#i could make him drop a chalice

[lilislegacy]

Okay, I’ve been thinking about something lately

All the time I see people make statements about Percy that start with “Percy would never…”

Some examples I’ve seen: “percy would never kill someone/something in front of his mom” “percy would never yell at someone he loves” “percy would never get drunk” “percy would never let his child go to camp-half blood”

Now if you passionately believe one of those, hear me out. I’m not necessarily saying I disagree!

I’m saying… who would have ever thought Percy would torture a goddess and choke her on her own poison? And…. enjoy doing it? If someone had said that on tumblr pre-HoH, every single comment and reblog would have been “PERCY WOULD NEVER!!” I mean, who would have thought Percy would do a million things he’s done? He’s done some very not so ‘silly little guy’ stuff. He is an extremely complex character. In his own head and to some people, he’s sweet and fun and silly, but to many people he’s reckless and scary and dangerous. Some people see him as someone who’s very gentle and relaxed, but some people see him as someone who’s quick to get very angry and cause destruction. And the truth is, he’s all of it. It depends on his mood. Consistency does not apply to him in many aspects. He has consistent traits, like loyalty, humor, and bravery, but his actual actions and reactions are NOT consistent. I understand why we think Percy would never do certain things. We think we know based off of his past and his history with his mom, or with Gabe, or with Luke. And I’m not saying I think he would do those things, but unless he specifically states it, we can NOT, ever, infer what Percy Jackson might or might not do.

Like for instance, the drinking thing. I am not saying percy would be a big drinker, if one at all. And he probably does have an aversion to the smell of beer because of how the apartment used to smell when he was young. But we have no evidence that Percy associates all alcohol with Gabe. Alcoholic drinks aren’t just foul smelling hard liquors. There are a million different forms that you can consume alcohol in - some of which don’t even smell like alcohol, and barely taste like it. And in The Chalice of the Gods, it’s said that Sally drinks a glass of wine every night. And Percy thinks Sally hangs the freaking moon. So if his mom drinks, he definitely doesn’t believe that alcoholic beverages = the enemy. And here’s the thing, if Annabeth and Piper and Leo were all drinking and having a good time, like college students do, and they go “Hey Percy, come sit and have a drink with us!” there’s a very good chance that he’s so comfortable with his best friends, and just wants to let loose and be a college kid, that he wouldn’t even think about Gabe. He’d just be like “Sounds fun! Count me in!” But I don’t know. That’s the point. I don’t know. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. I truly think it could go either way. And even if he does drink, maybe he never - not even once - gets drunk. Maybe he’d drink in college and as a young adult, but when he becomes a father one day, he decides he doesn’t want his children to ever smell so much as a drop of alcohol on his breath, and therefore completely stops drinking. Or maybe he doesn’t ever like it, even in college. Or maybe he’s like his mom, and he and Annabeth just have a glass of wine with dinner. Who knows?

Not us. That’s what I’m saying. WE don’t know.

I’m not saying we can’t have headcanons based on what we know about him. I have a million. But the point is, I feel like we can’t try to pretend like we actually know what Percy wouldn’t do. As a fandom, we analyze him and his choices WAY more than he ever thinks about a single choice. He definitely does not think about his life and his actions as much as we do. (I’m not saying that he’s dumb or doesn’t contemplate his life and his actions, but he doesn’t nearly do it to the degree that we do.) Us, we pretend like it’s simple math. (Our first mistake, since math is consistent and full of rules, which is the exact opposite of Percy’s character.) We go “okay luke did this and gabe did this so therefore percy would never do this.” But Percy doesn’t think that way most of the time, especially not in heat of the moment matters. The only thing we 100% know about Percy is that he will always be loyal to his loved ones. But even then, we don’t know what that loyalty will look like. Is it sacrificing himself for someone? Is it murdering the enemy? Is it manipulating someone else? Percy lives in the moment. He doesn’t often think too much before he acts. He just acts. Whether it’s in a life of death situation, or his after school activity for the day. He is unpredictable, like the ocean. It’s one of his defining traits.

Honestly, I think that’s why annabeth is so drawn to him. With everyone else, she can read them super easily and know their next move. But with Percy, she has no idea. Which is frustrating to her, but also exciting. It’s a big part of her initial attraction to him. It’s also why many of us like him so much. We don’t know what’s coming next, and we never know what he will do in a situation. Like, how could we possibly know what he would or wouldn’t do when HE doesn’t even know? Half the time I don’t think Rick himself even knows.

We become so sure that Percy wouldn’t do something because we understand his character so well, right? But I think the truth is, the minute we become certain about what Percy would or wouldn’t do, is the minute we don’t understand his character at all.

Thank you for reading my analysis of Percy on why we can’t reliably analyze Percy

[lizardboiii]

Tongue Tied┃One Piece - Pt. 2

[Protective!Dracule Mihawk x Poneglyph Speaking!Reader]

│Summary: Washed up on a gloomy shore, your only solace is a dark an empty castle. Yet, when the castle's only resident finally returns, you are met with an undeniable problem. The language you speak is completely dead to his world.

"Flailing your hands around isn't going to make me understand you any more."

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐!"

・❥・

│cw: SFW, 18+, unfortunate slow start

│wc: 1.4k

│chapters: I II III

│notes: accidentally wrote the reader as such a golden retriever lmao. also, please let me know if the switch between languages is getting hard to understand! shorter chapter cause i'm overworked ;(

・❥・

│Chapter II: Golden Hour

Ever-eerie. Ever-present. Ever-gold. 

The undeniable sensation of watchful eyes consumed you as you haunted the castle’s halls. They followed from vestibule to vestibule. The source of them hiding somewhere in the darkest of corners. Sometimes…Goldy seemed more phantom than man.

It was foreign at first, the omnipresent feeling of sharp eyes piercing through you. They reigned supreme. Placing every action you made on trial, Goldy played the judge, jury, and executioner.

Eventually, you learned to pay his stare no mind, preferring to slowly attempt communication with the ravenette in your native tongue. 

The aforementioned man merely allowed you to rattle on. He treated your voice as if it was simply background noise, disregarding your presence like a lesser being. 

Goldy’s pride scarcely made a dent in your determination. In fact, after a few days had passed, you no longer clung close to the walls, favoring to follow the massive man around like a lost duckling. 

Your previous isolation had made you needy.

Before you knew it, you and Goldy had developed a routine - whether he liked it or not. Your day started earlier than most. The sun just barely rising before you stirred awake from a restless sleep. You found Goldy preferred to slumber longer. His form not stalking the halls till an hour later, possibly more.

Until then, you’d pad around the empty halls. You walked with no destination in mind, noting any foyers you preferred over another. And when you scoured the entire castle - you’d start again. The soles of your feet wore into the stone. You were sure if you looked hard enough, you could see the beginnings of a path in the shape of your feet.

At last, Goldy would awaken. He moved with little disturbance, often evading your notice. However, whether he was outside refining his skill in the art of sword or simply relaxing in the parlor, you always managed to find him.

Today was no different. 

You had been meandering throughout western wing, absentmindedly tracing the serpentine engravings of the coffered ceilings with your eyes. Then, a wedge of light caught your attention. 

You dropped your gaze, glancing out of one of the many floor length windows. Its cracked windowsill framed a direct view of the northwestern courtyard. 

Through the quickly fading golden hour, you could just make out the form of Goldy. He sat passively in a cushioned chair facing the sea. 

A fresh newspaper was clutched in his hand while the other held an opaque chalice. Across from him was a chess table. However, no second chair existed for another player to claim.

You smiled at your discovery, you had found him faster than usual. It didn't take long for your form to gently glide towards the window. Curiosity consumed you. Standing before the window enthralled, you watch every movement Goldy made intently. 

When he yawned - so did you. 

When he rubbed his chin - you followed in suit. 

When he re-crossed his legs - you shifted your feet.

Your mimicry didn't last long. As quickly as you noticed him, he noticed you. Without warning, Goldy’s eyes flung to your own, drilling into them. You jumped in surprise. Even after a week of dancing around each other, you still couldn't get used to their divine aureolin. 

Regaining composure, you grinned at him with a wave. Goldy ignored your hospitality. He was quick to return to his newspaper, feigning ignorance. However, you were sure he understood what would come next.

You barreled towards the courtyard. Skipping steps and slamming doors, you easily found your way to the grumpy man. Goldy remained unfazed at your sudden appearance. 

You walked beside his chair with a large smile, excited to talk to someone other than yourself. 

“𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!”

Your voice drew a puff of air from the man, his eyes shifting to you for only a moment. You hummed at the attention. Plopping down on the ground, you rested your head against the arm of his chair.

“𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?” You beamed at the man above you.

Flip.

You turned your gaze to the sea, “𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?”

Flip.

Your composure began to waiver, “𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢? 𝙸 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝!”

Flip.

Finally, the smile you forced dropped, “𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎.” You picked at the grass beneath you, “𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎.”

A long sigh made you jolt in surprise. Goldy tossed his newspaper on the side table next to him in annoyance. Two firm fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Just what are you chattering about?” 

You perked up at the response, returning your gaze to the ravenette, “𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢?”

He met your excited gaze coolly. You could practically see the gears in his head turning, frustrated with the fact he wouldn't be able to pull answers from you.

Goldy leaned his head on his hand, refusing to move his eyes off of you, “What am I going to do with you?”

Your mouth curved into a small smile. Although you couldn't understand him, you've determined your second favorite thing about Goldy was his voice.

You turned back to the sea solemnly. Even though you could see his imposing figure, hear his rich cadence - it was as if nothing had changed. You still felt so utterly alone. 

The crashing waves called you home, beckoning your aching heart. Beyond them, bobbing up and down, Goldy’s ship offered itself. A way back home. 

A way back to sanity.

Pointing your finger at the ship, you snapped your head over to the older man, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝!”

Goldy raised a sharp brow at your sudden outburst. 

You chewed your bottom lip, trying to figure out a way to articulate your thoughts. Determined, you pointed at him, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢.”

Then, you pointed to the ship, "𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

A low rumble escaped his chest before he gestured to himself, “Goldy?”

You shook your head enthusiastically, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢!”

“You named me?” He spoke more to himself than you, rubbing the pointed edges of his beard. Displeased, Goldy quickly shook his head, “No.”

You tilted your head in confusion. Had he rejected the name? 

Goldy swished the glass in his hand, “Mihawk.” 

You tasted the name on your tongue, carefully mouthing every syllable, “Mi-hawk?”

A faint smile grew on his face, “Mihawk.”

Grinning, you signaled to yourself, “(𝚢/𝚗)!”

“(𝚢/𝚗)?” He placed the chalice to his lips, “You’re quite a troublesome brat, “(𝚢/𝚗).”

Your stomach flipped at the sound of your name. You hoped he'd say it more.

Pointing at the ship once more, you called out to him, "Mihawk. 𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

Mihawk followed your finger, “𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝?” His brows furrowed slightly before relaxing, “Do you want my boat?”

He stood suddenly, as if he connected the dots he had been chasing. Ignoring your confused form, Mihawlk allowed his long legs to lead him to the path back to the castle. He looked back only for a moment. His large hand beckoning you to follow in suit. 

You stood quickly, fumbling over your own feet. You couldn't lose this chance. 

Mihawk walked briskly, winding through the castle halls before he led you to large french doors. You had seen them before during your morning strolls. However, you were never able to investigate what was hidden behind them. Mihawk kept them under lock and key. 

Reaching inside his pocket, the aforementioned man pulled out a small silver key. It glimmered under the sunlight enhancing the skull design on its embossed head. As quick as he revealed it, he unlocked the room.

The door swung open ominously. The darkness of the room seemed to creep out into the hallway, dying the floor black. Even so, Mihawk entered the room without hesitation. You wasted no time following close behind.

Eventually, Mihawk allowed himself to relax in an armed car across from the room’s fireplace. Taking out a pen and paper, he offered the utensils to you. You gladly accepted them. 

Twirling the pen in your hand, you tried to ignore Mihawk’s piercing stare. 

First, you began to draw a boat. Beneath it you labeled:

“𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

Next, you drew an arrow leading to a small island with a house on it. Beneath which you wrote:

“𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎.”

Looking up from your drawings, you smiled at Mihawk eagerly. However, your grin quickly dropped at Mihawk’s expression.

You had never seen Mihawk’s face get so pale.

“This is impossible.”

Mihawk snatched the paper from your grip. 

“How could you possibly know…”

His eyes searched your writing frantically.

“Poneglyph.”

・❥・

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

Tagging @virgil-wannabe since you asked for a PART 3 ;)

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART1 , PART 2 , PART3 (you're here) , PART4

In "The Dragon's Call"

Arthur: (bulling a servant for the third time just so Merlin meets him again)

Merlin: (appearing out of nowhere) You, oppressor!

Arthur: (thinking) finally

Merlin: (thinking) Wait, that's not my line.

Arthur: (thinking and barely containing himself from crying, running to Merlin and hugging him and kissing him right there) He’s just as beautiful as the day I lost him 🥺🤧

Merlin: (thinking in panic) He isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?! 😰😖

Merlin: Is that the way you treat your servants? You are a... a prat! and...and an ass!

Arthur:...

Merlin: (thinking) please say something, please say something, please say something.

Arthur: (coughs, just realising he's been staring for too long) You're right I was being mean. My apologies.

Merlin: ... wait what? 😧

In "The Poisoned Chalice"

Merlin: (ready to use a spell to make Arthur drop his cup)

Arthur: (dropping it on purpose) Oh, clumsy of me, I droped it.

Merlin: (to himself) What? But I didn't use the spell yet. (Looks at his hands) Or did I?... Ugh, whatever (picking up the cup) Hey, Gaius! What's that? (Pointing at the flower petal inside the cup)

Gaius: It's poison! Someone tried to poison the prince!

Arthur: (faking surprise) what? Really?

Merlin: (faking surprise too) I can't believe it!

In "Lancelot"

Merlin: He would make an excelent knight. He saved my life.

Arthur: (full panic mode) what?! When?! Are you okay?!

Merlin: (confused) ...yeah? The grif-I mean, the winged beast attacked me when-

Arthur: The griffin attacked you?! (Checks him) Why didn't you tell me?! Are you hurt?!

Merlin: (still shocked but blushing due to Arthur's sudden attention and closeness) Ahm... you didn't ask? And Lancelot stopped the beast before it could hurt me, so you don't have to worry.

Arthur: (swallowing his guilt for not asking in his other timeline)... Right. From now on you tell when these things happen, do you understand?

Merlin: Yes, sire.

Arthur: Good. (Lets go of Merlin realizing he's being holding him for too long) Well, as thankful as I am to Lancelot for saving you, I can't knight him if he isn't a noble. That's the code.

Merlin: I know but-

Arthur: So I'll give him another job in the castle and when I'm king I'll gladly consider knighting him if he's still interested.

Merlin: (more than surprised) You will?

Arthur: (nods) Is that all?

Merlin: Yes... (smiles) thank you

Arthur: (smiles) Anytime, Merlin. (leaves)

Merlin: (looking Arthur leave with hearteyes) 😍... wait. How did he know what the beast was called?😨

In "Excalibur"

Merlin: (debating with himself if he should let Arthur fight the Black Knight this time around or let Uther do it again)

Arthur: (arriving) Merlin.

Merlin: (utterly surprised) You are here! 😱

Arthur: Of course I'm here. You thought I would withdraw? I'm not a coward, Merlin.

Merlin: No! I'm just... surprised Uther let you.

Arthur: He did try to drug me to stop me from coming. (Looks at Excalibur in Merlin's hands, recognizing it) Where did you get that?

Merlin: Oh... I just thought... you would need a new sword for this. So I asked Tom to make it for you.

Arthur: You got it made... for me?

Merlin: Yes. (Thinking) Please use it, please use it, please use it.

Arthur: (holding the sword) It's good. Thank you.

Merlin: (blushing, still not used to Arthur thanking everything he does) I'm just doing my job. There's no need to-

Arthur: There’s every need. (Touching his shoulder fondly and smiling) Thank you, Merlin. For thinking of me.

Merlin: (screaming inside)

[alicentofhightower]

the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

-

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

-

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “please,” aemond begs, keeping you flush against him as he nuzzles your breasts. “allow me to make love to you, sweet girl.”

(or aemond's first time with his handmaid).

warnings: explicit lang. a tiny bit of angst at the beginning. protective!aemond. p in v smut. slight breeding kink. spitting kink towards the end. fluff. all around good vibes bc aemond's in love and we all love that for him.

notes: happy birthday to me. pls be nice to me, i'm unfortunately entering my twenties today.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

Aemond spends the better part of the chilly winter day searching for his handmaid.

You had been missing when he returned to his bedchamber at midday, wishing to eat his lunch in your company. Did she forget my first rule, by chance? Aemond thought to himself, holding the chalice to his lips. Perhaps…but he could not stomach another bite of his roasted meat, his mind too consumed with thoughts of you.

So he looks throughout the kitchen wing, and the library and Great Hall, until he passes by his mother and sister in the hallway.

But neither woman claims to have seen you, and he’s left twice as confused and frustrated and concerned as he continues to wander about the Red Keep like some lovesick and anxious fool.

“Ah, my prince,” Lord Larys Strong purrs as his steps falls alongside Aemond’s. “Perchance I could be of service. I overheard you are looking for your little handmaid.”

Aemond turns to look at him. “Yes,” he answers, his eyebrow raising, “-have you seen her?”

The lord’s smile is sly. “Several hours ago, actually. She was heading up to the servant quarters…” but his smile then drops, quickly replaced with a frown, “but she seemed to be in tears, if I’m to remember correctly. Poor child, she was an awful, trembling mess, never once looking up to meet my eyes when I greeted her.”

“She was crying?” Aemond cocks his head sideways, swallowing down the ire beginning to bubble inside his chest.

“Yes. It was rather grievous and sad,” and Clubfoot shakes his head dolefully. “A maiden like her deserves a smile on her face at all times, would you not agree, my prince?”

Aemond’s jaw clenches, and he glances to the stairs leading upwards to the servant quarters. Someone made you cry? His blood turns cold, and his fist balls up at his side. Remembering where he was, he gives the lord a curt nod. “Thank you, Lord Strong,” and leaves it at that, rushing up the stairway and down the hall, whilst hundreds of questions thronged in his head.

Who dared make you cry? You, who is rightfully his- his handmaid, his woman. You were supposed to remain safe and happy within his room, tucked away from ill-tempered bastards and envious tongues. If he could not protect you…

He turns the corner, huffing. He’d see whoever made you cry is punished, Aemond decides as he walks down the strip, passing by shut door after door, until he hears fainting sobbing. A sniffle, then, and a tiny hiccup that soon follows. That stops him in his steps. You. You. You, you, you…

“Love,” he whispers, knocking his knuckles on the door before slowly cracking it open. “Love, it’s me.” You twist to meet him in sullen silence, and his heart shatters at the sight. Your pretty doe-eyes are both red and teary, and your bottom lip quivers. It’s busted too, more scarlet now than pink. But it is the ugly bruise coloring your left cheek- large and hand-shaped, that causes his eye to widen.

“Who?” he spat, crossing the room to gather you in his arms, his voice raising. “Who’s done this to you?”

But you lower your eyes, and bury your face within his neck, hiding away from his gaze and questions. Aemond softens, and his thumb gently strokes your cheek, pausing when you flinch. “My love, I need to know at once. This…this is a horrible injustice served upon you, one I know you did not deserve!”

You shake your head, face crumpling as another sob escapes you.

His eye narrows.

“Was it my brother?” Aemond demands. “Or a houseguard?”

“No,” you mumble, feeling ill, like your tummy is tied in a knot. “It was neither, my prince.”

“Well?”

You sigh. “It was one of the septas, a new one to the castle. I do not know her name,” you explain. “She caught me in your room and scolded me, saying how it was beyond disrespectful and ill-mannered of me to flaunter about your bedroom as if it was my own. She said…she said you would have my head for such, and when I tried to explain myself,” and you hiccup, feeling a wave of fresh tears, “-that I was your handmaid, she slapped me!”

“She said I would have your head? That I would kill you?”

You nod, wiping away the few fat tears streaking down your cheek, wincing at the slight sting from the bruised skin. “She said she would bring it up with the Queen herself, that there was no need for insolent little maids like me running around the castle. Oh, I’m so sorry, my prince. I’m terribly sorry. Please, please, please forgive me!”

But Aemond’s thumb brushes lightly across your plump lip, shushing you. “Those words should never fall from these lips, sweetling. They were not made for that.” You feel like crying again, this time from relief.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, my love. I couldn’t even imagine…” his voice trails off. How could this septa easily plant a seed of doubt within your mind, and make you think he would ever harm you? Or call for your death? As if you’re not the very air he breathes every day.

“You terrified me when I could not find you earlier, love.”

By now, you’re a lot calmer and breathing fine again, nestled within his embrace. Your cheek still stings but you’ll live. You lay your head against Aemond’s chest, listening to his faint heartbeat in his breast. Thump, thump, thump.

No more words are shared between the two of you, but his kiss on your temple says much more than anything could.

Soon, Aemond takes you back to his bedchamber, to his tub, and calls for several women to tend to you while he busies himself in burning the servant garb you were wearing today, until nothing is left but sooty ashes and singed cloths. He refuses to allow you to wear that shabby, tainted dress you were so wrongfully punished in. If not for you, then for himself. It eases his mind. And someday you’ll wear nothing but the finest and prettiest gowns, he swears, ones that are fit for no one but a princess.

He’ll have a talk with his mother too. His queen mother has a soft spot for his handmaid, he knows, and Helaena too. This will not go unseen and unpunished.

The prince returns when your bath is finished, and dismisses the women before carrying you off to his featherbed. You’re still quiet, hushed, lips pressed in a tight line while he dries your hair. “You do not need to do this, my prince,” you tell him softly, nervously lacing your fingers together. “I’m undeserving of such treatment, really. It should be I who does this for you.”

“Nonsense, sweetling.”

He’ll be your husband one day, and is merely practicing his husbandly duties, although he doesn’t actually say that piece aloud. It’s all a bit tricky right now, but he’s already decided he will not marry anyone who isn’t you.

Aemond bends to kiss your shoulder, ever so tenderly. You have four pretty birthmarks littering the skin, and he presses a sweet kiss atop all of them. He loves it. You’re so fucking gorgeous. “You’re mine,” he mumbles, nuzzling his forehead against your shoulder blade. “It’s my duty to care for you.”

“No, my prince, ‘tis my duty as your servant.”

He smiles up at you. “Ah, and I’m your protector, best to remember that, sweet girl.” And he leaves nothing more to be said, quickly standing you up in front of him, naked and breathing messily and too shy to meet his eye. Oh, but you’re too pretty for your own good, he tells himself. His fingertips gently trace along your hipbones while he leans to nuzzle his face into your tummy. Aemond then feels your soft hands finding his hair, fingers raking through as you sigh deeply.

“You smell good,” he whispers. “So damn good.”

You giggle. “Do I, my prince?”

Aemond hums, raising his face up to kiss your nipple- once, twice, thrice. He feels you suddenly tense against him, your breath catching in your throat. “Nice and warm and all mine,” he adds, blowing a puff of warm air over your breast that earns him a sweet little moan, one that sends blood rushing down to his cock. His arms circle around your waist, hands falling to knead your asscheeks.

“Let me make love to you.”

“My prince?” you ask, eyes widening as you recoil from your prince’s touch, your legs suddenly feeling weak like water.

Did you hear him right?

“Please,” Aemond begs, keeping you flush against him as he nuzzles your breasts. “Allow me to make love to you, sweet girl.” I see my future in your face. My children in your eyes. His hand cups your right breast, catching a hard nipple between two fingers. My sons at your breasts. His handmaid has come for him, to deliver to him everything he’s been so cruelly denied in this life. “Say yes,” he murmurs. “Let me finally claim you as mine own.” It is your blood I need, your blood on my sheets, and my seed in your belly, and your life and name as my own.

You close your eyes, yet still see your handsome prince grinning at you.

It’s wrong, you think. It’d be so wrong of us. I’d be banished.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

“Okay, my prince,” you say, with a bated breath. “Make love to me.”  

An hour later, the wind has risen to a sharp howl against the stone walls, and fat raindrops ping against the windowpane. A winter storm, but there is little to no need to worry about such.

You’re quite nicely warm and dry, and safe within your prince’s arms as he nudges your thighs open. He’s already been down there, spending a good half of the last hour feasting on your wet cunt. It was like he’d been fasting for weeks; he took little mercy on you.

“Open wide,” he mutters. “Good girl. Keep ‘em like that for me.”

You whimper. Your Prince Aemond is gorgeous, with silver hair that shines like fresh snow and pale, naked skin that is covered in faint scarring, undoubtedly from boyhood. You’ve never seen someone so beautiful. His arms are thickened with lean, lithe muscle as he holds himself above your body, one hand laced firmly in yours.

And he looks down at you with bright, violet eyes, with a look perhaps only a man gives his new bride on her wedding night.

It makes you squirm beneath him.

He slides his cock in slowly, hissing at your tightness. “FUCK.” His head dips down near yours, lips barely grazing your ear as he lets out a low moan. “Gods be fucking good, you feel so fucking good…wrapped around my fucking cock, at last,” he says, voice raspy. “Right where you belong.”

Aemond feels that he won’t last long. He’s back to the days of his boyhood, during his thirteenth nameday when Aegon took him to the whorehouse, and he felt a woman’s touch for the first time.

Except now he has the woman he wants- soft and submissive and cunny wet and ready for him- and it is his turn to teach and guide her.

“Ah, my brave girl,” he tells you, pausing to kiss your forehead, then your swollen, pink lips. “It hurts, I know. It’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

And afterward, Aemond Targaryen’s watching as you shake and sob and fall to utter pieces, your beautiful face scrunched up in blissful pleasure as his thrusts soon quicken, and his hips snap into yours with such a harsh pace, it’s sure to leave dark bruises behind.

Your hands find his shoulders in a tight grip, in some desperate attempt to cling onto him whilst he fucks you good.

And, thankfully, it’s his name that tumbles out of your mouth, and not his stupid royal title. It follows your cries and moans and whimpers that echo throughout his bedchamber. To Aemond, it is poetic in some way. Several months back you were seated on his settee, singing, and now you’re buried within his sheets as he makes you a mother.

His loins ache for release, and he fondles your breast, toying with your nipple as he pounds you only harder. Aemond hopes to any god listening that the guards outside are listening in, and the serving girls too. He’s a prince of the realm- he means to claim all his rights. Let them all hear as he plows into his handmaid and stuffs her full of his sons.

Beneath him, you shudder and gasp- again and again- before arching your spine and flinging your arms around his neck. “AEMOND,” you scream, feeling a sudden tightness deep within your belly, almost like you’re only several seconds away from exploding into flames. Perhaps you are.

“Mercy on me, Aemond! Please!”

“Shhh,” Aemon coos, cradling your face as he fucks you through your orgasm. “I have you, pretty girl. You’re okay. Doesn’t this feel good? It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, so- so good, Aemond…!”

He grins at your fucked-out face, and the little bit of drool pooling around the corner of your mouth, before lightly tapping his fingertip against your bottom lip. “Open up,” he commands, squeezing your cheeks together, when your mouth opens, he spits in it. “Now swallow- mmm, such a good girl, always doing what I say.”

Aemond chooses all his words carefully, loving the way his sweet little handmaid preens under all his given attention and praises, so prettily that he’s willing to discard all of his morals and seed her full of his future bastards. Silver-haired babes that would gurgle at him happily, and grow to carry on his name and legacy.   

For her, he thinks, leaning to kiss you again, feeling your cunt clamping down on him, she’s worth every damn thing and more.

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[annwrites]

⸻ eating from your hand. ⸻

· pairing: larys strong x bastardtargfem!reader · type: one-shot · summary: during rhaenyra's betrothal celebration, larys & rhaenyra's elder sister share a small moment · tags: fluff, mutual pining, angst · word count: 1,024 · ꒰a/n꒱: gif

You scan the crowded room, desperate for an escape. But it's all too much—the music, the dancing, the people, the strong scents of food and perfume, the obnoxious man at your back, still trying to vie as a candidate for your hand—you feel far too overwhelmed to concentrate. Until your eyes finally land upon Larys—who's standing across the room, his eyes already focused on you—gesturing for you to come to him.

You turn back to Lord Jason one final time, interrupting his speech about gold and castles—or perhaps it was golden castles, as if all you could possibly care about is wealth—and force a smile. “Thank you for your offer, Lord Jason, once again. But I'd like to spend the remainder of my evening in the company of friends. I hope you enjoy the rest of yours.”

Before he can say anything further—can wrap his arm around your waist—you're already forcing your way through a throng of people.

When the crowd finally breaks—dance partners separating for just a moment as the music mellows and then begins to swell again—you move as quickly as possible through them, finally reaching the other side of what has now become a ballroom.

When you finally make it to Larys, you're nearly out of breath, simply from the prospect of having almost been caught in the middle of a buzzing crowd.

He reaches up, cupping your cheek in his palm. “Are you all right?”

You nod. “Thirsty.”

You both sit and Harwin goes to hand you a mug of ale, but Larys shakes his head at him, his expression disapproving. Larys instead hands you a chalice full of water and you drink it down greedily, a few drops sliding down your chin. Larys brushes them away with his thumb.

“Would you like to tell me what that was all about, then?”

Instead of immediately answering, you instead wrap both your arms around his left one and press your forehead against the tip of his shoulder. Your heart is still pounding, so you wait until it has calmed before you bother trying to speak again.

“Do I need to have Harwin break something on Lord Jason?”

You giggle when you hear Harwin's reply. “You know I will.”

You shake your head, gently resting your cheek against Larys' upper arm. “No. He was just proposing.”

He begins to sputter, choking on his wine. Harwin slams his hand against his back, forcing him to finally swallow and then inhale a ragged breath.

“You alright there, little brother?”

Larys nods, fervently.

When he looks at you again, you're staring at him with an alarmed expression. “Are you sure-”

“Just went down the wrong pipe.” He states before taking a sip of water and grimacing.

He faces you then. “He proposed? Was your father aware he was planning this?”

You shake your head. “I...I don't know. Perhaps? It felt more like he was simply making me his second choice. Rhaenyra is to be married in the next few days. She's the one he wanted, but now will never have. So what better way to still get close to the Throne than to...”

You shake your head. Always the second choice. Always an afterthought. Always expected to be submissive and obedient. Perhaps that's why, when he spoke to you, he did so in a way which made it sound as if the matter was already settled. That you already belonged to him.

Did he truly assume you would just agree so easily? Then again, who else would want you?

Rhaenyra. It was always Rhaenyra that men seemed to desire. Never the bastard. Never you. It didn't matter that you were legitimized.

Larys places a finger under your chin, tipping your face until your eyes are looking into his own. "And what did you say?"

There's something within his expression, deep within his eyes—a feeling you can't place. Worry? No, surely not. You're just his friend. He would never...

But, even in spite of that knowledge—that you would never be more to him than just a companion to take the occasional walk with, to sometimes have dinner with—you sit even closer to him, pressing yourself into his side.

"I made sure to mention how I'm his second choice. He tried to assure me otherwise: that I'm the one he's wanted all along, but I'm not quite that gullible. I couldn't get away from him fast enough."

He nods, releasing a breath. "So, you do not wish to marry the Lord Lion?"

You shake your head. "No," you say, barely a whisper.

But you wonder if perhaps you should, anyway. He may be prideful and arrogant, but he would make a good match, nonetheless. You do not wish to spend your life alone. And you wish desperately to one day be a mother. No one else had yet offered their hand to you. This may be your only chance.

You look across the room to where Lord Jason now sits beside his twin. He's handsome, you consider. And they say the West, especially from atop the Rock, is breathtaking. You could find contentment there, with him. Probably...

Rhaenyra had already been difficult enough in your father finding a match for. You do not wish to be the same. If he orders you to wed the Warden of the West, you will do your duty. Which you always resign yourself to.

Larys kisses your hair, then presses his forehead against the side of your head. "What is it, my love?"

You shake your head and he leans back to look at you. You force a feigned smile. "Nothing."

"You should eat something," he says while handing you a cracker with cheese atop it. You take it from him, popping it into your mouth.

"Good?"

You nod, picking one up and holding it in front of him, smiling as he eats out of your hand. He always makes your heart feel lighter. You decide to think no more of golden lions and second choices tonight. For once, you can live in the moment around you.

[leighsartworks216]

Until All That Remains

Vampire!Sylus x gn!Human!Reader

I wanted to get this out for Halloween, but I was too tired. Originally started in the Castlevania universe where Reader was a Belmont and they fight Godbrand, but I wanted it to be its own thing

Warnings: vampire au, vampire/human relationship, royalty au, swearing, kissing, biting, blood, injury, violence, slight nudity, devotion

Word Count: 2,703

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus sighs as he presses his nose against your neck, rubbing it behind your ear and along your jaw. You smell delicious, always, but especially now, in plain view of his brethren.

It’s a scandal of a relationship. When he first announced it to his fellow vampires, they’d been quick to shun him, spit on his name, denounce his title. Advisors he’d trusted for centuries turned their cheeks and disappeared into the night. Old friends, gone with them. And none of it mattered - not when he had you.

You run your fingers through his long hair, arm wrapped lazily around his shoulders. You stare down the throng of guests. Ancient and gorgeous women who turn to each other and gossip. Matured and timeless men that scowl up at you. Each offensive look, each grimace, is met with your own tantalizing grin. Not only are you sitting on Sylus’s throne, you are sitting in his lap on his throne. Holding a human such as yourself in higher esteem than the dark king stirs discontent through the crowd.

It starts quiet, hours after the party has started, when alcohol and blood has loosened tongues. Murmurs here and there, whispers of disbelief. Confirmations of rumors they believed to be nothing but hearsay; a mortal really has stolen the King away! The tension is high in the air. Sylus can feel it, too. What does he care when his whole world sits on his leg, pliant to his touch as he caresses your thigh?

It only takes one arrogant young vampling to snap. “This is our king?” he asks, voice rising above the crowd. Guests part until he stands in an empty circle. “Our great leader? He has given himself over to a human! He refuses to even turn them into a vampire! It’s abhorrent!”

Sylus doesn’t act like he hears the outcry from the vampling. His lips trail the hollow of your throat to your pulse, right over that thick artery. Pulsing with life, with heat, with blood. The skin is hardly scarred, thanks to his tender care and attention. It takes all his focus not to do worse damage; when he tastes you on his tongue all his body wants to do is consume you. Every last drop of you. He is happy to fight against that instinct, that drive, to hear your beating heart.

“And he can’t even be bothered to listen now!”

“Why should I bother listening to an insolent child throwing a tantrum over things that do not concern him?” he hums lowly against your skin. It reaches the ears of everyone in the room regardless.

The vampling huffs. If he still had blood, you could imagine his face would be bright red. “All of us are thinking the same! Your rule has been corrupted by your fucking whore!”

Sylus’s eyes shoot open, focusing sharply on the vampling in the crowd as he slowly pulls his face away from your skin. Guests watch in deathly silence, looking between the King and this whiny subject who protests before him. Your whole body is taught, wound like a spring ready to be released. Your hand is still in his hair. Sylus leans back into his throne, his hands sliding off of your body.

“Fetch.”

You jump from his lap in a flash. A blade appears in your hand - an ornate dagger with rubies inlaid on the handle - seeming to appear from nothing with how quickly you removed it from your attire. You stalk toward your prey at a steady clip. The guests part to make way for you without hesitation, backing into each other and spilling chalices of blood onto expensive attire. They dare not part for the vampling.

You grab the back of his collar and rip him away from the blockade of guests. He stumbles over himself, landing on polished marble and scrambling back to his feet. He looks at you with unbridled terror, this weak little mortal he greatly underestimated.

The vampling steals a sword from one of the guests, drawing it from its sheath to swing it at you. You parry it off your dagger. You continue to advance. Each one of his sloppy strikes is parried away. His feet backpedal blindly, desperate to get away. They trip over the bottom stair that leads to the throne. He falls back against the steps. He looks over his shoulder up at Sylus. The King watches you in silence, sparing no attention to the pathetic man by his feet. He has always admired your strength - in body and spirit. To order it to his will is an intoxicating power, one he has sworn never to abuse.

In the moment of distraction, you grab the man by his collar again, lifting him from the step just to throw him to the tile floor. The sword skids away from his grasp, metal scraping horridly over marble. Before he can get up, you grab his arm and wrench it behind him, before shoving the ornate dagger through his wrist and into his lower back.

His screams echo off the ballroom walls. Blood seeps through his suit, staining his white sleeve crimson. When he reaches back to try pulling it out, you step on the pommel, pressing the steel deeper and ensuring it stays.

“Well, dearest?” Sylus asks, seemingly bored with the events that just transpired. “What do you say to keeping him around? You need a new toy, don’t you?”

The vampling gasps, pain and horror mixing into a guttural cry. If this was a mere glimpse into all you could - and would - do to him, he feared what the rest of his eternal life would behold. “Please! Please, no! Let me go!”

“Let you go? After you had the gall to spoil the party?” He snaps his fingers. Two henchmen in matching garb and masks appear at his sides. “You know what to do with him.”

“Yes, my Lord,” they speak at once, quickly going down the stairs to retrieve the new prisoner. They stop just before you, waiting to grab the man. The last time they tried to take your prey from you, you’d lashed out at them; they knew better now.

Sylus’s lip quirks up at the corner. “Heel.”

You finally let up. A resonating squelch sounds through the room, mingling with his cries, as you return your dagger to its place on your person, wiped clean on his fancy overcoat. You pass the twins, eyes set on the King only, until you are back at your lover’s side.

He stands to his full height, towering over the entire room. “If any of you question my authority or dare to insult my beloved again, I will hunt you down myself.” Their overwhelming and uneasy silence is all the answer he needs. With a wave of his hand, he says, “You’ve taken advantage of my hospitality long enough. Leave.” He rests his arm across your shoulders and guides you out of the hall, the quiet shuffling of feet and hopeless sobs behind you.

The castle is dark, naturally, but undeniably beautiful. Black and red mix to create a home any vampire would covet after. Golden candelabras line the hallways, illuminating the path to your shared bedroom. The tension that naturally sets in your muscles when fighting eases away with each step overtop the plush red rug.

“You did well, my love,” Sylus praises. His arm leaves your shoulders in favor of trailing his fingers down your arm, wordlessly keeping you pressed into him. “Did you have fun?”

You wrap an arm around his waist and tap twice against his hip. He grins.

The grand double doors creak, red and black tendrils of smoke guiding them open. The room is huge. The large canopy bed takes up the most room, the centerpiece. As tempting as it is to crawl straight under the covers, your clothes don’t make comfort a priority. The doors shut again, and you both fall into a wordless dance.

You remove his cloak for him, laying it over the back of his large desk chair. His nimble fingers undo the fastenings of your top, working diligently to free you from the confines of your finery. Each stitch was carefully designed, each aspect immaculately created just for you. It falls to the floor in a heap of fabric without a second thought. You reach up to do the same for him, untying his cravat first and dropping it to the side to get to the buttons up by his throat.

He can’t help reminiscing in moments like this. To see you now, exposing flesh to him without hesitation, baring yourself to him, allowing him to see your weaknesses; it’s surreal. When he first found you, it was in a burning heap of ash, what used to be a town. Corpses littered the main square, forming concentric circles of the dead with you at its center. Bloody, grasping onto life. And still picking up any weapon you could get your hands on, prepared to fight to the very end against him. You hadn’t even allowed him to tend to your wounds himself. He provided the salves, thread, cloth needed to heal them, and you hid away to do it all on your own. He hunted wild animals, forged berries and mushrooms and herbs, cooked as a human does to provide sustenance, without a whisper of his own cursed hunger.

You touch his cheek, drawing him back into the present. He offers a small grin, tracing his cool fingers over your warm skin to brush at the pinprick marks left on your neck. Your hands find his shoulders to push away the heavy garb and expose his pale skin to you. Your eyes stay on his as you lean forward to brush a kiss to his chest, just over where his undead heart would beat for you if it still could. He leans down to press his forehead to yours, nudging you away from his chest so he can admire your face completely.

“It is too late for you to be tempting me like this, my love,” he chides softly. You grin. He can’t help returning it.

“And what am I tempting you to, my Lord?” you whisper back. Your hands glide up and around his neck until they reach his hair, grown out to his shoulder blades. You twirl long locks around one finger, while the other scratches tantalizingly at the base of his skull.

He hums pleasantly, eyes becoming lidded as he succumbs to your sweet touch. “To you, of course. To your caress. To your kiss…” He sweeps his nose across your cheek, nuzzling just behind your earlobe, cold breath against your skin. “To your blood… To your body.”

You laugh softly, a mere huff of air. You turn to brush your nose with his again, staring with conviction into his eyes. “I cannot tempt you to something you already own.”

Something flickers within his sanguine irises. Something dark and wicked, possessive and demanding. A longing growl settles at the back of his throat. “To say such things…” he breathes. He leans into you insistently, forehead and nose together, eyes lingering on the thought of claiming your mouth. “I fear you do not realize just who belongs to who, here.”

“And who do you belong to?” Your breath, hot and shallow with anticipation, brushes over his lips. It takes everything in his power not to chase after it, to seek it out like a hound on the hunt. To wrap his teeth firmly around your jugular and squeeze until it is silenced.

His lips brush over yours with every word. “I will always belong to you, my beloved. Now, and in every age on this cursed rock. Until humanity has deteriorated into ash, and all that remains is me, your love, and the sunrise.”

You draw him in until his mouth is on yours. Shuddering breaths fill the silence, exhaled through your noses in small, ardent sounds. A quiet gasp when you have to tug his hair with both hands so you can refill your lungs with oxygen, cut off when he can’t bear to part for even more than a second. His own groans of appreciation, desire dripping from his grunts as you welcome his tongue into your mouth. The shaky moan he lets out when you press your tongue into his mouth and cut yourself on his sharp canines. He eagerly sucks on what little blood he can draw from the minor scratches.

Hunger floods his veins like a forest fire; all consuming and blinding. Even after the years he has had you like this, you still hold this power over him. The simple ability to lay a haze over his senses, until all he can focus on is the sound of your blood rushing around inside your body, the taste of your skin, and the smell of his next meal.

You’re panting in his ear when he seeks out your pulse. He noses the tiny scars, forcing himself to slow down, to calm himself. His shoulders shake with the effort it takes. You comb your fingers through his hair. The scratch of your nails along his scalp, the gentle tugs; the love in every touch eases his excitement. He kisses lightly over your pulse.

“May I, my beloved?”

You nod. “Always, my love.”

His tongue is hot as it licks over your neck, guiding his teeth to know where to sink in. With the ease of someone who has done this for millenia, he lines his fangs up with the past scars, and delicately bites down - as delicately as one can when breaking through flesh. Your sweet blood gushes into his mouth. He greedily slurps every drop, sucking on the punctures until they clot. A stray droplet glides down your throat to your collarbone. He sighs as he laps it up, tongue trailing up to the bite to lick it clean.

As loath as he is to pull away when you so perfectly invade his senses, the sun will be rising soon and you need to rest, fragile mortal that you are.

He sighs as he pulls back. Your eyes are still closed, fighting off the dizziness that comes with the blood loss. “Let’s get you to bed,” he coos. You let go of his hair in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck. He squats down to wrap his arms around your thighs and picks you up, carrying you with ease to your side of the huge bed. Not that sides mattered, when you both inevitably ended up in the center, clinging to one another.

He lays you down gently. Your pillows deflate under your head like clouds, blankets pulled up to your neck to keep you warm. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before he pulls away to round the bed. Before he gets under the blankets you have opened for him in your lethargic state, he opens the drawer of his nightstand to retrieve the glass container of healing salve.

He climbs in until his body is right up against yours, tucking his arm under your head so your neck is cradled and his bicep is your new pillow. You don’t have to be directed as you turn your face away to expose the red marks on your neck. It’s a familiar process by now. The hand of the arm supporting you holds the open container, while his other gathers the salve on two fingers and spreads it evenly across the wounds. The botanical, earthy smell masks your own scent; the one curse of this medicine he has learned to deal with.

Once he’s finished, he reaches over and leaves the container on top of your nightstand, so he doesn’t have to be apart from you any longer tonight. He slides down, drawing you into his chest and pressing his nose to the top of your head. Your arm drapes over his waist, your legs tangle with his, and you take his free hand to hold it over your heart.

Sleep claims you quickly. He lingers a while longer, just savoring the feel of your heart and the sound of your breaths.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter

[aristia-pjoheadcanons]

Percy is pretty scary when he's mad

->masterlist

not because of his powers or because hes a child of the big three, but because of his voice. his voice is steady and normal for a guy that has gone (and still is, somewhat) through puberty, it's deep and gravelly, it can be soft and just normal...y'know?

but when he gets angry you can really tell. you can't just hear his voice becoming hard, slow and serious - but his voice drops and starts to go down. Its not sudden, its slow

and there it is, hes angry and through this process of his voice dropping and dropping as he slowly speaks, he makes eye contact - making it clear that he isn't trying messing around or make a sarcastic comment. but the scariest thing is that he is so awfully calm too.

usually people might expect him to be very loud and have a "booming" voice, but thats only during battle. on a regular basis if he gets angry you can really feel the calm before the storm, the rage, the pent-up anger,

i feel like he was seen as a rival and an enemy, because he doesnt know when to stop. as he ages and his power only grows, he's just going to have a difficult time to control his emotions + powers. we see this at the end of in the house of hades* with misery's poison, but also later in chalice of the gods (even though most people brush it off, i would like to point out that the wave we see came from his anger because he exploded)

i feel like percy has somewhat hooded eyes, and when he lowers his chin to stare at someone, it looks like a really intimidating glare. his green eyes and dark eyebrows dont make it better, when his whole entire aesthetic is somewhat muted. he has a dark vibe to him because he looks like a stereotypical troublemaker, but also because you can tell he has experience with fighting.

like theres a certain air around him that tells us that he would if he could. percy's voice is a powerful tool.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 2: Forbidden Fruit

18+ | 3.1k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The rest of Daemon's night once Ryna leaves. He also spends some time thinking back on the past. Continuing the story from Daemon's POV.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

Daemon drained the last remnants of his chalice, savoring every drop of the wine as it passed his lips. Then, he leaned against the edge of the parapet, allowing the refreshing caress of the night air to sooth his thoughts and quell his lingering passions.

He could still taste her on his lips.

His sweet little niece.

He chuckled softly at the idea that he’d gone from barely being able to speak to her, to the young princess practically begging him to take her maidenhead.

And he would…

But first, if he was to go up against Viserys, he’d have to tread carefully.

He would need to be the perfect, repentant uncle. His brother would have to see Ryna’s affections had curbed his rashness and impulsivity… at least in his eyes. The task at hand was indeed a daunting one, for Daemon would have to win over the King’s favor, which was no small feat.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned and began the journey back inside the castle, his mind consumed with ideas on how to gain his brother’s trust once more. The party was still in full swing when Daemon returned to the Great Hall, but he could tell immediately that tonight might not be the best time for conversation.

His elder brother sat alone in his chair, drinking deep of his wine. He was the King of Westeros, but he looked like nothing more than a drunk wallowing in his cups. Daemon felt an ache in his chest at the sight of what his proud brother had become. Had the Hightower bitch and her ilk brought the King so low in Daemon’s absence these past years?

He knew a simple word from him would have the King’s attention, but as he watched his brother raise the chalice to his lips and pour a generous measure of wine down his throat, he knew no real progress would be made this evening.

Perhaps in the morning with Viserys’ head clear of the effects of the drink, Daemon would be able to speak with him.

Just a moment…

A smile tugged at his lips as he realized that it would be much easier to handle his brother in the morning when his head was likely to be thrumming from the effects of the Arbor red.

Yes, that is precisely what I need.

Daemon glanced around, hoping to lay his eyes upon his little niece, but there was no trace of her among the masses. She’d likely already retired to her chambers for the night, a thought he realized was disappointing. He stepped up to one of the long tables and began preparing a plate of food, his appetite finally getting the better of him.

Once satisfied with his selection of meats, he walked over to the dais and sat down at the edge of the empty table, close to Viserys who sat aside it. Daemon refilled his cup from a carafe that was still nearly full and nodded politely to his brother.

“Finally tired of prowling the countryside for whores, brother?” Viserys bellowed with inebriated enthusiasm.

Perfect.

Daemon laughed gruffly as he chewed the cold meat he’d bitten off. “Not as of late. It grows tiresome having to entertain every desperate widow and wanton maid who seeks a night with the infamous ‘Rogue Prince.’” He took a long swig of his wine before continuing. “It seems that the reputation I’ve built for myself follows me, whether I desire it or not.”

Viserys let out a belly laugh that echoed through the Great Hall. “Don’t dont that you relish in such rumors. You’ve always loved the attention.” The King gave his own thigh a hearty pat, the wine had clearly taken its hold on him. “I admit, I have always enjoyed the tales of your exploits, brother. Especially the one about the two septas!”

“Ah yes, the beautiful and devout septas. I’m sure the Seven above must have heard every single prayer uttered within my chamber that night.” He’d almost forgotten about that particular night, but it wouldn’t help him in the slightest with his current conquest.

“But enough of that, we’re here to celebrate the birth of your grandson.” And my inevitable claim to your daughter. “How goes the realm in my absence, Brother?”

Viserys chuckled, raising his chalice up to his brother, but not before emptying its contents with a quick swig. “Ah, it’s the same as it always is. The great houses squabble amongst themselves like children… And my daughter continues to drive me to an early grave. I confess, I’m not sure what to do with her.”

“Which of my nieces is troubling you?” Daemon asked with the raise of his brow and smirked.

“Both of them,” Viserys groaned with frustration. “I hear nothing but contemptuous rumors about Rhaenyra and Ryna won’t even consider a suitor, always with some excuse about how all lords available are unworthy of her.”

Daemon had to hold back a scoff. She is not wrong.

Instead he hummed in agreement, playing the role of the dutiful brother flawlessly. “It is indeed a pity, dear brother. She has reached the age to marry and has had ample opportunity to choose a husband. As King, her union should be at your prompting, should it not?”

Viserys let out a sound that was something between a snort and a sigh, letting his annoyance show through. “Yes ‘should’ and ‘would’ are two different things, particularly when it comes to my daughter,” he said shaking his head. “Ryna is just as headstrong as her elder sister, even though she is more agreeable on the whole.”

Daemon nodded along as he finished his meal and set the plate aside, knowing only too well of Ryna’s fiery side. The way she had demanded he give up the throne on the battlements had been a stark reminder that she was no longer an entirely docile child. That boldness would prove useful to him though, especially with the plans he had in mind.

She’ll be a willful little wife. One I look forward to taming.

Viserys refilled his chalice and drowned in another helping of wine, his tone growing more somber as he continued. “Ryna is a good girl, but her head is in the clouds when it comes to marriage. I fear that she has an idealistic dream of the perfect match, a husband who will love her and shower her with affection.” He took another long drink. “Such men do not exist, at least not in the ranks of the eligible lords of the realm. But a certain kind of affection can often grow once wed.”

Daemon let a pointed laugh die against his closed lips. No man would cherish sweet little Ryna as much as I, brother. He tried to ignore the pang of jealousy when Viserys mentioned some faceless cunt of a lord touching the princess in any way.

“That does not surprise me. I’m sure my niece will have high hopes for any potential match,” Daemon said with a feigned indifference. “All young girls wish for such a perfect husband, but the princess must consider her duties to the realm.”

Viserys gave Daemon a queer look of surprise, as if he were not expecting his brother to be so reasonable on the subject. “You truly think so? Have all the women you have known desired such a union?” he snickered at the implication. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly become a romantic, after all of these years.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair nonchalantly. “Perhaps I have grown tired of bedding whores and have a desire to settle down in my old age…” He reached over for his chalice and took a slow, pensive sip, watching Viserys’ face change as he was clearly caught off guard by such a statement. “I had tried, but the Gods did not see fit to let my last lady-wife persist through childbirth.”

The King nodded mournfully, “Laena… I am sorry brother.” Viserys dragged his chair over to his brother slightly and gave Daemon’s leg a gentle, understanding pat.

“Yes, Laena…” he mused, not wishing to think on the past. “I did care for her. I tried, truly,” he said with a twinge of regret in his tone. “But I simply did not share a love for her like the great love you shared with Aemma. I never shall I suppose, but I still wish I could…” He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts for a moment before looking back to Viserys.

“Aemma was my favored wife, it’s true. I believe it is why I dote on Rhaenyra and Ryna so much. I still miss her terribly, but you cannot simply force a love like that, not with a lady you do not feel it for.” Viserys sighed knowingly before continuing, emotion obvious in his expression. “I was fortunate enough to find my love. Perhaps, even you will find yours one day, Daemon.”

Daemon struggled hard to suppress a smile at that last statement. Oh, I’ve found her already, dear brother. I’ll see that little princess of yours as my wife if it’s the last thing I do. Though that was not a conversation he wished to have tonight.

He feigned a sympathetic smile as he refilled his chalice with dark red wine from the carafe. “Perhaps… Only time will tell.”

The talk between brothers continued, consisting mostly of harmless banter. Daemon did his best to maintain the friendly demeanor, letting his brother babble on and on drunkenly as the hour grew late. With each passing hour, he could see Viserys’ body grow heavier with sleep and inebriation. Though the King continued to fight it, his eyelids grew heavier until he finally relented to the alcohol’s pull. With that he slowly sank back into the chair, his head slowly rolling sideways.

Daemon sniggered as the Hightower bitch shuffled up to the high table, attempting to correct the drunken image he was portraying to his subjects. She snapped for the guards to help her escort the King out of the Great Hall and back to his chambers. Daemon nodded towards Alicent keeping the bare minimum of civility before turning his attention back to the celebration.

There were still a decent amount of guests lingering, laughing amongst themselves or drunkenly stumbling towards the exit. He stood and stretched like a cat, then made to leave the Hall.

He walked with a brisk pace back towards his rooms, trying to quell the anticipation he felt building in his chest. Ryna would be in her chambers now, likely having changed into some comfortable night shift. Daemon had a fondness for sleeping gowns; they were always made of a thin, light material that left nothing to the imagination.

Daemon shook his head trying to dismiss his growing excitement at the thought of all those pretty pale curves, begging to be claimed.

No, no. I must be patient.

He reached the door to his chamber and made quick work of the few latches that secured it. Once inside, he kicked the door shut and began to disrobe, pulling off his leather vest and then his doublet. He changed into a linen tunic, not bothering to fasten the ties, but simply letting the material hang loose. Daemon then laid down on the bed, folding his arms behind his head while he tried to relax into the soft mattress.

“You never once glanced my way.”

Ryna’s words rang in his head, his brow furrowing as he recalled the frenzied distress of her voice and the pain present in her eyes. He had done a good job of hiding his feelings it seemed, at least in recent years. When his little Ryna had still been a child, things had been simpler. Daemon never had to hide his care for the girl, for she reminded him of himself. A second child, always wanting for love and attention and always deprived of it. It was never a hassle to spoil her with gifts and trips whenever he had time to.

It wasn’t until he came back to King’s Landing after his victory in the Stepstones that he first started to notice his youngest niece in a different light. And there was something about his newfound attraction to her that both delighted and disgusted him.

She stood out from the crowd gathered in the Great Hall to witness his return and her blond and silver curls flowing down past her shoulders drew Daemon’s attention almost immediately. He did not even recognize her at first with those pouty, deep pink lips leading straight into a full bosom.

After Viserys accepted him back, he had waited for the right opportunity to approach her, but Rhaenyra had insisted on throwing herself at him every moment she was able. Which of course resulted in uncomfortable glances from both her father and goodmother as she tried to inject herself into a conversation where she did not belong.

But as Rhaenyra and Alicent walked off together and Viserys made conversation with his Hand, Daemon finally found the right moment to speak to her. He approached the young woman who had replaced his niece as she sat alone on a stone bench, nibbling away at a sweet cake. He felt like a stranger to someone once so dear to him and he regretted those four years he’d spent away from King’s Landing most in that moment.

Ryna acted as though not a day had passed and surprised him when she jumped up from her seat and embraced him as though she were still a child. There hadn’t been much in his life that he’d felt wicked for, but the arousal he felt shoot to his groin in that moment was one of them. He knew then he could not stain the memory of someone so pure with such debauched thoughts.

Daemon backed away, not even giving her the gift he had tucked away in his pocket, and he had stayed away from her since. It might have been cruel, for she had tried to approach him so many times after, but he thought it best that he keep his distance. She did not deserve a wolf such as him barking at her heels. He would deny himself this one indulgence.

As he stood beneath the heart tree thinking of what must never come to pass, Rhaenyra approached him once more. She was practically lusting after him, all but saying it out loud how much she desired him. It was then that he realized how similar they were. They were both vicious and willing to do almost anything to get what they wanted. Almost anything.

It dawned on him that perhaps he deserved Rhaenyra. That they deserved each other. And that it would be a means to return to the throne he’d been robbed of. And in that instant, he’d make a foolish mistake. He’d tell himself that what he felt for his first niece was good enough. It wasn’t about love after all, it was about gaining advantage. About producing heirs. She had the same Valyrian blood running through her veins, and she was just as dark as he. Not good and innocent as his precious little sweetling was.

And just as many have been wont to do when aggrieved, he had taken the bait. As she bat her lashes at him, flirting while proudly displaying the necklace he had once given her while she spoke of not wanting to be married off. She might as well have been begging him to marry her instead, but Viserys would never go for it and he knew it well. So he’d stolen her away from the castle at night, brought her out to see the sights, and ultimately ended up in the basement of a brothel with her.

Daemon hadn’t even been sure what his intentions were that night. Perhaps he wished to sully her maidenhood in an attempt to force Viserys’ hand into either self-sabotage or the desired marriage. Or perhaps he just wished to forget, to claim another girl instead of the one he wanted, but dare not touch. Even then, he could not go through with it. He could not even lose himself in Rhaenyra for that golden head of hair reminded him too much of his sweetling.

He had been foolish. He never should have reacted so poorly, but the truth of it was that he had no idea how to handle what he’d felt. Daemon should have simply used restraint in dealing with Ryna, but he’d never been good at resisting temptation. He wasn’t certain he had what it took to control his base desires in the face of such carnal enticements.

Perhaps in the end it had been best that he had run away from it all. He’d learned much about temperance from his marriage to Laena, even if his thoughts had always remained preoccupied with another. And in all those years he spent away, Ryna had grown into a true Valyrian woman, rivaling the beauty of all who came before her.

Earlier that very night, he’d become a few cups deep after hearing the chatter of several lords that had been vying for his sweetling’s hand. The sickening rumors that the King would be forcing her to wed brought him out to the battlements to sulk. But, when he saw her parade out in front of him, dressed in a beautiful blue gown with her hair glimmering in the moonlight, he decided he could no longer hold back. He must approach her, revisit the feeling that had kept him away for so long and see if it still made him feel like a disgusting cad.

He was more than overjoyed when it did not.

It might have been that enough time had passed and he no longer recalled her so vividly as the child she once was, or perhaps it was the thought of losing her forever to another man that finally allowed him to be free of his shame.

Then there was the very way Ryna had responded to him so eagerly. He supposed that alone was enough to chase away the doubts he’d been harboring. She was his and had always been his. His niece had been meant for him and him alone.

Daemon sighed heavily, thinking of the way her lips had felt against his. How flawless her porcelain skin was and how soft her thighs felt beneath his fingers. He could feel his cock growing rigid as he began to drift off, the wine finally doing him in. Read Chapter 3

[verbenaa]

venus in furs

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+ only

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.1k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Ascended Astarion, dom Astarion, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, blowjobs, slight exhibitionism, slight degradation, guided masturbation, vaginal sex

𝑎/𝑛: back with another one, friends. I didn't ever think I would really write ascended Astarion, but what can I say?? I hope you all like this one, I definitely enjoyed writing it and getting out of my comfort zone a little bit! Let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

The air of the palace is cold against your exposed skin as you walk through the halls you now own, wearing nothing but an ermine cloak and glittering jewels, your stride confident amidst the darkened hallways.

These halls were once filled with the smell of decay and the leftover dust of ages past, a distasteful reminder of the horrors that had occurred here over centuries. You had made sure upon Astarion’s ascension to rip out as much of the place as you could, making decisions with that of an aesthete’s touch, ideals of what a grand palace should look like for your lover.

Dull red carpets were hastily replaced with elegant emerald green, every oppressive drapery torn away from their rods and transformed instead into flowing brocaded silks, old and rotted furniture sent to be thrown into the river or to burn, it mattered not which end it met. Such matters of what happened to the furniture were beneath you. 

You had much loftier concerns to deal with, now.

After all, what use was being His Dark Consort, if not to wile away your now infinite hours doing whatever you so wished, consequences be damned?

You stride towards the ballroom where two thrones of gleaming gold sit side by side on a newly raised dais, not caring whether the servants you passed noticed your state of dishabille. You knew they would turn their eyes from you, they would never dare to look upon you in such a way without his express permission.

At last, you make your way to your destination; chandeliers dimly lit with tapers of dripping wax hang from the ceiling, illuminating the richly woven tapestries decorating the walls. It was a shame you still couldn’t manage to get all of the blood stains out of the floorboards from the battle with those dreadful wolves, but you supposed there were worse trophies than those of your victories. You were content to let them serve as a reminder to all those who entered this place of who it was that had eventually won the battle.

A quick step up onto the dais has you exactly where you want to be, your eyes flitting between the twin thrones, resplendent with whorls of gold crafted into scenes of animals at hunt, the seats plush with dark velvet. With naught but a minute glance towards your own throne, you instead bring your gaze upon that of Astarion’s. 

You settle into your lover’s throne and arrange your cloak around you, the blood red of the velvet sliding against your curves as you move to recline, the contrast stark against the milky fur of the oversized collar, dark dots smattered across the expanse of alabaster like drops of ink against a page. 

The jewels around your neck and in your ears shift with every movement of your body, the pear-shaped ruby of your necklace—practically the size of your palm—encrusted with crystal clear diamonds heavy as it rests upon your collarbone. 

You wait for Astarion to find you, just like this, your body on display for him in the way you know he so likes. Soft curls of anticipation settle deep within your stomach, embers of pleasure eager to transform into a wildfire. 

Astarion, thankfully, does not keep you waiting long, his muted footfalls upon the covered floors catch upon your ears soon after taking your desired place. The knowledge he is finally here and so close has you sitting up slightly straighter. 

You know he will be able smell the scent of you, the heady aroma of your slow growing excitement will lead him right to where you lay in wait for him. You arrange yourself for one moment more on the throne, a siren’s smile on your face as you await the presence of your lover.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The last thing Astarion expects to see when he walks into the ballroom is you, lounging indolently on his throne of all places, wearing nothing but the dark red of an ermine cloak and dripping in jewels.

He has to give you credit, he supposes; when he walked in from the city after a series of decidedly droll meetings with decidedly useless patriars, finding you waiting for him like a little treat dying to be tasted did not make his list. 

How very lucky you are, it seems, that when he scented your arousal on the stairs he decided instead to investigate rather than moving on to whatever work awaits him in his office.

You had always liked playing these kinds of games, your subtle machinations something he was always happy to bear witness to with a smile on his face.

His perfect, pretty Dark Consort and her quaint little schemes. 

“And what do we have here?” Astarion arches a brow as he takes in the sight of you. 

His eyes trace your frame, from the white and black of the fur trim that rests against your naked flesh, hiding your peaked nipples from sight as your crossed legs obscure the telltale wetness he knows is forming between your thighs.

You flutter your lashes prettily at his perusal of your body, a coquettish tilt of your head at his interest.

With predatory intent, Astarion makes a slow circle around his throne with inhuman grace, his eyes never leaving you. You feel the intensity of his gaze against your skin, your hair, your lips—every part of you on display for him and him only. 

He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

He completes his circle and his eyes meet your own, his glowing claret gaze darkening and you know with certainty that he is pleased at your offering for him.

“Won’t you bend the knee for me, my Lord?” You feign innocence in your question, eyes roving greedily over his clothed body, taking in the fine tailoring of his intricately embroidered velvet doublet, the skin-tight fit of the finest leather pants highlighting the beginnings of his erection.

“Is that what you would like, dearest?” His eyes bore into your own, a mocking smile alighting his plush lips at such a request. 

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think? To be greeted with such a gift like myself?” Your thighs open for him as you recline further into the velvet, your wetness glistening in the dim candlelight.

“How presumptuous of you, my sweet Consort.” despite his words, a spike of heat works its way through your body at the sight of his knees moving smoothly to the floor in front of the throne you have now made your own. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips absentmindedly as he comes to settle his chest between your open thighs, a wicked smile forming on his lips.

Astarion doesn’t miss the sight of your tongue brushing against your lips, and he can’t help but think of other things that your mouth is capable of. He runs his hands up and down the outside of your thighs with surprising delicacy as his eyes move to your dewy center, now exposed to him. 

“I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, pet.” His hands make their way to your waist, thumbs brushing teasing patterns against your skin as he leans in to press a kiss to the softness of your lower belly, breath catching in your throat at the closeness of his lips.

You have but a moment to relish the feeling, the hands at your waist moving to yank you out of the throne upon which you sit. You quickly find yourself chest to chest with your lover, your exposed center pressing against the growing hardness still hidden behind tied leather for mere seconds before your world is turned once more; Astarion moving you onto your knees as you now face the seat of the throne you had just occupied, a spot of your own wetness darkening the velvet cushion as your ribcage presses hard against the golden frame of the throne.

A hand makes its way from your waist to clasp against your throat, the feeling of his fingers pressing in on your windpipe exquisite. 

“Because you’ll have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.” His words fall hot against your ear as he speaks, lips brushing against the tender skin as your face falls at the thought of being denied what you had been so sure he would give you, a small noise of discontent falling from your rouged lips.

You feel the hand still resting on your waist move up to unclasp the fur cloak from your throat, the heavy fabric falling to the floor behind you with a muted thud before Astarion moves to grab and throw it aside. He quickly presses close, eager to replace the lost warmth as his hand makes it way back south, the embroidery of his doublet pressing against your exposed back, every caress of the threads like fire against your skin. 

The hand around you neck tightens infinitesimally, the additional pressure drawing a gasp from your lips as his other hand continues making it way lower, sweeping through the curls at the apex of your thighs before coming to cup at your dripping wetness. 

“I don’t take orders from you, lover, and it would do for you to remember that.” His fingers slide through your folds, drawing a noise from both of your lips at the feeling. 

“Gods, look at you. So desperate already, and I’ve barely touched you.” His words are a whisper against your neck, reverent despite his prior condemnation. Fingers trace at your entrance, their touch light and teasing as he continues his scolding. 

“What a little tyrant you’ve become. Daring to sit in my throne and to make such demands of me.” His tone is mocking now as he presses those two fingers at your entrance, pushing in to the knuckle, leaving you no time to acclimate to the fullness. A whine falls from your lips as his fingers move deep, eyes falling shut and head lolling forwards the hand still squeezing lightly at your throat.

Astarion allows the gesture, his hand softening its hold to instead stroke at the graceful column of you neck as your head falls back to rest upon his velvet draped shoulder. 

The fingers inside you find that spot deep inside, curling to press into it with relentless intent. Moans fall from your lips as his fingers fuck into your pussy, your wetness aiding their slide in and out of your wanting body. 

“Look at how easily you cry for me, my sweet.” His words spur you on, your hips riding his hand as his fingers find their rhythm deep inside you for but a moment before he mercilessly pulls them from of your body.

Astarion’s fingers leave you empty, a whimper filling the air as he drags the hand that had been pleasuring you up your body, leaving a trail of slick across the heated skin of your stomach to the place in between your breasts. 

His wet fingers leave your body to hover in front of you, your head coming up off his shoulder. 

Astarion’s pulls his fingers apart, shining strings of your arousal clinging between the digits. The sight of it has the both of you entranced as Astarion slowly brings those fingers together again and presses them against your lips.

“Open.” The command is clear in his voice, and you open your mouth without a second thought.

He settles the fingers on your tongue and you obediently close your mouth around them and suck at your own wetness coating the digits. 

“Such a good girl, barely having to be told what to do,” His praise is like velvet running across your skin as you hollow your cheeks around the digits in your mouth, your essence heavy on your tongue. 

“You taste divine, don’t you think?” You are powerless but to nod in agreement, empty core clenching at the honey dripping from his words.

The taste of yourself in your own mouth like this is downright lewd and you know without a doubt that if the heart that sits in your chest could beat once more that your face would be flushed as red as the roses you now choose to decorate with.

You can feel Astarion’s hardness through his pants, pressing into you from his place behind you, cock twitching with every movement of your tongue. His fingers make their way out of your mouth before reaching down to tweak at a hardened nipple, your saliva coating his digits as they rub circles around the nub. 

“Do me a favor, darling, and stay on those knees of yours.” Astarion’s lips brush against the delicate skin of your ear once more, his words a seductive whisper as he rises behind you. 

You look over your shoulder as he stands at his full height, your face at eye level with the hard bulge still hidden behind leather. A corner of your mouth tilts upwards as you turn on your knees to face him fully, hands coming up to rest on his upper thighs as you look up into his eyes.

Your fingers rub the leather covering his strong legs, head moving forward to rest lightly against his covered erection.

The sight of you down on your knees is that of sin incarnate, Astarion’s breath hitching slightly before that same wicked smile creeps back onto his features.

“May I, my Lord?” Your fingertips inch upwards with your words, playing with the waistband of his pants.

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think?” He uses your earlier words against you tauntingly, his haughty smirk deepening at the devilish raise of your brows.

You see fit not to answer him with words, instead letting your hands do the talking as they make their way to the laces covering his erection. With several quick motions of your fingers the laces fall open and you free his aching length, placing a kiss to the tip.

Astarion groans at that first brush of your lips against him, hips jumping at the touch as his cock bobs in response.

You mouth at the crown, reverent brushes of your tongue moving on the soft skin of his shaft have his head falling back with a sigh. Astarion brings his eyes back to your form on the floor beneath him, knees resting on the ground as your nipples pebble in the chilled air, lips and tongue working him with the motions you know he loves. 

You lick a stripe up a vein on his cock before taking his heat inside your mouth, cheeks hollowing against him as you suck. The action has him moaning, your lips and tongue moving to work him as you slowly begin to bob your head.

You continue your ministrations, sucking him into your mouth as your hand comes to help you touch what you can’t easily reach with your mouth, pumping him at the base as your tongue caresses the crown of his cock. 

The noises Astarion makes is like music to your ears, the sound of his carnal moans only serving to drive you to move your mouth faster and deeper.

“You can take me harder, can’t you?” His words are uncharacteristically breathless as his fingers card through your hair, gathering strands into a makeshift ponytail in his fist as his other hand brushes against the high point of your cheek.

You nod your head as much as you can with your lips wrapped around his cock, humming in confirmation as your eyes look up to meet his own gaze, glassy with lust. 

Astarion pumps his hips at your blessing, moving his cock in and out of your mouth with slow motions as your tongue brushes against him. Your lips open wider to accommodate him, hand on his thigh squeezing in encouragement.

Pleasure rushes to your core as Astarion’s hand fists harder in your hair, his hips moving faster now as he sets his pace, your moans around his cock spurring him on as he moves closer to your throat, eyes watering involuntarily with each thrust as he nears the back of your mouth. 

He hisses at the pleasure, at the sight of you letting him fuck your mouth however he pleases as your eyes flash upwards to meet his own, the beginnings of tears dusting your lashes as he pushes deeper into your warm mouth. 

Few things compare to the knowledge that Astarion is under your control like this, and you know he won’t last long as you breathe in through your nose, relaxing your throat for him to press as deep as he wants with a flutter of your lashes, stray teardrops falling onto your cheeks as you can only imagine the thoughts floating through his pleasure-addled mind. 

As Astarion looks down upon your form below him, taking him so very well, he can’t help but think that the deepest and darkest parts of him covet you like this always. Lips wrapped tight around his cock, unable to think of nothing but him as he fucks your mouth, your lips sealed around his cock. 

The beautiful blush of your lips, the crystal of your tears, the claret of your blood. 

All for him and him only.

He comes on your tongue with the thought, his spend going down your throat in hot, salty spurts. You swallow him greedily, intent on not wasting a drop as the hands in your hair tighten as Astarion’s hips buck into your mouth with abandon as you drink down his seed.

With a sigh the hand in your hair loosens as Astarion comes down from his high, your mouth still moving over his softening cock. You slowly pull off him, tongue licking at him as you go, collecting the remnants of his come off him before you let his length fall from your lips.

With one last swallow, you look up at him from your place on your knees, licking at a stray drop of his come that escapes your mouth. Astarion brushes his thumb against your closed lips, his eyes still hot with lust as your tongue darts out to lick at the fingertip.

With a nod of his head, Astarion gestures to your cloak where it lays long forgotten against the cold floors. With a coy smirk up at him, you bring your hands to the floor and crawl over towards the soft velvet. 

Astarion follows your every sway of your body as you move, and when you finally lay yourself down onto the cloak, back resting against the lush material, he follows. He wastes no time to lower himself above you, hovering, as he takes in the vision of you resting beneath him.

His Dark Consort. His blasphemous Queen.

He would do anything for you.

His eyes rove your naked form, burning the memory of the way the deep crimson of the cape highlights the color of your skin, the open yearning in your expression and complete submission to him into his mind to last the entirety of his eternal life.

Astarion finally touches your body, no longer satisfied with a simple gaze, a hand brushing back your hair from your face before making its way down your body. You let your legs fall open for him to continue his exploration, eagerly exposing your wanting center to him as he bends his head down, giving an experimental lick up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue.

“Do you want to come, my love?” You nod your head, a whine escaping at the promise in his voice. 

“Then I want you to make yourself come while I watch.” He releases your legs, moving to stand before making his way to his throne.

He sits down with the grace of a king, his gaze expectant on your naked body as you part your legs for him once more.

His words are unexpected but you waste no time, not willing to wait lest he decide to abandon your pleasure all together. A hand skates its way down your body, bypassing your aching breasts to go straight to your clit. You rub at your pearl with delicate fingers, your motions second nature as you let yourself fall headfirst into the feeling of pleasure as Astarion watches you from his place on his throne, his cock already hard again.

Your eyes fall shut as you continue your ministrations, head falling to the side as your pleasure drives higher and higher with every motion of your fingers. 

“Eyes on me, darling.” His words are hard, the command clear in his voice has your eyes opening fast and landing back on his form.

You watch Astarion where he sits, taking in the sight of him as your fingers continue drawing circles around your clit. He reclines back in his throne, a hand drawing lazy touches up and down his cock as his own eyes are fixated on your fingers at your most intimate area. 

With a breath your hand leaves your clit, moving further down to touch at your weeping entrance. 

If he wants a show, you will gladly give him one.

Without waiting, you plunge your fingers into yourself, pushing them as deep as you can. Your own are nothing compared to the length and elegance of his own, but they will have to do for now. You fuck yourself on your fingers, quickly adding a third in an attempt to recreate the feeling of Astarion’s own. 

Your fingers shine with your wetness, Astarion groaning at the sight of you fucking yourself like this, knowing you won’t last much longer at the rate you are going.

“Slow down, darling,” A smirk plays at his lips as he notes the shaking of your thighs. 

“You can’t come until I say so, and I’m not ready for this little performance to be over quite yet.” You whine at his command, but slow your fingers obediently, moving them inside you at a slower pace now.

Your fingers work diligently as your eyes don’t leave Astarion’s from where he sits some feet away. His attention on you only serve to drive you higher, those crimson eyes never leaving you.

Your legs widen so Astarion can better see your motions as your other hand comes up to palm at your breasts, fingers still moving in an easy rhythm that drives your higher and higher with every pass.

You know that he loves to see and watch you like this, and there is nothing you love more than leaning into that yearning, eager to let his dominance wash over you.

“A-Astarion, I can’t hold off much longer.” It takes effort to keep your eyes on him, trying to push off your orgasm as long as possible, thighs shaking once more with impending release.

“Let go, my love.” His permission feels like a balm, hand at your chest coming down to rub at your clit as the fingers inside you speed up their thrusts, intent to bring yourself to orgasm as fast as you can get there.

You had waited so long to finally be allowed to come, to get the pleasure you desired and deserved, and while you wish that it was Astarion’s hands instead of your own, you supposed beggars could not be choosers.

Your orgasm hits, limbs seizing and hips bucking against your fingers, head thrown back as a moan leaves your painted lips, back bowing with pleasure.

“Beautiful.” Astarion murmurs the words low, barely audible over your own moans as you come on your fingers, orgasm washing over you as you writhe on the floor in front of him.

Your body relaxes in the wake of your release, limbs loose against the cloak on the floor. You ease your fingers out of yourself with a slight wince, the digits soaked with your own come. You lay there for a moment, your senses coming back to you as your eyes finally open and glance back at your lover. 

“Come to me.” His words are expectant, and you force yourself to rise despite the pleasant exhaustion weighing down your limbs, walking to the throne and standing in between his knees as he spreads them to make room for you.

Astarion’s hand reaches out to grab your wrist, bringing the fingers that had filled your core to his own mouth before he wraps his mouth around them.

He licks at your come, tongue sliding against your fingers in a bid to collect all of your spend, intent on letting none go to waste. The feeling of his tongue on your fingers drives a wedge of heat right back to the spot between your legs, Astarion’s eyes never leaving your face as his tongue glides up and down your fingertips.

With one last motion, he sucks hard on your fingers before pulling his mouth away from your hand.

“Sit.” The command is simple as his hands grab at your waist, pulling you to him. 

Your knees land on either side of his hips, his cock brushing up against your empty core as Astarion’s lips finds your own.

His kiss is demanding, passion and control combined into a fiery thing that you answer with the same emotion, mouth opening to his tongue as it sweeps inside to taste.

You’re breathless when Astarion breaks this kiss, his lips moving to press kisses against your jaw.

“Turn around and face the doors, darling.” His smile is absolutely deviant as you obey his words without a second thought, excitement building at whatever he has in store for you.

Your body twists over his own, settling onto his lap as your bare back rests against his velvet doublet. His length presses against your slit like this, your come slicking the shaft. Astarion’s hands caress the curve of your waist as you lean back into him, your head turning to brush your lips over the skin of his neck in a light kiss.

The hands on your waist move further down your sides and over your legs, stopping at your knees to grip underneath each, lifting them up and over the armrests of the throne. Your breath catches in your throat at the slight burn in your thighs as your legs stretch open, every inch of your aching cunt on full display.

He bares you entirely like this, anyone who dares to walk by the open doors and look inside would see every bit of you. It’s a small blessing, you think, that any servants have long made themselves scarce once they realized the debauchery taking place.

“Such a good girl you are, darling, keeping yourself open for me like this.” The hands holding your legs move up to stroke at your thighs, before one wanders higher towards your center. Astarion drags his fingers through your wetness, fingers spreading your folds and collecting the wetness on his fingertips as he circles your clit.

His lips find the tender skin behind your ear at the moment two fingers push inside you, sliding in knuckle deep before pulling back out again.

“You put on such a good show for me, darling. I think you deserve a reward.” He kisses your neck, those fingers pushing in once more to massage at your inner walls.

Astarion is intent on building you back up to a frenzy, his years of knowledge of your body to press and rub against everywhere he knows will only bring you higher. 

He will always worship you, you who helped him rise to this new height, assisting so selflessly in handing him such power. It was the least he could do, to keep and covet you so tightly you could never want or dream of anything less than an eternity by his side.

The old Astarion could never care for you the way he does now, could never gift you such unimaginable riches—gowns of the finest silks and tulles, an endless supply of silvers and golds, jewels of unbelievable value. 

No, he couldn’t offer you even a fraction of what he can now. His poor excuse for companionship was all that he had to offer you back then.

You deserved better, and better was what he would give you.

“You’re a vision like this, darling, held open for me while I make you come.” He mouths at the skin of your neck, never slowing in his movements.

His fingers hook inside of you, pressing against your g-spot with relentless efficiency, your cries spurring on his motions. You can hear the sounds of your wetness with his every motion, can feel yourself dripping onto the soft leather of his covered thighs beneath you.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, that familiar warmth coursing through your veins Astarion’s fingers still press on the softness of your walls as your cunt constricts around them. You writhe in his lap, hips riding his hand as he presses kisses to your neck as his fingers continue their work. You whine at the sensations, body moving closer towards overstimulation after reaching your peak twice in such a short time.

Astarion grants you a moment to recover as his fingers slide out of you, hands instead moving to bring your legs down from their place over the chair as you pant listlessly against his chest, body still shaking from the pleasure he had given you.

“Please, fuck me.” Your words carry a certain softness in their desperation that has Astarion’s cock bobbing against your entrance once more as you move onto your knees above him, looking back over your shoulder to see him grabbing his cock as he positions it at your entrance.

You lower down eagerly to take him inside you in a smooth glide, ignoring the slight twinge of overstimulation as you press all the way down until your hips meet, a hiss leaving his mouth at the feeling of your warmth finally wrapped around him.

You moans fill the air together, Astarion’s hands finding your waist as you glide yourself up and down his cock, taking him deep with every motion downwards, hips grinding into his own when he bottoms out. His lips caress the skin of your spine and neck, one hand on your hip helping you move up and down him, the other buried in your hair, keeping it out of the way of his roaming lips. 

Astarion lets you move above him at your own pace, moaning into your skin as you work yourself on him, your hips undulating above him in a seductive dance as you take him deep on every slide down before gliding back up, barely keeping the head of him inside before you begin again.

Astarion’s grip on your hip tightens as he begins to guide you in harder motions that have you picking up speed, his fingers digging into your skin as the lips on your neck switch from kisses to light nips of his fangs. 

“Harder, Astarion.” Your words come out on uneven breaths as he thrusts deep, cries of pleasure falling from you open lips as he takes control. 

“Off, darling.” He pants, other hand moving to join the one at your hip as he moves you off his cock, your wetness coating it. 

On unsteady legs you move to stand by the throne as Astarion gets up behind you, his hands never leaving your body as he quickly directs you back. Your knees touch soft velvet as you move to kneel on the seat, hands grasping for purchase on the golden whorls as Astarion sheathes himself back inside you, hips sliding home on the first thrust. 

The carved gold bites into your palms as you hold on, legs widening for him to fuck you harder as his hands find their way to hold onto your hips, pulling your body back against his own as he fucks you with little delicacy.

Gone is the easy, sensuous pace of earlier, replaced by your mutual desperation for something harder. His cock is impossibly deep like this, hitting what feels like every nerve ending inside you with the pump of his hips.

A hand grips your hair and pulls your head back roughly as his teeth nip at your earlobe. 

“Is this what you wished for, my dear?” He whispers the words, hips snapping into yours. “To be fucked like a whore? On my throne, like this?”

You moan at his words, pussy clenching hard on his cock as his skin slaps into your own, the sound echoing against the elegantly carved wood ceiling.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He chuckles into your ear as you gasp at a particularly sharp thrust, his mouth licking a stripe up your neck.

You deign not to answer him, knowing your body tells him everything he needs to know about that particular line of questioning.

His cock hits a particularly deep spot inside you, and you cry out at the sensation, pain and pleasure mixing headily in your veins. Your hands clutch harder onto the throne under you in an attempt to center yourself, efforts in vain as Astarion continues to fuck into that same spot near your cervix.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of him so deep, wanton moans falling from your lips with abandon as pleasure streaks through body, burning brighter than the sun. 

“Will you bleed for me, sweet thing?” The words aren’t quite a question, more hypothetical in nature. You know he will take, and you are always willing to give to him, even after all these years. You nod your head regardless, as best you can with Astarion’s fingers still gripping in your hair, never mind his hard thrusts in and out of your body.

His lips fall against your neck, nose nudging against the skin there as his breath is hot where his lips caress the skin behind your ear. The hand in your hair loosens, allowing you to move your head further to side, baring more skin to his searching mouth in invitation.

He bites down, the fragile skin of your neck breaking like it has a thousand times over, your blood dripping down in rivulets as Astarion drinks you in. Your blood stains the diamonds and rubies around your neck, facets dancing with every push of Astarion’s hips against your own in the dim light.

Every suck of Astarion’s mouth against your neck brings you closer, cries falling as you both soar higher and higher towards your peak. His hips continue to move, never slowing in their rhythm as he drinks, blood continuing to drip down over the peak of your breasts before falling onto the gilded throne beneath you.

All it takes is a few more thrusts from Astarion before you come apart, body bucking against his own as he continues to suck at the flesh of your neck, every pull from his mouth bringing the pleasure higher as you crest wave after wave of our climax, white hot heat rushing over your senses. He works you through your orgasm, never slowing his pace as he fucks you through the height of it, allowing you to luxuriate in the euphoria.

Astarion follows shortly after you, the feeling of your cunt clenching hard against his own heat divine as he loses the final threads of his control. His hips press tight against your own as he empties himself inside of you with unrestrained moans as he extricates his fangs from your neck to press his brow against your shoulder, tongue licking at the spilled blood that runs down your body.

Astarion stays inside you, his cock softening as his come leaks from your joined bodies down onto the skin of your thighs, pressing kisses to your shoulder as your breathing slowly evens out. 

Finally he pulls himself from your center, helping you off the throne as he bends down to grab your discarded cape from the floor nearby. He settles it back around your shoulders as you lean against him, looking up into his eyes.

“What ever are we to do with you, darling?” He sighs the words in mock distress, a finger coming to lift your chin up towards him as he smirks.

“I suppose maybe I need to be better disciplined?” Your smile answers his own, voice coy as you toy with a button on his doublet.

“Then lead the way, pet, there’s still much I can teach you.” Your answering smirk is all the permission required as Astarion leads you to the bedroom, intent to make good on his promise before the night is done.

[certifiedskywalker]

Three Weddings and Your Funeral - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi ilove ur writings so much ur so talented im so happy that ur back again, if ur taking requests could u please write one daemon targaryen with hightower reader or reader having feelings for him but he marries laena and afterwards rhaenyra also with something like betrayal during the dance i know im just rumbling but i trust you would make a masterpiece ur so good with ideas and words thank you.

AN: Thank you so much! Also, this is a great request with so many possibilities! So great, that I ended up writing two fanfictions for our Daemon boy! Keep an eye out for that and enjoy!

Before the Dance of Dragons, there was another waltz. You and Daemon Targaryen were always drifting in and out, always spinning about one another without moving at all; and your dance of stillness stretched from King’s Landing to the beaches of Essos, even the heat of Dragonstone.

“I despise weddings.”

“You despise this wedding,” you corrected.

When you received no quip in response, you looked over. Daemon’s eyes were elsewhere, skewed toward the center of the Throne Room. There, all around really, gold decor clashed with Velaryon sea green and silver, all while bathing the black and blood red of House Targaryen in warm decadence. But you knew that it was the dot of white at the heart of it all on which Daemon was caught. You were caught on him.

“She seems content.”

You leaned forward slightly as you spoke, allowing your gaze to trace the side of his face as he looked out upon the dance. The corner of his mouth was weighed downwards, expression heavy with a fiery sort of melancholia that was uniquely Daemon’s. You had seen it only a handful of times before, namely whenever Viserys banished him from King’s Landing; though, you liked to imagine that part of the heft had to do with how leaving meant leaving you.

“Seems,” Daemon grumbled, head lulling back to face you. When he saw you, his expression softened and you felt your chest tighten at the sight. “And it seems you, yourself are the furthest thing from content.”

He reached out a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair away from where it had fallen against your forehead. It took every small, burning stretch of will that you had to keep from leaning into Daemon’s touch. You stilled yourself against his gentleness and put on a stiff smile.

“Why do you say that?” You straightened your posture to reach for your chalice and Daemon’s hand fell away from your face as you took a long, hearty sip. 

It was then Daemon’s turn to lean in, his voice becoming a whisper that only you could hear. “For if you were in a wedding mood, you would be charming your adoring masses, jorrāelagon.”

He tipped his strong chin to the right and you followed the gesture’s path with your tipsy gaze. The sight that greeted you was a handful of nobles from across the southern sphere of Westeros, all eyeing you, Ladies and Lords alike. When the masses noted your attention, they dropped their cheer and turned in on themselves, whispering just as Daemon had to you. Letting out a sigh through your nose, you leaned into him once more.

“I believe they are adoring my spot beside the Rogue Prince,” you met Daemon’s eyes as his moniker left your lips. You found fire in the brightness that gleamed in his irises and it shot through you like something wild. 

“Well,” he drawled softly, “then their desire is sorely misplaced.”

You watched as Daemon too reached for his chalice and took a swig. With no regard for decorum, he leaned back in his chair and threw an arm out the back of yours. His warmth licked the back of your shoulders, through the thin garments that you hung on your frame to fit in with the surrounding affair. For a moment, you wish that you cared as little as Daemon did, wished that you could recline and decline the reality of custom.

But that wish lasted only for that moment as Daemon turned back to look towards the center of the room, to the white dot, and you saw that you were wrong. His chest heaved with a deep inhale that finished with a shudder, and when he set his chalice back down, his hand immediately curled into a white-knuckled fist. Daemon cared too much.

Just you were about to reach for his hand, in the hopes of melting his anger, of easing whatever ache, the Rogue Prince moved. Your outstretched fingers fell to the carved tabletop as you watched Daemon clamber to his feet. 

“I need more wine,” he mused, craning his neck to the side to give you a smile. “In the name of contentment, of course.”

You could not help the mirrored smile that spread across your lips. “Of course.”

Daemon gave you a wink and set off. You watched him, as much as you could, as he cut through the swirling crowd of clashing color. When you lost sight of him completely, you let your eyes fall back to the table where Daemon’s still half-filled chalice sat. Alarmed by the lingering pool of Arbor Red, you looked back to the crowd, eyeing the gaps between bodies.

The last clear glimpse you caught before retiring for the evening was one of Daemon circling Laena Velaryon, who was a vision in her gown of silver and gold.

You clung to Daemon, your arms wrapped desperately tight around his taut torso and face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. He smelled of sun, freshly poured wine, and dragon. Though, you blamed Caraxes for the ladder. 

The Blood Wyrm writhed beneath you as he soared against the Narrow Sea. You did not dare to look out across the blue vastness, knowing too well that the sight would send you tilting to and fro. No, you much preferred the dark behind your eyelids. Your stillness also had the benefit of an excuse to be so close to Daemon.

For that alone, some part of you, not knowing fear, wished Caraxes would never land.

Eventually, he did, with his spindly limbs sinking slightly on impact. You jostled, with the front of your body pressing entirely against Daemon’s back. Heat spread to the farthest reaches of your limbs and whipped back to your face where it burned beside embarrassment. Yet, you clung to Daemon still as Caraxes wiggled about. 

You opened your eye a crack and were greeted with the strong slope of the Rogue Prince’s shoulder. Peeking just over that, you saw what was to blame for the dragon’s unusual unsteadiness. Sand.

“Paez sir, Caraxes. Paez, syt īlva jorrāelatan mēre.”

With your closeness, you felt the low rumble of Daemon’s voice as High Valyrian fell from his lips like a song. Or perhaps like a lullaby as Caraxes, hearing it, seemed to set himself into a balance on the shifting sands. He lowered his worm-like body and the sun-soaked ground rushed up toward you with the movement, tricking your senses into a false fall.

Your hands curled into fists, fastening Daemon to you as your body braced for impact.

“Ao sagon ȳgha,” you heard and felt him say, accompanied by one of his hands reaching around to rub your back soothingly. “You’re safe.”

Daemon held you steady until Caraxes settled entirely with the gentlest of thuds. The dragon let out a nasally, high-pitched cry as if to tell his riders to dismount, and, based on how quickly his hand fell away, Daemon was quick to appease his beast. 

“Here, hold here,” you felt his hands guide yours. The skin of his palms was rougher in comparison to yours, with years of battlefield callouses and countless burns. He folded your fingers over something hard and your barely open eyes saw the red, horn-like scale you then held. “You have him?”

You nodded and Daemon huffed, his hands racing up your arms to your face. He cupped your cheeks and tilted your head up so that, even through the sliver of your eyelids, you could see his seriousness. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

His tone had you open your eyes more fully. “I have him.”

Daemon smiled and then, with practiced ease, slipped down off of Caraxes. You saw him, how small he looked standing on the sand from where you were, still sat on his steed. Once he too found balance, Daemon threw his arms up to you. 

“Come now, I have you.”

You were too in your head to call back down. Instead, you focused your efforts on swinging your legs off to one side of Caraxes without letting your hands slip from his bumpy scale. When you finally positioned yourself for your descent, you saw Daemon’s grin widen.

“I have you.”

The tilt of his tone sounded like his smile and you nearly forgot that you were perched upon a fire-breathing beast. Only when you tried to take a step toward Daemon did you remember that fact. Your foot slid along Caraxes' smooth scales until you landed on a protruding bone or some other growth. You had to bite back a yelp at the slip.

“Paez, slow, issa jorrāelagon,” Daemon called up and you shook your head.

“I’m no dragon, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, jorrāelagon, you understand more than you know,” Daemon said, his grin widening. “Now, fall to me.”

Forgetting again and, seeing only Daemon, you fell, really fell. Immediately, you felt his hands, warm and large, on your waist as he guided you to the sand. Your own hands gripped his upper arms as you fought to find balance, and you felt the muscle there, even beneath the thick fabric of his tunic sleeves. Though, when Daemon dropped his touch, you did too.

“I recall you enjoying rides with Caraxes. You’ve grown stiff since it seems.”

“We were both younger then,” you pointed out, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “and, yes, less stiff. But one factor in my flying hasn’t changed.”

Daemon raised a silver-blond brow at you. “And that is?”

“You. My flying is always at your behest.”

“Yes, well,” Daemon raised his hands for Caraxes and, like a loyal hound, the dragon turned his snout into his rider’s touch. “I always have good reason. Here, give me your hand.”

“Daemon-”

“Here.” His hand was already on yours, spreading your fingers out to pet Caraxes. Under your palm, you felt his massive, heated breath, like a living flame. If it were not for Daemon’s hand lingering atop yours, you would have stared at the Blood Wyrm in awe. Instead, your eyes were fixed on Daemon, how bright his expression turned, no melancholia in sight, at your appealing to the beast. 

“If I did not know better, I would think you a Targaryen for how Caraxes bends to you.”

In unison, your and Daemon’s hands fell once more as you both turned towards the voice. Walking down from a dune, Laena, still sea green and silver, walked over. Her curls bounced and blew in the breeze, her stride like waves. She was part of the beach, pulled right up from the sea and sand.

“My dear,” Daemon said, moving to meet her while you stalled by Caraxes, who cooed like a saddened pheasant. “I’ve returned with our witness.”

Your brows furrowed at the term, at their tight embrace, how Daemon held her. “Witness?”

Even with a handful of paces between you, you could see Daemon’s smile. It was not bright or breath-catching, but it was there all the same. Just as his arm was there, snug around Laena’s waist, holding her to his side. How far from you Daemon seemed.

Even further when he answered, so painfully simply, “you the witness to our elopement.” 

You thought your legs gave out for a moment like you were falling yet again; but when you reached out to brace yourself, your palm met the bumpy head of Caraxes. He nudged you with his huge red snout and a glint in his amber, serpentine eye reflected the ache that suddenly claimed your chest. Tears sprang from your eyes at the beast’s sympathy, but when you looked back to Daemon and Laena, their worried faces, you smiled through it.

“I’m honored.”

You should have known that accepting an invitation from Daemon Targaryen was a mistake. Seemingly ceaseless years of heeding his call had acquainted you with the subsequent pains of your dutiful answer. Yes. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

Once there, Daemon would tear out your heart and skewer its still-beating flesh on the sharpest edge of Dark Sister. So routine this waltz was, that your chest had begun to ache whenever you caught sight of the shining, Valyrian Steel of the ancestral House Targaryen blade. It had started long before you first noticed it, when Daemon dragged you to Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, and had endured in the years after Daemon’s own wedding to Laena. Yet, despite this rife history and your better judgment, you always answered. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

“It's been too long since my last visit.”

As the words left your mouth, you cringed at the taste of them. It was the sentimentality of them. How many times had you met him here, on the heated shores of Dragonstone? Apparently, enough times to remember it like a far-off home to grow misty-eyed over. You hated it, this tie, but you loved it too. Such a duality also applied to the very man who had called you back to Dragonstone. 

“It has. The halls have missed you nearly as much as myself,” Daemon said, inky charm dripping from his tongue. His smile loosened any tightening ache in you, in the sore core of your chest. When he extended his hand to help you off the dock, it was as if you never ached at all.

“Dolling out the flattery already? My, I must be in for it.”

The brightness of Daemon’s expression wavered for but a moment, a fall undetectable to the untrained eye. You knew him better than most. 

“Daemon?”

He dropped your hand as soon as your shoes hit the sandy shore. “Let us walk the beach and…talk for a while.”

“Let’s,” you said through slightly gritted teeth. 

Naturally, you fell into step beside Daemon and tread quietly for a few paces. As the noise of the dock grew softer and softer, you grew anxious. With Daemon, silence was like a sin: pervasive and punishable by sharing the hard truth caught in his mouth. His words were like knives sometimes.

When only the sea could be heard, you spoke up. “How are you faring? Your daughters?”

“They are well, well enough to send me ravens about their exploits, their lessons. I am well enough to read them, sometimes enough to write back.”

You nodded, remembering fondly the feel of parchment between your fingers. “Baela sent a raven to me, a fortnight ago now. She asked if I had heard from you after Laena-”

“She has always thought the world of you,” Daemon interrupted. “Whenever I told her how you fly with me on Caraxes, Baela needed to fly with me too, right then, to be like you.”

“She is her father’s daughter, with all that impulse,” you quipped, knocking your shoulder teasingly against Daemon’s. “And all that feeling. She is worried for you, she wrote me so.”

Daemon went quiet then, stalling in the sand as you continued on. You took only two more steps past him before you realized he was caught on your words. When you looked back, Daemon’s eyes were focused downward, brows furrowed in thought maybe. Or feeling.

You took a step back to start the close the distance between you. “Daemon, what are you not telling me? Please, I have not heard from you in months.”

“Feeling. Impulse,” he seemed to spit out the words. “It is all fire, it is all my blood.”

“Daemon,” another step and you were reaching for him. He let your hands fasten about his forearm, pulling it straight against his side. You clutched him, trying to ground him. “Tell me.”

“You have not heard from me for you are one of the few I fear judgment from,” Daemon said at last, his crystalline eyes meeting yours with such a heavy, sad seriousness that his very irises appeared darker. “I do not fear lightly.”

You shook your head, “you have nothing to fear from me.”

Daemon’s fear hand rose up then, as you clung to his other arm. His fingers moved, brushing over the peaks of your face with such delicacy that your nerves abated. As if Daemon were right about the pre-Doom Valyrians and their magic touch. His hand fell before you thought to tell him as much.

“Yet I do and it is infuriating,” he growled, “because you should be nothing to me…but you are everything.”

Then, it was your turn to drop your hands. A renewed ache claimed you and heat rose to your face with a vengeance. You took a step back and watched Daemon’s face twist in a way you had never seen before. Fear.

“I am to wed Rhaenyra.”

There was that sin of silence again, accompanied by the subsequent pains of answering an invitation from Daemon. “Rhaenyra.”

“It is a union-”

“This has been a long time coming,” you said, the ache embittering you. “Am I here to be your witness again, like some beck-and-call hound?”

“Jorrāelagon,” he shook his head and continued quickly, “ao se eman issare umptan va se egros hen jēda, va moriot māzis se jāre. Iksā tolī sȳz naejot sagon tied naejot nyke-”

“Speak plainly, Daemon,” you snapped. “Do not hide behind that godsforsaken language.”

Seemingly fueled by your own anger, Daemon lunged towards you, closing the gap once more with his hand grabbing at your chin. Despite the rushed roughness of his movement, his very touch, like before, was gentle. It bordered on careful, even as he made you meet his eyes.

“Love,” he paused, his tone cold; an objective translation. “You and I have been stayed on the edge of time, always coming and going. You are too good to be tied to me…kesan daor ivestragī ao zālagon. I will not let you burn.”

He held your chin still as the last words fell from his lips. His lips. Daemon was tantalizingly close and with the music stopping, your dance together finally ending, the urge to lean up the last stretch to kiss him was overwhelming. It washed over you like the tide, the very one that nipped at your heels as Daemon held you; though it did nothing to quell your rising anger as you realized…

“And you knew of my feelings for you, this- this entire time?  You lead me along with invitations to be at your side while knowing You bid me attend your wedding while knowing, and you tell me of another on the horizon?” You wrenched yourself from him, “How dare you?”

“Like you said, all that impulse. I did not think, I only wanted.”

“Now you aim to control by wedding your niece and directing my fate? You will not let me burn, but you will turn yourself to ash over a throne that will never be wholly yours? It will be Rhaenyra that sits it, not you.”

The truth incensed Daemon, who charged at you, hands reaching once more. His fingers dug into the fabric and flesh about your hips as he pulled you flush to him. You had nowhere to look but at him. You had nothing else to feel but his heat.

Then, his lips. His lips were closed about yours in a rushed, manic union of flesh. Daemon’s hands squeezed at you, pulling you impossibly close as the kiss grew deeper. His tongue knocked against yours wildly. Wanting. Wanted.

Daemon wanted you, but you ached still, and the ache drove you away.

You leaned back, your lips falling from Daemons. He chased after them, pecking the corner of your mouth, entreating you for more. You gave him a taste, a softer kiss, but it wasn’t enough. At least, not enough for you.

“What does this mean, Daemon?” You opened your eyes but saw that his were still closed. His breathing was still sharp, still quick. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours, “just as it doesn’t matter who sits the Iron Throne. Like fire, it is my blood.”

You swallowed, hoping to distract yourself from the stinging tears behind your eyes. “And it will be your funeral.”

Daemon opened his eyes then and met your gaze. “I know.”

You pressed your forehead against his a touch harder, a not-quite-a-kiss-kiss, before you pushed his hands from your hips and turned away from Daemon Targaryen for the last time.

[sanjoongie]

All that's delicious is dipped in gold

To my lovely @daesukiii, here's a drabble I wrote in mind for you. I hope you enjoy and it brightens up your birthday 😘 thank you for being the seonghwa to my joong 😂

👑Pairing: Earl! Jung Wooyoung x Countess! Reader (f) 👑Au: Royalty Au 👑Trope: fuckboi to marriage 😆 👑Genre: smut, pwp 👑Rating: 18+, MDNI 👑Warnings: penetrative sex with no barrier (we are trying to make babies here), creampie, begging, nipple play, wooyoung just looking to take care of his new wifey 👑Word Count: 1,689 👑Summary: it's your first night with the earl and denying him only intensifies the pleasure he's about to bring to your marriage bed

You cling the luxurious sheets to your chest, your heart pounding a mile a minute. Any minute now the earl--your newly-appointed husband-- would enter this room. His domain, his rules. You needed to consummate the marriage, hopefully become pregnant with an heir. But you had married a scourge, a rogue, a lord with no honor. He was your husband now, however, and your body became his new plaything.

“I've arrived!” Wooyoung declared throwing the double doors open wide. He gulped deeply from a jeweled chalice and then threw the glass of wine against a wall, smashing it and letting out a loud noise of happiness at the beverage being consumed.

You flinched at the loud announcement and dramatics, clinging even tighter to the sheet as the footmen hastened to grab the handles of the doors and close them.

Wooyoung’s eager eyes sought out your body and he smiled slowly upon finding you naked and in his bed. “Ah, there you are, Countess.”

He strolled across the room, shrugging off his heavy jacket and throwing that to a chair before the roaring fireplace. He then pulled his flowing white shirt out of being tucked into the waist of his pants and then pulled his shirt off by grabbing the back of it and pulling it over his head. Bare-chest, Wooyoung began to crawl up the bed to you, toeing off his shoes momentarily. He got about halfway up the enormous bed until he started to pull the sheets downwards so that you would have nothing to hide behind.

“Come come, little shepherdess, I promise to not be too rough with your sheep.” Wooyoung had the audacity to grin and then run his tongue along his bottom lip.

“You're hardly a big bad wolf,” You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes.

“That's not what your nipples are saying, my love,” Wooyoung teased you.

“It's cold in here and you're taking away the blan--”

Wooyoung grabbed both your feet and pulled you bodily down the bed. You squealed as soon Wooyoung had you boxed in: hands on either side of your head and knees on either side of your hips. “Wife, we are to become one,” Wooyoung said with a roguish smile, perking up one side of his face.

“Let's be reasonable, Wooyoung it's been a long day,” You whispered.

“I agree. I should already have been tongue-deep into you and would be working myself into your tight heat. But someone has a sweet tooth and wanted another serving of dessert.” Wooyoung’s eyes followed the lines of your face, down your neck and into your bosom. “Now it's time for mine.”

“Wouldn't you rather have a deep sleep in which you could ravage me tomorrow?” You managed to squeak, feeling your breath quicken by Wooyoung and his likeness to a wolf wanting to eat you up.

“Why are you avoiding this, wife of mine?” Wooyoung gently bounced your breasts in the palms of his hands, making you moan in response.

“You're going to make me dick-drunk,” You whispered conspiratorially.

Wooyoung blinked at you several times before he finally cracked into laughter. “Are you afraid to become addicted to my lovemaking?” 

“What if you take a lover?” You wailed.

Wooyoung let out a scoff. “We just got married and you're already worried about our passion going cool?”

“I just don't want to get my hopes up,” You grumbled.

Wooyoung dropped his head to hover his lips over yours. “I won't ever let you down.”

With his lips slanted over yours, Wooyoung kissed like he always wanted to leave you wanting more. His short tongue would sweep across your lip to request entrance but when your own chased his, it went back into his mouth. He would pursue you with wanton eagerness but the minute you pushed back into his advances and he would pull back. You whimpered into his mouth and Wooyoung chuckled deeply.

“Please, Wooyoung,” You begged when he broke the kiss.

Wooyoung studied your features and he couldn't look more pleased. “I haven’t even given you what you want and you’re stupid for me.”

Wooyoung ignored the ache between your legs, and the press of his hard-on against the tightness of his pants, and paid homage to the globes of flesh on your chest that had been teasing him all night during the ball to celebrate your marriage. His red-from-wine tongue took broad licks of your nipple, eyes rolled up to your face to view it screwed up into pleasure. He left your nipples so spit-slick that they puckered in the cold air again.

Your lower half began to buck upwards in the air. “Woo-wooyoung,” You panted his name again.

“Tell me what you want from me, Countess,” Wooyoung tempted you with a playful smile.

“I need you… inside me… please!” You pleaded with a whine. 

Wooyoung sucked heavily on two fingers and then found the juncture between your thighs. He hardly needed to wet his fingers because you were almost weeping there for him. “Wife of mine, you are practically dripping for me.”

You casted an arm over your face. This was incredibly embarrassing. You knew this was going to happen. “Shut up, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung clucked his tongue at you. “That’s hardly the manner you should be addressing me, my love.”

Wooyoung began to play with your hole but only to torture you. He would push his finger only up to the first knuckle into your clenching hole and then he endlessly circled your clit but never actually brushed over your sensitive pearl. 

“Wooyoung,” You said his name through clenched teeth.

“Tell me properly what you want, Countess. I want the dirty words coming from your mouth. I want you to be improper just for me,” Wooyoung commanded, tongue caught between his teeth in anticipation. “If you can do that for me, I will fuck you straight to your orgasm.”

You whimpered and widened your legs. “Wooyoung, I need your pretty cock inside my wet hole, please, My Lord.”

The dash of manners tucked into the filthy sentence made Wooyoung’s eyes roll into the back of his head. Oh, he had lucked out by marrying you and making you his Countess. “It would be my pleasure, wife of mine.”

Wooyoung undid the ties of his pants and pulled them down his legs, only so far to free his dick and bare his ass. He played the head of his cock along the folds of your cunt, wetting up his thick cock so that he could penetrate you with ease. You swallowed in anticipation, watching as his head pushed past your wet lips and finally entered you. Your back arched as he fucked his way in; slowly making his way in with shallow thrusts that opened your tight heat to his intrusion. 

Once he was full hilt, all dogs were off to the race. His thrusts were accurate once he found the spongy area that made you gasp. He angled his thrusts so he could always rub over that place, no longer caring for his own orgasm and simply seeking out pleasure for his wife. 

“Woo--Woo,” You whimpered pitifully. At least you could still remember whose cock was inside of you.

“It’s okay, my love, I’ve got you,” Wooyoung cooed to you, pushing hair fondly from your face.

His thrusts were calculated, powerful, and you didn’t even know if you knew where you were right now. The rub of the velvet sheets under your naked body as Wooyoung coaxed an orgasm from you made you spare a moment to think, maybe, you could live the rest of your life in this bed with Wooyoung. “So good,” was all you could manage verbally.

Wooyoung was focused but he was losing his control. You were clenching around him like he was the only thing to keep you alive and that was his cock inside of you. His thrusts became sloppy and you whined at the difference of pace. Wooyoung blew some hair out of his face and mentally slapped himself. He said he would take care of you and he meant that. Did your cunt have to be so fucking good though?

“Gonna cum for me, my love?” Wooyoung said to you, searching to bring you back to him.

Your hands dug into the ample flesh of his ass, urging him deeper and harder inside of you. “Please, unload inside of me. I want you to drip out of me too.”

Well, there went all of Wooyoung’s good intentions.

His thrusts were harder, choppier, and he was gone. He needed the mental imagery out of his head and before his eyes. Wooyoung fucked you through your orgasm, single-mindedly. He didn’t miss the way you whined through the drawn-out orgasm. He didn’t miss the way your walls fluttered around him; like he needed anymore more encouragement to come inside of you. He thrusted deeply inside of you and then felt himself explode there. You had to be better than any well-trained courtesan in the realm. 

You were moaning his name, tossing your head back and forth, when Wooyoung suddenly pulled his cock from your hole. He crudely spread your cunt lips apart so he could watch your fluttering hole push his cum out. He watched with his mouth open in a small, pink ‘o’. He could get used to watching this, perhaps for the rest of his life.

“My lord…” You panted, attempting to push yourself up to meet Wooyoung’s happy grin at the sight between your legs. “That’s not going to get you heirs.”

Wooyoung made the rude noise of blowing a raspberry. “The night is still young. The first shot never matters the first time anyways.”

“The…” You blinked blearedly, “...first time?” 

Wooyoung moved his body up so that he could give your lips a quick peck. “Why, of course, wife of mine. I could hardly deny myself your body while it’s so readily available.”

You whimpered and Wooyoung laughed. “Perhaps some water first and a nice wipe down.”

Somehow you didn’t think that the wipe down was going to be as benign as he was selling it. And you found that you didn’t want it any other way.

[artiststarme]

A Sleepwalking Surprise

I have no idea what this is. I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments.

~*~*~*~

“You walk into the dark cavern to reveal the fire-breathing dragon that’s been charring the King’s soldiers and burning them to crisps. The mighty beast is towering and its scales are seemingly impenetrable. The dragon notices your entrance and spews a fiery and gruesome spray of fire at the Party before any of you have a chance to react. Roll for damage.”

The entire Party grumbled and rolled their dice. They thought they were going to find treasure, not a dragon trying to burn them all to death. Gareth’s half orc ranger and Dustin’s own half elf bard suffered the most damage at the surprise attack. Gareth muttered something about Eddie always targeting his characters and grunted in anger. 

Eddie chuckled mockingly at them from behind his DM screen, “Gwaine and Lorcan suffer fire damage and drop their weapons when the flames lick at their hands. Lorcan, what’s your action?”

Dustin huffed with stress and ran a hand through his exposed curls. “I roll for initiative.”

“Go ‘head and roll,” Eddie told him, taking a sip of his Mountain Dew from his chalice. The bastard looked devious as he eyed him over the lip of the prop. 

Dustin blew on his dice to wish them luck. This roll could make or break the rest of the game for him. “14. Lorcan picks up his lute and attempts to entrance the dragon with music.”

“Alright, Lorcan is able to retrieve his instrument from the ground where it sustained some minor charring but remains playable. The dragon is distracted and does not notice the first few notes of tune…”

Dustin was on the edge of his seat. Was it going to work? Would his move save the Party?

“The dragon released one more bellowing breath of fire at the Party before his eyes glaze- Stevie?”

Dustin’s eyes whipped open. Steve? What the hell was he doing in this story? He followed Eddie’s gaze to see Steve, his best friend and babysitter, standing in the entrance of the trailer’s kitchen. He was standing tensely with his eyes roughly unfocused on Eddie. 

“What the hell is Steve doing here?” Dustin asked his dungeon master. 

“Is he okay?” Lucas asked him in concern. 

But Eddie just waved them off, “he’s fine. He sleepwalks sometimes,” then he turned to Steve. “C’mon Big Boy, let’s get you back to bed.”

He rested a gentle hand on his back and one on his arm then guided Steve back to the bedroom. Meanwhile, the kids were dumbfounded. Why was their babysitter, the one that said he had plans today and couldn’t join the session, in Eddie Munson’s trailer? They didn’t even know they were still friends after the Upside Down!

Jeff, Gareth, and Grant didn’t even blink at Steve’s presence. To be fair though, they’d known Eddie a lot longer than the other boys and he’d done a lot weirder things than mother-henning the reformed King of Hawkins High. 

A few minutes later, Eddie returned to the living room and picked up right where he left off. “The dragon’s eyes glaze over and he becomes transfixed by the music! He can’t focus on anyone other than Lorcan’s pudgy fingers delivering the sweet, sweet tunes. Droggom, what’s your move?”

“Okay, wait a goddamn minute. Are we not going to talk about how you have Steve sleeping in your bed right now?” Mike sputtered. 

Eddie in his part just looked confused. “Where else would he sleep? He’s tired and you’re all sitting on the couch.”

Mike gestured with his hands in frustration and shot a look at Dustin. It was in his hands now to get answers. “Why can’t he sleep at his own house? And since when are you guys friends? We need answers!”

“Oh, we’re friends alright. We’re great friends. Now, focus on the game or I’ll maim you. Where were we?”

~*~*~*~

The game continued for the next several hours without interruption. However, just as they were wrapping up for the session and settling at a tavern, Steve came walking back down the hallway. He was yawning and fiddling with a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. Dustin couldn’t help but feel even more confused. Since when did Steve wear glasses?

Eddie perked up in his seat immediately upon visage of Steve. His deceitful smirk turned into a genuine smile and he hopped up to meet Steve as soon as he crossed into the living room. 

“Stevie! Are you awake this time?” Eddie wrapped his arms around him in an engulfing embrace. 

“Mhmm, still tired though,” he muttered. Then he took everyone by surprise. Steve pulled away from the hug only to plant a kiss directly on Eddie’s lips before walking into the kitchen. 

Everyone’s jaws dropped. Dustin didn’t know whether to voice his support or yell at them for not telling him anything and the rest of the group seemed to be in the same boat as they stared unmovingly at Eddie. And Eddie just stood still as if he couldn’t believe that had just happened. 

Suddenly, there was a crash in the kitchen and a shouted, “shit!”

Steve rushed back out, now wide awake, and looked at Eddie in horror. “Oh god, fuck, shit! Fuck Eddie, do you think they noticed?”

“Yeah we noticed!” Lucas yelled.

“How the hell do you think we could’ve missed that?!” Dustin cried. Jesus Christ, seeing your two older male friends macking on each other left an impression.

“Why the fuck are you smooching on Eddie?! First my sister and now Eddie too?!” Mike screamed at him in offended outrage.

The poor Corroded Coffin guys just looked so tired. They knew already and Dustin would never forgive them for keeping it a secret from him. 

Eddie looked at Steve, “yeah, I think they noticed.”

Steve just sighed and grabbed his keys. “I have to leave now or I’ll be late for work. See you guys later!”

“And leave me here with these assholes? I think fucking not. I’m coming with you, let’s go,” he told him. Eddie grabbed his wallet and boots as he walked to the door. He shouted to the group over his shoulder, “lock up when you leave!”

The Hellfire club heard the Beemer’s engine rev and then they were alone. Dustin just looked at the other boys in confusion before screaming a loud, “what the fuck?!”

Just a few hours later, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike would corner Steve and Eddie in Family Video. They’d find out that Steve regularly sleeps over at the Munson trailer and that they’d been dating for three months. Dustin would give them his support before immediately slugging Eddie for ‘defiling his older brother’ and getting a wedgie in return. Sigh, good times, good times indeed. 

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[stressed-and-queer]

Reasons why Merlins s1 ep4 "The Poisoned Chalice" is one of my favorite episodes (spoilers)

Gaius giving Merlin a fake proverb and Merlin calling him out on it

Merlin: "Someone has to keep the place running"

Gaius: 🤨

Merlin gets so excited he gets to go to the ball and it's adorable

The iconic outfit Arthur picks out for him

Gwen teasing him about the hat

Arthur looking back at Merlin clearly amused

The moment "Clara" confirms that Arthur's cup is poisoned he immediately leaves to save Arthur

Arthur keeps on trying to take a sip of the cup thinking the speech is over only to be interrupted again 🤣

Merlin: *Takes Arthur's cup*

Arthur: #annoyed

Uther asks Merlin for proof about his claims about the cup being poisoned and Arthur immediately goes into protective boyfriend mode

Arthur got so worried when Uther decided he would drink the wine

To the point that he tried to drink it himself knowing there was a possibility it was poisoned.

He was literally willing to do that for a servant he met 4 EP ago

Continuing with the point that they met 4 EP ago, they've known each other for like what, a month at the most and Merlin was already willing to die for Arthur

"but if it's poisoned, he'll die :('

Arthur was so fucking worried when Merlin drank the wine, you could tell just by the way he stood

*Dramatic music playing after Merlin drank the wine for a dramatic pause* Merlin: ...It's fine

The fact that the poison took a few moments to kick in. Idk it made it seem more realistic

You cannot convince me Arthur wasn't planning on somehow getting Merlin back from Bayard

When Merlin starts to choke, Arthur's face immediately drops. There's just a look of pure worry and dread

When Merlin falls to the ground unconscious, Arthur is there by his side in a matter of seconds

Arthur didn't even think twice when he picked Merlin up to carry him to Gaius's physician chambers

Arthur asking if Merlin was going to be ok

Gaius explains how to save Merlin, and how dangerous a journey it would be and Arthur is still willing to go to save Merlin

Gaius: A single drip of venom from the Cockatrice would mean certain death

Arthur: Sounds like fun!

Morgana has so much faith that Arthur would save Merlin she wasn't even worried

She relieved Gwen from her duties for the rest of the night so she could take care of Merlin!!!

"I can't stand by and watch him die!"

" Then don't watch"

The ways those lines are delivered are sooooo good omg

The way Arthur leans against the fireplace

Morgana is the one that convinced Arthur to defy his father and save Merlin

Merlin saying a spell in his sleep

And Gaius having to cover for him because Gwen was literally right there

Gaius immediately knows it's Nimue that poisoned the cup when he finds out the poison has been magically enhanced

"He's just a boy"

"Have you seen your son recently?"

Merlin literally moans Arthur's name in his sleep

"Art-Arthur, Arthur...ngh" -Merlin s1 ep4

Even when Merlin is literally dying and unconscious he's still trying to save Arthur

The whole act that Nimue puts on that Arthur falls for instantly

When Arthur flights the Cockatrice with his sword. I love all the fancy movements Bradley had to learn for the role of Arthur

Merlin moaning Arthur's name pt2

Merlin tries to warn Arthur that it's a trap in his sleep

"Who are you!"

"The last face you'll ever see"

Merlin moans Arthurs name pt3

THE BALL OF LIGHT MERLIN CREATES TO HELP ARTHUR

"Do not let Merlin die because of something I did"

Arthur is willing to be put into the stocks for a month if it means Merlin gets the antidote

Arthur reaching for the flower through the bars of his cell

The way they snuck the flower out of the cell

"That's disgusting, you would be ashamed of yourself you're old enough to be her grandfather"

"I'm proud of you Arthur, never forget that"

Arthur went to check in on Merlin to make sure he was doing ok

"Arthur....thank you"

"You too, get some rest"

[flimsyscript]

So about that prophecy

I've spent the past 2 weeks blasting through the Akatsuki no Yona manga, and I'm ready to drop a theory on the prophecy.

TL;DR — It's actually been about Yona and Hak the whole time.

Spoilers up to chapter 259 under the cut

First, let's break down that prophecy, yeah? (I'm using the translation that's been posted on MangaDex Chapter 255 since I've found lots of different versions online):

Darkness falls upon the great earth Through the blood of dragons A revival comes again Bound by the covenant of old When the four dragons assemble The sword and shield that protect the monarch shall awaken And the red dragon shall return at dawn

Clearly, Kija, Shin-Ah, Jae-Ha, and Zeno are the four dragons.

For the sword, shield, king, and red dragon, I think it's a bit more complex.

What we know at the start of the manga is this: That the soul of the red dragon king has been reborn and that person is Yona. Yona thus goes looking for the four dragons because of this prophecy, and she finds them! And it turns out, except for Zeno, they too have been reincarnated — over and over and over again. So, the assumption we make here is — this is a cycle. That the dragon's and red dragon king's souls will continue to be reincarnated forever, and each time the red dragon king is reincarnated there will be a "darkness" that has fallen over the land.

However, what if the prophecy wasn't about the red dragon king’s soul, but about Yona specifically?

In 255, King Hiryuu speculates about the prophecy with Zeno, passing it along because he knows Zeno will go on living. When he does so, King Hiryuu confesses that even he doesn't know what it means:

However, while pondering the prophecy, King Hiryuu comes to a realization after repeating the words "...the red dragon shall return...":

"...when the red dragon shall return..."

"Return" here suggests that someone has left at some point, and then has come back. So, instead of the prophecy just generally being about the soul of the red dragon which reincarnates, it's actually about Yona. This is further highlighted when Yona visits King Hiryuu in her dream:

They are not one person — the red dragon's soul — but two separate people. And so, the prophecy can only be about one of them.

And after King Hiryuu realizes the prophecy is about his reincarnation/Yona, what does he do?

He points his sword at the dragon who will not die — who will be there when the red dragon returns. At this point, I assume King Hiryuu has realized that Zeno will have a role to play in the threat that faces the red dragon, likely as he knows about the power of the chalice and thus the deeper meaning in the words "...the blood of dragons...when the four dragons assemble..."

Another thing that supports the theory that the prophecy is about Yona and not the red dragon's soul (meaning Hiryuu, Yona, and subsequent reincarnations) is that King Hiryuu could have ended the four dragons lives at any time, but doesn’t because of Yona’s request. We learn this when Yona has her vision of the past where she speaks with him:

"Should I instead put an end to everything here...?"

To which Yona replies:

"Don't bring an end to them now." = Acknowledgement that King Hiryuu has the power to do that.

"I want to be reunited with everyone again." = Yona specifically wants to be reunited with the four dragons.

So, if King Hiryuu has the power to end the dragons, why wouldn't he have the power to have them reincarnate? And, reincarnate until they can meet Yona? King Hiryuu doesn't know how far in the future Yona lives, either, and so what if the three dragons keep reincarnating until that time? And Zeno keeps living until that time, as well? Having the possibility of reincarnation introduced to us in this world makes us think it's just something that happens naturally, but this would make it a very specific act with an end date — when they meet Yona.

But, okay, so let's say the “red dragon” in the prophecy is about Yona. Where does Hak come in?

Well, he's the king.

Walk with me a moment. We've already experienced one misleading part of the prophecy — who's to say there isn't another? We assume the "king" and the "red dragon" are the same person because King Hiryuu is both. But we've just established that the "red dragon" is actually Yona, so the "king" could very well be someone else.

Let's go back to the sword and shield now.

When King Hiryuu is talking with Zeno, he is confident the "sword" in the prophecy is the sword he was given by the dragon gods. And while he's unsure of what the shield is meant to be, he thinks it might be a protective charm, even going to suggest the crest he gave Zeno is the “shield”:

But what if the crest is also a red herring? What if the "shield" is another protective charm?

What if it's Hak's pendant?

Something to support this: the pendant is heavily featured in many panels in chapter 259. We see it constantly throughout the chapter:

Which suggests it’s something Kusanagi wanted us to see as present in this final showdown. So, why not?

If this is the case, this is what we're left with:

Four dragons: Kija, Shin-Ah, Jae-Ha, Zeno Sword: King Hiryuu's sword Shield: Hak's pendant King: Hak Red Dragon: Yona

Personally, I’d love to see Hak as the “king” in the prophecy. Throughout the manga, Hak has felt as if he just exists to support Yona and Soo-Won, or that they are people that are above him in some manner. For him to also be of importance I think would be a moment where he recognizes that he’s always been walking alongside Yona and Soo-Won, and not behind.

Plus, Kashi did have her premonition about Hak. We assume she saw him protecting Yona as her bodyguard. But what if she saw that Hak becomes the king?

And so, that's why I think the prophecy — and the reincarnation of the dragons and the red dragon — has actually been about Yona and Hak this whole time. The implication of this is that when the prophecy comes true/comes to fruition, I think it'll also mean the end of this reincarnation (and Zeno's long lifespan). Meaning, the dragons and red dragon’s soul won’t be reborn anymore.

One last item to throw in here: I think Soo-Won will protect Hak with the sword. I'm less certain of this, but Soo-Won is of King Hiryuu's blood, and that hasn't come much into play yet other than being a complicating factor for who should be on the throne. But what if Soo-Won weilding King Hiryuu's sword awakens it in some way? I don't know!

That's all I got so far, but would love to hear what y'all think!

[infin1ty-garden]

GUARDIAN ANGEL

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✦ summary: hearing rumors of the fountain of youth and finally finding a heading, nikolai decides to follow the rumors ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✦ pairing: nikolai lanstov x gn! siren! reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✦ warnings: drowing, darkling, a bit of spice ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✦ word count: 2k ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✦ author note: inspired by this and sorry for not posting in a while I was on vacation

masterlist.

"Are we sure that compass even works?" Asked Tamar swaying from side to side due to the heavy rain and storm they were passing through. "It points to what the holder wants most. I think the instructions are pretty clear," Nikolai's attention only being on the compass. It's arrow spinning from one direction to another.

"You are going to crash the ship," yelled Mal as he fell down sliding to the other end of the ship. "Don't worry we're almost there," and then he let go of the wheel entirely. Tolya grabbed it but as if they'd entered another dimension. The storm was nowhere in site and not that far away, an island.

"See, I was right," as he said that the ship hit something causing him to fall overboard. He tried to swim up but the waves kept crashing in on him. He could hear people yelling for him and orders being thrown around. They turned incoherent as he sunk deeper.

He felt two hands taking hold of his arms as he was lifted out of the water in seconds. Once he managed to open his eyes, he was miles from the ship. He wanted to turn and see his saviour. "Don't strain your body too much, just relax your safe," he heard the most angelic voice say.

In a blink of an eye his feet met the sand. He coughed up what felt like half the ocean. When he turned to thank his saviour they were nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined it? Then he saw it, his ship being attacked by sire

But he could not help his crew. If he even attempted to swim to them, he would be instantly attacked. His gun was wet, so it was useless, and what could he do with a sword. All he could do was watch and hope they make it.

Most of the crew was alright. No deaths but they had to dry dock the ship, as going in the row boats would have been a death wish. Now, they had to find the chalices. "Captain," Tamar handed him a spyglass. Looking through it he saw Second Army flags. The Darkling was here or his grisha were.

"How did they get here before us?" Alina asked bewildered. "It doesn't matter we just need to get the chalices before them," he really should have better timing. "Hand over the map," the Darkling appeared, along with his forces. "There's no map," Nikolai replied, confidence radiating off of him in waves.

Then one by one his grisha disappeared until he was the only one left standing. "You and what army," Kirigan looks behind himself. Worry coating his face but then he smirked. "I don't need an army," as he raised his hands the sand beneath his feet disappeared. He dropped down into the newly formed puddle like it was a slide.

"Well, that happened," all anyone could do was nod along to Mal's statement. As they continued on following the compass, it seemed to lead them in circles. "I think your magic compass stopped working," Alina gave him a sympathetic look. "We have more company. Tamar reported seeing Fjerdan and Shu ships," great just what they needed.

"We still need the two chalices. Let me give that map a try," Mal took the map from Nikolai. The map was written in a language no one could understand. It wasn't in Fjerdan, Kerch, Ravkan, Shu, Zemeni, Suli, or even Old Ravkan. But now that they were actually on the island, they could at least recognise the landmarks drawn. Mal's tracking skill would finally come in handy.

After spending hours walking, they've decided to make camp and rest for a bit. They couldn't let the Fjerdans or the Shu be the first to discover the secret to the fountain. As Nikolai was starting to close his eyes, he heard a splash of water near him. He looked to where he assumed the sound came from and was met with the most beautiful pair of eyes.

Was this the person that saved him? He couldn't be sure. He slowly moved towards the person, worried that any sudden movement might scare them away. "I am not some kind of rabid animal," that voice, his guardian angel. "Your friends are on the west side," you could mean the Fjerdans or the Shu.

"They're not our friends," you sent him a sceptical look. He suddenly remembered why they were on this island in the first place. "You wouldn't know where someone could leave two chalices around here, would you?" At this point Nikolai was fully laying down in the mud that surrounded the pot of water.

His face inches away from it. "Hypothetically, I would know where something like that could be hidden." He smiled and then asked. "Hypothetically, could you show me?" You disappeared, only to emerge a few seconds later. Slowly moving closer to him as he had done only minutes ago.

What you did next was a surprise but not an unwelcome one. You kissed him. It was slow at first, as if giving him the chance to pull away if he so wishes. Instead he placed his palm on the back of your head. Pulling you as close as he can and uped the ferocity of the kiss. You placed your fingers at the bottom of his chin.

Putting slight pressure on it, due to this he opened his mouth. You quickly slipped your tongue in. He felt something foreign enter his system. You quickly pulled away and submerged yourself, only the top part of your face could be seen. Watched him swallow whatever you had just given him. I really hope I don't die from this.

You made a motion with your hand for him to enter the water. Waited for him, as he took off his jacket and shoes. His feet were searching for the bottom of the pond or whatever it was. He felt a hand grab his foot and pull him into the water. "You're taking too long," he realised he could breathe underwater. You gently grabbed his waist and he placed his arm around your neck.

He finally saw your tail. You were a siren. He was so gonna die but why had you saved him and why were you helping him now. He had too many questions. None of which he could ask. As soon as he had entered the water he was out of it. In Front of him was a ship, but none of the text in any language he knew. It did match the art on the map.

"Thank you," you nodded with a smile on your face. He walked closer to the ship. It was suspended in mid air. Wedged in between two huge pieces of stone. How could he get up there?

He finally entered the ship with your help and a lot of trial and error. Each step on the deck was taken with extreme consideration as one wrong move could send the ship falling. Even if the ship seemed to have been here for years with the plants that have taken over the deck. Nikolai didn't want to take any chances.

As he descended down to the lower levels of the ship, he was greeted with copious amount of dust and rot....and gold? But he had little care for it. Maybe after they find the fountain of youth, he could bring some of that gold back to Ravka. One room in the ship was clearly meant for dining. The table comfortably fit nine people.

The seats were filled with skeletons. The stench of the rotten food and empty glasses of wine could signify that these people were poisoned. The ship without a crew was probably left to roam the sea and had met its journey's end. Crashing into the rocks. Or maybe all of them have been stabbed, who knows.

The chalices were nowhere to be found. He went searching different rooms until he reached the captain's quarters. In the middle of the room the captain was sitting a skeleton like the rest of the crew but on the bed next to him a chest. Nikolai made his way to the bed as he did the ship swinged and then the voices came.

He wasn't alone anymore but he recognised one of them as Zoya. He needed to work faster. He got to the chest but it was locked. Nikolai could hear the voices getting closer. The key was laying on the chain around the captain's neck. Unlocking the chest and...nothing, just some documents. Where could the chalises be? He looked in the drawers, desk and finally under the bed.

There was another chest, this one without a lock in it, the chalices inside. Then the door burst open. "Hand them over," before he could think or even form a plan the ship was falling. When he awoke he was tied up, next to him, Zoya. The flags were the first thing he'd recognised, Shu. The second one, that they were tied to a tree. "Finally, the sleeping beauty's awake," one of the guards said.

Whatever they'd done to Zoya, she'd seen better days. Cuts were littering her face and bruises were starting to form. "The others," he'd simply asked. "Probably dead." The guards had left their posts to fetch their superior. In the corner of his eye, Nikolai could see something being thrown next to his feet. A knife, he quickly picked it up and placed it near his hands. Cutting himself and Zoya lose.

"We need to plan our next steps carefully since we don't have our weapons," just as he said that his and what he assumes is Zoya's sword were thrown out of the water. If she had found the ordeal weird, she didn't mention it, just grabbed her sword. "This way, I saw them place the rest of the weapons there."

They managed to escape the camp unseen. "I will let you go but the next time we meet, you won't be given the same courtesy," with that she disappeared in the forest.

The chalices weren't with the weapons. The Shu must have taken them. Then out of nowhere Tamar, Alina, Mal and Tolya come charging past Nikolai. Tamar carrying one chalice while Mal carries the other. "Sturmhond," Alina says just realising he was even there. "Run," yells Tamar as she grabs him.

Then he sees it, the Darkling and his volcra. His feet do the rest as he joins the group running. Hoping to lose him in the woods. "What happened?"

"What happened? Where were you? You left and didn't even tell anyone," Alina retorts.

"I got a lead to where the chalices might be."

"But WE found the chalices."

"And WE are going to lose them if you two don't shut it," Toyla interrupted, silencing them both as they hid. Once they saw the Darkling walk pass. They slowly walk in the other direction. "Where did you find them?"

"Near the entrance to some caves but that was nowhere close to where it had been marked on the map," Mal said in disbelief.

"Let me guess there was a river or some pond close by," Nikolai asked. Mal nodded. "But how could you know, it wasn't marked on the map." Nikolai shrugged. You must have taken them and brought them to his crew. "Now, we just need to find the entrance to the fountain," water splashed nearby. "Give me one moment," he said to the rest of them as he took the map and walked towards the water.

Tamar and Alina followed him. He kneeled down. "Yes," he asked, looking at the water. You slowly lifted your head and swam to where he was kneeling. He held up the map. Mal and Toyla joined the rest. Alina lifted her palms up as Toyla readied his weapon. "You are here and the entrance is here," now they could see the scales coating your arms, along with the tail.

All of them were thinking the same. You're a siren and you're helping them.

Thanks for reading! If you want a part 2 leave a like or comment