#has been sent down from heaven by god herself

[aaandbackstabbed]

You know that feeling where you have never ever ever been able to draw people not to save your life especially not faces but you get really into a fandom and you really want to contribute to the beautiful fan art of your favourite character (which there isn’t much of as it’s a small fandoms even worse she’s a lesser character) so you then decide “oh I’ll just try myself.”

And then crashing realisation that there’s a reason you haven’t tried before and maybe I should just stick to my lane.

But it’s too late now so here I am spending years of my life trying find references pictures because I cannot draw without one unless I want Goldie to look like she snuck on to earth.

And I’m this close to giving and probably would have if not for my overwhelmingly stubborn nature

I must continue. Failure is not an option.

No? Just me?

Send help *holding back tears*

[yameoto]

SUPERNOVA CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

kpop idol caitlyn X her insatiably horny junior

"Noona is so cool!"  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—" Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.” You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3

notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus

CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.

“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?” 

“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.

The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.

You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.

“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.

“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?” 

Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.

Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny. 

“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).

“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors. 

“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?”  You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.

“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start. 

You’re really starting to hate this song.

“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“You work yourself too hard.”

You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.

“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.

“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.

“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior  since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.” 

That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)

That’s in public, though. In private? 

Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.

“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.

“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”

Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.

Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).

In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.

“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.

“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.

“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.

There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal. 

Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.

“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory. 

“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom. 

“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.

So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch. 

Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.

Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.

“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.

“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.

It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.

“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.

Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.

But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.

Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck. 

Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck. 

“Ahnngh—Cait—”  

“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.

“Unnie—”

“Ah-ah.”

“Sunbae.” 

“Mm. That’s better.”

Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.

“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—” 

Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.

“Ah-ah—fuck!”

The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem. 

You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.

“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”

“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.

Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.

It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.

“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.

“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”

“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.” 

“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.

“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”

Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.

You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too. 

Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too. 

The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.

Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.

“Noona is so cool!”  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”

“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.

“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”

“I am not!”

“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”

Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.

She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.

“You know I hate it when you read those.”

“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”

She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).

Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”

Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”

You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll. 

“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”

Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”

Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?” 

Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.

There we go.

“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”

Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.

Just. Only yours. 

“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”

“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“

Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy. 

“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation. 

You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.

Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.

“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”

Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.

A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.

If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname! 

“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”

Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.

“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.

“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”

In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.

“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?” 

Oh, you're really pushing it, now. 

“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.

“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”

She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—

“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter. 

(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”

“You referred to her in third-person.”

“..Please just suck me off already.”)

[m3lodyxo]

Salvation for the damned

Priest!Sanji x fem!Reader smut

Minors, do not interact!!!

Author's note: This is my first smut, go easy on me. I'm not used to actually posting what I write. Ever since I saw @hunnismokah 's fanart of Sanji as a priest I haven't had a WINK of sleep. She has unleashed something feral into the world.

Warning: if you're uncomfortable with themes of religion, I'll advise you to scroll away.

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

"What is troubling you, my child?"

Sanji fancied himself a man of God. From a young age, he knew his role in life was to serve The All Mighty and help lost souls find the right path again.

He gave an Oath, and swore his body, mind and soul to The Lord, in promise to never stray from the path of light. And Sanji was a man of his word. Hence why he was sure you were sent by the Judge Of All, to test his strength and devotion.

Oh, you were the most angelic being he had ever laid eyes upon. Or at least so he thought, because, in truth, he saw you as a temptation crafted by The Devil specifically to torture him. And as much as he prayed and kneeled before God, begging for expiation, you wouldn't leave. As hard as he cried out to the heavens for a chance to atone, his screams were never heard.

You would always creep into his dreams, where he was most vulnerable, and force him into sin. You were a foul succubus, the daughter of Satan, and you have come to ensure his fall.

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

"Father, I must atone for these terrible sins I've committed against the Holy One."

He hadn't expected you to turn up so late, looking deeply troubled near the Church's entrance. He let you in without a second thought, and as soon as you reached the altar, you dropped down to your knees, your hands clasped together, looking up at him in desperation.

His face softened and he smiled ever so slightly. He was glad you finally decided to turn yourself over to The Light. Sanji lifted his hand over your head and spoke with firmness in his voice.

"Speak now child, lay yourself bare before The Lord and share your troubles. Pray that He may forgive you."

He felt closest to God during confessions. It was as if The All Mighty spoke through him, accepting the wrongs of those before him into his heart and engulfing them in pure holy light.

"I've been plagued by impure thoughts, Father. The sin of Lust and Desire has claimed me and shackled me in its repulsive hold and I have become its slave."

Through the silence, a shaky breath was all that could be heard. Sanji felt his body shudder and pool in a cold sweat, a chill running down his spine. His knees were so weak he thought he might keel over any moment now, had he not been holding Saint Patrick's Cross so tightly in his other hand.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Sanji composed himself. Right now, he had to help this poor woman redeem herself before The Lord.

"Very good, my child. The first step to redemption is seeking out the forgiveness of God. Stand."

You did as you were told immediately, without asking a single question. Good. The expectant look in your eyes could melt the resolve of the most cold-hearted man, had you only wished to do so.

"For your heinous crimes, you shall face punishment, and you shall suffer, and you shall be freed. Now, are you ready to carry out God's task?"

Oh, that spark in your eyes. He could almost feel the devotion radiate off your body into zaps of energy. Almost. "I am ready, Father. I swear that I will do whatever it is The Lord asks of me."

Before you even finished speaking, he had already turned around and instructed you to follow him.

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

Not before long, you found yourself in his private quarters. Just as you were about to question why, he called out to you, and you answered. Sanji was sat at the edge of his bed, looking up at you with a gentle smile adorning his face.

"Kneel, child."

You sank back to your knees, reaching out with your hands and hesitantly placing them atop his own, all while looking at him. He extended his hand to you and gently cupped your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

Breath caught in your throat, you dared not utter a word, lest all kinds of sinful thoughts escape through, in-between your teeth.

"Do you know what you must do?" You could feel his thumb brush across your plush lips and pull the bottom one down.

"Yes, Father."

Sanji felt your hands drag up his thighs and settle on the zipper of his pants. He held back a groan at the feeling of your hands on him, inhaling sharply once you pulled his cock out and sat up on your knees to press a featherlight kiss to the tip.

You licked your lips and pressed one more kiss to it before wrapping them around the head, sucking lightly. He let out a gasp and shut his eyes, basking in the way your perfect lips wrapped so well around the head of his dick. Sanji felt you pull away and opened his eyes only to see you spit on his cock and wrap a hand around to stroke him. Your palm so soft and gentle, your pace slow and sensual, easing him into the feeling of your skin pressed to his. He was trying so hard not to let out soft moans of pleasure as you touched him, your skin igniting a spark in him that ate away at his soul deliciously so.

He could feel sin seep through his skin and into his heart, pulling him away from all that he deemed right, enticing him to beg for more. But he couldn't allow it, couldn't allow to lose himself to such carnal desires.

His resolve, however, faltered the second you took him into your mouth again. Enveloping his cock in its warmth and continuing to stroke whatever you failed to fit with your hand. Sanji let out a whine, and pressed his palm to the back of your head, keeping you in place. You had long since closed your eyes, basking in the feeling of him filling up your mouth, making you imagine what it would feel like for him to bury himself deep inside you and claim you as his.

Oh, you've dreamed of him for so long. You knew it was wrong to want a man of God, selfish, to wish he'd devote himself to you instead. You'd stay awake at night, desperately pumping your fingers to feel even the slightest relief, but your body knew what it wanted. And it wanted it badly.

Whatever you did, you couldn't satisfy your hunger for the man, and tonight, after hopelessly trying to chaise you high for hours and failing miserably, you decided enough was enough. You had to have him.

Snapping back into the present, you moved your tongue against him, hearing him let out yet another sinful cry, tears threatening to spill over his eyes. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing. Sanji tugged on your hair, and a moan escaped your throat, making him mewl in ecstasy.

He could feel a knot begin to form, like a balloon ready to burst, so he pushed you away, panting.

You looked up at him, confused. Had he not enjoyed himself? Did he perhaps change his mind? Maybe he finally realised how wretched you were.

"Come, sit." You wasted no time in hastily removing your bottoms and straddling his lap. Sanji placed both his hands on your hips, pressing gentle kisses to your neck and collarbone. A sigh left his lips when he felt your fingers swiftly undoing his ponytail and running your fingers through his long, golden locks of hair.

You aligned yourself up with his cock and sank, taking him in inch by delicious inch, filling yourself. Once you finally fit him all inside, a breath of relief left you.

He was still pressed closely to your chest, holding you tightly and squeezing your hips as if you'd disappear should he let go. And his grip became tighter once you started moving. Sanji felt like he'd lose his mind by how tight, wet and warm your walls were, pulsating and squeezing around him and greedily sucking him in.

"Father...please." Your voice was so weak as if the wind was knocked out of you, leaving you gasping and craving for more. He groaned and tried to meet your hips with his, thrusting up into your cunt in chase of the pleasure engulfing him whole.

"Fuck, you feel so good my sweet." He was quickly losing himself in you. Breathing in your scent and feeling it fill up his lungs, it was almost as if his mind was spiralling into insanity.

"Call me by my name...Let me hear you say it." You could barely register what he was asking of you, too drunk on the feeling of the man you've been craving for so long finally giving you what you've been wanting.

"Sanji, please don't stop." A shameless whine interrupted you. You couldn't form coherent thoughts anymore. All you could think about was him and how good he was making you feel.

He just kissed your forehead and began fucking into you harder, hitting that special spot deep inside you every time. He knew you were close by the way you tightened so much around him, it was evident.

"I know darling, 'm close too. Fuck- Been dreaming about this pussy for months. Been dreaming of filling it up to the brim with my cum. Is that what you want love? For me to paint your insides white?"

All you could do was throw your head back and moan like an animal in heat, desperately moving your hips to chase that high.

"Use your words, sweetness. Tell me you want it." He didn't falter in his movements, keeping up the brutal pace and abusing your cunt, set on hearing you.

You locked your eyes with his, barely able to keep them open. "Want your cum Sanji, please give it to me. Want you to fill me up." He groaned, hearing you barely get out the words, too focused on the pleasure he was giving you.

"Since you asked so nicely, you better take it all." You could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as you tipped over the edge, his words alone making you lose your mind. You moaned out his name again and again, like a prayer and he felt that knot finally snap.

With a final thrust of his hips, Sanji came, spilling deep inside you, painting your walls white. You felt your insides warm up as you milked him of every last drop until he was spent.

With both of you panting, he gripped your face with one hand to make you face him again and asked. "What do you say now?"

"Thank you, Father."

[0oolookitsme]

i really really loved baby it's cold outside. the blushiness had me squealing can we has more pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee<3

Burning Up

You sent this request in long, long ago, bestie anon, and I just hope that you'll see and enjoy reading this fic!! I'm sorry for taking so long! I just wanna tell you that this fic has equal amounts of blushiness as 'baby it's cold outside', so it only felt right to attach your ask to this!

Verse - Dwd!Harry x Dwd!Y/n

Word Count - 2.0k

Warnings - Mentions of puke, fever, and passing out.

Harry is sick, and Y/n is panicking because she isn't quite sure how one takes care of a sick person, plus, she can't even cook well enough! But, as she takes care of him, it's like time slows down, and then speeds back up -- just like her heart each time that he lazily smiles at her.

"Harry!" Shrieking, Y/n rushed forward. Heart thudding, she crouched beside his slumped figure and turned him so his head was in her lap. He had been puking, she realised.

"Oh my god, Harry," her voice wavered, trying to get up and bring him with her. "You're burning up," she said to no one in particular, sweat breaking on her forehead as she felt some slip down her back as well.

She took in deep breaths, telling herself that it wasn't anything as bad as the conclusion her frantic mind had jumped to upon first sight. It was just a fever, a very high one at that.

Had she not woken up to use the bathroom, she wouldn’t even have realised that he was out of bed, and passed out on the bathroom floor!

With one hand, she flushed the toilet before clutching his wrist, hanging his arm across her shoulders. His head, on the other side, had slumped off her shoulder and was now brushing against her chest – but she couldn’t have been less bothered about that.

"This is bad, oh this is so bad," she shook her head, face palming herself in her head for not realising earlier that he was running a fever. For accepting his plee and sleeping before he had arrived home, because he was going to work a little later.

"Oh lord," she breathed, staggering forward but making sure that neither of them fell. "It's alright, we're gonna get you to bed," she reassured, not sure if him or herself.

Dropping him on the bed, she cursed when she realised that he had slumped over top of the blanket. Oh, she wasn’t strong enough for all of this!

Still, somehow, she managed to thank the heavens above that he had changed his clothes while raising his legs to get the blanket out from beneath him, proceeding to drape it over his lower half.

His torsos was almost in place, he just needed to move a little up in order to fit his legs.

“Please lord, just make sure he doesn't open his eyes for this one.” She muttered under her breath before crossing one of her legs over his lap.

Getting up on her knees she climbed a little higher so she was now hovering over his stomach, and then raised his shoulders through his armpits and pushed him up, cussing again when he stirred awake.

Of course, he woke up during this. Her breasts were in his face right now and he woke up!

"Y/n?" He croaked out, and Y/n almost flinched due to how hoarse his voice had gotten.

"Yes, yes," she rushed, getting off of him, onto the other side of the bed. "I'm right here."

She watched him heave a breath, before a smile pulled up on his mouth.

"You know, that was a nice view," he chuckled, face scrunching when a fit of cough followed.

With narrowed eyes, "you're hot," she stated.

"I know, love, but now's not the time," he managed to say.

Gasping loudly, Y/n covered her face. "I'm talking about your temperature, oh my god!"

Harry laughed at that, painfully coughing afterwards and closing his eyes due to the pure exhaustion, mumbling something.

"What was that, again?" Y/n asked, leaning in to hear him properly.

He mumbled again, something incoherent but Y/n could tell he had spoken something different from what he'd said earlier.

"I know I should've made you wear a coat," she shook her head, sighing with a slump of her frame.

But then, it was as if her senses knocked back into her. "God, what am even I doing," she smacked herself on the forehead before scurrying off of the bed and rushing to the kitchen.

She wet a towel there, throwing all of the ice they had left in the freezer into a large bowl before filling it with water. She dipped the small towel in it, squeezed out the water and walked back to the room carefully.

He seemed to have fallen asleep, so Y/n quickly folded the towel and put it on his head before rushing back to the kitchen to make a soup out of the little grocery they had at home.

It wasn't really her fault, it was the weekend, so, of course they were running out on fruits and vegetables.

So, almost on an autopilot brain, she took the frozen Kale from the fridge. Then, began collecting the ingredients. An onion, a garlic, some beans and potatos -- wait, he doesn't like potatoes in his soup, she remembered and put the two she'd picked out, back. A few Thyme Sprigs caught her eye and she snatched them, before adding a lemon into the small makeshift bowl her palm was right now.

And lastly, with a scrunched-up nose, she picked up the packaged chicken tenders from the freezer. Because whilst she did love herself some chicken, she couldn't, for the love of god, cook some herself because the feel of it made her sick to her stomach.

Once she had all of the ingredients set out, she rushed back to the room to check on Harry. He looked asleep, but she knew better. So, taking the towel off his forehead, she refreshed it in the ice bowl and put it back.

She got up afterwards and before she could've walked farther, Harry caught ahold of her hand. She turned to look, and his eyes were barely open but still set on her with a lazy smile on his mouth.

"Thank you," he rasped out.

An embarrassed smile grew on her lips. "Of course," she whispered before taking off towards the kitchen again, this time, burning up herself.

This was going to take longer than she wanted, so she began to move through the recipe as quickly as she could. Which was how, ten minutes into cooking, she cut herself a little on the finger while dicing the onions.

Hissing, she hurriedly wrapped a bandage around it and got back to work, hoping and praying that Harry was asleep and not in utter need of her. Although that would be flattering, it still wouldn't be practical.

Cooking wasn't her best skill. So many things, Harry had taught her how to cook when he'd married her about eight months ago. But she knew that something was better than nothing -- so what if the soup ended up tasting disgusting, at least she'd have something hot and healthy to feed him!

And as she was stirring the Kale into the soup to wilt and soften it, she wished nothing more than for her past self to buy a freaking booklet on how to take care of a sick person, because she was decently convinced that abandoning them for more than thirty minutes was not a part of it.

A creaking sound went to her ears, and she shrieked, jumping around only to see her half-asleep husband walking with all his might.

"What are you doing out of bed!" She panicked, walking over to support his heavy frame in some way.

"Oh, for the love of god, I need to pee," Harry grumbled, letting her drape his arm on her shoulder and walk him to the bathroom.

"Could've called me, you!"

Harry only mumbled some incoherent nonsense at that, waving her off before he seemed to realise how rude he was being.

So, just as incoherently, he uttered an apology to her and remembered nothing more than her laying him down on bed and falling on top of him because he laid down before she could've removed her arm.

That, felt nice. Almost every waking second that he spent near her, he just wished he could be a little bit nearer, hold her, maybe. Their marriage still felt so new, and he could tell that she wanted to take things slow.

And while he understood and respected that, he could also tell that he was falling for her as they grew closer and closer each day. He could see the frequency of the smaller and way more vulnerable gestures that sent shockwaves through him, increasing rapidly, like a wildfire. 

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry," she blabbered, rushing to get off of him and pulling her shirt down, face utterly flushed and breathing suddenly heavy.

She got flustered so easily, and so often, that he worried her heart was going to fall out of her chest some day. 

And as she was walking out of the room, she heard a small chuckle pass his throat, causing her to smack herself on the forehead.

Rushing the last couple steps to turn off the stove, she leaned on the kitchen counter to catch herself a breather. This man was going to be the death of her.

She took out some of the soup in a small bowl and put it down before taking some ibuprofen in her other palm. Then, still blushing, she walked back to the bedroom they shared.

"You hadn't taken any medicine before, had you?" She asked, and when he just mumbled something, she knew it was going to be hell of a work to get the soup into his system. She just wished she could inject it in, because she would need to be way too close to him to feed him in a normal way.

Placing the soup on the bedside table, she sat beside him and placed her hands behind his back as he began to get up. Shifting so she was sat facing him, she picked back up the bowl and began stirring it with the spoon.

"Here," she muttered, blowing on the spoon before bringing it to his mouth, her eyes unable to remain still.

He swallowed the soup, and a smile came up on his face. "Feels nice," he whispered, before opening his mouth for the next spoonful.

The same thing kept repeating and slowly, Y/n's eyes settled on his blissful face. She needed to wipe off the sweat on his face, she realised.

"Is it any good?" She asked softly, wiping the soup slipping down his chin with her fingers.

He nodded at that, looking at her in a way she couldn't quite describe. And she hated it when he did that because it made her feel things. Something erupted inside her chest, blood rushed to her face, and it felt funny in her in her stomach.

His head was tilted to the side, and he was looking at her without a blink of an eye. He was staring. Didn't he know staring was bad? She wondered, her eyes looking anywhere but at him.

Upon the last bit, she got up and passed the pill to him, helping him with drinking water. She walked off to the kitchen again, putting the dish in the sink before she went back to him with another towel, this time gently wiping his face.

"Can I have another blanket?" She heard him ask when she was squeezing his previous towel rid of the excessive water.

A chuckle passed her mouth then, making him smile with his eyes closed. "Do you really think that's a good idea, darling?"

Immediately, her eyes widened at the realisation of what she'd just called him.

"Darling, hm?" Of course, he heard it. "I like that," he chuckled, falling into a fit of coughs soon after.

Placing the cold towel on his forehead, she raised his head – placing it in her lap when she sat down. Slowly, she began to press his head, hoping that it felt more relaxing than annoying to him.

And when he groaned, she knew she was doing a good job.

They didn't talk after that, and when he began to snore, she changed his towel one last time before slipping into the bed beside him. Usually, she'd be on the very edge to make sure she didn't get too close to him. But only because he was sick, she slipped closer to him to keep him warm for the night.

And her breathing stilled while her heart began thudding inside her chest when he took her hand and softly intertwined their fingers – before then bringing her arm to slip over his torso and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (15)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of sex, violence, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

For a long time after her uncle had left her chamber she could not recover; she sat on the table top exactly where he had left her, staring dully at the floor where the rolled up parchment lay, feeling his warm spend running down her buttocks. She thought about what was written inside, about what her stepfather really wanted.

I wish to speak alone with you and my daughter, nephew, tonight at the former Vhagar liege. You know the place. Come, if you dare.

She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly, calming herself slowly, feeling that her body was still trembling with terror. Never before in her life had she seen him in such a state, so distraught and broken, and she had no idea what she should do, what she could say to make him believe her – it seemed to her that although he had finally stopped crying, he didn't trust her.

She herself wasn't sure if meeting Daemon was a hope or a trap.

She finally slid off the table, settled on the floor and hissed quietly, clenching her eyelids, feeling the discomfort between her thighs after how brutal their approach had been immediately after their nuptials and now. She sighed quietly, moving slowly ahead and lay back on her bed, staring blankly at her door, recalling in her mind the conversation between her and his mother.

When she and Haleana walked into her chamber, she was already waiting for her.

Dressed as usual in emerald green, she stood up, her hands folded over her womb, the cuticles around her nails plucked and reddened. She looked at her with her big dark eyes, in her gaze pain, regret, remorse, but she wasn't sure what they were caused by.

"So it's true." She whispered in disbelief, looking at her cut lips, at her hand wrapped in a light cloth. She lifted her chin higher, not answering; Helaena stood behind her, silent.

"Gods, what have you done." She sighed, falling helplessly into the chair, covering her face with her hand, as if all that was happening was overwhelming her.

"There's no turning back now, then." She said at last, more to herself than to her, lowering her hand, looking ahead of her with empty, tired eyes. Seeing her bent, thoughtful figure, she lowered her gaze, unsure of what she should say.

After her guards poured the moon tea down her throat, she had nothing more to convey to her.

She was only her husband's mother to her, nothing more.

"He forced you to do this?" She asked at last, and she looked at her surprised, wrinkling her eyebrows and grunted loudly.

"No."

Silence fell again, longer this time. Alicent looked down at her knees, shaking a fleck of dust from her gown, sniffing quietly.

"When Viserys announced your betrothal, I was heartbroken. When Aemond agreed, I thought he did it so that his father would finally notice him. So that he would finally hear any kind word from him. Then Rhaenyra took you away and Aemond declared that he didn't want to see you. I thought it would be better that way. I was sure you had both moved on during those eight years." She said in a trembling voice and looked at her, shaking her head.

"I shouldn't have made you do this. I shouldn't have made you drink moon tea."

She sighed quietly, twisting to the other side, thinking about his mother telling her that he really didn't know anything about what she was going to do, that he was furious when he found out, yet that they had made a mistake by marrying each other that would cost them everything.

For some reason her words did not move her.

She was not afraid of Lord Baratheon's wrath or his daughter's disappointment when they finally found out what had happened.

The truth was that some part of her had been eagerly awaiting it.

Now, however, she couldn't think of anyone but her father, and although she knew it was Harwin Strong who had brought her into this world, Daemon was the one who had truly raised her.

She knew his unpredictable nature and was afraid of what he might do.

She became concerned when her uncle did not return for a long time, guessing that he was now discussing about the letter with his family. She was sure that his mother, grandfather and Criston Cole would be convincing him that it was a trap and suggesting that he let go of the idea that their marriage was in force – that she was a spy and if he backed out of it now, things could still be put right.

For some reason she felt that even if he had doubts about her loyalty, he would not disavow their marriage.

She shuddered when he finally stepped into her chamber – the sun was leaning lazily towards the horizon, if they were going to make it, they had to leave now. The door closed behind him and he stopped in the middle of the room, looking at her with a empty gaze, tired and pale.

"My brother has given his consent for us to negotiate with Daemon on his behalf."

She asked nothing more; her husband ordered them to bring their riding attire, which they changed into quickly. They left the keep in a hurry – she felt a hit of adrenaline and joy when she smelt the pleasant, fresh air around her.

For the first time in long days she was back outside, stepping on the soft grass, hearing the sound of the trees; she felt her uncle walking beside her glance at her once in a while, pondering for sure if she would try to escape. She stopped, surprised when he turned in a different direction than he should have, not understanding where he was going.

"We need to get Larax first." She said to him, turning her head towards Dragon's Pit, which she could see in the distance.

"No. You will fly with me on Vhagar." He replied coolly, without stopping; she looked at his silhouette in pain and moved after him with her heart beating fast, disappointed, for some reason naively believing that he would allow her to ride her own dragon.

However, her whole body was quivering in anticipation, for she had never seen Vhagar with her own eyes before.

She spotted her from afar; she seemed to her as big as a fortress, coiled, sleeping a sound sleep, her scales grey and brown, hot steam gushing from her nostrils once in a while, which dissolved into the air. She stood still for a moment, stunned, wanting to look at her from a distance; her uncle snorted at the sight, amused.

"Are you speechless?" He scoffed with some kind of pride and satisfaction, as if he had dreamed of this moment all his life; he, the second son, with no dragon and no heritage, could finally show her the great beast he had ridden in all its glory.

He furrowed his brow, surprised when she approached him; she tightened her hands on his leather coat, rose on her toes and kissed him, just as she had when they were children, merely pressing her lips against his. She pulled away from him with a quiet click of her saliva.

H looked at her with big eyes – it seemed to her that he had completely not expected this, still angry with her for what had happened.

She heard his shuddering sigh as she snuggled into him, embracing him at the waist, the setting sun and a pleasant warm breeze all around them; his hands cuddled her into himself, his forehead pressed against the top of her head.

"Am I flying towards my own doom?" He asked in a whisper, and she shook her head.

"No."

He sighed heavily, pale, frightened and uncertain, knowing that he was facing the destiny he feared, surely wishing he could now look deep into her heart and know her thoughts.

Whether betrayal lurked behind them.

He let her go, moving towards his dragoness, who raised her head sensing their scent – the ground trembled around them as she caught sight of her, rising restlessly on one of her paws, anxious.

"Lykiri, Vhagar. Ziry iksos ñuha ābrazȳrys, ñuha ānogar (Easy, Vhagar. It's my wife, my blood)." She heard his loud, deep, calm voice and felt a squeeze in her heart at the thought that just a month ago, when she was just a bastard to him, these words would not have passed his lips.

Ñuha ānogar.

My blood.

She was more than his wife, and he was more than her husband.

She dared to come closer when he nodded at her, watching vigilantly the behaviour of the giant beast lying in front of her, its lizard-like, dark eyes watching her with curiosity.

She thought that her uncle had not allowed anyone but himself to approach her for years.

Her husband explained to her that she had to climb up the ropes to her back and sit in the big saddle, belaying her from below, a task that proved difficult and required great strength in her arms. He grasped her buttock several times with his hand when he saw that she was losing strength, and she wondered if he was watching over her safety and that she should not fall, or if he was simply taking satisfaction from it.

Both, she thought, sighing with relief as she finally got to the top and sat comfortably in the large leather saddle; her uncle sat behind her, breathing loudly. She felt him hesitate, his hand embracing her waist, the other gripping the ropes, his face melting into her soft cheek.

"Iksā ñuha vējes (You are my doom)." He whispered, clearly thinking she wouldn't understand; she, however, had spent hours with Daemon reading the same books he'd flicked through then, in the library, before he'd taken her for the first time.

"Hae iksā ñuhon (As you are mine)." She answered him quietly, felt him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his hand involuntarily tightening on her leather coat.

"You were mocking me. Then, when you told me to teach you." He said lowly, disappointed as if he were a small child who had been fooled.

She knew he was saying this because he wanted to put off as much as possible what was about to happen.

She sighed quietly at his words, tilting her head back, resting it on his shoulder, the pleasant, warm evening breeze enveloping her face.

"I imagined you sitting next to me when Daemon teached me. That we were children again. I was trying to get back what I had lost." She said finally, placing her hand on his, large and cold. She sighed as he pulled her tighter to him, his hand from her stomach rose to her neck, clamping around her – she felt his manhood throbb behind her, pressing against her buttocks.

"If you try to escape, if you betray me, I will kill you with my own hands." He hissed into her ear, but she felt no fear or discomfort, expecting those words for some reason.

His desperate attempt to threaten her, to stop her from whatever he was accusing her of in his head.

"I know."

Flying with him into the dark skies, feeling the wind in her hair again and that wonderful freedom, she felt some kind of relief. She pressed her body against the front of the saddle and he embraced her tightly from behind, his cold cheek pressed against hers, his hands holding the ropes embraced her waist.

They both shuddered as they caught a glimpse from below of the fortress they both remembered so well, and on a hill not far away the figure of a red, long-necked dragon – beside it a lone, white-haired figure was strolling along the edge of a cliff.

Her uncle commanded Vhagar to land; the ground around them shook from her weight as her great paws hit the ground, sand and dust rising high around them.

Her husband slid down the ropes first and she followed him, squealing loudly as he caught her before she fell to the ground, putting her safely on her feet.

"Don't try anything." He growled, checking her body quickly with his hands to make sure she didn't have a sharp tool hidden anywhere, which she allowed him to do without a word despite the fact that he had already done so before they even left the Red Keep. "Come."

She moved a few steps behind him towards her father, sighing loudly at the sight of him with emotion – she felt her whole body tremble, her lips parted in an involuntary smile.

She thought she would never see him again.

Her husband stopped, and she stood behind him. Daemon looked at her as he unsheathed his sword and dagger from his leather belt, laying it slowly on the ground. She heard her uncle swallow hard, distrustful, and after a moment he did the same, tense, letting the air out loudly as he straightened back up, looking at him expectantly.

"Speak, uncle." He ordered, however, Daemon wasn't looking at him but at her.

She realised he had noticed what was clearly visible on her lower lip.

"You married him." He said offhandedly, looking at her with a gaze that made her shudder, the one that always recognised when she was lying or trying to hide something from him. She nodded.

"He forced you?"

"That's enough. Did you summon me to mock me, uncle?"

"He forced you?"

"No." She heard her own trembling voice, looking at him pleadingly, unsure if he would understand why she had done this, or if he would see it as a betrayal.

Daemon looked to the side, pressing his lips together, and sighed heavily, as if he was very tired, a light breeze blowing his white hair partly tied back as he finally turned to her husband.

"So you know what duty is. What family is. And yet you support your brother who stole his sister's throne." He said coldly; she looked uncertainly at her uncle-husband, who clenched his eyelids and chuckled under his breath, as if something in his words amused him.

"Why should I support my sister, the same one who, when I lost my eye, wanted to interrogate me thoroughly because I told the truth out loud? Why should I support her children, who have no claim to the throne?" He hissed; he and Daemon looked at each other warily, fighting for glances, for dominance, for who would have the last word.

"You married a woman you think is worthless? Like her brothers?" He asked dryly, Aemond snorted loudly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"She is my wife. Who her father was no longer matters, for she belongs now to my family, for our children will bear my name." He growled loudly, hitting his index finger against his chest, as if he could finally get out what he really felt.

She looked at him in disbelief, surprised that he wasn't holding back, that he wasn't limiting himself to conveying his brother's will, whatever it might be, but saying what he himself was thinking.

Daemon stared at him for a moment and snorted under his breath, shaking his head, looking at him again.

"What does your drunken brother-cunt have to convey to my wife as his justification? I lost my daughter because of him." He said coldly and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling cold sweat on her back, her husband gave her a quick, horrified look.

"What?" She muttered, looking at her father, then at him. She furrowed her brow, feeling that she was having trouble breathing, taking a step back. "You knew?"

"Calm down. You were suffering. I didn't want to add to your pain." Her uncle said quickly, looking at her pale, Daemon laughed out loud, burying his face in his hands.

"Look at you two. The future of the kingdom." He sneered, his nephew's lips tightening, throwing him a sharp, warning look.

"My brother has agreed to relinquish his rights to the crown, in favour of my and my wife's future heirs. He knows, exactly as you do, that both his rights in light of previous Lords' oaths, and your wife's in light of her being a woman, will always be challenged, and by extension the rights to the throne of their children and grandchildren. No one, however, will challenge the rights to the crown of my and my wife's offspring." He said in one exhale, trying to remain calm; she looked at him in disbelief, her heart pounding like mad.

Grief, hope, disappointment and relief mixed in her heart making her herself not know what she felt.

"My wife is to pass on her rights to the throne to a child that does not yet exist? What if a girl is born? What if you have no children?" He asked with disapproval and mockery, as if he had never heard a greater foolishness before.

"Then second to the throne will be your and my sister's children. Children from the rightful bed, pure Targaryen blood. If my wife and I do not beget a son."

"That is not enough. I want the head of your mother and your grandfather."

"Then I want Luke's head. I will gouge out his eyes with my own hands."

"Enough." She said, clutching her stomach, feeling everything around her start to spin – her husband taking a step towards her, frightened, seeing the look in her eyes, blank and furious.

"Enough, or I swear I'll throw myself right off this cliff." She mumbled, burying her face in her hands, shaking her head. She felt her uncle's hand embrace her neck, cuddling her into his chest, trying to calm her, Daemon watching them from afar.

"You will release my daughter as an act of goodwill. She will return with me to Dragonstone, and perhaps I will consider passing on your proposal to my wife. A daughter for a daughter." He said impassively; she felt her husband's hand clamp painfully tight on the nape of her neck, felt his heart pounding like mad under her cheek.

"Never."

Her father looked at her, certainty and impatience in his eyes.

"Tala (Daugther)." He said in an unobjectionable tone, wanting her to choose rightly, to choose her family, her kin.

"Don't you fucking dare." She heard him hiss, his free hand clenched helplessly in her hair, his forehead pressed against the top of her head, his breathing loud, shaky, terrified. "You promised me."

Part of her longed to stay with him, and part of her craved to be free, to go home, to see her mother, her brothers and sisters, to lie in her bed in her chamber.

However, Larax would stay in King's Landing, and with her her husband, who would never again trust her, who would never again look at her as he did then, the day he took her as his wife.

Kill me or marry me.

"Tell my mother that I will always be faithful to her, father." She said quietly, lifting her head, looking at her husband, his wide-open eye red with despair and horror; her hand rose to his cheek, her thumb stroked his clearly defined jaw. "Take me home, uncle."

She didn't appear to have time to finish her sentence, and his swollen, full lips pressed against hers in a passionate, greedy kiss – she felt tears of relief, grief, anger, joy and pain run down her cheeks as she reciprocated his caresses, his hands clenched tightly on her body.

"My sweet Rhaenys." He whispered in a trembling voice into her mouth, placing a quick, hot, wet kiss on her forehead before turning towards her father, the satisfaction and confidence on his face from which her heart beat harder.

"She is mine."

[cappulcino]

Seven Days Til Fall (Part 7)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7

Read on AO3

Words: 6,666

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: Mentions of blood and wounds, non-graphic mentions of nudity and sex, slight wing kink

Midnight approached, and you could feel the quiet shift, the final moments of the sixth day slipping into the seventh as you tried to define the complex emotions coursing through your mind.

Soon, you would be walking down the same path Lucifer had when they were still Samael, Heaven would cast you down and Hellfire would come. How much would it hurt? More than you could imagine, undoubtedly more than you deserved.

The unknown weighed heavily, yet, deep beneath the fear, lay something else –a strange, unexpected peace. The end of everything you had ever known was near and it felt as terrifying as it was liberating. This path would lead you to the Morningstar, and in their realm, you would live on. In Hell, you would be free.

Chants began resonating from the heart of the Silver City. You knew what that meant. It was midnight. The seventh day had begun.

The door to your cell promptly opened then, and you closed your eyes to take a few deep breaths. Masked guards unfastened your chains from the wall and firmly gripped your arms to put you on your feet. Your heart was thumping, your knees wobbling with fear and yet, you found yourself smirking.

The guards took you to the Pearly Gates where every angel in Heaven seemed to be present, gathered in vast ranks stretching out beneath the Divine Light. Their voices rose in an anthem, praising God's justice and the Fall of Evil, but somehow, amidst the celestial harmonies, you failed to recognise the fervour the same angels had expressed when Lucifer had fallen all those aeons ago.

Then, Heaven had rejoiced with absolute conviction; you had been the only one not to sing –so you had found out from Gabriel the other night. But now, as your eyes moved through the assembly, you noticed things had changed. So many angels were barely singing, murmuring the words with their gazes fleeting or riveted to their feet.

Somewhere in the distance, you caught sight of Camael. Their purple eyes were of those that refused to watch the scene unfolding before them, and their mouth was forming words but not of praise –it seemed more like a prayer, a farewell whispered in your honour.

Not far from them, Muriel had decided to join the chorus, but her expression was anything but celebratory. She looked almost as if she were scolding herself, disappointment shadowing her usually cheerful traits.

Finally, among the Archangels, Arakiel's eyes shimmered as if on the verge of tears, though their face remained proud and their lips moved mechanically.

Seeing all your former peers like this stirred a strange emotion in you, a spark of hope, and you couldn't help but think that maybe your defiance would mean something. Maybe someday angels would question these chains and silences, the fearful compliance. Maybe you wouldn't fall in vain.

After a lengthy look at the Silver City and a small nod to those you could have once almost called friends to assure them you would be fine, you turned to the Pearly Gates.

The members of the Divine Council and the Metatron stood unwavering on each side, smug superiority in their stance, although betrayed by a certain bitterness. They had wanted to see you obliterated in the Hellfire, not alive under the Devil's protection.

"Such a shame," Michael murmured with an edge of disappointment as you walked by him, though his eyes were the coldest you had ever seen them. "We had placed a great deal of faith in you. Truly."

You turned to him fully, your voice sharp, a determined look on your face.

"So had I. Shameful, indeed."

Michael's expression flickered, but you moved past him, facing the Gates. With a mighty surge, they began to open, revealing the edge of Heaven. You stepped through and considered throwing one last glance at the place you once called home, or maybe even saying something to the angels awaiting your Fall.

But what was there to tell them? Most of them would not listen, so you figured a resolute silence would be more meaningful and you stayed still, your wings held high.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, became charged with a power greater than anything in the infinite universe, and you felt the Presence. God was now here, and though you knew the angels behind you were still singing, you couldn't hear them any more. It was just you and Him.

An overwhelming sensation engulfed you, hateful, though you realised it was not so different from the so-called love you had felt at the moment of your creation. Interesting.

God reached down and, with mighty strength, lifted you by the wings, holding you aloft in front of Him. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the weight of eternity suspended in His hands, and you shivered.

"And thus we meet again," you said, your voice surprisingly steady considering the turmoil raging inside you.

God did not answer. He never did –not to you, at least. But His energy spoke for Him, and you understood the disappointment and blame emanating from Him.

You knew it would be useless to defend your case now, and you didn't even want to. You had said it yesterday, you would not ask for forgiveness any more. You also knew it was too late to demand an explanation and that God would not give it to you anyway. But you had things weighing on your heart and you would not see God ever again. You had to speak now or forever hold your peace.

"Oh, my God, why have You forsaken me? Here I stand, condemned for nothing but my mind and my heart. I was once taught You had love for Your children even while they were still sinners, that no sin was truly unforgivable in Your sight. And so I believed. I believed in a God who loved even those who strayed from the path, a God who longed for each soul to return to the Light, who would always be there to guide me. Instead, You hid Yourself and left only Your Law –Your confusing, irrational Law. How was I supposed to understand that what I was doing was wrong?"

Faced with nothing but indifference, you looked up at the sky, aimlessly searching for an answer.

"I was merely seeking the Truth. You knew the way that I was taking, You have tested me. Why not make me know my transgression and my sin if I was so corrupted? And if I was to follow You blindly, why did You not make me of steel and stone? Why did You allow me to feel? I have tried to faithfully serve You and now look at the danger I am in. God, oh, my God… Have I feared You for nothing?"

Again, your desperate words were only met with silence. You sighed heavily. Was it all the Creator, this omnipotent and omniscient being, could do? Order to be obeyed and cast all resistance away like chaff in the wind?

"If all of this was known to You… If this end was Your design, if that is what You truly are, then I cannot regret choosing for myself. I can see, at last, that, perhaps, this was always the way."

Against all odds, a small, sour chuckle escaped your throat.

"In fact, I realise it is quite alright. Let it be, Father. I forgive You."

There was nothing left to say, and God could hear no more complaints. Thunder boomed under the heavenly vault and then, suddenly, you felt your skin tear and your wings snap like dead branches, violently ripped off your back.

And so, like the fragile autumn leaf, you fell.

The world, the whole universe began to spin around you. You were nowhere and everywhere all at once. Light and darkness collided. Your sense of time blurred, and you weren't sure if it was slowing down, accelerating, or if it had stopped altogether. Moments flashed before your eyes, past and present merged. Memories flooded in –laughter, tears, warmth, and cold. Faces and places flickered like shadows. Home. Lucifer. Prison. Isolation. God. Joy. Despair.

Everything was chaotic, yet so clear. You saw every choice, every doubt, every moment you wished you could change. There was a cacophony of emotions in your heart. You were nothing yet finally becoming something. Fear gripped your heart. Relief washed over you. You were free, but the price was steep.

With no wings to slow you down, your body ignited with the heat of your descent. It burnt, but you felt nothing. Not yet. The pain seemed distant as if belonging to someone else. Your Fall appeared like a never-ending death but still you lived.

Your body flipped again, and, for the very last time, you saw the Divine Light and heard the angels sing. That only lasted a brief moment before profound darkness swallowed you whole, a ludicrous cocoon, protecting you for the final instants of your Fall.

You hopelessly tried to brace yourself for impact.

And then crashed into Hell.

Your ears rang with the force of the shock, plunging you into a deafening silence. Your eyes were clouded with tears but still, you noticed a shape coming closer.

Lucifer.

The Lightbringer was rushing to your side, followed by Mazikeen, and then ungracefully collapsed on the ashy ground.

Your ears suddenly unclogged when they did and the first thing you heard was a blaring, high-pitched shrill. It took you a moment to realise it was coming out of your mouth.

"We have you," Lucifer attempted to reassure you as they scooped you in their arms. "You are not alone."

Your blood quickly ran down their hands and arms, tainted their robes. You were squirming ferociously, too, trying to fight the searing pain, but they never let you go. If anything, their embrace seemed to tighten.

You weren't too aware of it, but demons, alerted by the bright light coming down from Hell's orange sky and the echo of your Fall, had started to gather all around, ready to witness the transformation they had all once been through.

Indeed, new wings began to grow in your back, piercing through your tender flesh. Your eyes snapped in horror and your hands clumsily clutched Lucifer's tunic and everywhere you could while your shrieking doubled, resonating through the whole kingdom. And yet the Morningstar held on, even when you scratched their face.

"We know, We know."

Lucifer knew their words were vain, but still they tried to console you and make the torturous transition somewhat easier.

"We know, little dove. Breathe, it is almost over. Shh..."

But you were panting, contorting in impossible ways, and your head was starting to spin.

It felt atrocious, and not only physically. The psychological pain was just as intolerable. You felt like a newborn violently snatched from the womb. You were lost, had no idea what to do with all that freedom, and felt an inexplicable need to crawl back to your toxic certainties, and to the places and people you knew, those who had once made you believe you were safe.

Lucifer kept shushing you as more and more demons gathered, and then it was done. Your Fall was over. You were no longer an angel.

Your pain was still very much present and your wounds were still dripping, but you were now too weak to express your agony. You felt like fainting and you vaguely heard Lucifer encourage you not to resist it. So you didn't, and your head lolled against their chest.

By then, you were too confused to fully register anything that was happening but managed to grasp a few things nonetheless.

First, Lucifer's scent. You hadn't noticed it before, but it was probably the best thing that had ever hit your senses –warm, comforting, grounding, with faint notes of amber and burned incense, and undertones of hemlock.

Then you felt their regal arms move under your body and lift you off the ground with ease, mindful to support your head and avoid touching your back as much as they could.

Lucifer paused once they were standing as if silently presenting you to their court. At that moment, you heard swords clatter and vaguely noticed from the corner of your eye that it was Mazikeen who had let them fall. And then, as Lucifer slowly began walking towards their palace, carrying you like a bride, you heard more weapons hit the ground and saw the demons around you line up. Even the Damned seemed to have stopped screaming.

Heaven had watched you leave with a walk of shame; Hell welcomed you with a guard of honour.

You were already in and out of consciousness by the time Lucifer took you inside. You weren't sure where they had taken you but felt them lay you on a soft and warm mattress.

Still, the contact with your back and newly-grown wings hurt and made you wince and hiss.

"Lucifer…" you whimpered pitifully.

"We are right here. We are not leaving you."

"Lucifer…"

"We know."

You thought you felt fingers graze your forehead, but it could have very well been the fruit of your imagination. You were delirious and close to fainting again.

And thus you spent a great deal of the night and early morning between states of consciousness. Once, you woke up to feel Lucifer plump the pillow you rested on, only to immediately fall back asleep. Then you opened your eyes again and saw the Morningstar waiting with a bowl of warm broth, which you refused –that scene actually happened twice and you weren't sure in which order. Another time, you woke up screaming and crying once more, widely agitated, and Lucifer stopped you from hurting yourself any further and wiped your tears.

That went on for what seemed an eternity, and you weren't even sure how long had passed since your Fall. You were exhausted, and if Lucifer was, too, they didn't show it.

"Relax now," they whispered eventually, trying to lull you to sleep once and for all. "Even God rested on the seventh day."

You felt a strange pressure on your forehead, warm and delicate, but were unable to make out what it was. And already, you were falling into the deepest slumber you had ever known.

You had no idea how many hours had passed when you woke up next, and there was no way to know. Several, you guessed, because your back had finally stopped bleeding and you felt your new set of wings settling in. They hurt like… well, like Hell.

Sitting up in the bed painstakingly, you tried to recall what had happened since your Fall. You didn't remember much, except for Lucifer's gentle hands and soft gaze, always present each time you had come to.

But once you were completely seated, you realised the Lightbringer was nowhere to be seen this time. You felt a pang of disappointment as they had said they would not be leaving but understood. They still had a kingdom to rule, one that had just welcomed a new immortal denizen; they couldn't possibly stay at your bedside all day long.

You took the time to look around you. The bed first, enormous and soft as clouds, was draped in dark silks and woven blankets, with intricate embroidery glinting like stars across the fabric. The bedposts were made of polished obsidian, each carved with scenes that seemed to dance and shift as you looked at them –figures falling and rising, like the story of every Fallen etched in stone. Pillows in dark red, silver, and black were piled around you, catching the faint light and making the space feel safe.

You noticed the grand furnishing next: a firepit, burning with the same Hellfire that had almost killed you yesterday; shelves, carved directly in the black marble of the high walls and holding ancient artefacts, books bound in leather, and crystalline vials containing swirling mists and colours you had no names for.

As you took in the room's subdued opulence, it dawned on you. This was no ordinary guest chamber. This was Lucifer's own sanctuary. The idea that the Morningstar had brought you to the one place most private to them made your chest tighten.

Your eyes kept scanning the room, and then, noticing a full-length mirror inlaid with gemstones nearby, you decided to stand up and take a closer look at yourself.

It took all of your strength to extricate yourself from the bed and to cross the room without falling. Your muscles hurt and your wings seemed to have a different weight than before; you weren't sure how to stand.

When you finally managed to reach the mirror, you couldn't help but gasp at your reflection. Bruised, burnt here and there, covered in dried blood, you hardly recognised yourself. Your robes, once pristine white, were now ashy grey and tattered. They barely hung on by a thread and you guessed the only reason they had been left on your body was to give you a semblance of modesty.

Then of course the biggest change in your appearance was your wings. Black with a slight mahogany undertone when the light hit them right and leathery, they reminded you of Lucifer's, though you felt like you didn't sport them nearly as well as they did.

After looking at your reflection for a while, it began to look foreign, and you suddenly felt the need to glance down at your body as if to make sure that what the mirror showed was true. And it was. You had no idea what to make of the emotions this new truth stirred. You looked half-dead, felt half-alive.

Absorbed by your thoughts –or better yet, the lack thereof; you rather felt absorbed by the silence post-chaos in your mind–, you didn't hear the door opening behind you.

"You're awake."

Despite its softness, Lucifer's voice startled you, making you look up to meet their gaze through the mirror.

"We were not sure you would wake up any more today."

You looked down at yourself again, somewhat ashamed by your dishevelled appearance –you were truly in no fit condition to stand in the presence of your new sovereign. You were also ashamed of the scratch you had left on their face and that they still hadn't taken the time to heal as well as of the state you surely had left their previous tunic in.

But Lucifer didn't seem to mind. They knew what you were going through and had already seen you at your worst. When they spoke again, their voice sounded even softer and almost hesitant.

"We brought you some new clothes," they said, putting the garments down on a nearby hassock. "We have also had some ointment made. For your back. Your wounds are not of the kind that Our powers can heal."

The consideration made you smile, but sadness quickly took over. Lucifer had fallen first, crashing all alone into Hell, with no one to dry their tears or soothe their pain, hence why they knew exactly what you needed. The mere thought was enough to break your heart.

"Thank You, Lightbringer. The ruler of Hell must know my gratitude towards Them is infinite."

"Please…"

Had Lucifer's tone been any weaker, it would have become beseeching. Their plea made your heart clench even harder.

"Do not be so ceremonious. Not now."

"I merely wish to thank my Lord for Their benevolence."

Without even turning around, you felt Lucifer tense behind you.

"You are not Our subject," they retorted as if wanting to berate you for even thinking such a thing.

"Am I not?" you asked, your smile widening ever so slightly.

Lucifer didn't answer that. You weren't their subject. They had said so once and hated to repeat themself.

"We will call for a servant to tend to your wings," they said instead.

"I would rather not," you replied without missing a beat. Your wings, just like your heart, had been mistreated too much. You would never let a stranger touch them ever again.

There was a moment of silence and you wondered if Lucifer understood your underlying request or if they would leave you to get by on your own.

But then you heard the distinct sound of a jar being opened followed by footsteps, and Lucifer's reflection appeared in the mirror behind yours while the air around you filled with the scent of honey, yarrow, turmeric, and arnica.

"We need to…" Lucifer's voice trailed and you heard them swallow thickly.

You understood they didn't dare to move the shredded panel of cloth that covered the space between your wings, so you reached with difficulty over your shoulders and pulled the fabric yourself to reveal your back.

The sight made Lucifer's breath hitch no matter how hard they tried to prevent it. Not only did you hear it, but you also felt the warmth hitting the nape of your neck, and your hair immediately stood on end.

Neither of you dared to speak or look at each other through the mirror as Lucifer scooped a bit of healing balm on their fingers and started applying it to your wounds, at the base of your wings. They were being extremely careful and you could feel their hands tremble, proof that they were worried they would hurt you.

Finding comfort in their touch, you slightly leaned back to let them know it was alright. Not that you weren't in pain –you were, deeply. But the pain was somehow easier to deal with the closer you were to the Morningstar.

Again, Lucifer gasped quietly. Your gesture could be considered daring, and they were evidently unsure how to react. Yet, soon enough you felt their fingertips trailing up your wings, along your sore muscles. You shivered then and found yourself unable to tell if it was more from the pain or that unknown feeling sparkling inside your chest.

Regardless, the sudden movement brought Lucifer back to reality, and finally their voice broke the silence, barely a whisper.

"We… I am sorry."

At these words, you finally looked up at Lucifer's reflection. You knew what they were sorry for –for forgetting about etiquette and the customary distance they should have kept between you two; for causing you pain, just now as well as days ago; and most of all, for not finding a better way to save your life than causing your Fall.

But what surprised you the most was the change in pronouns. Like many monarchs would, Lucifer never said "I" unless they were in the presence of someone they trusted and the matter was personal. And as you looked at Lucifer through the mirror, at the way their eyes roamed on the expense of your wounded back and wings, you realised they had made your Fall personal. You were personal.

You remained silent for a while, feeling the warmth in your chest spread further down. And once you were certain your heart and mind agreed with one another, you replied in earnest.

"I'm not."

It was now Lucifer's turn to lift their head. Their eyes found yours in the mirror, so full of emotions, filling with hope as their chin quivered. They looked so vulnerable, and you finally understood what that unfamiliar feeling creeping through your body and burning your heart was, for you realised you had fallen twice this week.

Down to Hell.

And in love with Lucifer Morningstar.

Slowly, steered by pure instinct, you pulled on what was left of your angelic robes, tearing them off your body, and revealed yourself entirely to the ruler of Hell. Your eyes never let go of their reflection as you did so, waiting to see their reaction.

It was immediate, though not exactly everything you had hoped for. Indeed, Lucifer averted their eyes, staring at the ceiling in despair, and you figured they felt as lost as you were. Still, you mustered what little self-confidence you had left and insisted, turning around to encourage them to look at you and this shattered body you offered them.

It worked. Briefly. And then Lucifer looked away again.

"Why are you doing this?" they whimpered more than they asked. "What do you want?"

Their question was legitimate. After all, the last time Lucifer had got too close, you had rejected them.

Once again moved by forces beyond your understanding, you reached out with trembling hands to seize the lapels of their robes. Lucifer stiffened, their eyes widening slightly, but they didn't pull away.

"To worship the Devil," you said your voice suddenly dropping to a lower tone you had no idea you could reach.

And as you felt the weight of those words settle in the air between you, you used their robes for support, pulling yourself up and closer, your mouth now merely an inch from their ear.

"Show me how," you whispered then.

Lucifer's body tensed even more, and you could feel the subtle tremor in their frame. You pulled back, letting your nose slide along their cheek, the barest hint of contact, before your eyes met again. This time, Lucifer didn't look away. Their gaze locked onto yours, and you could see the storm of emotions swirling in their eyes –desire, uncertainty, restraint.

In fact, it seemed that Lucifer doubted that you were in full possession of your faculties. They knew all too well how traumatic the Fall could be and were worried that your sudden boldness came from confusion rather than genuine want. They did not want you to later feel used, nor did they want to get hurt.

But you saw their pupils dilating, and that gave you enough confidence to cup their jaw, your thumb just under their bottom lip as you let the tip of your nose poke their cheek and your lips hover over theirs, testing the waters. The touch was light, barely there, but enough to send a spark of electricity through your entire being and make that building heat in your chest drop down to your lower abdomen.

Lucifer decided to take a chance then and tentatively placed their lips on yours, without moving them at first. But that was all it took to make their wings shudder and spread violently, an involuntary reaction that betrayed their carefully guarded control. The sight of their wings trembling made your heart leap. It confirmed everything.

Lucifer wanted you.

Encouraged by this knowledge, you inhaled sharply and leaned in, pressing your body fully against theirs, seeking out more of that intoxicating closeness. This time, you kissed them with purpose, and Lucifer responded in kind, their lips moving against yours with growing urgency.

When you felt the tip of their tongue against your mouth, you realised you were unsure what to do, but decided to trust your instinct and parted your lips. Lucifer let you know that this was the right thing to do with a low, guttural growl that made your knees weak, and the kiss deepened, your tongues meeting in a slow, passionate dance.

Without parting, Lucifer crouched slightly to wrap their arms around your thighs and lift you up. A faint noise of surprise escaped your mouth, and your own wings unfurled before a smile came to grace your lips as you realised the Lightbringer was carrying you back to bed.

They laid you down carefully, as though you were something precious –deeply fragile, but desired beyond measure– and, inevitably, your gaze dropped to the expense of cleavage now revealed as gravity pulled their neckline down.

They sat up and your chest heaved in anticipation as you waited for them to undress. And when they did, the sight stole the air from your lungs. Devil or not, Lucifer remained the most beautiful creature the Lord had ever fashioned.

"Magnificent…" The word slipped out of your mouth before you had even finished forming the thought.

Lucifer smiled then. But their smile was not smug; the pride you had expected was instead replaced by relief as if Lucifer had been worried not to be to your liking and had needed the reassurance that somebody would want them not for their well-known ability to engage in lustful sins, but because they found genuine beauty in their body and soul. And you did.

Lucifer leaned forward, their gaze tender, studying every detail of your face as if they were seeing you for the first time. And they might as well be, for everything you once were was no more and you were like clay demanding to be shaped anew.

Lucifer's touch was gentle, reverent, patient, so much more than skin against skin –it felt as though their very presence was seeping into yours, filling the cracks Heaven had left in your soul, and you were suddenly not hurting any more. You surrendered entirely to the moment, and it was as if time held its breath, the Silver City and Hell themselves fading away, leaving only the two of you joined in a space beyond mere existence.

The world indeed seemed to stop and blur, the air thick with anticipation, yet there was no rush, only a shared understanding that the two of you were breaking through boundaries that neither angels nor demons knew could be abolished.

"Is this alright?" Lucifer asked with care, their mouth nibbling at your pulse point.

Barely able to form a coherent thought, you nodded eagerly, desperately pushing your body against theirs with need. So Lucifer's smile widened before they captured your lips once more and let their nails rake along your arms, all the way to your palms until their fingers intertwined with yours and they brought your hands above your head.

And then you felt it.

What the Morningstar was doing to you was not too dissimilar to the earthly act and yet so different. It was something boundless, woven from light and shadow, a union of energies that transcended flesh. It was everything you had ever needed and even more, and, as you cried out loudly, you clutched their hands, happy to have something to hold on to and keep you grounded as you felt yourself fly somewhere so high you feared falling again.

"Lucifer!"

"Shh… I have you."

Never once did you feel abandoned indeed. Lucifer kept guiding you with unwavering tenderness and patience, understanding that this moment was delicate for you, a once-in-a-lifetime offering.

The intensity of your connection deepened, tension building as pleasure overtook you both. You loved Lucifer. You loved them so much. And you craved to tell them. But perhaps was it too soon for such heartfelt confessions, you weren't sure, and you couldn't speak anyway –your mouth was too busy either dancing with Lucifer's or chanting how good they were making you feel.

Still wanting to convey your feelings, you soon let go of Lucifer's hands, your own finding their way to their back, their waist, their hips and, finally, their wings. Lucifer's head dropped forward and the low, shuddering groan they let out then only spurred you on. You moaned even louder, your hips still rolling to move with theirs in unison.

Panting heavily, Lucifer cradled your head to bring you even closer while their free hand started stroking your wings, still scared to hurt you but wanting to give you the same pleasure you were procuring them.

And then, most unexpectedly, as if understanding your unspoken desires and fears and wanting to answer them, the ruler of Hell spoke the most beautiful words you had ever heard.

"I love you."

The words undid you, a sudden flood of warmth filling every inch of your body as you began quivering all over. The bliss made your back arch and you felt as if light exploded within you and you could see stars.

You screamed Lucifer's name and they screamed yours as their release followed, your wings shuddering uncontrollably together as the sensation rippled through your bodies in waves that seemed never-ending.

And then, as the wave ebbed, you both lay there breathless, utterly content, feeling a new kind of completeness settle within you. Lucifer's forehead pressed gently against yours, their wings folding protectively around you.

Despite the sudden weakness overtaking you, you wrapped your arms around their strong torso and pulled them closer, urging them to let their body cover yours. They did, and you smiled as their weight anchored you to the mattress and helped the trembling subside.

"You delivered me from Evil, Lucifer Morningstar," you whispered before planting a kiss on their temple. "And I love you, too."

You had lost count of how many hours you and Lucifer had spent making love before falling asleep in each other's embrace. Now you were admiring their peaceful state as they rested next to you, their expression still somewhat worn out from the intensity of this week's events but content.

After a while, you quietly slipped out of bed, hoping not to wake them up as you walked towards the hassock where they had left new clothes for you earlier. You picked the vestment up and the corner of your lips twitched slightly upwards.

They were silk, in a beautiful gradient from crimson red to obsidian black, too elegant for you. But what actually made you smile was how comfortable they looked and how thoughtful Lucifer had been, choosing a halter top that would leave your wounded back bare of any fabric.

You put them with surprising ease now that the pain between your shoulder blades had turned into a dull discomfort and walked back to the mirror to take a look at your new self. The demon that stared back at you was already no longer a shadow of your former angelhood, but a vibrant embodiment of freedom and defiance. The weight of God's injunctions was gone, replaced by the warmth of self-acceptance. You were finally home, and this was who you were meant to be. For the first time in your long existence, you felt utterly proud.

As you let your hands wander on the fine silk, Lucifer's voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"Luxury suits you."

Your cheeks blushed at their words and you pinched your lips while they rose to their feet in one smooth motion and joined you, still naked. They, too, were looking at you with pride –rare would be the angels to take the Fall so well and recover so quickly.

Letting their fingertips graze your scalp with adoration before cupping your cheeks, they spoke softly.

"All that is missing is a crown."

You blinked and slightly pulled back to look Lucifer in the eye, rather shocked by the implication.

"Lucifer, I–"

"It is better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."

"So it is. But Lucifer, my whole life has been spent in servitude. I do not have the makings of a ruler."

"I disagree," Lucifer countered kindly, their voice like honey. "Do you believe I would have gone to Heaven for just anybody? That I would have negotiated with my brother and missed a chance at revenge with my Father for someone I deemed unworthy?"

"Perhaps not."

You lowered your head slightly, feeling somewhat guilty Lucifer had given up on the opportunity they had been offered for you. But Lucifer quickly placed a finger under your chin and lifted it. You were to keep your head up in pride at all times now, they would not let you bow any more.

"But… What about your subjects? Will they not think me illegitimate?"

"You are one of them now, one of us. Are you not?"

"Yes," you replied firmly. Your scars were proof of what you had once been. You were proud of them, proud to call yourself a demon.

"Then they shall accept you and respect you as such." Lucifer paused briefly to stroke your cheek. "Only perhaps are you more deserving, and they know it."

"How so?"

"Because you knew the horror that awaited you and still chose to fall. And not because you were fighting for somebody else's ideals, but for your own convictions. It is most honourable."

"Is it honourable to seek to redefine oneself, to pursue freedom and… love?"

"Yes."

You let Lucifer's words sink in for a moment, then turned back to the mirror. You had much to learn about your new self and as exhilarating as it was, it was also dizzying.

There was still something bothering you, though. But you weren't sure what, and it made you furrow your eyebrows. Lucifer sensed your confusion of course and, as if reading your mind better than yourself, they offered a solution to your issue.

"You can change your name. If you'd like. Heaven does not have any more grip on you."

The possibility of creating a new identity for yourself, building a new life and detaching yourself entirely from your celestial origins lifted an enormous weight off your shoulders and you let out a long, shaky sigh.

It was a difficult choice, one you needed to make with care, but it didn't need to be made today. You had all eternity, and perhaps, you mused, the name would come to you as naturally as the decision to fall had.

Lucifer smiled as they watched your features relax, and they wrapped their arms around your waist. In that simple, familiar gesture, you felt the weight of your new world settling comfortably.

"There is no hurry," they murmured, their voice low and reassuring. "A name is only one part of who you are. All the rest, your choices, your dreams, your hopes… those are already yours."

"I have a lot to learn," you stated as you turned around to face Lucifer again. "You will help me, will you not?"

"Fear not," Lucifer replied gently, their eyes softening. "In Hell, you are allowed to find yourself at your own pace, without expectations. And I shall be there for you, forever."

"An awfully long time…" you joked, your eyes shining almost mischievously, though your words were intended to make sure Lucifer understood you would not take such a promise lightly.

"Mmh. Eternity has a way of slipping past when one has purpose," Lucifer replied, their fingertips sliding along your left wing.

"And have you found it, your purpose?" you asked, pressing yourself to their front.

"Oh, yes. And in time, you shall find yours, too, in whatever form it may take."

"I think I already have."

You placed a hand on Lucifer's chest and leaned in. The gesture, coupled with the confession, made their heartbeat quicken and they smiled before closing the distance to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

When you broke it for air, you realised life in Hell had resumed its course. The demons had picked up their weapons and were fighting again, the Damned wept once more. Hellfire burnt and ashes fell from the sky.

Quietly, you turned to the balcony and crossed the room to observe this realm you could now call home, this kingdom that would soon be yours to rule, by Lucifer's side.

You had so many ideas already, impatient to fulfil your new role, to govern these damned souls, to welcome them in the afterlife, and help them grieve Heaven. You would help them and, in return, they would help you. Everything would be as it should have always been.

Lucifer joined you, placing their hand on the small of your back, and the two of you stood there, bound by something that felt ancient, inevitable, and yet entirely new as if this day had been waiting for you both since the beginning of time and even before that. You let the silence embrace you, neither of you needing to say anything more.

There would be a time for crowns and names, for ruling and discovering yourself and the full extent of your freedom. For now, you had all you needed.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the seventh day.

A/N: If you’re interested you can find the link to the playlist I used to write this fanfic here.

A/N 2: This has been a journey and feedback is so important! Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment –perhaps giving me some lines you really liked, or discussing the religious references you recognized or the ones you feel you didn’t understand. I would LOVE to talk about this work with you all.

[tamayakii]

Their Angel. Yan!HOTD x Reader

I've been having so many thoughts about yandere house of the dragon x reader, how the 3 big houses (Targaryen, Velaryon & Hightower) would fight for the darlings' affection. Platonic, Familial or romantic. I feel like they would, of course, all fight over what colours you would wear, what house you represent until a very annoyed and exhausted council member suggested white.

"like an angel," Viserys adds, it was said that the gods had sent you down to bless them so dressing you in white seemed the best option... but that didn't stop them from gifting you jewellery that had the colours of their house.

The Hightower jewellery had the most expensive Jade and Emerald on top of gold, these pieces can range from delicate rings to big statement necklaces that encompass your neck. Alicent prefers to give you these gifts in person, alone, perhaps in her or your chambers. Presenting you with the beautifully engraved box as she opens it, showing you a new necklace with a beautiful dark green emerald. Otto's gifts never cease to awe you in how quiet that man is in his actions, a small indiscreet box upon your pillow when you ready for bed. Inside lays a note, upon which Otto describes the moment he found this beautiful ring and knew he must get it for you, the handwriting almost as beautiful as the peridot ring you now proudly wear on your pinkie.

The Targaryen jewellery is almost always extravagant, having connections to get you the best out of everything. Viserys gifts you capes, crowns and veils but unlike the others, he almost always keeps them in white, unless they have jewels. His favourite thing to see you in is crown veils, the jewellery hanging down and framing your face makes you seem like you stepped down from heaven's gate. When Aemma was still around, she gifted you rings and earrings, she wasn't able to give you much before she passed in childbirth. So you hold these gifts quite dearly to your heart, always sporting the dark ruby red ring on your thumb, twisting it when you get nervous. Rhaenrya, oh dear Rhaenrya, she wanted everyone to know that you belong to the Targaryens. To the Blood of The Dragons, her first gift to you was a cloak clasp that show two dragons on each side, her second gift was a crystal bracelet that had a chain connecting to a ring, it was a simple design but by the gods it made you feel exquisite. There was one gift that set the nail in the coffin, it was a gift from Rhaenrya and Aemma, a dragon that wrapped around your neck. Signifying the hold that House Targaryen has on you.

The Velaryon jewellery is often pearls or other sea gemstones as they sit on driftmark and have a hand over the trading routes, Rhaenys upon her second meeting of you, gifting you a pearl ring slipping upon your finger herself. Corlys gifted you a relic that was been with the Veleryons for ages on your first birthday with them, the beautiful necklace made with blue topaz, moonstones and blue chalcedony, wrapped beautifully with Valeryon silver. Vaemond... never was quite as fond as you as his brother and sister-in-law were, you were no Targaryen or Velaryon but for small moments he forgot that and adored your sweet smile.

I would love to draw male and female outfits of what this au's darling would look like, i can also do a part two of the other things the other characters would give you as i excluded a lot as to not make this any longer than it is. Should i make a fic with this idea? pls send me an ask if you're interested in this au

[asheepinfrance]

what's that i smell? is that ... a shitty sapphic yearning fanfiction? with poorly written kinda sex? you bet your sweet ass it is. i literally fucking hate this. tashisita my lover girl. i kinda have this in mind as a parallel to my first fic, because i know in my heart of hearts (thinking with my girl penis) that she's so sos so ossososososo devoted to you. breaks my heart. need that cookie so effing bad. but you can also just read this as a standalone piece and ignore the little callback line. woopee! great day for bisexuality.

She’s tracing little circles on the thigh her head rests on, eyes closed in hope for some kind of sleep, your nails scratching a soothing pattern on her scalp (Spirals, she eventually figures out). They’re just nails, technically. Not with you through. With you nothing’s just anything. It’s like you reject simplicity at its core. You aren’t overly complicated, no. But there was always so much for her to think about when it come to something as minute as a vary in heaviness of touch. What did it mean? Why couldn’t she tell? Tashi had always prided herself on figuring people out. She just can’t seem to understand you.

Humans are meant to be flawed. Have some kind of moral pitfall. She can name each one of hers, despite the constant admiration she receives. But you? There’s nothing. Not a hint of anything less than perfectly lovely. Which can only mean one thing. You’re not a human. It’s comforting, in a way, because then she can never feel bad about not adding up to you. In a competition of greatness amongst some short-tempered tennis player and an honest-to-god angel, the answer is quite clear. 

“What are you thinking about, hm?” 

The sight of your face, hair falling out from behind your ears, as she opens her eyes is heaven-sent. It’s perfect in a way that only you have ever been capable of, because it’s you. There has never and will never be another you. You can’t recreate perfection, even if you clone it down to the finest details. There will never be the same heat to someone’s skin, the same melty, deeply loving look in someone’s eyes. She doesn’t want there to be. 

She reaches up a hand to put the loose hair back in its place, dragging her palms across your face far longer than she has to, eventually just keeping them there. The way you look, the way you look at her, like she’s valued more than any human being ought to be, is the most magical, astonishingly beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She’d be less impressed staring at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. You turn your head to press a kiss to her palm, and she aches. She’s actively feeling her lungs stop in their expansion, her heat lull in its rhythmic ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum that only keeps going now that she’s got you to fuel it. 

She wraps a hand around your wrist, more lightly than is actually necessary, but it feels warranted. You’re precious, you’re fragile and still so strong, you’re the only thing that she’s touched that she hasn’t found a way to break down and she doesn’t ever want to figure out how to. She breathes in the scent of that sweet perfume you always have rubbed onto the insides of your wrists. 

“You’re just… really fucking pretty.” A kiss to your wrist. A kiss to your palm. A kiss wherever she can angle your lithely-fingered hand to reach. Each fingertip receives a little kiss of its own, and she can swear that they kiss her back. She manages to travel the expanse of your arm with just her lips, up, up, and up, till they’ve found yours. You’re both grinning into it, front teeth occasionally knocking against each other, giggling like you’ve never kissed before. It still feels new. You can never get your body used to the feeling of kissing someone who tastes like honey and molds to your body like they're meant to be attached. If she could find a way of making it happen, because there will never be a way to get close enough, she would. She’d live within the pause between your breaths. The dips and hollows of your bones beneath your skin. Even now, you’re straddling her hips like she’s the one to be delicate with, and she rolls her eyes halfheartedly, pulling you down further. If there’s a single micrometer of space between the two of you, she’ll lose her fucking mind. She swears it.

It takes little to no time for her to find herself in the one place she’s meant to be, worshipping at the altar of your soft, hurried breaths, smooth, bare skin and little mumbles of praise, murmurs of “Fuck, Tashi, please. Please, please, please-” . There’s no need to beg when she’d give you anything you asked for if you just let her. It’s only fair, you’ve given her everything she could have ever needed, and all she could offer in return was herself. You’re always giving, praising, even in times where Tashi just wants you to take. She’s got her tongue and her fingers right where you need them, evident in the little whines you let out, but she’s clearly feeling better, eyes rolling back in their sockets. She knows you want to touch her, not for any reason that’s comprehensible to her when she is so far beneath you, but she won’t let it happen. She won’t let you give a single bit of effort on her watch. Her girl deserves nothing but the best, and that means endless hours on her back, lavished in praise and kisses and touches and licks and just about anything that will get her to that blissed-out, post-orgasmic stage of euphoria. 

She gets you there, panting and sweating and smiling and thanking her for something that she’d literally rather do than anything else, the way she always does, and she’s won. She’s won some battle she didn’t know she was fighting.  The weight of it lifts off of her, and she’d never been aware that this invisible pressure had been so all-consumingly heavy. Her hair’s a mess from the friction of your thighs against her head, lips red and kiss-swollen, and there’s no way she’d rather be. She just loves you so fucking much. There is no word in the English language to describe the affinity she has for you. She likes it that way, though. It’s a secret for the two of you alone to know, and no one can take that if they tried.

[nunalastor]

Kitsunesongs's First Man!Alastor

(Alt tags I guess: Exterminator Alastor, Blackjack AU, Angel Alastor, Radioapple)

(Character tags: Alastor, Lucifer, Lilith. Adam, Charlie and 'Cox' are just mentioned.)

'Bout to RAMBLE and SPECULATE

If everything in Eden went down the way it did before, and the angels consider Alastor the only "untainted" human, does that mean that Lilith and Lucifer were the only two sent down to Hell? I sorta feel like Al would've wanted to go with them tbh; Heaven's angels suck, total buzzkills.

How would Lucifer and Lilith feel about Alastor then? Did Lucifer even meet Alastor before he Fell?

As the "untainted" human, does Alastor become Heaven's poster boy? Is he the one that, eventually, they make the Leader of the Exterminator Army? For as sadistic as he is, I feel like he'd refuse the position. 1) Out of spite, and 2) due to the years of trauma every Sinner undoubtably has after enduring decades of annual genocides.

1st plotline that comes to mind:

Since he's the poster child for "good" humans, I imagine he's sorta Heaven's public relations guy. One day, millennia after Eden, he's scheduled for a high priority meeting last minute. Who walks through the door but the King of Hell himself? Far less chipper than way back when... good to see him back to normal!

Lucifer, for his part, isn't sure what to expect. He either didn't see much of Alastor in Eden, or never met him at all, only knowing what Lilith has said about him. He assumes that Alastor will be hostile and demeaning, just like every other angel up here- just like Adam. Alastor already didn't like Lilith when they were Created, so he must hate them after they ruined Eden and the rest of humanity. Appealing to him is very likely going to be a lost cause, but he made a promise to Charlie and he intends to see it through. He's surprised when Alastor greets him with open arms. When he listens openly to Lucifer's request, and seems interested. Maybe even excited about it.

Because for Alastor, this is the first familiar face he's seen in thousands of years- one that isn't Adam. This is the first project of the millions he's been brought that actually captures his attention; a redemption project, from none other than Charlie Morningstar herself.

They want permission, they want help breaking it to the public in an acceptable way. And Alastor's happy for the challenge. (He'd never say that he missed anyone from his time in Hell, but it's undeniable that the hazbins were an entertaining bunch, and he's so close to tearing his hair out due to sheer boredom.)

Speaking of the angels, I feel like he'd totally fuck with them by predicting massive historical events, leading them to think that he has some level of communication with God.

Extra funnies if there's radioapple slow burn and Lilith feels absolutely cucked that the man made for her is after her husband.

Alternative storylines that could also happen are:

1). Alastor taking the position as Leader of the Exorcist Army (suck it Adam) and how differently everything would've gone down.

Meetings with Lucifer, the meeting with Charlie, if he eventually would've 'accidentally' stayed behind in Hell. Maybe faked his own death so Heaven wouldn't go looking. Maybe had a freaky fangirl in the shape of a television demon that goes by Cox.

2). Alastor DID join Lilith and Lucifer in the Fall, and how different Hell itself would look with the three of them.

Maybe Blackjack trio? Because I imagine they would be on the fence about him (he very randomly rejected Lily without even knowing her, after all. Kinda rude; bruised her ego). But he very easily could've spun his decision to join their Fall as 'standing up for them,' which would earn him MASSIVE brownie points. Standing up to the angels and enduring Hell for them? Welcome to the team.

Would Lucifer be in such a bad place mentally if there were two people to help him out of the hole he was in? Would Lilith really need an impromptu 7 year vacation if there was actually someone else helping out with the work around here? Plus, her songs would do extra well on the radio. What a unit both first humans would make in Hell (and what a middle finger to Heaven's design). How would Charlie turn out with all three of their influences?

Or he could fuck off and do his own thing in the wilderness of Hell. Basically a cryptid. Rarely seen and incredibly dangerous to encounter. Has a cute little shack in the woods, or massive haunted mansion; probably both. I can totally see him in the bog witch aesthetic.

👀

[jinuaei]

Different Route

Heyyyy remember that idea I had for self aware Resident Evil 4? I made a small fic/drabble for it but got hyperfixated on hazbin hotel so it wasted as a WIP until I started to miss Leon and now here it is!!! I forgot how this was supposed to go so like the last 10% might be shit

I miss my babies so much 🥹

Warning: VERRYYYY small yandere behaviour

This is insane, everything is too crazy!

Ashley grips the lantern closer to her, the heat of it warming her up despite the shivers running through her body due to the cold marble floor she was  laying on. Tear streaks can be seen as she laments how awful everything has been. She still can't believe what has happened to her the past couple days, god, even what transpired an hour ago felt like a nightmare she desperately tries to wake up from. They were so close to escaping the castle, or at least she thought so.

After Leon successfully put together the heads of the chimera statue, gold bars, akin to jail cells, suddenly sprung up from the floor, surprising both her and Leon. Realizing that he's stuck, Leon tries to find a way out before rapid footsteps are heard from below the staircase. He then quickly commands Ashley to run, which she promptly follows by stumbling into the unexplored room behind her. While in there she proceeded to complete a puzzle that can help Leon escape the cell, encountering multiple scary moving armours on the way. Luckily, the blue lantern she found earlier helped her immensely, although she did lose it after trying to grab the key inside the strange mausoleum. The armours swinging its swords down almost made her pass out.

Once Ashley arrived at the elevated platform just above Leon, she was able to grab a key that could free Leon from his holding cell. However, before she could come back down to where he is, someone grabbed her from behind. Immediately struggling against the cultists grip, a sharp pain in her head stopped her from further movement. The pain was so immense that she could feel herself start to pass out, darkness started to creep in her vision as her ears rang loudly against Leon's screams of…pain? Her head lulls to where Leon is and she sees him drop to his knees and clutch his head, gripping his hair in pain. She tried to shout for him but she couldn't even produce a sound, she was only able to mouth a small 'Leon…' in the process. Just as she was going to lose consciousness, she heard two voices echo against her skull, loud and clear amidst the ringing in her ear.

"NOT HER…NOT YET," the first voice growls, masculine and very very familiar.

"Not her… Not again," the second one begs, soft and comforting, she almost cried hearing such a melodic voice. Perhaps this was an angel sent to bring her soul to heaven? Nonetheless, the pain was too much to bear and she passed out at the same time as Leon.

Given how Ashley has been the target of Los Illuminados, she would think she would wake up tied up in a pole, being forced to become one of the monsters that has been hunting her. Instead, she felt the cold floor pressed to her skin, waking her up from her unwanted sleep. Sitting up, she notices a warmth coming from right next to her.

On her side was the lantern, glowing brighter than she remembered, it flickered momentarily as her hands hover to grab it. Something tells her to keep this lantern very close to her, and she does. Orbs start to surround her, covering her with warmth, caressing her skin with the blue glow emitting from it.

Sobs come out from her mouth when the sudden feeling of love and affection rolls over her, it might be just from her starting to go crazy, but she doesn't care. This lantern is the only thing that made her feel safe with everything that happened. Sure, Leon has been there protecting her, but she admits that he's a bit weird muttering to himself about how ‘They came back’ or how he’ll ‘make sure that They won't leave him anymore, not again’. But that doesn't matter anymore, not when Leon needs help, not when she has the lantern with her. 

Ashley clutches the lantern tight against her tear streaked form, determination filling her as the thought of Leon needing her help filled her mind. She knows she needs to help Leon and even though it's scary, the blue light has given her enough confidence to proceed. Something tells her that nothing bad will happen to her when she's holding the lantern.

“Leon… wait for me, I'll save you!”

[busybeewriting]

Arrivals and First Meetings. (Pt. 1)

summary: Violet is officially in Mistria! And now she has to figure out how to cross a broken bridge- and oh god?! why is everyone in town so hot?!

warnings: Swearing!

A/N: Hello!! This is the first part of a series I don’t have a name for yet. 💀 But this is all based off of my farmer, Violet! This is tagged as x reader, if you’d like you can use a word replacer for it! (Linked!) I hope you all enjoy!

Violet didn’t know why she answered it. The mysterious ad for farmland in Mistria. Okay- maybe she did. It was a chance to start anew. Something she so desperately needed. But that wasn’t anything she needed to think about right now. Now, she was looking at the broken bridge before her with a frown and back at her bags wondering how on earth she was going to get them over it. Did a new life mean new clothes? She wasn’t entirely sure if that was going to be something that was in the budget for a while. Turning to look at her bags, then back to the bridge a plan starting to form- “Maybe if I just put on a bunch of layers…” She mumbles to herself, tapping her chin in thought.

Violet jumps several feet in the air when someone behind her clears their throat. Whipping around she sees a tall figure. He was handsome, his features perfectly fitting his face as if he was made to be a model. His eyes and smile screamed cunning, and mischievous. His demeanor was relaxed and composed as he looked at her bags. “Ah,” They mystery man said smoothly. “You must be the new farmer.”

For a moment, Violet contemplates answering. On one hand, he could be the mayor or something! On the other hand, he could be a vampire and just happen to be praying on farmers moving into this town which is why they needed a new one. But he didn’t seem put off by her silence. The man extends his hand, “I’m Balor. A merchant here in Mistria, Lady Adeline sent me to help you.”

She squints momentarily at him. It is broad daylight. Okay, not a vampire. She gives him a warm smile, taking his hand. “I’m Violet. It’s nice to meet you.” She says kindly. “But, uh, how are we gonna get my stuff across the bridge?”

Balor chuckles, a low tone that reverberates through his chest. Violet tries not to blush too much, who knew men could have such attractive laughs? Not her. “That’s easy. But first, let’s handle getting you over.” He offers his hand again like a fairytale prince. Blinking a bit sheepishly as she feels the heat rise in her cheeks, she takes his hand; allowing him to help her jump across.

“So, what about my stuff?” She asks once on the other side.

“Ah, I have my ways. Worry not.” He winks at her. Violet raises an eyebrow.

“You’re just gonna jump ‘crossed it aren’t you?”

“I said I have my ways.” Balor rushes, “We should get you to the farm. I’m sure Adeline and Eiland are waiting for you.” She notes the way the Balor dropped the Lady and Lord from their names. They must be pretty down to earth then. Not like the Royals in the Capital or from her small town.

“So, Violet was it?” Balor asks, a sly smile as he speaks. “Tell me about yourself.”

She shrugs, “Not much to say really. I’m twenty three, needed to get out of my town and found this listing. What better than a new adventure?” Perfect Violet, just like we practiced. She mentally praises herself.

“Hm, interesting.” Balor hums, leading her down to the farm.

Her eyes widen, finally seeing the wooden sign the hung over the entrance. She hadn’t known what to name her farm at first, but since she had planned on making this her little slice of heaven? She ended up with ‘Serenity Farms’ and now, she saw it fully realized. This was it. Her new life. And she was so ready for it.

She had been told to introduce herself. And that was easy! Psh, so, so easy. Until it wasn’t. Standing at the steps of her farm, anxiety gnawed at Violet’s nerves. She needed to make a good first impression. She needed to make sure that everyone here knew she was going to be here to help!

So why couldn’t her damn feet move?! “Okay- okay okay okay-“ Violet breathes. A deep breath for four seconds, holding it before releasing. “I’ve got this. I can do this. Just- keep your mouth shut.” She mumbles to herself. And so, she moved. One step in front of the other before she saw a woman- a beautiful woman. Her as golden as the sun, a face like a day dream. Her whole demeanor screamed innocence, and compassion. You wondered why thier wasn’t birds and wildlife at her side like a fairytale princess. She certainly looked like it.

The woman looked up first, a soft smile gracing her near perfect features. “Oh, hello!” She says kindly, standing from her place in the garden and slipping off the gloves. “You much be the new farmer! I heard you were coming!”

Violets entire brain went numb. What was with this town and all its beautiful people?! Balor? Eiland? Adeline? And now her? What was in the water?! “Yes.” Violet says slowly, tounge thick as her brain forces itself to catch up. “I am the farmer.” She robotically offers her hand to the woman. “Violet.”

“Celine.” She introduces, another gut wrenchingly sweet smile coming across her lips. “It’s a pleasure! My family owns the general store, so if you need anything let us know!” She says kindly.

“Yeah! Yeah of course! I’ll have to stop in and get seeds here soon!” Violet smiles back, “After I introduce myself to the whole town.” She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Oh my!” Celine exclaims in surprise, “That’s seems like quite the to-do list. Please don’t let me keep you!”

Oh no. She was pretty and considerate. Someone sedate her. Before she can embarrass herself by making a remark along the lines of ”I wouldn’t mind being kept by you.” Violet bids her farewell, heading up the pathway.

She meets Nora, and Holt next. Who she puts together are Celine’s parents, and are also as charming as their daughter. Then she meets Dell, a scrappy little lady who she admires then tenacity of. And then the siblings Maple, who is just an absolute sweetheart, and Luc an absolutely brilliant little man. Hemlock and Josephine are also just as delightful as those younger two, and the warmth they exude makes her want to tell them everything about her day over a bowl of soup.

But Reina? She was jaw droppingly gorgeous. Her sweet demeanor is in tune with Celine’s and you hoped they were friends. If not, you had to make it happen. And the way Reina offered you a bowl of soup- you could have kissed her. She was a breath of fresh air.

Hayden was next, the other Farmer was huge compared to Violet. Looking up at him almost broke her neck, but boy howdy was she not complaining. He looked like if a cowboy was mixed with a teddy bear. She couldn’t help but let the unhinged thoughts of how she’d like to be held in those arms consume her.

And so it went, she met multiple people around the town. Each one as beautiful, or charming as the next. It was really unfair- she thought. How everyone was literally so perfect she couldn’t even begin to imagine how much she’d have to hold back her unhinged thoughts. They couldn’t know that about her yet.

But there was one person she had yet to meet. March? At least that’s what Orlic said his brothers name was, and he was up at the forge. A blacksmith- she thought. How neat! So, with a pep in her step she cheerfully makes her way over to introduce herself.

The clanging of metal made it easy to follow, Violet watched as his muscles moved with each lift of the hammer, and each hit of the forge. Her eyes unable to tear away from his back and how it worked to help with the powerful strikes. Oh. She felt her cheeks start to heat from the ideas running around in her head.

“Take a picture it lasts longer.” March- presumably- snaps. He doesn’t look at her, he continues to examine the piece of metal that he was working on.

Shaking her head, Violet uses that as a way to introduce herself. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.” She smiles, holding her hand out to him. “I’m Violet, the new farmer.”

March barely spared a glance at her. “That’s nice. I don’t remember asking.”

She blinks. “The proper introduction is to tell me your name.” She frowns, lowering her hand and crossing her arms.

March sighs, setting down the metal and turning toward her. His eyes widening slightly, standing in front of him was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen. He wasn’t the tallest man around, but she was small. How the hell could she farm if she was that small?! She barely came up to his shoulders! And her face, furrowed brows, amazingly bright purple eyes, a scrunch of her nose and a pout on perfectly pink lips. What the fuck?! Why- he needed to be away from you. And fast.

“I’m March. Now go away.” He barks. “Don’t bother me.”

Violet frowns deeper. But she keeps her mouth closed. “Yeah. It was nice meeting you.” She grumbles as she walks away.

March looks back at her. Taking in more of her. Her ashy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail that left just a few tendrils and her bangs in her face. She was wearing a striped shirt with a denim overall skirt. Fucking- knee highs?!? Was she trying to kill him?! How the hell could she farm in that?! Weren’t farmers supposed to look like Hayden? Rugged and burly? And so totally not his type?! What the fuck!

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed!! This was very self indulgent and I had a lot of fun writing it!

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part seven - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: blood ; PTSD

It was a prison riot that started in the upper levels and trickled down into the infirmary.  That makes sense, because the closer they got to freedom the more chaotic everything became.

The police officers that talk to her in the ER ask a million questions and she mostly lies to keep John’s name out of her mouth. It’s easy to say that she can’t remember most of it, because her brain is expert at blocking out trauma. She thanks her less than ideal upbringing for that. Truth is, that long term memory loss isn’t really working for the short-term and she remembers everything.

The story is that she was close to the exit, got jumped by some inmates, and managed to get away and out of the doors with guard keys. No, she didn’t see anyone else escape or remember faces or name badges.

They press her until her nurse, a pretty woman named Karen, comes in and puts a stop to it.

Badass Nurse Karen, who tells the police officers: “She already told you everything, and she needs to rest now.”

They leave begrudgingly after that.

“You alright honey?” Karen asks.

She nods, wipes tears from her eyes, wills herself to be just a little tougher in front of her own kind.

The doctor says her X-rays look good, but she may have a few aches and pains over the next few days as her bruising heals up. He prescribes her Toradol to help, but she doesn’t bother picking it up from the pharmacy.

There are more important things on her mind, like who the hell is John Wick and why did he allow her to live?

She Googles his name on her phone while she sits in the hospital bed and comes up blank except for a few pictures and articles on well known businessmen that look nothing like him.

Her second problem should probably be her first, but John sticks to her mind like a glue trap and she can’t stop thinking about him no matter how much she tries.

Will power has never been a strong suit.

The second problem is if she still has a job or not. Will they shut the prison down or keep it open? Does she want to go back after today? Are there any other jobs that pay as well within walking distance? If not, how much time will she need to save up for a down payment on a car?

Her phone rings. She answers blindly.

Michael is on the other end, sounding panicky. “Are you okay? I just got home and the news says there was a riot at your job? Please tell me you’re not dead.”

“I’m okay, Michael. I got out and I’m at the emergency room right now.”

“Oh my god,” Michael groans, “what happened to you?”

She feeds him the same bullshit story she gave to the cops, but, unlike them, Michael accepts and trusts her word. That makes her feel insanely guilty. “I’m alright,” she assures, “just bruised.”

“When are you coming home?” He asks. “I’m gonna make you some tea and whiskey.”

God, what did she ever do to deserve him?

“Thank you, Michael, but you really don’t have to, I’m-“

“Hush!” He commands. “Text me when you’re headed back, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

She rubs her temples. “Thank you Michael, you’re an angel sent from Heaven.”

“Uh, babe, duh, where else do angels come from?” He teases.

Fallen angels. From hell. Here to make her terrified of and pining for them. One in particular comes to mind—

“I’m serious,” Michael interjects on her monologue. “Text me when you’re coming home. Take a taxi and if you don’t have the money I’ll pay for it.”

She agrees and hangs up just as Karen walks in with her discharge paperwork.

Michael grabs her to examine the damage, but quickly thinks better of it once he notices what she’s covered in. “Jesus,” he says, “they beat the fuck out of you.”

“You should see the other guys,” she jokes, not an ounce of humor in her voice.

He looks at her with a skeptical eyebrow raised before ushering her in.

Before anything, she has to take a shower and throw her scrubs in the laundry basket. Better yet, she throws them away. The steaming water does nothing to cleanse her worries or guilt.

She walks out in pajamas, wet hair pulled back off her face, to sit at the table. Two steaming mugs of bitter smelling tea await her.

She takes a scolding sip. “This is delicious.” And she means that. The warm liquid melts her insides into a fuzzy pleasant feeling, and she can’t even taste her least favorite alcohol in the sugary mixture. While the shower didn’t help her anxiety, this concoction just might if she drinks enough of it.

Michael blows on his. “Thank you, but I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Who is John?”

She tries to act normal but her whole body breaks out into a freezing sweat. She takes another drink of her tea to hide her face. “What?” She says, swallowing hot liquid and nervous pitch.

He smiles. “You’ve been saying his name in your sleep. I assume he’s a crush, because usually at the boyfriend stage you’ve already got a taste so you don’t have to fantasize as much. At least that’s how it is for me.”

The horrified look on her face makes him scramble to reassure her that he doesn’t think she’s a creep, although in saying so it just makes her feel like he absolutely does.

He groans. “I’m sorry, I just thought I could take your mind off of today. Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Michael. Please tell me you don’t hate me.”

He scoffs. “For what? Dreaming about a guy? Babe, I’ve been there more times than I can count. Now, tell me about mystery man…If you’re comfortable.”

She rubs the side of her neck, embarrassed and staring at the golden top of the table instead of at Michael.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“He’s tall.” Is what she decides on.

Michael deadpans. “Tall?”

“Black hair,” she adds.

“Dark,” he corrects. “Handsome…?”

She nods. “I mean, yeah.”

“What’s he like?”

She tries to think of a good, all encompassing word to describe him. She thinks about him twisting heads off spines like popping daisies. “Intense,” she decides.

“Ugh,” Michael whines, “you have to give me more than this. You’re killing me.”

“He is Russian.” She regrets saying that, not knowing if it’s too much info.

“So you met him online?”

“Yes.” Thank God he gives her that out.

“Ohhh,” Michael grins. “I’ll wanna see a picture.”

“He’s very private.”

Michael sighs. “Fine. But just promise me you won’t meet up with him alone. He could be a serial killer.”

She almost laughs at that, the irony filling her with crazed hilarity.

“Is he outgoing? Funny? Cocky?” Michael asks.

“Just intense Michael. I’m really sorry, it’s been such a…”

“No, you’re right,” Michael nods. “Let’s talk about something else.”

She can tell that there’s a lot he’s not asking right now. For her benefit. Leaving him in the dark makes her feel bad, though, because he’s such an open book. She decides to divulge a bit more info that she thinks he will want to hear.

“He has nice hands,” she says, gulping down tea and then refilling her cup with mostly whiskey. “They’re big. Long fingers. Veins that you could hit with a needle with your eyes closed.”

Michael leans in, eyes lighting. “Nice forearms?”

“Seem to be,” she confirms. “Lean, muscle-y but not too much. His upper arms are a bit more solid.”

Michael giggles like a school girl, cheeks pinking. “My god,” he says, “could he bench press us?”

She remembers him scooping her up off the ground, manhandling her, protecting her. “Yes.”

Michael squeals. He finally chugs his tea and smacks wet lips together. “What a man. So what’s the hold up? Marry him.”

They drink another cup of tea, watch late night Roseanne re-runs, and then go to bed. Michael has to be at class in the morning and then he wants her to come with him to the club. She would refuse, but it would be a dick move considering all he’s done for her.

When she wakes up, she spends grueling hours trying to call HR and searching for new jobs online. She applies for a few: Clinical Specialist for a local pharmacy, home health nurse for an elderly couple that live on her block, IV infusion nurse.

HR calls her in the middle of cooking breakfast and she answers with toast stuffed in her mouth. They tell her that she can come back to work but will have to deal with renovations and a new infirmary location with limited equipment. She agrees, of course, eager to have a job back so soon as next week.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

PLEASE BEAR WITH ME!

Another female Adam Au!

The original group finds themselves in another dimension where everything is different and the only way to return home is for the true Queen of Hell, loved by ALL of Hells citizens to wear the crown.

At first original Lilith wears the crown and is rejected. This is because she only cares for the ring of pride and in Hell’s eyes that is not nearly enough to make her the Queen of Hell. This pisses her off and everyone is curious in who is the true Queen of Hell then?

Lucifer in the other dimension isn’t married to Lilith, is not in love with her and Charlie doesn’t exist (yet). He lonely and depressed and wonders why he doesn’t have a lover or a daughter, why he’s alone.

In Eden, Lucifer didn’t fall in love with any of the humans. He didn’t have the chance to meet female Adam before he was forcefully fallen. Instead he disobeyed God from pride and jealously, manipulating Lilith into taking the apple to prove that Gods perfect creations are flawed just as much as everything else. God has him fall as punishment for this.

Lilith is a raging badass lesbian. She loves to sleep with sinners and hellborn alike. She has many flings. When someone falls in love with her, she drops them. She is in love with Eve and have a hate/love/off/on again relationship with her. She’s also protective of female Adam and sees her as a little sister. Lilith and Eve has a lot of bitter history.

In Eden, Lilith is made as the first human and is considered perfect. However she wasn’t able to bring herself to be attracted to the first man so Eve was created as her replacement. Lilith fell in love with Eve, which Lucifer used to his advantage - at the time Lucifer didn’t believe in love and thought it was pathetic. Because Lilith was the one to take the apple from Lucifer convinced the others to eat it, she was painted either falling with Lucifer. They have an enemy/friends when need to be relationship, it is not romantic at all. They sort of tolerate one another.

Eve is just vibing. She’s loving life and having the best of both worlds. Eve liked Lilith in Eden and experimented with her often but at the same time experimented with the first man. Since both of the humans fight over her, made her feel special and gave her big ego. She tried it on with Lucifer but when Lucifer cruelly turned her down, she told herself it was because Lucifer was too short for her anyway. When she bit the apple, she became the root of all evil and went to hell when she died. Where her and Lilith butted head often but also slept together often.

Female Adam was the last human to be made. After God discovered when Eve was up to, he deemed her ‘unpure’ and created Adam as the true pure soul. She was supposed to be the new mother of humanity and God thought that if he made her opposite to Lilith and Eve, the results may be different. Female Adam is short with short brown hair, almost sickly grey skin and slightly chubby. She is more naive and innocent compared to Lilith and Eve, she has no desire of sex. After they leave Eden, Eve kills her out of jealously.

Since the first man is supposed to be the first soul in heaven, Adam is sent to hell. However since she has a pure soul she is reborn as Hell’ first and only ‘Hellborn human’ which Heaven is unaware of.

She is adopted by Blitzo, a family of imps. She considered the shortest hellborn outside the imps. Due to this Adam fights for Hellborn rights for Imps and Hellborns. She fights and helps Frizzaroli, becomes the adopted older sister to Loona and eventually Octavia (Blitzo and Stolas does marry someday!) and Moxxie and Millie are her godparents. Her best friend is Verosilko. She’s been Stella’s assistant at times too. Hell practically love her because she loves everyone else. There’s a lot of dirty talk from Verosilka and Millie, girl nights who keep telling her she’ll understand when she meets a man. She’s a virgin.

She does a lot of odd jobs throughout the other rings and befriends or babysits the other sins. Thought she’s never been to the pride ring or meet the sin of pride before.

Lilith is aware of her reborn and have kept it a secret, knowing that if heaven found out they would wage war in Hell and demand Adam to be passed over. She visits Adam often and has a sort of off and on again relationship with Verisilka and even made comments that she will someday add Stella to her conquests much to Adams distain.

The rumours of Lucifer having to find a Queen reaches down into the other rings and even Adam hears about it. Since Lilith is aware of female Adam, she takes her up to the pride ring where Lucifer finally meets her probably and falls heads over hill.

And yeah! That’s all I got!

Female Adam is the true Queen of Hell because she loves all Sinners and Hellborns. She eventually marries Lucifer and they have Charlie (yay). She’s gives both Lucifer and Charlie this huge family they deserve. There might be a bit of a war with heaven and hell when heaven does learn about Adam and Eve is the one to save her. When Charlie’s older the redemption hotel is working a lot better with Female Adams help! And the season follows the same only Adam might be pregnant with their second child and is bed ridden as her body became weaker after Charlies birth. Lucifer isn’t depressed and the first man is the head of the extermination day, Eve might be up to shit again but not with Morningstar’s and Lilith is scheming against Heaven again.

🤷‍♀️ all I got! Hope it’s not too confusing?

Holy shit! That's one hell of a ride I'd love to read something like this!!

Not confusing at all lol

[quoththemaiden]

Aziraphale: The Sword that Guards the Tree of Life

Looking where the furniture isn't

This post is dedicated to @meatballlady's excellent insistence that if we want to try to predict where season 3 will go, we need to look at where the furniture isn't. That is, what must have been there but wasn't shown?

For this one, my source material is going to be Genesis. That is, in no small part, because it does in fact fuck severely that Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett took the angel with the flaming sword and the serpent of Eden and made them kiss (@joycrispy, @ouidamforeman). It's also because Genesis, quite simply, exists, and it seems safe to assume that most everyone in Gaiman and Pratchett's intended audience has been exposed to at least its first few chapters dozens of times.

What does Genesis tell us about Aziraphale's purpose?

3:22 Then the Lord God said, “Behold, the man has become like one of Us, knowing good and evil; and now, he might reach out with his hand, and take fruit also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever”—  23 therefore the Lord God sent him out of the Garden of Eden, to cultivate the ground from which he was taken.  24 So He drove the man out; and at the east of the Garden of Eden He stationed the cherubim and the flaming sword which turned every direction to guard the way to the tree of life.

@joycrispy's analysis above highlights Aziraphale's role as given in the last verse: as the angel chosen to wield the flaming sword, he was sent down after Adam and Eve were expelled to prevent them from returning. Instead, he chose to protect them by giving that sword away. His desire to protect humanity is indeed beautiful (@give-soup-please, @snek-eyes).

But wait, what came right before that? "And take fruit also from the tree of life...?"

2:9 Out of the ground the Lord God caused every tree to grow that is pleasing to the sight and good for food; the tree of life was also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

That's right: What we see in the show is that Adam and Eve were sent out of Eden so that they'd have to deal with the rain and the animals and have to work for their food, but that was never the primary motivation. God planted two special trees, and after Eve and Adam ate from one of them, God was terrified at the prospect of them turning around and eating from the other. And thus, the Garden of Eden was made off-limits and set to be permanently guarded by an angel with a flaming sword.

So, the flaming sword.

Twice now, Aziraphale's sword has helped humanity survive complete and total destruction (@nottobehornyonthemain). The first time, he handed the sword to the first two humans, which protected not just them but the entirety of the human race via Adam and very pregnant Eve.

The second time, he let it be wielded by The Them, who used it to best the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse and save the billions of humans already alive as well as unborn generations.

Perhaps the flaming sword was only intended as a plot point in the first season. However, if its purpose were completed, it could have easily been destroyed. As a narrative piece, it could have broken dramatically at the end of the face-off against the Four Horsepeople. Or, Watsonianly, God could have chosen to break it Herself; after all, it was already used against its intended purpose twice, so why let it keep existing?

Instead, it's carefully taken away to... where? Heaven?

The place Aziraphale is now going?

Or at least a place where he could likely find a record showing where it's being stored?

Whether you call it "rule of threes" or "Chekhov's gun," I think it likely that Aziraphale will be getting his sword back in season 3. He probably doesn't want it (@createserenity, @ineffableigh, @doctorscienceknowsfandom), but he'll need it.

The question, then, is what would Aziraphale do with the flaming sword he was given to prevent humans from reaching the tree of life?

If we're looking at where the furniture isn't, the biggest stretch of an interpretation would be to say that the missing furniture is the tree of life. If anyone knows where Eden is, it would be Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. We know that both Heaven and Hell want to end humanity. The opening credits have humanity walking to their judgment after their deaths; what better way to prevent that than by preventing those deaths?

The most intense version of this theory says that the audience should be familiar with the story of the Garden of Eden and know damn well that there are two special trees there and that Aziraphale was put in place to guard the second one — the one humanity hasn't eaten from yet, the one that grants immortal life. That's where, if I were truly trying to swing for the hills by aiming at where the furniture isn't, I would ideally like to end this post. If that were the case, season 3 could even open with Aziraphale walking towards the Garden of Eden, sword in hand, but this time approaching it from the outside with the intention of tearing the wall down.

But, let's be honest, making individual people immortal doesn't feel like it would fit with the themes of Good Omens, nor with Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett's world views.

So, let's take the tree of life symbolically: Instead of the tree of life granting individual humans immortality, it could instead represent giving humanity immortality. In that case, the thing that's where the furniture isn't is Aziraphale's sword. You know, the sword that's already saved the human race from extinction twice now, with both times being because Aziraphale gave it away.

I suspect that the sword will wind up in Aziraphale's hands again in season 3. I also quite suspect that it won't be staying there. In the end, I expect it will once again be up to humanity to reach out their hand to take the apple from that second tree.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (13)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Daemon understood better than anyone what it meant to be the second son, the one who would inherit nothing. It seemed to him that, in contrast to Viserys, he was a blazing fire like a true dragon, giving warmth, light and shelter to those close to his heart, burning those whom he saw as his enemies.

Viserys was always blind, soft-spoken, lacking strong character and clear opposition when things got too far out of hand.

This trait of his had been carefully exploited by Otto Hightower over the years, putting himself in the role of his friend and adviser, playing his part with an extraordinary devotion from which he felt like throwing up.

He knew it was pure courtesy, perfectly calculated, taking advantage of the mourning of the entire Red Keep and his inattention after Aemma's tragic death he slipped his brother his daughter under his nose.

Looking at her on their wedding day, standing in a long, ornate gown he thought she looked like a child on whom someone had put layers of cloth and precious stones; overwhelmed by it all she looked down at her feet, around her nails the red wounds he had seen on her hands ever since.

On that one day, knowing what was awaiting her, he truly felt compassion for her.

After that, however, he stopped.

She could have built her independence, committed herself to the needs of the kingdom, she, however, in the company of that cunt, Criston Cole, gave herself over to prayer and mortification, obediently following her father's orders.

As a woman, she was in his eyes pitiful, weepy, whiny, merely pretending to be saintly and virtuous, having in fact nothing to do with these qualities.

His feelings about her and her father moved involuntarily to her children.

He recognised the dragon's blood in them and treated them differently from the Hightowers, yet he was unable or unwilling to bond with them, seeing how they were suckled to their mother's breasts, which did not allow them to think or breathe on their own.

He watched from the sidelines, observing from afar as Rhaenyra and Alicent's children trained together, how a divide formed between them. He knew that once they grew up and understood what was really at stake, they would throw themselves at each other's throats.

He knew perfectly well whose right to the throne he would support.

Aegon was a drunkard and a cunt, Helaena was quiet and withdrawn, Aemond was sullen and vindictive − he thought with amusement that each of them had inherited the worst from his brother and their mother.

However, he couldn't help but show at least a little compassion and understanding for his brother's second son, who had been punished by the gods, left without a dragon of his own.

Some part of him wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to see through him as a kind of reflection of himself, but on those rare occasions when he was with Leana and his daughters in the Red Keep he never made such a gesture, which he later, though he did not want to admit it to himself, regretted.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently then.

He could see with what admiration he looked at him, how much he longed to hear at least one word of appreciation from him, any gesture of interest.

He knew that if he could decide who his father-figure would be he would choose not Viserys or Cole but him, and he pretended not to notice that.

Once though, he noticed something that surprised him; strolling through the cloisters of the Red Keep he spotted his nephew and Rhaenyra's only daughter standing side by side in the square, leaning over the table filled with the various weapons. He smirked under his breath as he walked closer, wanting to listen to their conversation.

They were betrothed.

A clumsy attempt by his brother to avoid what he felt in his bones had to happen.

He saw his niece point her finger at one of the weapons lying on the wooden tabletop, a steel black spiked ball hooked on a chain to a special handle.

"What is it? It looks scary." She said with amusement, her voice light and pleasant; he thought with surprise that his nephew's grim and stormy nature did not deter her.

Alicent's son grunted loudly, lifting his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority and intelligence that he hated so much about the Hightowers, clearly proud to be able to speak on a subject in which his knowledge was extensive.

"It's a flail. A very heavy weapon requiring great strength and agility in its use. It literally crushes the opponent." He said, forcing himself into a low, mature, masculine voice, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his hair in a slight disarray from the few duels he had already had.

"That weapon looks like the kind you die from in agony." Mumbled his niece, tentatively touching her fingertip to one of the spikes – her uncle pushed her away immediately, surprised by her gesture, grabbing her hand by the wrist.

"Are you insane? What are you doing? It's sharp after all, you could have hurt yourself." He said angrily, but she only blinked, surprised by his outburst, and smiled indulgently, showing him her finger.

"I know, silly. I wouldn't want something like that to hit me in the face." She sneered, raising her eyebrows in amusement, joy in her gaze and embarrassment at the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

She took a step closer to him, but he stepped back quickly and lowered his gaze, he noticed in disbelief that his pale cheeks had turned scarlet.

"Not here. Later." He muttered letting go of her wrist immediately. He heard her quiet sigh of disappointment as she nodded and walked away without another word.

He watched as, a moment later, his nephew cursed under his breath, pulling off his leather gloves and moved after her, grabbing her at one of the side entrances by her arm. She turned to him with a smile as if she was sure he would follow her, her lips placing a quick, brief kiss on his cheek.

He let her go, embarrassed and blushing, looking sideways, muttered something, and she nodded and disappeared behind the walls. His nephew returned to the square as if nothing had happened, a lazy, barely visible smile on his face; Aegon looked at him from afar with a look full of pity, as soon as his younger brother came closer he said loud and clear:

"What a twat you are."

He snarled under his breath as he heard Criston Cole immediately respond to his remark by saying that it was inappropriate for a prince to use such vocabulary, his younger brother only gave him a grim look indicating that he himself was torn internally, ashamed of his weakness.

He thought then, moving ahead, amused, that his brother had inadvertently contributed to something that was certainly not his original plan.

These kids really wanted it.

He felt shame because, looking at them, he wondered how he really felt about his wife. He recognised that she was his companion and lover, whom he respected and cherished, but she was not his friend, he could not allow her into the depths of his heart.

Only when he saw Rheanyra did he feel something more; he had the feeling that the air around them quivered when they spoke, he sensed that she understood perfectly the source and reason of his impulsive nature.

Despite this, he found his life peaceful and prosperous, and the death of his wife in childbirth was something shocking and painful to him. He covered his grief with laughter, the thought that he had wasted years of her life, a wonderful, beautiful woman who deserved someone to love her with all her being, giving her something more than a substitute of affection.

Then, however, his nephew lost an eye and everything fell apart like a house of cards, showing how weak their family actually was.

The events that followed wove together in his mind, the closeness of Rhaenyra and their later nuptials brought him a sense of relief, as if two parts that belonged together had been joined.

He watched her daughter from afar, the sadness and grief painted on her after all still so young and innocent face made her seem to him pale and lifeless, at once beautiful, cool and inaccessible, walking around Dragonstone like a ghost, not speaking to anyone despite how much his daughters tried to get close to her.

She was warm, helpful and welcoming when anyone approached her, but did not raise any discussions herself, eating and drinking little at suppers, immersed in her thoughts.

He knew that she was with them only in body.

He decided not to make the same mistake as with his nephew and offer her his interest, his support in the ironic and mischievous form peculiar to him, the only way in which he could show his affection to anyone.

What surprised him was how much she clung to him, how often she cried during their walks together; despite her innate vulnerability she had a strength of character that he appreciated – she was inclined to rash actions or anger, but she was also not docile or naive, she tried to find order in the chaos that surrounded her.

Only he and his niece had been invited to Aegon's nuptials to Helaena; Alicent had expressed in her letter her concern that the meeting of their children might affect them badly and reawaken old wounds, which his wife took as a reasonable argument, and indeed, albeit reluctantly, it was only the two of them who travelled to the Red Keep.

The whole ceremony in the Great Sept dragged on endlessly for him; he looked around, bored, unwilling to stare at the horrified, sad faces of his nephew and niece, testament to the fact that neither of them wanted this marriage.

The wedding supper held in the fortress was lavish with dancing and music, lords from all over the kingdom descended and gathered in the throne room at large, long oak tables filled to the brim with food. Sitting down in his seat next to his wife, he glanced sideways and noticed a figure looking at him intensely, the One-Eyed Prince staring at him coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and admiration, finding that he looked like a man, well-built and muscular, tall, his hair much longer, a black eye patch covering the left side of his face.

He grinned with amusement and mockery, wondering to what he owed his attention, and his nephew only hummed under his breath, looking away, apparently discouraged by his reaction.

He wondered, looking at him, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, if he had shown him fatherly concern then, taken him under his wing, separated him from Alicent and Otto, he would be a different man now.

Several toasts were made to the bride and groom, during each of which Aegon drank his cup to the bottom, clearly intent on fulfilling his marital duty completely drunk.

"Stop it. You've had enough." Growled his younger brother, taking his goblet from him with an aggressive flick of his hand, setting it impatiently far from his older brother's reach.

Aegon slapped him angrily on the shoulder, mumbling something under his breath; his younger brother stood up, towering over him, showing him wordlessly that if he touched him again he would regret it.

"Aemond." Said their mother, this green whore, who was looking at them in pain, her hands folded in front of her as if to pray.

His nephew rolled his eyes and left the hall by a side entrance, furious, unwilling and unable to look at it apparently; Aegon with a wide grin reached for his cup again and to his despair took the empty seat next to him that had been occupied earlier by his wife, now conversing with the King.

"Uncle! So many years." He mumbled, tapping him on the back in a friendly, masculine greeting. He rolled his eyes, amused, smelling the stench of alcohol and sweat from him.

"As you can see, everything stays in the family. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. After all, she'll surely cry. Fuck." He muttered, taking a deep, catchy sip from his cup, tilting it so that he drank it all at once.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling discomfort at the thought that he felt compassion for Helaena for what was about to happen to her.

He glanced at her sad, petite figure; she sat gazing off into the distance somewhere, dreamy.

He wondered as he watched her if she realised what awaited her.

"She doesn't seem to fully understand what I will have to do to her. After all, she's my sister. I don't want to hurt her. She's odd and I don't understand her, but I don't want her to fucking cry." He mumbled out covering his face with his hand, his voice breaking with his every word – he drew in air loudly as if he was out of breath, and he looked at him not knowing what to do.

What was he supposed to answer him?

"Be gentle and kind. Make her feel as little pain as possible. You know very well that how it will look lies in your hands. If you want her to suffer as little as possible, stop drinking because it will take you a fucking hour." He growled, taking the cup from his hand just as his younger brother had earlier, and wondered if that was what he meant then, if he knew his condition would only worsen whatever was to await them next.

"You pity yourself and you smell of alcohol and sweat. Go take a bath or do you want to lay on her like that? Give her some dignity for goodness sake." He said coolly, looking ahead indifferently; his nephew swallowed loudly, sitting beside him like a little rebuked child, playing with his fingers.

He wondered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye if his brother had ever spoken to him about it, if he had prepared him and explained to him how he should behave.

"All my life I've envied him. My brother. He had someone of his own who cared about him. I think he really loved her, uncle. Now I barely recognise anyone myself. I'm not sure any of us are the same person anymore. Only Helaena has remained the same − innocent and ignorant. That's because she doesn't step outside her mind. If she did, she would have gone mad like we did."

It turned out that he was partly right.

What he didn't expect was that when they arrived all together as a family after several years in King's Landing to defend Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark these two would be lying in bed with each other on their very first night.

"If you tell me you still want to marry him, I will help you. I'd rather you be his wife than lead you and him into a scandal that could destroy your mother. Your betrothal has never been called off, the king will easily prove that no other plans for you can be in force against his decision. But if you decide not to, I will personally see to it that you never see him again and that no letter of yours leaves Dragonstone. Make a manly, mature decision with all its consequences, and stop wallowing over yourself."

He told her then, wanting her to understand that they could not stand in the middle, that they had to choose, or their decisions would drag them all down.

Watching them in the throne room audience, however, the greedy, desperate gaze of his nephew fixed on her as if he wanted to devour her gave him no illusions.

What this boy was telling himself was one thing, but what he was feeling was another.

It was this thought that made him decide to question Alicent's decision in front of everyone, wanting to hear his brother's opinion on the matter, the only one that really counted. He had expected nothing but objections from both sides, however, against the desperate attempts of their mothers, his nephew and his niece's daughter made a decision that did not surprise him at all.

It was enough for her to get up from her seat and walk out to make him press his lips together in rage and follow her out, exactly as he had done then, in the courtyard, when he had thrown himself after her, and she knew perfectly well that he would do so, knowing his nature.

He wondered if she had kissed him this time too, if the tension between them had eased.

He thought that this marriage might actually calm the emotions a little, especially as his brother was over his deathbed.

This union was forcing both parties to be cautious, which could be mutually beneficial.

"She has decided that she wants to stay in the Red Keep until I return." His wife said to him, putting her black leather gloves on her hands, walking beside him towards the dragon's lair. He stopped, looking at her in disbelief, furious.

This was not the plan.

"What?" He growled, looking at her as if she had completely lost her mind. "You're leaving my daughter in the care of that whore and her father-traitor?"

He saw that she smiled at his words emphasising that in his eyes she was his child, that he had taken responsibility for her and protected her as any true father should.

"She asked me to do this. I imagine they both want to clarify a lot of things with each other. Since the nuptials are to take place as soon as possible there is no need to fret, I will personally take her back in a few days." She replied calmly, and he let out a loud breath, impatiently licking his lips.

It was a bad idea, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn't protest and that was his mistake.

The next day he lost two of his daughters.

Rhaenyra, his brother's heir to the throne fell with a groan when envoys reported to her that her father was dead, that her brother had been crowned king, that they had imprisoned their daughter.

She cried out loudly in pain, clutching at her womb; at first he thought it was despair, but then he saw the pool of blood beneath her feet, her terrified gaze, her lips parted in agony.

They both knew it was too soon.

Their daughter already looked like a tiny infant, but sadly her fate was sealed; she wasn't moving or breathing, she was cold, looking more like a doll than a human being.

He felt that he had to leave the fortress; he followed exactly where he always went out with her, with one of his daughters, to the sea itself, and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the rage and chaos that overtook his mind.

He wanted to mount Caraxes and burn them all.

However, his cousin and daughters had cooled his ardour, recognising that they needed to prepare, gather an army, make a plan of action.

He recognised that it was only female sentiment, a weakness that kept them from making the risky decision that his whole life consisted of.

When his wife finally recovered from her brief mourning, despite his entreaties, she did not listen to him and decided to send her sons as her representatives, wanting to extract the pledge of allegiance from those who had paid her tribute many years ago.

He had thought it nonsensical, however, when Luke returned from Storm's End it turned out that his step son had been a naive idiot.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." He growled, turning away from the table with fury, massaging his face with his palm, not believing he could have done such a thing.

"Daemon." Said Rhaenyra in a voice trembling with despair; she looked at her son, trying to calm herself. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." He muttered, forcing himself into a calm tone of voice.

He turned towards him, looking at him with his heart beating fast.

She had done this for them, so they could attack the Red Keep without fear.

She wanted to make a manly decision, to sacrifice herself, his brave daughter, his little dragon.

"Gods." Said his wife, clutching at her womb, apparently involuntarily recalling the moments when she had carried her under her heart, the maternal tears of pain in her eyes.

"And then?" He finished for her, seeing that she didn't have the strength to get anything else out, Luke swallowed hard, afraid to look at him.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." Said with difficulty, Jace slammed his fist on the table, furious.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He said red with anger and he glanced at him indifferently, sighing heavily.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He asked further, pretending not to have heard his outburst; Jace pressed his lips together, furious. Luke shook his head quickly.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." He muttered, and he sighed heavily, placing both of his hands on the table, leaning over it, and closed his eyes, trying to focus.

He let her see him without any other witnesses and then let him go even though he hated him, even though he could have trapped and humiliated him.

Why?

A memory flashed through his mind, the way his nephew cursed as he fought with himself to finally run after her, her smile full of reassurance as she turned to him knowing he would follow her, his blush of embarrassment and lazy smile as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek, her proof of her devotion and affection that he craved so much.

He had never stopped loving her.

This stone-cold, dangerous man had done something for her, surely after she had tried to take her own life.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[littlesparklight]

Taking a break from The Long Years for Femslash February! We'll see how far I get with this f/f Helen/Paris Trojan war AU through this month, but either way I'll (try to) post a snippet every day.

It'll be tagged with yuriliad lol

"Father!" In a cloud of curls half-draped and tied back, adorned with the flash of much jewellery, came one of the king's few daughters by his first-rank wife bursting into the room. "I'm to marry!"

"You… are?" Priam asked, looking up from where he'd been bent in conference with her oldest brother, the two of them seated by the window. "Alexandra, didn't you say just a few years ago - when I first brought that prospect up - that you would rather dedicate yourself to service the goddess in music?"

Paris beamed, far too happy to care, and even less be embarrassed by, the slight reproach in the question, otherwise filled with gentle humour. Her parents were ever indulgent since she'd been found and brought back, and this time she had much reason to once again be so. It could hardly even be called indulgence when the blessed immortals were involved, anyway. More like proper reverence - particularly so when her own lady had been among the goddesses come before her.

"Yes," Paris agreed, head cocked and twisting a lock around a finger, still smiling. She simply couldn't stop. "But when the lady of love, even golden Aphrodite has gifted me love and a union, how could I refuse? One does not cast away the glorious gifts of the gods, none which are for the asking and only in their grace given."

Almost, her smile threatened to falter, remembering the oppressive air of the garden, the glares of the other two who had come with strong Argeiphontes - thankfully, Hektor shifted forward as he turned fully around in his seat, frowning while at the same time his eyebrows arched, commanding all attention. He was so amusing, the way he almost always had this slightly pinched expression on his face and then it fought to stay there while another battled for its rightful place. Paris was rather sure it wasn't just that her darling oldest brother took to his responsibilities with even more fervour and attention than they probably quite needed when their father was hale and sound of both mind and heart. He was, and as far as she knew, always had been, quite a serious soul, even when younger.

It was always such a struggle to make him relax.

"That doesn't sound as if you mean the usual manner the blessings of the goddess come, aside from those the goddess gave you since birth," Hektor said, almost warily and still pulled between frowning and that arched, inquiring look. Curious despite himself, yet not believing this wasn't the usual over-exuberance he thought she was inundated with.

And perhaps Paris did nothing to dispel that impression when she laughed brightly, shaking her head.

"I was in the garden practising for the Purulli festival," she said as she sat down on the stool left near her father and brother's chairs. "When the air turned all bright and the herald of Zeus piḫaššaššiš came before me, leading three goddesses - even the lady of heaven herself, and Maliya, the armoured daughter of the Father of Gods and Men, and lastly, the lady of love, golden Aphrodite.

"The son of Maia gave me a golden apple, and told me it was - at my discretion - to be gifted to the most beautiful of the three stood before me, by order of the lord of Olympos, even Zeus himself."

Paris touched her heart, smiling at her father and brother. She'd contemplated waiting to tell all, but there seemed little way of convincing them to let her go where she would need to without revealing this. She might well be allowed to journey to both Cyprus and Kythera, holy places to the goddess that she had asked before to visit. She wouldn't be sent on her own, however, and without the cooperation of at least her father or Hektor, and then whoever who might be sent with her, Paris knew she might fail in convincing the latter to go somewhere it hadn't been agreed-upon that she was to go.

Better to tell all, then, so even if she had to attempt convincing somewhere, her brother and father would both know why she had done so when she came before them after coming home.

"Alexandra…" Her father rubbed the bridge of his nose, a line deeper than the others carving itself down from the left side of his mouth. Hektor had the beginnings of a similar line already, which was rather charming but in her opinion was surely much too early. He was only half-way to thirty, as of yet. "Did anyone else see this?"

"The gods show themselves only to those they will, Father," Hektor pointed out before she had to do so, but he sounded exhausted. Eyes narrowed, he looked to her. "Were you dreaming?"

"I think I would know if I was sleep, Hektor!" Paris cried, clapping her hands together. "And there were a few other women in the garden, for it's a very pleasant day, but not close, and they saw and heard nothing, for I saw them beyond the Deathless Ones and they never looked our way."

Her father and brother sighed as if joined to one body and soul, and Paris hid a smile behind her hand - badly, for Hektor glowered at her. Batting her lashes, Paris suppressed a giggle when he groaned, shaking his head.

"And then, sister?"

"And then, I gave the apple to the lady of love and beauty, for who else could it belong to - and she awarded me with a gift, the promise of love and union with the most beautiful woman in the world," Paris said brightly, back straight and a light in her heart, on her tongue.

"That would be… unusual," her father said, eyeing her with a knowing weight in his eyes, the bright, intense colour of a shallow sea in summer - a colour she shared with him.

"What else could be more fitting, in a judgement over beauty among goddesses?" Paris said, cocking her head and shrugging lightly, a small smile pulling at her lips.

She knew very well what he was thinking about, though he had only rumours and supposition to go on, overheard conversations from people who thought they knew what they'd seen and could not keep their mouths shut. Not that they were wrong, as such, to whisper she had slept with every priestess and other female temple worker in the sacred district. Not that she had, not all of them, but she had begged her father to be allowed to dedicate her time to her music and her goddess over a marriage, even if she could have continued both those vocation while married, for a reason.

But he would not voice such suspicions, even less the uglier rumours that were little more than accusations, and Paris sat calmly on the stool, knowing she had the goddess on her side in this.