to be a cruel trap—a way to dispose of her without the bloodshed that would come with execution. A way to use her as a pawn, to bind her to him, to secure his claim to the throne.

Aurelia’s voice, though barely a whisper, broke through the growing tension in the room. “You think marriage to him will erase everything?” she spat, her eyes now blazing with anger. “You think that will make me a loyal subject of Rome, after everything you’ve done?”

Lucius’s gaze turned toward her, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, but the weight of his presence seemed to fill the room. His silence spoke volumes. Aurelia knew that, in the end, her fate would be decided by him.

The senators shifted uneasily, waiting for his verdict.

Finally, Lucius raised his hand, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Enough,” he said, his tone firm. “The Senate has spoken. I offer Aurelia the choice of her fate: death, or marriage to me. If she chooses to live, she will be bound to me, not only as my wife but as the symbol of the stability I will bring to Rome. And if she chooses death…” He paused, his eyes briefly meeting hers before he turned away. “So be it.”

Aurelia looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and sorrow. This was it. This was the end of everything. Her heart, which had once been full of hope and love, now felt empty, hollow.

Her life would never be her own again.

The Senate waited. The room held its breath.

And Aurelia was forced to make a choice.

“Give me an hour and I will give my answer to Emperor Lucius myself,” Aurelia says. “You’ll have your answer no later or no earlier than that.”

Aurelia stood before the great marble columns of the Imperial Palace, the cold stone pressing against her back as if it could steady her trembling bones. Her mind raced, her heart a fluttering bird caught in a cage. Everything that had happened in the last few days felt like a blur—a dream, perhaps, or a nightmare. The death of Geta and Caracalla. The rise of Macrinus and his ultimate betrayal. And now, the demand to marry Lucius Verus.

The Senate had spoken. The Emperors had been murdered, and the city of Rome was in turmoil. But it was Lucius, not the Senate, who now held power. He was the son of Lucilla, and by blood, he had the right to rule. And yet… he was not the one who had killed Geta and Caracalla. The murder had been orchestrated by Macrinus, but now, the world had spun into chaos, and Rome needed stability.

And so, the question had been asked.

Would she marry Lucius Verus to solidify his claim to the throne? Or would she die just because she was the wife of the previous emperor? 

Was she lucky to even had the choice?

The air in the room was thick with expectation. The door behind her creaked as it opened, and Aurelia didn’t need to turn to know who stood there. She could feel his presence as if it were a tangible thing, heavy like the weight of the empire itself.

Lucius Verus.

The man who was now the Emperor of Rome, not by his own doing, but by circumstance. The gladiator who had risen from the sands of the arena, who had fought for his freedom only to be forced into the throne by the whims of a crumbling empire.

“Do you know why I am here, Aurelia?” His voice was deep, steady, but there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps a sense of duty. Or perhaps… uncertainty.

She didn’t turn to face him immediately, though she could hear the soft echo of his footsteps as he crossed the room. It felt almost like a finality. She could already hear the whispers of the Senate, the people, the court.

It was already decided.

Turning slowly, she met his gaze, her eyes steady. He stood confident with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to always know more than they should. Today, however, there was something else in them, something that perhaps even he didn’t understand: a flicker of vulnerability.

“I know why you are here, Lucius,” Aurelia replied, her voice cold, controlled. “You want your answer. I promised you that in the senate this morning.”

She didn’t let her anger spill over, though it burned at the edges of her words. Instead, she forced herself to focus, to look at him as though this were just another political arrangement, another moment where she could maintain control. She was used to power plays—she had been married to Geta, after all. But this… this felt different.

Lucius’s expression softened, as if her words had stung, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he took another step closer, lowering his voice.

“No one is forcing you, Aurelia,” he said. “You still have a choice. I won’t have you marrying me out of fear. It’s not just your life at stake now. The future of Rome is as well.”

Her eyes flashed with a mixture of disbelief and bitterness. “And you think I care about Rome’s future? Rome’s future died with my husband. And my brother-in-law.” Her voice cracked, but she quickly regained control.

Lucius watched her silently, his jaw clenched. He could see the weight of grief in her eyes, the anger—familiar, raw, the same kind of anger that had been in his own heart when he first stepped into the Senate after the deaths of Caracalla and Geta. He had learned to control it, to channel it into something else. For Aurelia, that was still a battle she hadn’t won.

“You’re angry,” Lucius said softly, almost as though he were stating a fact. “I understand that. But if you don’t marry me, Rome will spiral into chaos. This empire needs unity. It needs strength. I can give that to it, if you help me.”

“And you think you can just take this position, Lucius?” Aurelia snapped, stepping forward, her hand gripping the edge of the table in front of her. “This is not something you can simply inherit. This marriage is a farce. You think Rome will rally behind the son of Lucilla? A man who was raised in Numidia, a gladiator, forced into the games, used as nothing more than a pawn?”

His gaze flickered, but he didn’t move. “I am not a pawn and neither are you, Aurelia.”

She scoffed bitterly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Aren’t I? Tell me—what happens to me if I refuse? Do you execute me in front of the Senate? Do you have me dragged through the streets like a common criminal? Because that is all I am, isn’t it? A widow with no place in this empire.”

Lucius’s expression darkened for a moment. There was no cruelty in his eyes—no harshness—but there was a kind of desperation there, buried just beneath the surface. His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it now, an urgency she hadn’t expected.

“I will not kill you,” he said. “However if you don’t marry me, the Senate will see you as a threat. You know that as well as I do. They’ll find a way to dispose of you. If not through execution, then through a thousand other means. I’m trying to protect you and Rome.”

Her eyes narrowed, studying him carefully. She had always been good at reading people—good at seeing through their facades, their masks. But Lucius was different. His words, his actions, his very presence were all so… contradictory. There was something about him that felt real. Something that felt honest. He wasn’t just playing a role. He was truly trying to protect her—and Rome—but at what cost?

And that was the question she had to answer now.

Aurelia looked down at her hands, fingers trembling slightly as she worked to control her emotions. There was no real choice, was there? Either she married him, or she died. Either she helped Lucius rule Rome or die, erased from history.

There was something else in her mind. A flicker of realization. If she married Lucius, she would remain at his side—able to influence his decisions, to perhaps steer him away from the path that had already been carved out for him. If she married him, she could still be somebody in this empire. She could still matter.

“Why me?” she asked, her voice quiet now, softer than she intended. “Why not someone else? Someone who truly loves you, who wants to share this life with you?”

Lucius hesitated, his gaze steady, and for a moment, Aurelia could have sworn she saw a flicker of something deeper, something more intimate.

“Because you are the empress of Rome,” he said simply. “And despite everything that has happened, you have strength. More than anyone else in this empire. I need that strength by my side.”

The words hit her like a stone. Strength. Not love. Not affection. But strength.

And yet, in that moment, Aurelia knew what she had to do. There was no escape. No retreat. She could fight it all she wanted, but the only path forward was through him.

“Fine,” she said, her voice flat. “I will marry you. But don’t think for a second that I will ever love you. Not like I loved Geta. And not like you want me to.”

Lucius’s expression softened, but there was no joy in it, no relief. He merely nodded, as if he had expected her answer, but it did not lessen the weight of it.

As he stepped forward to place a hand on her shoulder—an uncertain gesture—Aurelia stood still, rigid, her eyes hard, her heart closed off.

Rome had taken everything from her.

And now it had taken her heart, too.

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

JJK FF/ROYAL GUARD

CHAPTER TEN | SERIES

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

Ch. 3

Ch. 4

Ch. 5

Ch. 6

Ch. 7

Ch. 8

Ch. 9

Ch. 10

When you keep bumping into your personal royal guard by accident not knowing he is your guardian angel

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook!fallen angel!royal guard! × fem!reader!virgin!princess

Word count: 2.1k

Rating: 15+

Genre + warnings: Fluff, paranormal romance, historical fanfiction, Kook being cold and mysterious, being his sexy self. Caring and possessive!jk! Really horny towards his princess, being a big seductive tease. Dead bodies - corpses and much blood. JK kills everyone who dares to hurt his princess. MAKES PROMISES TO BE SAFE. The story isn’t real, just my imagination running wild so just enjoy reading!

a/n: Finally a small update, guys! I will stop making excuses and will hope you will not kill me for vanishing like every time I promise coming back sooner but still...yeah. I hope you forgive me.

You were standing by the large window.

The castle’s walls seemed to surround you.

The windows let out on a long stretch of fields leading to the border of the woods.

Since your fallen angel left, it has been three hours  since Jungkook disappeared. Three more hours without food; three hours without hearing news or seeing anyone besides the servants running around like little heads in a tornado.

It made you restless.

Your legs started moving before your mind did. The white dress was fluttering behind you while you walked through the corridor.

It’s been three hours.

Three more hours and no updates. Your thoughts were racing and your stomach was growling. But there was nothing you could do, nothing you can say, until Jungkook returns.

As you turned the corner into the hall where the servants and guards resided, you stopped suddenly. Something was wrong.

You frowned.

As you neared the palace exit, a witch-maid stopped you before you can leave further.

“I’m sorry, my queen but the king didn’t allowed you to leave the castle for safety reasons. We still are under attack,”  the female servant said apologetically. “Please return to your chambers.”

She tried to take your hands, which you quickly pushed away.

What were they thinking?

That Jungkook would come back in less than ten minutes?

No. Jungkook wouldn’t. Not now.

He is probably dead. Killed by vampires, maybe. Maybe captured in battle and taken prisoner. What if he got hurt?

No. He’d never let a vampire touch him unless…unless…

You ran outside and searched in every part of the grounds. No sign of him anywhere.

Then why the hell haven’t you heard anything yet?!

‘I’m not letting any vampire near my guard,’ you thought fiercely. ‘And if they do get near my angel, I swear to God...’

Looking up, the sun is barely visible. A thin veil of clouds covering half the sky, dark grey.

There was no sign of any vampire in sight.

Where the heck is everyone if there is attack?!

Tears welled in your eyes as you sat down on the ground and leaned your back against the stone wall of the castle’s exterior. There was a small pond a few meters to your side, a beautiful blue lake reflecting the sky above it. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, casting an eery orange light over everything in the vicinity.

Your heart was beating fast, threatening to burst through your ribcage. Tears stinging your eyelids, you felt your cheeks getting wet.

You wiped your tears off angrily. You are being foolish.

Jungkook wouldn't be dead. He can fight for himself but he knows how much you love him and if something happened to him…

Oh god, please don't let something happen to him. He’s strong but he's too young to die. Please God, let him be okay. Let him survive.

Jungkook’s POV

The sun was setting when Jungkook flew over the woods of his territory with his sword in hand, prepared to defend his home.

As he descended closer, he noticed many vampires fighting against the guards on the other end of the forest clearing.

With the sharp edge of his sword ready to strike, he landed heavily between several vampires, sending them flying to different parts of the field.

His presence was enough to scare most of them away, leaving two vampires with their backs turned towards him who weren’t afraid of him whatsoever.

Without hesitation Jungkook lunged forward with his sword and stabbed one of the vampires in the back with all his force.

His opponent fell, unconscious and bleeding, but still alive.

Jungkook ignored him as he jumped to the other vampire, slashing his blade across his throat before landing behind the first one again to stab him in the back.

Two vampires had surrounded Jungkook.

One with blonde hair, the other with red. They charged at him simultaneously.

Jungkook dodged each of them with ease.

Suddenly, the blood lust filled air vanished.

A cold, piercing sound echoed through the forest.

In a matter of seconds, the second vampire was dead. His eyes staring wide open as if asking for help and pain. The red head also fell lifelessly onto the ground.

Blood flowing from his neck, he didn’t have a chance to scream.

Slicing remaining vampires in half, the blood was the only thing left on him when he finally finished. Seeing his guards dead, he could only  watch them fall and the bodies turn pale and gray, their skin wrinkling and turning into dust.

The other vampires that were still around looked at him with horror and shock.

They wanted to run. They wanted to kill him.

But they couldn’t move, not a single muscle in their bodies dared to move; not even their hearts.

“You’ve been warned,” he snarled,” Attack what’s mine again, you will be taken as my trophies  for all eternity."

The vampires began fleeing after that, screaming in fear and terror.

Jungkook took out the swords he used in the fight, sheathing them neatly once again, before turning to look around.

Death’s  scent was everywhere. Blood was smeared everywhere, along with some pieces of flesh scattered throughout the area.

The bodies of his guards lay sprawled all over the ground. Their faces twisted and bloody, covered in dirt.

Jungkook closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

Now since the danger was gone, the only thought on his mind was you.

When he opened his eyes, he could already see you.

You were walking out of the forest, your face pale and frightened.

He didn’t need to look at you to know that the blood from these deaths must have affected you greatly. As if sensing him, your eyes met his, a look of complete devastation and sorrow filling their depths.

“Jungkook,” you whispered in fear, looking around the field as though searching for enemy still lurking by but there was no one left alive except for the king himself.

His jaw clenched when he spotted you, knowing you have disobeyed his order for you to stay at the castle. His guards haven’t stopped you from leaving and now you’re here, in the middle of the battlefield which is no place for someone like you.

Looking like an angel in a white dress, Jungkook looked ready to kill again when you slowly approached  him.

The wind was playing with his raven hair, dancing through his bangs and causing small droplets of sweat to roll down his body.

He looked like a predator waiting for its prey to come close and bite it.

Your gaze flickered between the corpses laid on the ground, their eyes frozen in fear and pain.

Y/n POV

Seeing your angel in the middle of that made you realize how strong he really is.

The blood was on his armor and even his face scarf. His eyes were the only thing holding you steady as you dared to walk forward.

His chest was rising up and down.

“What are you doing here, princess?”  he asked harshly, making your body shiver.

You looked down at the ground, ashamed of yourself.

Why were you so careless? You shouldn’t be here! It’s dangerous. Too dangerous to be out here alone!

How long have you been standing here? Did you hear the screams of vampires earlier? Did you hear them running away?

Did you hear them dying? Did you understand what was happening?

Your hands trembled as you looked at the bodies laying on the floor; lifeless.

“Answer me.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he grabbed your chin roughly, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Princess. Why are you here? Answer me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart thumping painfully inside your chest.

After a moment, you answered in a weak voice, “I just wanted to go for a little walk. I lost track of time and ended up here.”

His grip on your chin tightened and his lips curved in anger.

“You’re such a liar, love.”

Before you know, he kneels in front of you. Putting his sword on the ground, he takes your hands in his.

“You shouldn’t be here. What you did was dangerous. How can I protect you when you don’t listen to me? You would have been captured on the way here, possibly killed by those bloodsucking monsters!”

“I’m sorry Jungkook. But I just wanted to make sure no one hurt you. I know you can defend yourself just fine but…”

“It doesn’t stop you from worrying. And I appreciate it very much, but you don’t have to do this. I am stronger than these creatures.”

“But you don’t always have to be. You’ll get attacked by them sooner or later, you know. You won't be able to take them down with a sword on your own. Sooner or later, they'll find you.”

“No they won’t. This forest is protected by powerful magic. My kingdom is safe as long I’m here.” He explained, trying to reassure you.

“But not enough to attack this place?” You inquired quietly.

“Someone tipped me off. That’s why they got inside. No one without my magic permission can go through the barrier of this land. Its separates the human world.”

“So they can still be out there and continue to attack,”  you said bitterly.

“That’s why I must kill them all.” Jungkook declared, determination in his voice.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to escape and fall down your cheeks at any moment.

You quickly wiped away any evidence of your weakness before looking into his eyes with a determined look of your own.

Before you can chicken out, you step closer to him when he is back to standing position. His eyes darken when he notices the movement, his nostrils flaring when your scent washes over with the death smell all over the field.

It was like a flower has bloomed in the middle of the grave, filling his whole being with the sweet fragrance of your happiness and life.

You stood on your tiptoes while he stood on his, looking at him intently in the eyes.

His gaze never wavers. Neither does yours.

Neither of you breaks eye contact until finally you pull him towards you, hooking one finger underneath his mask, playing with the seam of the fabric slowly.

“What are you doing, darling?” His voice is husky, full of desire for you even it was wrong in that moment.

How can you touch him like this after he has slaughtered every vampire? He had blood on his hands and corpses still laid all around you so how come you’re not afraid to touch him?

“Making sure you’re not hurt,” you whisper, lifting his mask to reveal a strong jawline who can cut steel and lips that look tempting yet deadly.

He stares back at you, the intensity in his eyes making you want to drown in his eyes forever. He grabs your waist, pulling you against him tightly, his hand caressing your lower back, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin cloth of your dress.

“You’re making this harder for me, princess. You can’t stay here longer. It’s dangerous,”  he says softly, leaning closer to you, his hot breath fanning your cold skin as he whispers.

"I don’t care.” You say, closing the gap between your lips and pressing them softly onto his.

At first, he tried to push you away.

But the minute you parted your lips to deepen the kiss, he gave up.

As your tongue ran along his bottom lip, tasting each other, you wrapped your arms around his neck while he gripped both sides of your waist.

He lifted you easily in his arm and you placed your legs around his hips, holding on tightly when you felt yourself getting dizzy and lightheaded.

Lifting up into the sky, you almost scream when you realize that he has intended to fly you back to the castle. His wings even through the mist shine with the specks of light that peeked from the clouds.

Not daring to look down because of your fear of heights, some minutes later you brace yourself for landing when he flaps his wings to stop his  speed abruptly, causing you to cling onto him like a koala.

When he puts you down gently on your feet, you let out a soft sigh of relief.

Jungkook pulled you in his arms, cradling you close and soothing you as best he could.

“I’m sorry, baby. Didn’t want to startle you like that. I just can’t imagine you walking through that mess.  It must have been terrifying.” He whispered tenderly, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You leaned into his touch, melting at the sound of his deep, rumbling voice calling you baby in that loving way of his, feeling warmth blossom inside your chest.

Feeling safe. Protected.

“You need to stay indoors while I go back to finish the job. Someone still can be lurking in the shadows and watching us so we have to take precautions,”  he says sternly, grabbing the hilt of his sword and taking a few steps backward as he looked behind him.

“Come back to me safe, please.” You pleaded.

He sighed as he turned around, walking towards you again.

He reached out to caress your cheek once more before giving you a soft smile.

“I promise you.”

You nodded as he took off with a flap of his wings. The air surrounding him seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow, the wind caressing his skin like a lover as his figure disappears among the thick mist in the distance.

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