#ichor-veins

[probably-impossible]

My Primo headcanon is 'chill old man who dreams of nothing but murder all day long.' Whenever he gets the urge to blow up the White House he puts that urge on a leaf and floats it downstream like his court-mandated therapist taught him to in 1996.

[mochipong]

Save them again, homecoming queen. Again, and again, and again

[beks-crooked-glasses]

After a year and a half, and over 200k words, my full time travel rewrite of Percy Jackson comes to an end. Fucking hell, this ended up being one of my most notorious fics and I'm so glad for. Getting to play with the Seven being absolutely unhinged little babies and scarring those around them was so much fun.

[florallylly]

eddie munson be pathetically and grossly in love with steve harrington challenge

[memento-morri-writes]

writing share - body horror edition

So, the lovely, amazing @space-writes expressed interest in reading my fucked-up body horror that I wrote last night/early this morning, and who am I to deny a friend? So, here you go:

A brief bit of context: Just under two days ago, Sigmar, Rook's beloved mentor and kinda-sorta father figure, ended up being revealed as a corpse being puppeted by the BBEG, Dr. Purity. The rest of the party brutally killed him while Rook watched. (Via tooth and claw, and also a sonic shockwave from a magic guitar.) And just today, Warren, the party gunslinger, a werewolf and Rook's other kinda-sorta father figure, died (like perma-forever, never-coming-back died) in order to save Rook's life. (Or rather, in order to resurrect Rook, since he was dead at the time.) Now Rook is extremely sleep-deprived and also being affected by mind-altering parasites, two factors that are working together to give him some pretty vivid and fucked-up hallucinations.

(fair warning, this isn't written out fully to the best of my abilities because this scene hasn't happened yet. So this is just my description of what Rook will be seeing and hearing, not a full prose write-up with his internal thoughts and all that. I will almost certainly do that after next week's session, though, so let me know if you want to see that then.)

major tw for extreme body horror under the cut (also emotional manipulation/guilt-tripping)

Rook hears a strange sound, like clumsy, disjointed footsteps. He looks around wildly for the source of the sound and freezes. Out of the hallway we have just come from looms a horrible sight: Sigmar's corpse is lurching towards him, somehow propelling itself on shattered limbs. All of his joints are dislocated, giving his body a freakishly elongated appearance. His shredded clothes are soaked with blood, and every inch of his skin is covered in hundreds of claw and tooth marks, which are weeping blood. Black ichor drips from his mouth, and a web of dark black veins branch out across his face. Every inch he moves closer leaves a trail of blood behind him. He reaches out towards Rook with jagged, broken fingers, and says "Rook... your friends killed me. Slaughtered me like an animal." He takes another staggering step towards Rook, who backs away, shaking. "You promised to help me. You said you trusted me." He points an accusing finger at Rook. "I should never have come to you. I should have burned down Warren's house with you still inside. It's what the two of your deserve." As if on cue, another shape lurches out of the shadows of a hallway across the way. It's Warren. His chest has been blown open, his ribs pointing in every direction and the remains of his guts are dripping from the hole where his stomach used to be. Every inch of him is splattered in gore. He's missing one of his hands, the arm ending in a jagged point of bone instead. He opens his mouth to speak, revealing a mouth of pointed canine teeth. "Rook, you stupid bastard. I died for you. You." He bares his teeth and snarls at Rook, an animalistic sound that rattles him to his core. "We should have left you to rot in that fungi-infested hallway. You brought him to us," he glares pointedly at Sigmar. "You're the reason those two attacked us, attacked Cherry. You're the reason I'm dead. The reason Cherry won't ever have a father." Sigmar steps closer, looking Rook up and down. "Speaking of fathers, yours was right. You are a useless piece of shit." He spits in Rook's direction, then takes another step closer. Across the room, Warren moves to match him. "Traitor." "Liar," Sigmar adds as the two stalk closer. They're so close now, Rook can smell the scent of Warren's burnt flesh, of Sigmar's spilled blood. They're right in front of him now. He tries to shrink away, further into the corner, but to no avail. His limbs refuse to obey, and he stays frozen in place.

[massivemilkbags]

When an archangel falls from grace, keep them away from the spirits. Don't let them absorb the essence of the damned.

[aekashic]

There was an unknown shrine that she stood before. Even someone as knowledgeable as Yuri seemed to draw a blank on who this place belonged to, as if she was not being allowed to remember from whence such a shrine came. It was more like a little altar, a tiny temple to some long forgotten deity whose name was only whispered.

She couldn't put a finger on who this was, yet she felt compelled to make an offering since she was passing it. She expected nothing in return and it would do no harm to honor the altar of whoever sat there. Of course, that left her the trouble of figuring out what to offer. Dance and song were her best gifts to give and despite investigating the lost altar, she couldn't consign a dance that would match.

So she picked an unconventional choice. A dance for a god linked to poison, of all things. If only because the dance was so utterly lovely, how could you not enjoy watching it?

Slow and deliberate, like a waltz. The silk of her kimono flowed easily with the graceful movements of the dance. Partnerless as usual for her performance, Yuri was committed to showing off her skill and please whoever would be gazing at this one moment in time. Swirling, spinning, whirling in time to a song only heard in her head, yet existed with every beat of her heart.

An offering was made today for Eternatus.

((Reference: HERE))

long ago, the king of the outer gods did battle with mortal heroes, laid low the warriors of old as an act of devotion and pride. to remember the great cataclysm, a temple was built deep in the earth where the god lay in a gruesome death-slumber, its cosmic power seeping into everything around him. a maddening power that drove mortals to desire more- and to gain it, they traded their lives.

no, not their lives, but the lives of those less fortunate. those who were seen as expendable. criminals, orphans, defenseless maidens. the deformed, the ones that nobles called unsightly- the ones eternatus looked upon with a deep pity. the ones he gave painless deaths to.

the sorrowful tradition continued, even when it was forgotten why. the people no longer hailed the gods of galar, but they knew fear. they knew to fear him and his power. the very power they wore on their wrists / power he would use to kill! a slow rot reserved for the sinful- the disgusting and greedy things that they were! how he reveled in the sound of their screams, their useless prayers for salvation that would never come! he watched from his forgotten temple as they writhed. he watched as they desperately carved the dead flesh from their bodies as if it would cure them. they always crawled to him as they died in grotesque forms / he showed them how beautiful he still was, and laughed! poor things!

but this time, the offering is not like ones of the past. this time it is a young woman dancing a long forgotten dance. the last person to dance for him had been zacian- when times were not so horrible and he was not so filled with hate. a time where he was whole and worshipped. in the embers of its heart, a sense of serenity settled. it could watch her dance forever.

you offer me this gentle thing, comes a voice, low and warm- from some unseen place (from the in-between and the everywhere), even if you came to this place only by chance.

she is lost in the dance. focused- yes, he could watch her forever. dear fated maiden, i am certain one day you will do more than just dance here. and on that day, you will know me.

she continues to dance, and he watches her from the in-between and the everywhere. he thinks she will survive the day where he will run rampant through her bloodstream.

[singofus-a]

@ichoric asked: ❰❰ HURT ❱❱ sender is hurt protecting receiver dite n ares for fun

An Extremely Self-Indulgent Meme | Accepting

When Aphrodite joined him in battle, everything became more intense and more fun. Some might say that Ares deliberately brought his best behaviour, even showing off a little for his love as they fought alongside one another.

Especially in instances like this where she fought truly by his side. Ares was gripped in combat with his sword, fending off three men with their spears and shields - a blur amongst the red fog pooling around him. All around them, men were stirred up into a frenzy - succumbing to his overwhelming aura as much as he was.

Until he heard Aphrodite shout from behind him, followed by a harsh shove sending him sideways, and the horrific sound of her cry of pain. Glancing back, he just happened to see an archer on a chariot aimed his way, a glow about them showing their divine blessing - able to see the gods within the fight.

Oh whoever blessed them was fucking dead. In an instant, he stabbed a man before him through the gut and in one swift movement, grabbed their spear with his free hand and chucked it like a javelin towards the chariot with a yell of rage. It skimmed the head of the horse by a whisper and sailed away into the fog of battle. He yelled again and cries of a final push came. Looking to her and the arrow sticking out from a gap in her armoured shoulder, he put his shield up behind them, and pulled her in close. Just then, a yell from Deimos came, alerting them he was coming. Clearly he had either seen what happened or heard Ares' yell.

"Whoever hurt you, I will rip their fucking soul out of their fucking chest, you have my word. Deimos will take you to safety, just rest, my love." He asked of her, not worried of her death but of her wellbeing. But he was still too full of rage to leave this place with her, he needed to find that motherfucker and his men and make them all fucking pay for this. He would win this battle now to spite them and their patron.

All around, his anger and that of his sons took hold. Strategy gave way to sheer bloodlust and violence and it descended into a hacking and slashing bloodbath on the front lines as officers behind struggled to gain back control of their men. Many lives were lost that day, a battle bloody enough for bards to sing of for future generations. Vengeances struck up for many on either side, to be settled by the survivors.

It was only when the clash of blades fell silent, and the Keres descended to get their fill, did Ares leave - blood-soaked and heaving in breath, handle of his weapon crushed into formless clump of metal from his grip. It was exchanged there for the gentlest of holds to his lover's hand as he knelt by her side in her tent, knuckles raised to his lips by a shaking hand as he attempted vaguely to calm.

[an-unraveling-unknown]

JALGATISKSSKMDHSHAJDH

nnHk

*explodes*

fallen down 🌱

[reginrokkr]

Tag dump repost #1

◟༺✧༻◞ memories are all but forgotten in the river of time ┊queue.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ glimpses in the past of a shattered spirit ┊headcanon.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ events to be remembered in blue veins ┊addendum.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fragments of light from the roots of truth ┊reference.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what use has the veil of falsehood? ┊ask.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ sapphire flames in their wake ┊ic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ lament of a fallen seraph ┊thread.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ searching for a long lost fate ┊meme.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what lays behind the mantle of faux stars ┊ooc.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fear not the long night if malice is to fade ┊musings.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ ethereal moon dust sunken in ripples of light ┊reflection.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ moon on the sky as a trembling heart ┊aesthetic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ requiem of the echoing depths ┊music.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ crystalline traces splattered with stardust ┊open.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ analysis within the ley lines ichor ┊study.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ chaos is hardly different to poison ┊dash comment.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ shall fair divination be imparted ┊dash game.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ trust not the gods; nor overthrow them ┊psa.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ connections of an ancient twilight sword ┊promotions.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ forgo that which is cursed by the gods ┊self promo.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ gifts to prevail into eternity ┊keepsake.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ echoes of a fallen star ┊drabble.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ nascent dreams of fading twilight ┊wishlist.┊

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Words to describe blood without saying crimson or blood?

Blood—the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body

Arterial - relating to or being the bright red blood present in most arteries that has been oxygenated in lungs or gills

Body fluid - a fluid or fluid secretion (such as blood, lymph, saliva, semen, or urine) of the body

Carmine - a vivid red

Cerise - a moderate red

Claret - a dark purplish red

Clot - a coagulated mass produced by clotting of blood

Cruor - obsolete: the clotted portion of coagulated blood

Ensanguine - to make bloody; crimson

Geranium - a vivid or strong red

Gore - blood, especially: clotted blood

Hematic - of, relating to, or containing blood

Hematoid - resembling blood

Hemoglobin - an iron-containing respiratory pigment of vertebrate red blood cells that consists of a globin composed of four subunits each of which is linked to a heme molecule, that functions in oxygen transport to the tissues after conversion to oxygenated form in the gills or lungs, and that assists in carbon dioxide transport back to the gills or lungs after surrender of its oxygen

Hemoid - resembling blood

Ichor - a thin watery or blood-tinged discharge

Incarnadine - bloodred

Juices - the natural fluids of an animal body

Maroon - a dark red

Plasma - the fluid part of blood, lymph, or milk as distinguished from suspended material

Puce - a dark red

Ruddle - red ocher (i.e., a red earthy hematite used as a pigment)

Russet - a reddish brown

Sanguine - bloodred; consisting of or relating to blood

Scarlet - any of various bright reds

Vermilion - any of various red pigments

More: Word Lists ⚜ Blood ⚜ Exsanguination ⚜ On Blood

[godhymns]

Tag Drop PT. 3

[zelyras]

cynorians are known to specialize in advanced levels of poison making and have also developed unique methods for the body to resist the effects of its toxins / heighten the detoxification process as a whole. for this reason, it is a cynorian cultural practice (especially for those of higher status) to surround themselves by poisonous creatures. as a way to confront them, and as a way to assert the power themselves by turning the lethal into the domesticated. a foreign guest walking blindly into a cynorian’s domain may be startled at the sight of gold snakes slithering around the seating arrangements, or grow stiff at the sight of small beatles marching along the edges of the wall. toying with poison is a dangerous game, even for the most ambitious cynorian, yet it is one played all too often by those in power. the cynorian must settle with the possibility of suffering a painful death if things go awry, but in severe cases, one can become intoxicated by the poison they fill themselves with to the point where they become filled with delusions that cast a mirage over the mind. one must tread carefully when dealing with poison and one must not mistake their tolerance for proof of godhood, else they will be lost to the desert’s cruel hold.

[arcielee]

ilībio

Summary: Aemond finds comfort in your cunt. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x female!reader Word Count: 2.6+ Warnings: reader AFAB, dubcon elements?, oral (m receiving), vaginal fingering, rough sex as a coping mechanism, p in v unprotected, a hint of possessive Aemond as a treat Author’s Note: Thank you my beloved beta reader @sylasthegrim 💜 This story was partly inspired by the brilliance of @peachysunrize (my muse 💜) and @adragonprinceswhore and their wonderful pieces they shared on this hellsite, but it was also inspired by this bitch ass anon. This man is beautiful and I would do anything to be a hole at his disposal. Enjoy! Valyrian translations: ilībio is whore, Iksā ñuhon is you are mine 😈

The instructions from the madame were clear: you were not to speak to the prince and you most certainly were not to look him in the eye. 

It was hard to follow her explicit instructions, as he was as beautiful as he was captivating. You recalled the night when you first saw Prince Aemond. He was poised at the entrance, pulling back his hood to reveal the silver spill of his hair that showed gold in the amber light basking the brothel, his brow furrowed as he looked over the room before taking a step. He was tall and lithe with a grace that cut through the crowd, not sparing a glance at the patrons or whores that parted to allow him through. 

You remembered hearing the stories of the old gods of Old Valyria and thought that he was truly the embodiment from those legends, that he glowed from the ichor knitted into his veins. 

He paused to look at you, and you felt your heart begin to gnaw at your ribs, your pulse erratic as you burned under his one-eyed scrutiny. Your head was in a fog, unable to understand his question. “Your grace,” you chose to say with a curtsy that was clumsy and unpractised. 

He did not care for the attempt or for your formality, but instead repeated his question. “Where is she?” 

You escorted him to Sylvi as requested, and the madame was quick to capitalize on her honored guest, excusing you at once. You continued to watch him from the shadows, entranced, lost in the daydream of being whisked away with the favoritism of a Targaryen prince. 

When he finally left, she caught your gaze that followed him. Her law was laid, he was hers alone, and your envy was hot and thick in your blood, but you were nothing but another whore to serve, awaiting at her beck and call. 

It was her constant threat of being cast out to Flea Bottom that kept you obedient. She wished you to be a decorative piece, dressed in sheer gowns chosen to complement your figure, and tasked to carry a carafe that would keep the cups filled. You did what you were told; you moved throughout, your fingers curled around the neck and the other hand supporting the bottom, careful not to spill a drop. 

Your second run in with Prince Aemond was nearly your undoing. 

You did not even see him, as your trained demure gaze left you counting your footsteps, and despite how lean the prince looked, he felt solid enough when you stumbled into him. Your hands cramped to hold the bottle upright, your senses flooded with the scent of the leather he had been wearing earlier, mixed with the sheen of perspiration and the bathing oils you surely would never afford.

You were rooted to the cobblestone with the realization that he was bare. 

He seemed to tower over you, and the dragonfire that burned bright showed in the lavender of his eye, glittering in the sapphire of the other. You were mortified and he frowned in return, his silver brow furrowed as he looked you over.

You stared back at him, your embarrassment fading, and perhaps it was your unabashed awe that caught his attention–but whatever it was, he would not tell you.

Prince Aemond reached out to grip your jaw, dimpling into your cheeks. You could feel the warmth from his fingertip trickle down your spine and pool into your core; your thighs clenched for relief, your heart screaming to be consumed.

He tilted his head, his eye boring through as if he could see what you desired, though it was painted plainly on your face. He smirked. “One whore is as good as another,” he spoke out loud, and you felt your heart expanding, pumping your blood and encouraging your steps to follow after him. 

The prince glided to a stop in front of an enclave that was draped in silk and lace. The whore and her patrons inside recognized him at once, scattering like rats into the shadows and leaving you alone with the dragon prince. 

Your hands were still shaking as you set the carafe on top of a table, wiping your palms on your skirts. You turned to face the prince and saw his posture was proud, his muscles tensing as his hands balled into fists at his sides; his eye was ever-watchful of you. 

Your lips parted with a soft exhale to soothe your nerves, to settle the pounding in your chest. You took a slow step towards him, your fingers wishing to reach and touch the marble he had been crafted from, but instead you untied the dress that was wrapped around your waist. The fabric pooled at your feet and you were just as bare, your blood seering to the surface when you saw his cock twitch, a lust that began to cloud his eye. 

It was exhilarating to entice a god. 

Your eyes widened with your own admiration as you took him in, a trepidation that fluttered throughout when he did not reach for you right away. Another exhale and you moved closer to kneel before him, your head tilting up to look at him. 

His jaw ticked, a curiosity flickering, waiting for your next move. 

You swallowed your hesitation and your eyes washed over him with reverence, falling to the lines that cut into his slim hips and trailing in-between. Your touch was gentle to wrap your fingers around his hardening cock, moving it aside to press a wet kiss on the curve of the base. You rested back on your heels and looked up again, licking your lips. 

The prince had you rooted with his heady gaze, a rose dusting to his features. His hand touched the top of your head, returning your attention back to how hot and heavy he now was against the palm of your hand. 

It thrilled you. Your tongue flattened to follow along the side, tracing every ridge and vein of his impressive length. The tip was flushed and you pressed another kiss, licking away the briny taste from your lips before wrapping them around to savor the dragon thrumming in your hand. 

He gave a low groan, tensing with how your mouth moved to engulf him. His hand curled into the back of your scalp with a hold that made your skin prickle; your hand grabbed his hip to anchor your endeavor, moving up and down until he was slick from your spit, your desperation to try and swallow every inch of him. 

You gagged, pulling back to lick your other hand and wrap it around what could not fit, matching your pace. He now held onto you with both of his hands, his fingers knotting into your hair with a hold that brought tears to your eyes, but you would not stop–the taste of royalty igniting in your blood vessels. You were spurred on with the sounds that spilled from his lips, and he bucked into your mouth, bruising your throat. 

Only then did you let go, gasping for air. “Forgive me–”

He did not let you finish. He reached to wrap his hand around your upper arm and he pulled you to stand. “Get on the bed.” His voice was low and lethal, velvet that wrapped around to control you. 

You scrambled on top with a visceral shiver from that anticipation already curling at the base of your spine. You looked up at Prince Aemond and it beckoned him closer with a heavy sway between his slender thighs. “My prince, you will not fit,” you realized, “I must–I need to prepare myself…” 

He loomed over you, balancing one arm on the edge of the mattress while the other reached to stop your hand. “Allow me,” he murmured, bringing his first two fingers to his tongue before dipping to slip them between your silken folds. 

It mixed with your arousal, jolting through you as his fingers curled into you. The stretch burned for a moment, but his touch was tactful, pressing upwards until colors began to dance in front of your eyes, soft sighs spilling.

You whined when his hand pulled away, wiping your slick onto his cock. He pushed forward until you melted back onto the bed. Your legs spread to invite him to the cradle of your hips, and he paused to look at you, a softer expression worn as his eye dropped to your lips. 

Your pulse quickened with your hope for a kiss. 

But instead, his hand dipped to guide his length. You felt a shiver of delight from the glide of his swollen cockhead up and down your slit, gathering the wetness that pooled. You ached for more, willing, wanting, canting your hips to angle yourself in a way for him to sink into you.

The prince took his time and you back arched, gooseflesh rippling over from the intimate pressure, from his intoxicating scent and the softness of his hair tickling your skin, from the heat that seemed to permeate from him. He pushed into you further and it was a fullness you had never experienced before; your walls clenched with the slow rut of his hips, deeper and deeper, until he fully sheathed himself within your warm cunt. 

The prince melted into you, molding to your body. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, his teeth nipping at your pulse to muffle his low groan that rumbled through you.

Your lips pressed to his collarbone, a muted mewl in response. Your vision spun and your legs lifted to wrap around his slender waist, pulling him closer. Your hands followed up the definition of his arms to his shoulders, nails biting to hold onto him; you licked his skin. 

He pushed back with a shudder, eye blown and red blotches staining his alabaster skin. A slow roll of his hips went even deeper and you moaned at the sensation. This pleased the prince, and his lips touched the soft spot under your ear, your nipples pebbling when you felt his smile, his rasped command on your skin: “Let them hear you.” 

The madame taught all the girls how to feign pleasure. There was an art of kohl and hooded eyes, of girlish whimpers and whines to encourage patrons to completion. 

But it was unneeded with how the prince was splitting you in half with his cock.

His palms pressed to hold you against the slow snap of his hips, fucking you into the bed until you were teetering on the precipice of both pleasure and pain. Tears pearled at the corners of your eyes and spilled with his brutal pace. He does not see them, his sharp chin tucked to his chest, mesmerized by the white ring forming around the base of his cock that glides in-and-out of you.

It sparked a kaleidoscope of colors with each thrust and you clenched again. “Gods,” he hissed, “you were made for me.” 

His praise was muted, your mind so lost in the haze of passion building, in the wet suction of your cunt desperate to pull him back into you. Your slick spilled in-between your thighs, your fingers fluttering to his hips to pull him even closer– 

But Prince Aemond pulled away. 

You could not stop your whine, pressing to your elbows to watch him. He cupped your chin, not  rough like before, but enough to tilt your head back and truly look at you. The severity of his features softened, the natural curl to his pink lips ticking upwards and hinting at a smile. “I want you to turn around and get on all fours.”

Your stomach dropped at the thought of him claiming his pleasure in a more��� unnatural means, remembering the horror stories that the girls shared. You burned as you moved, just as he wished–for how could you deny a prince? You faced away, your arse up. 

His palms were warm when they touched your hips, sliding back to spread your cheeks to see how you glistened for him. There was another noise of content as he shifted behind you, another trill of pleasure up your spine when you felt his cock pressing into your cunt again. 

This new angle was tight, and your hands knotted into the linen of the bed to brace yourself. The prince does not force himself on you, but takes his time to fit; he leaned over you, his lips touching the curve of your spine and his large hand reaching around to palm your breast, pinching your nipple between his finger and thumb.

You crumbled, another muffled cry into the bed, your nerves aflame. His hand followed to the nape of your neck, a firm hold to pull you back up. “Let them hear you,” his repeated rasp was hot against your skin. 

His hands bruised into your hips, sinking into you until the tops of his thighs were flushed against your arse. You were shaking, your back arching to feel him pressing even further than before. He hummed and slammed into you with a pace that builds.

It returned you to that pleasure you tasted earlier when his fingers curled within you, something anew. It was a warm sensation that prickled over your skin, igniting with his thrusts. Your hips rocked back to meet with his unrelenting rhythm as he crashed against you, again and again, until you shattered, splintering off and lifting above, a thousand butterfly wings fluttering throughout you. 

Your cries pulled him after, your cunt grasping for his release. It was quieter for him; the prince hunched over you, his damp brow pressing to your spine with another guttural groan as he pulsed hot and deep into you. 

You fell into the mattress, breathless and drunk from the pleasure pulled. Your mind was tittering how you should fetch a cloth to clean the prince, to pour a fresh goblet to wet his throat, but your body refused. 

At best, you muscled enough strength to turn your neck and look at his sharp angles as he laid on his side, taking in the vision he commanded: the rose tones that touched him intimately, the freckles sprinkled on his shoulders, the lavender color that returned to his one eye. 

Princely, you thought. “Beautiful,” you murmured.

His jaw ticked and for a moment, you swore he flushed from what you said. He touched a finger to your hip, following your curves and coming up to press into your chin to hold your attention–as if you would dare to look away. 

“I will be back for you tomorrow,” he decided.

Your practiced stoicism masked your elation. “She will not like that, my prince,” you reminded him, thinking of the venom that poured when Sylvi glared at you. She made sure to mention him like a trophy she possessed, her face perpetually smug with her every mention of him. 

A smirk played on his lips. He pulled you into his chest and you felt his spend spilling in-between your thighs. You did not care but melted into his warmth, your arm wrapping around his waist, pressing your face to his chest and feeling the low hum of his heart. 

“She will be of no concern,” he spoke like a man who acted without any fear of consequences, but you supposed that this was the tone of all royalty. He pressed a kiss to your hairline and it jolted through your chest. “Iksā ñuhon.”

You curled against him, too dazed to comprehend the weight of his words that rolled from his lips–the tongue of Old Valyria. They meant nothing to you as you laid in the arms of a god.

hotd masterlist || arcie's navi

[bright-eyes-strawberry-lies]

Actually I really like that Percy is Thalia's look-alike in the books with their matching black hair and green eyes and the ichor of such powerful gods running through their veins and their mirrored personalities. I like that Annabeth and Luke both looked at Percy and saw Thalia and I love thinking about what a sucker punch Percy must have felt like to the both of them.

[endermaans]

I JUST WAYCHHEF THE ANIMATED SHORT IM GONNA PASS OUT.