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turtleblogatlast · 3 months

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Do you ship any of the turtles with anyone? or do you ship anything in rise at all?

(This ended up being a lot longer an answer than I intended hoo boy sorry about that)

Hmmm, I’m not too big a shipper tbh! Especially since I really enjoy canon interactions backing my ships, so it’s hard for me to actively like any that don’t really have that going for them. There’s plenty that I see around that I think are cute, but that’s usually the extent of my thought process for them.

For ships I more actively have, I guess I like AprilxSunita! They’re very very cute and I think they have some huge meet cute energy in their first episode together, and their chemistry is genuinely adorable (plus them being featured means more April screentime which is ALWAYS a good thing.)

I also think AprilxCasey (and when I say Casey I mean our OG girl) is really good, as I’m a sucker for enemies to lovers, and I think they have a lot in common and just bounce off each other very well (not to mention this ship in other iterations of TMNT has a loooooot going for it.)

Keeping the chain going, I think RaphxCasey (again, OG Casey) is also one with a tonnnnn of potential. They have a lot of common characteristics, and considering Raph’s whole thing with Franken-Foot, I really think there’s a lot of room there for a relationship to develop. Plus, like AprilxCasey, Raph and Casey tend to have a close relationship throughout the iterations of TMNT and it would be great to see that more with these two, even if not romantically.

Actually going back to enemies to lovers, I unironically think there’s a ton going for DonniexKendra. I know a lot of people hate this ship, but I don’t and I actually think it could very easily work whether in a love-hate way or a slow burn way. There’s a lot to like here and honestly they’re good together! Kendra is legit Donnie’s type too haha (cute, but mean.)

Lastly, SplinterxDraxum is good…when done right. I really like when people take it and don’t undermine the very real trauma that Splinter has gone through. As I’ve stated a lot, I love me some enemies to lovers, so I can see the potential here. Plus lbr Draxum was down BAD for Lou Jitsu when he first saw him haha.

I think that’s the extent to what I actively like? Everything else usually falls into “aw cute” or “ehhh not for me thanks”. And before you ask YES leosagi is cute and I’ll read fics with it if the premise is appealing, but I’m afraid I need some canon interactions to establish base character dynamics before I actively ship it alas.😔 Super cute though, no hate to it or any of the other CanonxCharacter-they’ve-never-met ships, I genuinely think people should just have fun! And for what it’s worth I really do wish we got a Usagi and Leo interaction in Rise like we have in other iterations.:(

So yeah. Overall, I have a few ships I enjoy, but I fall much more in the “prefer to keep everyone to themselves and make the focus family and friendship” category.

#non au ask #can you tell I’m an enemies to lovers person yet 💀#I had a dream once that the Fox yokai working for big mama was a teenage employee and he and Leo had a cute thing going on does that count #(the bellhop guy we see often with Big Mama)#that dream had like all of big mama’s employees basically be her adopted children #including frida #(Big Mama’s assistant)#AND Gus #(the guard dog)#so like she was literally big MAMA lol #pretty interesting story tbh too bad it ended when I woke up and I forgot a good 70% of it #lol this is also enemies to lovers I just realized-#but yeah overall I’m mostly a friendship or family platonic dynamics person #pfft of the ones I listed only AprilxSunita was not enemies to lovers wait 😭#nah but like I’m not really a big shipper tbh #I tend to fast forward through romance plots in shows that don’t focus on romance #and I tend to avoid romance genres in general most of the time #no hate at allll it’s just not typically for me y’know?#I was reallyyyyy scared to post this because people can get MEAN about ships 💀

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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Ānogar Hūra Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: When the war is over and done, and the blood has yet to dry on his hands, Daemon seeks you out. Warnings: Injury, post-battle filth (minor blood kink?)

TWO YEARS SLIP away in this War for the Stepstones. An ill-contrived attempt for Daemon Targaryen to prove his worth to his brother and the realm —to carve his path in the world by fire and blood. His madness is spurred by the early whispers of Corlys Velaryon, still bitter by Viserys choice to wed Alicent Hightower over Laena. Between the rejected proposal to secure his house’s power and the king’s disregard for the Triarchy threat, warring over the Stepstones was inevitable. But that was the early days of the war. Now it is hard to say which side is winning or losing, having turned into a bloody stalemate.

The Crabfeeder sends his men to an early grave. Corlys and Daemon do the same. Only injury has spared you from meeting the same fate —wounds from which it feels you will never fully recover. The blade cut deep, and when Daemon found you in the sands after the Triarchy retreated for the day, he was certain of your fate. Then you coughed up blood and bile and spake his name in fading breath. He took you to Dragonstone for the maesters to tend to, unwilling to entertain the thought of fighting in this war without you at his side, whether it be on the battlefield or at the war council.

But now —having rejoined the forces and after hearing of the happenings at Court— you want this farce to be over and done with. The sooner, the better. Too many have died already. Too many highborn lords laugh at the Sea Snake and Rogue Prince and their struggle against the Triarchy and pirates. And you know well enough that if Viserys has not yet sent aid to his brother and House Velaryon, there will be none to come in the future —it would be unseemly.

Caraxes casts a dark shadow on the encampment as Daemon returns. He’s been absent for nigh a week roaming the Stepstones and the waters beyond. The maester looks at you then gives a terse nod —you’ve helped enough for the day, and it is likely you’ll need to soothe the restless dragon within Daemon Targaryen. You fall into stride at his side and look him over. He’s unharmed. Daemon reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. Your hands are coated with the blood of those fighting to survive their injuries, his with the blood of those already dead.

Daemon unbuckles his sword belt and places Dark Sister on the table before reaching for the ties and buckles of his dark steel armor. He sits, silent, and leans back —face twisted in frustration as he glimpses the spread-out maps and markers, a reminder of what little progress they’ve made over the last months. His gaze flits up —watching as you dip your hands into a wash basin, scrubbing away the drying blood, before sitting on the edge of a shared cot.

You stare at the trodden ground, suffocating under the weight of the war. “How much longer must this go on, Daemon?” It’s almost a whisper, weary and strained. Since trading a sword for a healer’s smock, you’ve seen too many die —some no more than boys, too young to even know a woman’s love. Daemon does not answer. He has no answer. This war could drag on for years, or it could end in a day. Daemon doesn’t know which it will be, for not even Caraxes flames can smoke them from the caves. “Corlys’s men are nigh spent.” Three more ships were lost today, and nearly all the men crewing them. “We are outnumbered” —Daemon’s lips twitch, he does not need to be lectured by you to know they are losing the war— “our supplies grow thin without the Crown's support.” But Viserys is too busy with his new queen to care about the war being fought in the Narrow Sea.

He stands and braces his weight on the table —silver-white hair falling in front of his face. It’s only when Daemon looks up that you can see the malice and anger in his eyes. “Flush Craghas Drahar and his men from those caves, and I’ll end this war tonight,” he bites. But so long as the Crabfeeder and his men remained in the caves and the Triarchy can supply new ships and men, this war will creep on, and the wheel of time will turn.

Shoulders sagging, you look down and drag a hand over your face. “I” —you shake your head and heave a great sigh— “I’m tired, Daemon,” you admit. You’ve only ever known peace with King Jaehaerys and Viserys until now. It is not like the bards sing, nor like the great tales told to children before bed.

Daemon rises from his chair and rounds the table, regretting his harsh tone as he stops in front of you. Rough fingertips trace along your cheek, pushing back into your sweat-matted hair —like this, he can see the scar cutting across your shoulder and neck, a line of puckered silver flesh. He sighs, curling his fingers below your chin, his thumb running along your bottom lip. “Look at me.” His voice is soft again, and you do as he says. “Where do you want to be?” He’ll take you anywhere —back to Dragonstone, the capital, or the Reach. Daemon sees you as an equal, free to come and go, not a soldier to be commanded, and he’ll think no less of you for seeking a place of solace instead of war.

Right here, you want to say, but the thought of rolling hills and a mild breeze makes you long for the Reach, for home. But you gave Daemon your heart when you were both children, running around the Red Keep —hitting each other with wooden swords. You don’t want to be amidst a war, but you don’t wish to leave him either. “I won’t leave you.” Daemon’s lips quirk upward upon hearing it, then he bends at the waist, and you tilt your chin up instinctively. His lips are wind-chapped, rough against your own, yet his kiss is soft, and he moves slowly, but it’s still fleeting —over too soon when he parts, resting his forehead against yours. You grip the front of his dark tunic and sigh, then he stands and steps back, retreating from the canvas pavilion to speak with Corlys and Vaemond.

He wakes you from restlessness. “Come,” Daemon says, offering his hand. You go without question and without hesitation. The encampment falls silent in the night; most are asleep or keeping watch along the shore. You crest a hill to the east, below Caraxes lays, slumbering —whiffs of pale smoke rising from his nostrils. The full moon hangs low on the horizon, half-swallowed by the dark waves and painted a pale shade of red. A blood moon. You’re unsure whether to take it as a good or ill omen.

THE WHEEL OF time still spins and what was two years turns to three. Three long years of fighting in the Stepstones with little progress to show for it. The only island to remain solely under Daemon and Corlys’s control is Bloodstone, and its meager keep is surrounded by breaking waves and scattered remains of ships run aground and tossed onto the rocks —inhospitable. You look over the whitecapped sea from a high balcony, watching and waiting, whiling away another day and fighting off the ache of an old wound.

Caraxes’s bellowing cry warns you of his arrival. The Blood Wyrm circles the keep thrice over before descending, stilling sand and ash with his wings. Daemon dismounts the red dragon below —soaked in blood— and stumbles on his feet, but there’s a look of victory about him when he glances up at you on the balcony, lips twisting into something between a smile and a smirk. There’s a new purpose in his stride too. It is over then, you think, alas.

He pushes open the door to your shared rooms, then unbuckles his sword belt and places it on the table as he prowls toward you, ready to claim the spoil of his victory —not giving you a chance to look him over for injury. Daemon surges forward, hands cradling your face as his lips seek out yours. You sigh into his mouth, letting him sear your senses. He tastes of salt and iron —of blood and sweat. His kiss makes you feel alive, even as it sucks the life from your lungs —but you keep coming back to it, again and again, back to him.

Fumbling, you grip his shoulders and let him part your lips with his tongue. The waves crash below the keep, but it feels as though they’re crashing over you too, pulling you under —drowning. But Daemon Targaryen makes drowning feel like the loveliest thing.

Your hand slips from his shoulder and finds the first of the broken arrow shafts, and you break from his kiss, frowning, knowing the bright red blood staining your fingertips is his own. And your frown deepens when you see the second rising from his middle. “You’re hurt.” It’s little more than a breathless whisper. Daemon does not answer, but he does not deny it this time either. The pain hasn’t set in yet. Arrows be damned, he won the war, and now he wants you.

Daemon’s hands fall to your waist, keeping you in front of him when you try to step back and survey the damage. Instead, your hands go the buckles and clasps of his armor —all slick with blood. He grimaces as you carefully pull the front of his breastplate forward and over the splinted ends of the arrow shafts. You rise onto your toes, and Daemon dips his head down, letting you lift the dark steel-and-leather armor overhead and set it aside —it will need to be cleaned and repaired— then you make quick work of his tunic, ridding him of the stained shirt.

His thumb traces a line below your bottom lip, wiping away the blood, but it only smears it. “Daemon,” you chide, knowing he means to distract you. Your prince is wounded, and you will tend to him as he once tended you, but you fear this is beyond your meager skillset. “I’ll get the maester.”

But Daemon shakes his head and grips your wrist before you can turn to leave. “No,” he tells you, knowing your hands are far gentler than any of the men trained in the Citadel. You nod and glance behind him toward the bed, he takes the cue and goes there, sitting on the settee at the foot of the bed and watching as you skirt around the room, gathering rags and the washbasin, but his impatience wins over. His fingers curl around the splintered shaft rising from his abdomen, and he draws the bodkin point out and tosses it aside.

You return to his side, frowning as you press a damp cloth to the bloody puncture. Daemon reaches for your hips, but you scold him with only a look and continue holding the cloth to stay the bleeding. “Ñuha jorrāelagon.” He grabs your hips again, voice husky as you relent, straddling his thighs.

Skirts hiked up around your waist, you can feel the outline of his hard cock pressed against your center —his lips part in a silent moan when you shift, and you won’t deny the effect seeing him like this —a true Targaryen— has on you. “Need you,” Daemon says, his voice a heady rasp with his palm pressed against your clit, two fingers exploring the slick gathering between your folds. He knows you won’t turn him away, especially now, having been separated from each other for weeks, and the hitch in your breathing and the soft moan that leaves your lips when two of his fingers press into your cunt is enough to spur him on. “Now.”

It’s a quick rustle of clothes —you rid yourself of your dress, and he fumbles with the ties of his britches, pushing them over his hips and down his thighs, then he lines himself up to enter you. Without a second thought, he’s pulling you down onto his cock —a low groan in his throat as you sink down to take him. Your cunt is wet and offers no resistance as he bottoms out inside you in one firm thrust. You’re tighter than he remembers, and it draws a wrecked groan from his lips.

Daemon presses his hips up into yours, feeling your walls tighten and flutter around his cock. “Greedy,” he taunts. And a choked little gasp escapes you. He pauses, fingertips tracing a random pattern along your thighs. You bite down on your lip, then offer a little smile of your own as you adjust to the fit and the soothing touch of his hand, stopping to grip firmly at your hips.

He holds you close —so your breasts are pressed flush against his bloodied chest— and ruts up inside you slowly enough to make you reacquainted with every inch of his cock sliding in and out of you. You’ve been parted for too long —unable to partake in the pleasures of flesh as you had before the war. It’s unexpectedly intimate, and you find yourself focusing on his face, where he’s still giving you that same pleased smirk until he pulls you down by the neck to meet his lips.

Another roll of his hips has you breaking away to let out a shaky whimper as his cock presses against that spot deep within you —it makes your toes curl. “Daemon,” you pant, struggling to speed up against the steady hold on your hips, keeping you in place. There’s a spark of something unfamiliar in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. He squeezes your hips down just a bit more to thrust deeper into your cunt.

Daemon keeps one hand firmly in place to control your movements but lets the other one roam over your body. You’re hyper-aware of the path of his rough fingers while he circles your navel, tickling over your stomach and ribs and up to your breasts. It stirs something more than a carnal desire in him to see you marked with blood like this —his blood. He pinches at your nipple without warning, and you cry out despite yourself and instinctively tighten around his cock in response. “Fuck,” he huffs out, voice rougher than normal.

Your head tilts back, staring upward at the vaulted dark stone ceiling, and Daemon sees it as an opening. He nuzzles his nose against the base of your neck, nipping and kissing before dipping lower and licking a long stripe along your breastbone —he can taste the metallic tinge of blood.

Daemon shows no sign of giving up, even with the fresh blood trickling from the open wound at his side. He continues to fuck you at a brutally slow pace —relishing in how well you fit him and how easily your bodies slide against one another. He’s only spurred on by the squeezing of your cunt that you can’t control. He pulls you closer, nips at your ear, and his tongue follows a bead of sweat running down your throat. His lips find your nipple again —suddenly, it’s hard to breathe, and your eyes snap open— sucking it into the heat of his mouth. You can’t stop the way you clench tight around him. He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop and moves to lave the other one with the same attention.

You’re so distracted by his attack on your breasts that you don’t even notice him finally releasing your other hip to rub his calloused thumb over your clit, and your resolve snaps like a frayed rope stretched too taut. “Daemon–” your words devolve into a needy moan, and his attention to your clit speeds up, but you need more —he knows it.

His unoccupied hand reaches to squeeze hard at your backside, and he picks up speed, your body following along with his movements. Daemon’s faint smile is taunting, but you love it —you love him— and your greedy cunt milks him for anything he’ll give you. You cry out for him, and his grip tightens to pull you up and down faster on him; you wonder if he’s getting as close as you are, but it’s hard to tell if the twisted expression on his countenance is from pleasure or pain —likely both. You lean your forehead against his.

You revel in every second he’s got you bouncing on his cock. His hand continues to make quick work on your throbbing clit, and you can feel yourself starting to come undone. “Fuck. Daemon, I–” you manage to pant out in his ear, unsure if you feel lightheaded from the sex or the heat and friction of your blood-slick bodies sliding against one another. He redoubles his efforts, thrusting up inside you with even harder, faster strokes, and his touch against your clit becomes nigh painfully intense. The waves of euphoria wash over you with his lips sucking a red mark into your neck, your hands buried in his filth-caked matted hair, and your ragged voice sighing and moaning his name over and over. The sweetest of songs —almost sweeter than victory.

He doesn’t last much longer once your own needs are taken care of —it’s been too long, and exhaustion begins to set in with the first twinges of pain. But he fucks you at that same frantic pace for a few more minutes, enjoying the sight of your breasts bouncing with every rapid motion of his body as you do your best to keep up —hips rolling and twisting to meet his own.

The muscles of his thighs tighten beneath you, and Daemon’s cock twitches —his head falling backward as he pants and groans your name. You wrap your fingers around the broken arrow shaft at his shoulder, and as he pulls his cock out at the last moment to paint your shaky thighs and stomach with his seed, you wrench the arrow free —it gives way with little resistance. He bares his teeth and hisses, eyes flaring with danger and a delicate mix of true pleasure and pain.

Daemon presses his hand against where the arrow was, and his fingertips come away painted with bright red blood. It still seems odd to see his own blood —and before you can stand from his lap, he grips your jaw and paints a red line over your chin with his thumb. Then his lips are on yours again —possessive and haughty— always reminding you that you’re his, and when you part to breathe and rise, he nips at your bottom lip. You glance down at yourself after standing on shaky legs —torso smeared with blood and streaked with pale ropes of Daemon’s seed. He’s marked you this eve in more ways than one. “Gevie,” he breathes, smiling in earnest.

By the time you both bathe and Daemon’s silver-white hair shines again, the sun has long sunk beneath the dark waves of the Narrow Sea. The bloodlust is gone, the day's aches settle into his bones, and the years of restlessness finally catch up. He lays back on the bed, wounds bound with linen and a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Daemon is nigh asleep by the time his head hits the feather pillow. You join him soon after and turn on your side, watching his chest's slow rise and fall, eyes tracing the new scar on his neck. It is over, you remind yourself, finding it difficult to believe after the past three years. Sighing, you press your lips to his temple, quick and soft so as not to wake him with the light of a blood moon painting the room in a pale-red glow.

High Valyrian Translation: Ānogar Hūra - Blood Moon Ñuha jorrāelagon - My love Gevie - Beautiful

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#Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x Reader #Daemon x Reader #Daemon Targaryen Fanfic #House of the Dragon #Matt Smith #my writing #fic setting: right after the War for the Stepstones #if you notice something wrong with my high valyrian translations plz let me know #oh this is filthy #mama I’m sorry #if i missed you on this taglist you'll be on the next!

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