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da-rulah · 9 months ago

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Hope you’re doing well!! Your work is amazing recently as always!! Thanks you for always providing us with such great writing😭

How do you think the papas would react if reader said “i love you” for the first time during sex?

Hello lovely, I'm so sorry this has taken literally weeks to get around to but I'm here and I'm motivated so let's get INTO IT.

Thank you so much too, I'm so glad you like my writing! 🥹 Hopefully, you'll love this too...

NSFW, MDNI!

TW/ female reader, breeding kink (kind of), dom/sub dynamic, choking, cunnilingus, crying during sex

Primo

Primo is a master at this, and it's one of his favourite things to do.

His tongue works absolute magic between your folds, and the chorus of whines and moans he draws out of you are his favourite of the dark hymns he's heard in his time.

He's been at this for over 30 minutes, made you cum twice already and shows no signs of tiring, despite his age.

Frankly your head was hazy and you could barely string thoughts together, curses and praises flowing freely from loose lips...

So that's why you didn't register when it slipped out. The only thing you noticed, was Primo's tongue disappearing.

When it dawned on you, panic rose in your chest.

"What did you say, fiorellina?" He hasn't moved, but his eyes are on yours while you look down at him between the valley of your breasts. There was no hiding it now.

"I-I... I'm sorry... but I love you, Primo."

He rests his cheek against your inner thigh, his eyes softening and a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Why do you apologise, fiorellina?"

You begin to tear up, overwhelmed with fear and regret but Papa turns his head and beings to press kisses to your inner thigh.

"Never apologise, amore mio... non puoi immaginare quanto ti amo (you cannot imagine how much i love you)" he say as he mouths at your thigh, leaving open mouthed kisses as he spills his adoration right back to you.

He showers you with the most beautiful of prose, speaking nothing but pure poetry about how much he loves you, how he has since the day he met you, that you were a blessing from the Dark One... all while still between your legs, his lips and tongue working their dark magic on you...

Secondo

'Sessions' with Secondo often included hours of teasing, of orgasm denial, of working you up until you couldn't take it anymore...

And then, finally, he'd take you as his.

Much like tonight, where he had you spread out on your back for him, and he was relentlessly hammering his hips into yours after over an hour of nothing but toys and teasing.

You hadn't meant to say it, but when he'd told you tell him exactly what you were thinking, landing a harsh spank to the underside of your thigh that he pressed against your torso, it just... escaped.

Secondo stilled immediately, his eyes wide and crazed as they bore down into yours.

Suddenly his hand was around your throat, pinning you to the mattress beneath you.

"Say that again," he growled, daring you.

You knew better than to argue or disobey a command, and even with his hand wrapped around your throat, you stuttered out a weak confession one more time.

Now, Secondo had a rule about your sessions - he never kissed you. You were here to play, to be subservient. That was the agreement.

So when he lurched himself forwards and all but swallowed your lips with his own, you couldn't help the squeak of surprise that got lost between the hand around your throat and his lips moulding with yours.

"You do not lie, vero? (right?)" he asked, his forehead pressed to yours as his still-angry looking eyes searched yours. But it wasn't anger, it was desperation.

You shook your head as much as his grip allowed, and he dove in for another kiss - one that you could better anticipate, yet was no less aggressive than the last.

He released his grip on your throat and redistributed it to your hip, starting to pound back into you over and over as he kissed you.

He let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him closer, suddenly more intimate than you had ever been together.

It didn't even bother you that he hadn't said it back immediately. You knew. Just from his behaviour, you knew.

It wasn't until you had both climaxed and found yourself being pulled into an embrace between his sheets that he finally said what you'd longed to hear for too long.

"Ti amo, dolcezza... By Satan, I swear, ti amo..."

Terzo

Your relationship with Terzo was exclusive by this point. He only had eyes for you, still in the beginning phase of a relationship that was exciting and fresh.

You knew you loved him, there was no doubt in your mind, but telling him was another story.

Did he love you back? You were sure of it. He doted on you like no other. But you knew it would be hard for him to say the words, given his inability to handle emotion and have a half-serious conversation about feelings.

Not to mention the fact he found it difficult to believe he was worthy of a love like yours...

You figured you'd have to be the one to say it first. Terzo was too insecure. You had to give him the confirmation he needed.

You just didn't expect it to rocket out of you as he was buried inside you from below you...

You saw the concentrated expression on his face vanish, and he looked up at you so fast you half expected him to bolt from beneath you and hide.

"You do, eh?" he asked, his eyebrow quirking up and his smirk lifting the corner of his lips. "You love your Papa?"

You stopped rolling your hips and swatted his arm playfully.

"I'm serious, Terzo... I love you..."

Terzo's smirk softened into in blissful grin, and he sat up to come face to face with you, wrapping his arms around your back to keep you connected.

"I love you too, tesorino," he told you plainly, honestly. All he'd needed was the affirmation.

You sealed your confessions with a kiss that would make the circles of Hell envious, his hands roaming your skin as if he couldn't leave a single square centimetre of it untouched by the love you deserved.

Suddenly, he flipped you onto your back, not once disconnecting himself from you.

"You're mine now, no take-backsies..." he grinned, bowing his head to suckle and nibble at your neck while his hips began to piston his cock in and out of you once again.

Copia

You don't know what's got into him tonight, but nothing seems to be enough for Copia.

Never enough kisses, never enough flesh to grab or suckle at, never enough of you... He needs more, he seems so desperate.

There's this urgency you can't explain, like there's something missing.

You think you know what it is, the feelings between you lingering in the air but evading capture like smoke.

He's becoming agitated, like it's frustrating him that he can't find what he needs from you tonight. He's growling into the swell of your breast as he fills you.

"C-Copia stop... stop..." you pause him, pushing on his chest until he's hovering above you, his Baphomet pendant swinging from his neck between you. He's coated in sweat, his paints melting under the duress.

"What's wrong?" he asks, panicked.

"I was going to ask you that..."

His head droops as he lets out a deep breath. He swipes his hand over his face, smearing what's left of the melting paint.

"Mi dispiace... I just... something is missing..."

You take his face in your hands, and he looks distraught... It's all you want to do, to comfort him. To reassure him, give him what he's missing...

"It's because I need to tell you something, Copia. And I need you to hear me, no matter the consequence..."

He waits for you to go on, his heart thundering in his chest from his exertion and the fear of whatever you were about to say to him.

"I'm in love with you."

The change in him is almost instantaneous. His eyes turn glassy, and his shoulders relaxed as if the tension dissolved in them.

"Anch'io sono innamorato di te... (I'm in love with you too...)" he cries, tears spilling and dripping to your own cheeks, painting them with grey streaks while your own drip down your temples.

Any fear you had that your feeling weren't reciprocated, that he would panic and leave; well, they made you feel ridiculous now. Of course he loved you too.

"Make me yours, Copia..." you told him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips and threading your fingers into his hair. "Give me everything you have."

With a new fire in him, the embers stoked by your confession and flames roaring to life again, he slammed his hips into yours over and over.

"You have all of me, amore. I'll give you every last fucking drop of me..." he lifted his hand from beside you where he held himself up, and flattened it against your abdomen, "until everyone can fucking see that we belong to each other."

The urgency in him returned, except this was different to before. Now he had that missing piece, and his need to have you both coming undone together, consummating your confessions had taken over....

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muka-rapak · 1 year ago

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NO FUCKING WAY

YOU MADE FANART OF JURIJ'S OTHER KRABAT BOOK??!??!!?

KRABAT ODER DIE VERWANDLUNG DER WELT

#krabat reneissance #krabat #Jurij Brězan #krabat oder die Verwandlung der welt #krabat or the transformation of the world #oh ok. I'm going to completely loose it now.#YOU ARE A MADLAD #AND SO FUCKING CORRECT FOR THIS #HOLY SHIT I'M GOING TO EXPLODE 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥#I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T I AM AT ABSOLUTEL AWE #YES !!!! OH MY GOD YES.#KRABAT. KRABAT THE EVERYTHING. THE YOUNG THE OLD THE TRICKSTER THE KIND THE MASTER THE STUDENT #AND HIS MAGICAL STAFF WITH ADAM AND EVE AND THE TREE HE GOT FROM LUCIFER HAHAHAH #THE TREE THE TWO BOTHERS; HIM AND JAKUB 🎺 WILL MEET UPON #“Bruder; wir hast du dich gerettet?”#I CANNNNT AND THEN THERE'S THE DOVE. THE HOPE #THE WILD FOREST AND THE PLANTATION NO WAYYYY #NO FUCKING WAY MAN #ARRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHGGGHHHHHHH #THIS ARTWORK KILLS ME AND THEN REASSURRECTS ME #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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morganas-pendragons · 2 months ago

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ease | celebrimbor

honest to god, I got this concept in the shower and it would not leave me alone. the prompt was found in the depths of the celebrimbor x reader tag (disclaimer: I am not a Tolkien reader, but I did grow up watching the movies and have done some research into the Silmarillion as I've been watching ROP) and this was born.

I've just found out some of the fates of these characters and I kid you not... I have a full fledged idea for a Celebrimbor/OC fic if my brain keeps this up

set during s2 of ROP, light spoilers ahead

prompt is here / this reader is a half-elven female who is gifted with magic. like I said, I am new to writing for this verse, so please be gentle.

***

You don't remember much about how you ended up in Middle Earth. There are glimpses, sweet fragments of memories that surface every now and again, but that is simply all they are. Glimpses of a time that has long come and gone.

Glimpses of who you were gone with it, like the receding tides of the ocean drifting further and further away.

The one thing you do remember with astounding clarity is your arrival to Eregion. You remember the front gates and how tired you were, and more importantly, you remember Celebrimbor. His complete and utter astonishment at your arrival was puzzling.

You didn't figure out why until later.

"Forgive me, but my healer tells me you have difficulties with remembering where you came from," He's standing in front of you where you sit in the healer's chambers of Eregion. You're surprised that they even let you in. Maybe he took pity on you. "Your injuries are minimal given how long he believes you were out in such conditions. Given your physical attributes, I would say you are at least Elvish. That would explain some of this. Do you remember your name?"

You didn't. The only things you had to remind you of who you were was the cloak around your shoulders and the circlet in your hair. A fine thing, crafted from what Celebrimbor later told you was pure silver.

"No... no, I don't." You shake your head and wrap your arms tightly around yourself. He can't help but soften. You seem very lost. Celebrimbor is not one to take in lost souls, but there is something about you that draws in rapt fascination, and he is not willing to turn you away. "But you were kind enough to take me in. Why did you do that?"

"You are no threat upon us. Now come. Let me introduce you to the great kingdom of the Elven smiths."

He extended his arm to you hesitantly. You found yourself taking it, staring up at him through a curious gaze as he dove into the history of Eregion.

Weeks passed. You noticed the longer you were present in Eregion and in the forges that Celebrimbor was very particular about who was allowed to remain in his presence for long. There were his smiths, and his servants, but there were very few who were truly allowed to know him on a more intimate and vulnerable level.

You found yourself wondering why.

On a quieter day in Eregion's forges, you venture out of your room in search of Celebrimbor. Most of the staff is familiar with your presence by now. You've heard the whispers. They wonder how a forsaken Elf has managed to find her way into their King's good graces after such a short amount of time.

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd arrive. Come. I have something to show you." Celebrimbor greeted. You followed him around the edge of the forge to a table in the center of the room where a familiar silver circlet sat. Your eyes widened. You had been wondering where it went. "I was given enough moonstone from a recent discovery to restore your circlet and add a singular gem to the center. What do you think?"

Again the eyes and ears are drawn to the pair of you. You can feel their questions burning through the air: Why her? Why is she in his good graces? What does a forsaken elf have to give to the King of Eregion and the Master Smith?

"Might we have a moment in private?" You ask. There is no hesitation in his response. Celebrimbor dismisses his smiths, and in mere minutes, the two of you are alone. He seems perfectly content to be with you where no other eyes can see. "I don't understand. We've only just met, and I don't even know who I am, but here you are reforging and creating something so beautiful for a stranger," You pick up the circlet with delicate fingers, turning it over to gaze at the gem in the center. It's a very delicate design that incorporates much of the Elvish culture within it. "Why?"

There's a beat of silence that you interpret as apprehension. Answering this question requires a certain sense of vulnerability that he so often shies away from.

What he does instead surprises you.

''Because," Celebrimbor's voice drops to a whisper as he settles the delicate circlet in your hair, and you can't help but smile at how gentle it is. "You are.. different."

That's all he leaves you with. You're left to wonder what about you is different. What about you puts him so at ease.

***

You know something has changed when you start to have premonitions of a tall, regal Elvish man with blonde hair calling himself Annatar. You watch Celebrimbor look on in complete and utter fascination of the glory that stands within his Forge. They're talking about more rings. Rings for Dwarves and Men.

Rings just like the three Elvish ones you had helped name. You'd been privy to their creation and had overseen the preparations yourself with Halbrand. This Annatar... That is not Halbrand, and he is certainly not someone you'd trust.

Not after Galadriel's warning.

Celebrimbor had not told anyone outside of Galadriel, Elrond and The High King of your origins. What little the two of you could come up with about them. All the five of you are aware of is that you hold a great power with magic that brings the skill of healing and persuasion of any life form, and that you fell to Middle Earth within its vast oceans and found yourself destitute mere miles away from Eregion.

"It's almost like your coming was a sign."

Your visions turn out to be correct, much to your horror. Annatar calls himself Celebrimbor's partner and again urges the need for creation of more rings. It's suspicious. Part of you wonders why he is so insistent upon more rings when just the rings for the Elves has proven to be more then enough.

It saved them from having to leave Middle Earth.

After Annatar's brief disappearance, you find yourself lingering in your chambers with your circlet poised in your hands as you internally fight through all the evidence you have lingering in your head. Celebrimbor doesn't know what to make of it, and neither do you.

That turns out not to be your concern once you see him trudging past your bedroom, muttering to himself in Sindarin as he attempts to massage his shoulder with his hand.

"Celebrimbor?" You call, mindful to call quietly so that his smiths and the staff do not hear you. He always hears you. Always has, always will. "Are you alright?"

His aspect says one thing, but his eyes say another. "There is always tension that builds within the muscles and tendons of the body after working vigorously in the forge. I am just stiff. It is not a concern you need to bother yourself with-"

You raise a brow at his veiled attempt to console you. It doesn't work. Glancing over your shoulder, you quickly follow on his heels to his chambers where you slip inside just before he can shut the door.

He freezes. The two of you are alone. Properly alone.

"This is quite.." You falter in search of the right word. "If anyone knew I was in here, it would arouse suspicion. I can tell you're in pain. We both know that you cannot alleviate that on your own." You pause to interject, "Only if you truly want the help. I would be happy to serve."

Realization dawns in his eyes. Neither of you are properly aware of how close you really are to each other, much less the fact that your hand is pressed against his heart. It flutters under your touch.

He's nervous.

Your creased brow softens when Celebrimbor winces again at the turn of his head, and your eyes focus on his neck. "I am in a great amount of pain," He confesses quietly. It's quite a feat for him to be so willing to be vulnerable with you. Especially when you have yet to see him ask for help from anyone else, including Galadriel or Gil-Galad. "And I would be much appreciative of the help."

Celebrimbor would never admit it out loud, but something swelled within him at the sight of your smile as you rushed back to your chambers to gather the oils you had stored there. He had come to care for you a great deal. That was dangerous. There was too much at stake with his House and his past... A past that he would rather never speak aloud for fear of having to truly relive it.

"You'd be more at least if you lie down," You remark softly, laughing as his eyes snap open in alarm. "The oils only work with skin contact. Are you okay with that?"

It takes him a moment to realize what you're doing: You're both asking for his consent, and you're giving him the opportunity to say no. It's just another thing that draws him to you.

You turn away to grant Celebrimbor a modicum of privacy while you prepare yourself and the oils you brought. By the time you turn around, you nearly drop the vials. You should have assumed he'd have scars. That there would be old burns and far more muscle that he could hide under those robes.

The only piece of clothing he was wearing covered very little.

"Celebrimbor," You whisper. He cannot help the shiver that runs down his body when your fingers come into contact with his spine. It has been centuries since he had last allowed himself to be touched, and to be touched in such an intimate and positive way was foreign. "Are you in pain?"

You already know the answer to this question. He lays down on the bed and tucks his hands under his forehead. There's several moments of silence that pass before you hear him murmur, "I have been in pain for quite a long time, nin tinu. There has only been one thing that alleviates it."

The Sindarin that rolls off his tongue rings clear in your head. My star.

"What eases your pain, My Lord?"

Your oiled fingertips, doused in lavender oil, have just made contact with his shoulders when he answers: "You. It has been you from the moment you entered my gates, and it will be you for however long you remain here, if you wish to remain here in Eregion with me."

You mull over his words as your fingers travel his skin. You mark your touch with firm yet gentle presses against the valleys of his back, dragging your fingers across raised scars that arouse much curiosity within you. Celebrimbor melts into the bed beneath you as he allows himself to absorb a touch he had not realized he craved so deeply for an entire lifetime.

"You have introduced me to such a peace since I have been here. A peace that comes from being in the presence of people who truly care about you, of people who truly want the best for you. That's why you have not told anyone of my heritage. That is why you keep me so close to your side. To protect me." Feeling emboldened, you bend your head to lay a gentle kiss at the space between his shoulder blades. Your ministrations have had their desired effect, because the moment you dig your fingers into where he'd been trying to massage earlier, it elicits a low groan from his chest. "Never has this destitute elf felt such peace as I haven learning how to love from you. I would be honored and privileged to remain in Eregion with you."

He's thankful in that moment that his face is hidden. Celebrimbor grimaces as tears prick the back of his eyes, blurring the sight of the blankets beneath him. He'd never experienced something as trivial as being loved in such a gentle, genuine manner.

"Dorth... nev na nin."

Again it rang clear as day. You were realizing the longer that Celebrimbor spoke in the Sindarin tongue that you were most definitely familiar with it.

He's asking you to stay with him. Permanently.

"Roll onto your back," You whisper. He complies with ease, showing you a stunning shade of hazel in the eyes that look back at you. "I-"

It's right there on the tip of your tongue as fingers stained with lavender oil linger right at the hair on his temples. You know you've loved him for a while. It's not the hesitation in confession, it's in his response.

His lips part of their own accord as you bend your head to press your forehead against his own. You both want to kiss the other, and badly, but this act alone is intimate enough.

"Don't say it. Not yet." His breath fans over your face as he shudders, eyes flickering upward to meet yours through the hair that veils your face. "Just let me..."

Celebrimbor parts your hair to tuck it behind your ear and lifts his head just enough to graze his lips against yours. It's barely a kiss, more the ghost of a kiss then anything, but the way it puts your body at such ease speaks more then a real kiss could've.

You're laughing when you part. He doesn't know why. What Celebrimbor does know is that the stiffness in his muscles is gone, replaced by an inexplicable warmth he's never quite felt before.

The shade of your eyes has been illuminated by a silver the same color of the jewel in your circlet, which is now glowing from where it sits upon your head.

He'll have to question that later.

"Why are you laughing? It's quite inappropriate to laugh in such a circumstance-"

You press your fingers to his lips. Celebrimbor is blushing so hard you're sure that his cheeks will stay that color for the rest of the night.

"If you wanted to get unclothed in front of me to have me touch you, all you had to do was ask."

#Celebrimbor #Celebrimbor x Reader #lord of the rings fanfiction #rings of power #rings of power fanfiction #rings of power spoilers

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ahqkas · 3 months ago

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if you taking request can u make sumn with mattheo and the reader is just like Rory Gilmore studying all the time and he prod of her or sumn and thank you AND IM LOVE YOUR WRITING

NOTES! fem!reader, i’ve never watched gilmore girls in my life so that’s just my interpretation of rory gilmore from what i’ve seen on tiktok 🥹

THE LIBRARY AT HOGWARTS HAD ALWAYS BEEN YOUR SAFE PLACE. the quiet rustle of parchment, the soft scratch of quills, and the muted footsteps of other students as they moved between aisles — these were the sounds that surrounded you as you pored over your notes, your quill gliding smoothly across the page.

you had always been studious, a trait that had earned you more than a few comparisons to the infamous ravenclaw stereotype, but you didn’t mind. knowledge was your passion, your escape, and you dove into your studies with the same enthusiasm that others reserved for quidditch or wizard chess. you enjoyed the challenge of a difficult spell, the satisfaction of mastering a complex potion, and the thrill of discovering a new piece of magical / muggle theory.

and mattheo noticed.

he had been watching you for weeks now, his dark eyes often drifting toward your usual spot in the library when he was supposed to be focusing on his own work. it had become a habit, really — one that he found both endearing and a little worrying. while others were out enjoying the spring weather, laughing with friends, or practicing on the quidditch pitch, you were here, nose buried in a book, fingers ink-stained from hours of scribbling notes.

it wasn’t that mattheo didn’t understand your drive. on the contrary, he admired it. he had seen the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood a difficult concept, the way you would smile to yourself after writing an essay you were particularly proud of. it was one of the things he loved about you — how your passion for learning was as fierce and unyielding as any fire. but he also worried about you, about how much you pushed yourself, how often you skipped meals and sacrificed your sleep or lost track of time because you were so absorbed in your studies.

today was no different. as he approached the library, he wasn’t surprised to see you sitting in your usual spot by the window, the late afternoon light casting a golden glow over your figure. you were hunched over a particularly thick textbook, your brow furrowed in concentration as you chewed absentmindedly on the end of your quill, a cozy sweater enveloping your focused figure.

mattheo leaned against a bookshelf for a moment, just watching you. there was something about the way you worked, the quiet determination that radiated from you, that filled him with an odd sense of pride. you were relentless in your pursuit of knowledge, always pushing yourself to be better, to know more. it was inspiring, really — how someone could be so dedicated, so passionate. and though he wasn’t the best with words, he wanted you to know how much he appreciated that about you.

pushing off the doorframe, mattheo made his way over to your table, the soft sound of his footsteps alerting you to his presence. you looked up, surprised, your quill pausing mid-sentence as you took in the sight of him standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, affectionate smile playing on his lips.

“hey,” you greeted softly, setting your quill down as you stretched out your fingers that have been writing for hours now. “what brings you here?”

mattheo shrugged, his eyes flicking over the array of books spread out before you. “just wanted to see how you’re doing. you’ve been at it for hours.”

a sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you glanced at the library clock, realizing he was right. “i guess i lost track of time, sorry.”

“again,” the slytherin boy added, his tone teasing but laced with genuine concern. he pulled out the chair next to you and sat down, his knee brushing against yours under the table. “you know, it’s okay to take a break sometimes. the world won’t end if you don’t finish that chapter tonight. ”

you sighed, leaning back in your chair as you looked at him. “i know, but there’s just so much to do. exams are coming up, and i want to make sure i’m ready.”

mattheo reached out, taking one of your hands in his. his thumb brushed over the ink stains on your fingers, a small smile appearing on his lips. “you’re always ready. you’ve been studying harder than anyone else i know. but you don’t have to do it all at once, okay? you’re allowed to take care of yourself too.”

“who cares if i’m pretty if i fail my finals?”

“you’re so much more than that. and you’re not going to fail, love. but you need to listen to me.”

his words, though simple, hit you with a warmth that spread through your chest. it wasn’t that you didn’t know he cared — it was in the little things he did, the way he always brought you coffee when he knew you’d been up late, or the way he would sit with you in the library even if he had no work of his own, just to keep you company. but hearing it out loud, the way he expressed his concern for you, made your heart swell.

“okay,” glancing at the stack of book in front of you that still needed attention, you hesitated for a bit. but when you saw the expression on his face, you made up your mind. “let’s take a short brake.”

“that’s my clever girl.”

you let your boyfriend lead you out of the comfort of the school library, his slender fingers sneakily intertwining with yours to keep you close to him. the cool air hit your face the moment you stepped outside, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe again. the tension in your system began to slowly disappear as you leaned closer to mattheo’s side, his warmth enveloping you in a new kind of comfort.

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yourlittlebunnyy · 2 months ago

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snow - azriel x reader

main masterlist azriel masterlist

kallias version

summary: Lover, wife, mate. Until he loses you.

warnings: death, happy but not very happy ending;)

w/c: 3.5k

a/n: this fic is fully inspired by "snow" by maxence fermine.

enjoy!

That evening, over a glass of good wine given to him by his uncle Rhysand, and with his other half, your son said, “I don't even remember what she looked like in the face.” And he laughed chasing away the negativity of the situation.

It was true. He no longer remembered your face. But you remember - no, you observe - his from the day you left. He didn't have you beside him, but you were always there, revelling in his victories and grieving over his sorrows.

That night you visited him in his sleep. He did not recognize you.

“My son.” You greeted him. You were on a flowery meadow. He reciprocated, but showed no signs of affection. You were little more than a stranger to him.

You shared blood. You had carried him for ten months. You had nurtured and changed him for two years. But to him, you were nothing.

“My father never told me anything about you.” He said it as if to justify his distance.

But you understand it, you always understand.

You were as close to your child as you were to Azriel, your beloved. You understood and accepted and respected his grief. You understood and accepted and respected being gone from the world all of a sudden. Your memory kept alive only by your mate, quietly and intimately. And you were fine with that.

“Would you like to know?” You asked him at that point. Your arms quivered for contact. Your son nodded.

And so, your story began.

“I would never have seen the light if my love for him had not been there to enlighten me. And he would never have seen it if it were not for me.” The Fae snorted a laugh, interrupting you.

“That's impossible.”

“Why do you say that?” You questioned.

“I know my father. A female would never be able to reduce him like that. He is a warrior.” Hurt, you shifted your gaze to the lush field in front of you.

“Then you don't know your father as well as you think, honey. That's all right, it's a long story. It would have bored you anyway.”

“No.” He begged, surprising you and himself. “Please, tell.”

“Our story goes back centuries. We were about your age.” You took a deep breath, and dove into the memories. “It all began magically. One winter day, while returning from the battle against Hybern, he fell in love with me. I was very different from the kind of females he was used to. At that time he was the Spy Master of the Night Court. He had participated in a very violent war that had ended in a brilliant, beautiful and unpredictable victory. So that he came back as a victor. Triumphant but wounded. A soldier had injured his best friend, your uncle, Cassian. Killed Amren. Then Rhysand. He had been wounded, too. In the wings. When he returned he still had the senses of that scene: the taste of blood and mud everywhere in his mouth, the memory of hatred painted in Hybern's face, the near-death experience. But it was the age of honor. Those were the joys of war. One had to die or return wounded to be considered victorious.

However, your father never forgot that battle. He could never forget the sight of his family one step away from defeat, from death. It was the most horrible thing he had ever experienced in his entire life. And believe me, honey, your father saw a lot of things. When he returned, he fainted on his bed. His family took him for dead and he lay on that bed for three days, still soiled with the marks of war. It was your aunt, Feyre, who found him, since she was worried about him.

He settled down, but for several days he was shaken. There was still fear in his eyes. Rhysand thanked him for his help, and Azriel was proud, but his pride still remained clouded by sorrow for what he had experienced. Finally, having recovered his energy, he came to a conclusion. He did not want to fight anymore, and not so much because of the wound that had been inflicted on him - he had suffered far worse during his life - but out of sheer disgust with war. He, who had spent his entire life killing, realized that he no longer had any desire to kill.

He therefore left the Wind House and set out on the streets of my beloved Velaris. And it was there, on his walk, that the miracle took place.

Crippled by the cold, at the end of his strength, with the horror of war still in his eyes, alone in the thick of the darkness and the tragedy he had just experienced, alone in the abyss of winter, alone with the vertigo of his loneliness, alone in his silence, where he should have died a hundred times of cold, hunger, fatigue, disappointment and exhaustion, he survived. He survived because what he saw that day, that thing, that extraordinary thing that also came from the other side of reality, no doubt to compensate the horror, that sublime and beautiful thing was the most sublime and beautiful image he had ever been allowed to see in his entire life. That image was me. And he could no longer forget me.

What he saw was me, at the time a young female, balancing on a rope. I felt as light as a bird, felt as graceful as a squirrel as I performed above the silvery river of Velaris. I was sixty feet above the ground. More than walking the wire I was floating in the air as if by magic. I was gliding faintly in the blue up there, standing on my invisible wire, the barbell in my hands. I could have been mistaken for an angel.

Your father slowly approached the river, and my beauty captivated him. He then told me that it was the first time he had seen a female from another Continent in Velaris. I seemed to fly, so, intrigued he advanced again. I was now perfectly above him. A dense crowd had gathered on the shore to witness my strange apparition. He approached an old man and, not taking his eyes off me, asked him who I was. I do not know exactly what he answered him, but from that moment he never stopped looking for me.

I was a funambulist, and my life followed only one line. Straight.

I was from Vallahan, a place far away. They called me Snow. I was nicknamed so because I had skin of glass, eyes of ice, and hair of gold. When I darted through the air I looked as light as a snowflake.

This is how I had begun. One day, while I was still a child, my path had crossed that of a traveling circus. Stunned, I had discovered the possibility of daydreaming. Heedless of the dangers, I had decided to make it my business. I had started with a tightrope stretched a few inches off the ground. Then, little by little, I had gone higher and higher in both height and mastery of my art. And so I became one of the first female funambulists. Up on the tightrope, I never came down again.

I became one for the love of balance. I, whose life unfolded like a twisty thread, excelled in the subtle and treacherous art of doing evolutions on a tightrope. I never felt as comfortable as when I walked on a wire a thousand feet above the ground. Straight ahead of me. Without ever deviating a single millimeter off course. It was my destiny. To advance step by step. From one end of life to the other.

My feats had conquered all of Velaris. By the age of twenty, I had already traveled more than a hundred kilometers on my tightrope, often risking my life. I had stretched my wire between two tall buildings in the Rainbow and balanced several hours above the city, I was like a swan made of wind, snow and silence. Then I had repeated my feats at every place in the Court of Night, each time defying the laws of balance.

I was no mere funambulist. I was proceeding through the air as if by magic. Looking at me so far up there, my body standing upright in the sky like a white flame and my golden hair caressed by the wind, I would have been told that I belonged to heaven. Because for me actually the hardest thing was not keeping myself balanced, or even mastering my fear, much less walking that endless tightrope. The hardest thing was not to turn into a snowflake.

By now I was being claimed in every corner of the Court. I even went to the Court of Nightmares. Then, almost without realizing it, I got as far as the Illyrian Steppes, where your father was ecstatic to watch me. Never before had an artist performed before the Illyrian. And Azriel looked at me and already loved me. In his eyes I was no mere funambulist. I was Snow, and I represented all the beauty of art. When I had finished my performance with the tightrope, and returned to the ground, he could not restrain the urge to approach me. He stepped forward and, in doing so, discovered the fineness of my features, the design of my mouth, the line of my eyebrows, and knew instantly that he could never forget my face. He looked into my eyes, and in turn I squared him. No words were spoken, and that was all we needed. I smiled at him, and in that he lost his soul. He knelt before me and said, “I have been looking for you, mate.”

I, on the other hand, was looking for no one. But his gesture seemed to me of such beauty that I delighted in it. And I accepted the bond. We got married, even. The first years passed happily. A happy event solidified our bond: you. You possessed my features, but your father's strength, darling. Our life was one of peace and silence. Gradually I was settling more and more into this Court. Sometimes I felt homesick for Vallahan, but I never complained about it.

What I missed most of all was my job as a funambulist. One night I dreamed of flying again. The next day, waking up, I thought about the dream again. Then I thought no more about it. The cold weather came. Then spring again. You developed in the ecstasy of light. I was happy. In one hand I held your father's heart and in the other my own, which at the same time I offered to you. And that fragile balance served to keep me balanced on the edge of happiness. But one day that balance became so fragile that it broke. One day the affection you offered me was no longer enough to make me happy. I cruelly missed the life in the air. I thirsted again for vertigo, for thrills, for conquest. I thought only of becoming a funambulist again. I asked Azriel to arrange one last performance. I wanted to stretch a rope from mountain to mountain in the heart of the Steppes.

Surely your father esteemed my desire as foolish, deeming it senseless to endanger my life and the life...of your sister.

But, like a true male, he bowed before me and consented. He had two steel ropes come from the Court of the Day. Then he sent two helpers to secure the longest cable between the two highest peaks.

I slipped the barbell out of my old case, put on my ballerina shoes, and practiced for hours in the garden, passing small mountains of flowers and a pond where yellow water lilies floated. Azriel, on the other hand, never tired of watching me. I was a funambulist without any rival.

On that thread I was happy, free and grateful. I thanked the Mother every day for giving me your father. I had blond hair. I had clear eyes. And I was walking on air.

The performance we stared at for the first few days of summer, my belly barely prominent. A crowd gathered from all over the Court to witness my feats. Lucien and Elain, who at the time had just become High Lords, also came.

When I placed my feet on the cable, the crowd rumbled. Up there, I was so high that those who only looked at me felt dizzy; I looked like a white dot in space, a snowflake in the immensity of the sky.

Armed with my barbell, for more than half an hour I performed high above the ground, slowly approaching the opposite side of the mountain. Below, they were holding their breath. One false step and it was certain death. But I, perfectly mastering my art, advanced inexorably. Step by step. Blow after blow. Silence after silence. From vertigo to vertigo. And your father watched as I danced caressed by his shadows in contrast to my white skin, silently praying for me, for his daughter. For your sister. I never stumbled.

It was the wire that broke. Definitely poorly secured, the cable came off the rock and plunged me into a thousand-foot drop. Me, the barbell and my unborn daughter.

Those who saw me disappear there, in the heart of the Steppes, took me for a bird falling from the sky. And my body was never found again.

I, Snow, became snow and sleep in its whiteness.

Your father never recovered from the loss of me, his mate. He killed the two clumsy helpers with cruelty, hatred and the thirst for revenge commanded his movements. Your uncle allowed him to do so without punishing him. But Azriel felt neither joy nor pity in the act. Killing them would not bring me back to life. He saw only one thing: his own grief. He knew only one thing: that never again would he find the woman he had loved. Never again would he see his Snow again. Never again would he see my beauty again.

Back in our house, now devoid of any joy, he threw away the Illyrian sword with which he had killed the two males. He would never kill again in his life, he promised himself. He would throw himself into pain. In the face of our daughter who died that day with me, in which my own face was reflected, he would weep every tear in his body. There was only one last gift left, one last thing that held him to the world of the living: you.

He sank so deep into his grief that he went blind. Your father accepted it, you know. It doesn't really bother him, he is no longer a warrior. He thinks the Mother no longer saw any sense in keeping his sight, if he wouldn't see me anyway.

I have always been close to him. I have always been close to you, my son. As much as my condition allows me to be.

I have never been given a final farewell. In your house my name is like a curse: it is never spoken and disaster should it be done. Therefore, I have come here, in a dream to you, for one last request. I want to be buried with your father. Come to me.” And you showed him where all that time you were hiding.

“Why didn't you say that before?”

“Because your father would not have been able to go on, seeing my face every day.”

As you spoke, you looked lost in the void, your eyes still veiled by the breath of the dream. The story had been long and paplit. Coming back to reality was difficult. Your son merely smiled and nodded at you, his own eyes wet with tears.

The next day he went to Azriel, who was relaxing by the silver river. He asked him to close his eyes and imagine the whiteness.

“I know where your Snow is.”

At these words, Azriel's face froze. Still with his dead gaze turned toward the river, he said, “Who are you to know this? No one knows where she is. The mountain swallowed her up. A long time ago.”

“That's false. The mountain digested her and returned her body. She is there, under the ice, a meter from the surface. She is there, in a glass coffin, intact and as beautiful as when you met her. In her womb she still holds the fruit of your love. I swear to you that I know where she is. She showed it to me in a dream. If you wish, I can lead you to her.”

Azriel understood that your son was telling the truth, and he could not hold back a tear. “I knew that one day we would meet again. But I did not expect that day to come so late in my life.” He turned to the younger Fae and laid a hand on his shoulder. “And to say that since she died ... since she died I've been looking everywhere for her. I've been looking for her everywhere. In every corner of this Court. In every corner of my mind. In every, single, dream. And now that I can finally see her, I will not see her.”

The next day, after the usual practice, your son asked your mate, “Have you thought about my proposal? When do you want me to take you there?”

Azriel sighed, then replied in a sad voice, “My son. This trip would be useless. I know you speak the truth, but what good would it do for an old blind man to find the grave of a dead lady? Wherever she is, my mate is at peace. May her isolation be respected for eternity.”

“No, father. She told me. Her last request was to be found. To be buried with you.” Azriel disappeared into his garden, leaving his son to be crushed by the weight of his own words.

A month passed. Your son and husband no longer spoke of you. They did not even dare to mention it. Every day, the younger Fae went to Azriel to keep him company, but in the end the two always ended up in oppressive silence. It was as if you were invisible.

But then one morning, standing on the edge of the river in Velaris, Azriel said to your son, “Tomorrow we will visit your mother.” Both of them did not answer, they just smiled.

They left at dawn. Your son guided Azriel with the sound of his footsteps. Every time he offered him a hand to help him over some steeper or treacherous passage, and your husband refused it and punctually overcame the obstacle without the need for help. He may have forgotten that he had been a warrior, but his muscles had not.

At night they slept in the villages. When, upon entering a village, Azriel uttered his name and declared where he was from, the doors opened before him as if by magic. The entire Night Court seemed to know his old reputation. Your son was astonished.

And he understood how fortunate he had been to be able to follow the teaching of such a father.

The journey was long, of unceasing whiteness. White as the cherry blossoms. White like the silence that accompanied the two wayfarers.

Finally, one morning, the first mountain peaks appeared. Their road began to climb toward the sky and its purity. They were the hardest hours. Your beloved began to show signs of fatigue, but your son pretended not to, since they were no longer very far from you. Azriel found the strength to go on only because of you. The journey was coming to an end.

When your son glimpsed the place shown to him in his dream, he trembled with excitement. “Dad!” He shouted. “I found it!” The young man rushed under a rock where, in your dream, you showed yourself lying. He had a cry of surprise.

“What is it?” Azriel asked, trepidatiously. “Has Snow disappeared forever? Has there been an avalanche?”

“No.” He said then. “Far from it. She is different from how she showed herself to me. Snow is here, but her body is closer. It is two or three centimeters from the veil of ice. I can almost touch it. It's as if she has prepared for our arrival.”

You were there. You, creature so beautiful, so naked, so blond, as fragile as in the dream. You were dead. Yet you seemed alive. You were resting under the ice. And soon you would emerge from your grave.

You were not really naked. Your funambulist's dress had been so long under the ice that the weave of the fabric had become almost transparent. And your body so delicate and your skin so diaphanous seemed even more fragile. So transparent were you that your son could glimpse your sweet pregnant womb. He threw himself on all fours and scratched at the ice with his nails. Finally you were there.

Your son grabbed Azriel's hand and placed it on your face. And you, watching the scene crouching beside the two males, could almost feel your mate's gentle caress on your skin. You breathed in that touch.

“Can you feel her face? Do you feel her skin?” Azriel's hand stroked your cheek again. He was blind. But he did not need his eyes to recognize the lines of your face. And yours was so well preserved that a simple touch with his fingertips on your lips turned blue was all he needed.

“It really is her. She is my Snow. You have never lied to me.” He fell to his knees before you and wept hot tears warming your face. He could neither see nor feel you, yet you laid a hand on his shoulder. You could not feel him under your fingers. But you were fine with that. It was okay even just that. Just seeing him.

Azriel never descended from the mountain. He lay down on the ice beside you and closed his eyes.

Your son tried to talk him out of it by saying it was madness, that it was too cold to stay there. But your mate answered him in a serene voice, “Leave me alone. I have found my place. For eternity.”

He fell asleep beside your intact body, one hand resting on your womb.

He died letting the whiteness of the world overcome him. He was happy. At the height of your heart.

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ddejavvu · 2 years ago

Text

Hungry Like the Wolf - Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: Remus is gifted an alternative potion to Wolfsbane near the full moon, meant to convert the magic of his transformation into energy. But the run you expect him to go on to burn some of the energy off isn't as much of a jog as it is a chase, and you're the one he's after. // sorry mom for writing smut to a song from a band you like.. god willing you never find this 🫡

Contents/Warnings: smut (minors dni), p in v, p in v from the back, oral sex (f receiving), bondage, predator/prey dynamics (everything is consensual), overstimulation, lots of wolf metaphors and language, remus is not in his wolf form, he is human

WC: 5.8K / navigation

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

James is incredibly skilled at potions. You’ve known this since first year, since he rivaled Severus himself, and he only got better with age and lessons. Now he’s a master, but he’s set aside his talents to take care of his wife and son. Honorable, of course, but it makes you wonder what he could be if he tried his hand again at the cauldron.

He’d given you a taste of his skill last night, presenting Remus with a little bottle of purplish ooze at your weekly dinner.

“‘S an alternative to wolfsbane,” He’d explained, a hand sheepishly clinging to the back of his neck and scratching at his chocolate curls there, “It’s supposed to channel all of the transformative magic into energy. So you’ll stay human, but you’ll be, like, bouncing off the walls.”

Wolfsbane is appreciated, but seriously lacking as a solution. Remus still has to endure the cracking of his bones, the tearing of his skin, the self-destruction every month, so for James to cook up a remedy that made Remus almost normal, well… your big bad boyfriend had shed a tear or two.

“Okay,” You exhale, a loud sigh in the silence of the shack you chain Remus up in every full moon, “Give it a test, Rem.”

He strains his wrists, veins popping under his tan, scarred skin. Nothing there. Then his ankles, he flexes his calves and tugs hard at the restraints, but nothing gives.

“Perfect.” You wish you could grin at the satisfactory results, but chaining your boyfriend up for reasons other then sex is nothing you’re too happy about.

“If the potion doesn’t work,” Remus rasps, voice gruff from the heavy light of the moon outside, “You should be safe with me chained. And if it does work, you can let me go. ‘Spose I’ll just go for a run or something, Prongs said it would make me hyper.”

“Alright,” You nod, leaning in to kiss his soft, smooth temple. He leans into the affection with a strained smile, eyes on the purple bottle in your hands.

“Bottoms up,” You grin warily, raising the narrow-necked flask to Remus’s lips. As soon as he purses his lips around the mouth you tip the vial down his throat, purple ooze gone in a flash. It doesn’t taste good, if the immediate grimace that scrunches Remus’s nose and purses his lips is any evidence to go by.

“Christ,” The man dry heaves, and you smear a dollop of the substance away from the corner of his mouth, “Oh, god, I think Prongs shit in that bottle and charmed it purple.”

“Oh,” You recoil at the thought, smearing the ooze off of your skin with Remus’s discarded shirt, “Well that’s lovely. How long to transformation?”

“If this doesn’t work,” Remus pants, scar-littered chest heaving, “A few minutes. Go on, dove, wait outside. If you hear howling, go back home and come get me in the morning.”

“Okay,” You reluctantly rise, brushing your knees off from where they’d been slowly sinking into the soft earth beneath you, “Good luck. Love you, Rem. Be safe, please try not to scratch over that cut on your thigh; it hasn’t healed right.”

“Can’t help it,” Remus groans, head ducking as his stomach begins churning. He’s starting to think that maybe James isn’t as good at potions as you’ve all been thinking, and that he’ll start morphing any second now, He lets out a sharp cry, jaw tightening as he clenches it and squeezes his eyes shut, “Go, dove, now!”

You don’t need to be told twice. You rush for the door of the shack, swinging it shut behind you and praying the worn hinges don’t just snap. You lean your back to the door, waiting, listening as Remus feels either the effects of the potion, or the effects of the moon. Whichever one it is, something is happening to him.

There’s a string of groans, moans, and everything in between, and you’ve never been present for a transformation of his (strict orders from the man himself), but you’re sure that’s what’s happening. You hear the chains rattle as he strains against them, and you’re praying he doesn’t manage to snap them in a burst of wolfish rage.

Then the noise dies down, and eerie silence falls over the forest. You’re still leaned up against the door, and every rustle of the wind through the trees or mouse through the bushes has your stomach flipping in fear.

Apparently though, you shouldn’t be worried about what’s in front of you, more what’s behind you.

The knob your hand is still draped over turns, and you’re ripping yourself away from the door with a terrified gasp. The door swings open behind you, and there Remus stands, human, but- not.

He’s human-sized, human-shaped, but something isn’t right with his eyes. They’re darker than normal, more dilated, and he’s staring hard at you with a tight jaw while his bare chest heaves.

His shoulders are illuminated by the soft, warm light of the shack that’s spilling through the door but his face- his scarred face is shining solely in moonlight. It bathes him, drapes him where clothes don’t, and makes the dark abyss of his eyes shine.

“Remus,” You breathe, an uncertain whisper in the night air.

He doesn’t answer.

His eyes, still pools of darkness, with the slightest rim of his familiar chocolate brown around the edge, rake slowly down your form. You’re only clad in a drafty nightgown, ready to either run back to bed at the sound of a wolf, or wave goodbye to Remus from your window as he jogged away. You hadn’t expected this, whatever it is.

“Remus-” You try again, watching as his eyes gradually reach your face again. Before you can get the last letter out, before you can fully taste his name on your tongue, his eyes snap to yours and narrow infinitesimally.

“Run.”

Your body understands before your brain does, and your leg moves backwards to plant your foot somewhere behind you. But you linger, “What?”

He lunges for you, hands outstretched, “Run,” and you blanche.

A noise comes out of your throat that can’t be categorized as you whirl on your feet. You suppose it’s somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, but it’s warbled as your lungs take in more air than they’re letting out. Despite it all, your chest heaves, and your feet ache as you slap them against the forest floor. Remus isn’t a particularly fast runner, he smokes too much to be able to breathe well, but whatever’s chasing you is more than Remus. You’ve never seen Remus this intense before, you’re not sure he’s even in there. You don’t know what James has concocted, but you’re going to have a long list of notes ready when he asks for a report.

Your skin is on fire, almost like Remus has already caught you. You hadn't bothered to look anywhere but those eyes, and you fear the worst; long, gnarled wolf fangs on his fingertips and razor sharp canines over his tongue. You can hear him inches behind you, he could reach out and snatch you if he tried, but he doesn’t. You realize with a sick sense of despair that he’s chasing you for fun, that you’re his prey and he’s letting you have the illusion of escape. You can’t outrun him, he’ll always be a few steps behind. You hear his breath, and if you concentrate you can feel its ghost on the back of your neck as you sprint through the woods. It’s slower, more even than your erratic gasps, the heave of your chest making you lightheaded.

You don’t know which way you’re running anymore, but there’s nothing for miles. No gas station you can beg for help in, no nearby farm where you can distract Remus with a lone sheep. It’s just trees, trees that you can’t climb before he reaches you.

The crack of his feet against twigs, leaves, and all in between slows slightly, and you know it’s not because he can’t keep up. He doesn’t even sound out of breath, and you’re terrified at the thought that he could outrun you by miles and you wouldn’t stand a chance. Now he’s several steps behind, and tears brim at your eyes, hopeful ones that beg for the possibility that he’s been distracted by some wildlife.

Soon enough, his presence fades away altogether. You don’t dare look back, you’re terrified of seeing the face of the man you love contorted, twisted by the purple potion into something dark and predatory; something hungry.

When you’re absolutely sure he’s not there anymore, and only the sounds of the forest surround you, chirping crickets and wind howling like a chilling reminder of the moon above, you slow down, immediately hunched over your knees to try and catch your breath. There’s no movement but your own, the great rise and fall of your chest and the sagging of your shoulders. You don’t recognize the part of the woods you’ve come to, and you bite back tears as you realize that your best hope is climbing a tree and waiting until morning.

There’s one to your left that looks good for climbing. The branches are low hanging and you could probably pull yourself up enough to have a bird’s eye view of the forest so that you can watch for Remus.

Then there’s the snap of a twig behind you, and your stomach plummets. You whirl around to press your back against the trunk of the tree, eyes wide as they scan the forest in front of you. You see nothing, not a sign of life in sight, so you edge around the tree, chin touching your shoulder as you check your side view. When you’ve scanned your left adequately, and found nothing out of order, you turn your head to the right, and there he is.

He’s standing an inch away from you, dark eyes fully lit by the moon. You scream loud enough to send birds fleeing from their trees, and he lunges for your open mouth. Your panicked shout turns into a warbled cry as he kisses you hard, tongue nearly gagging you as he seems determined to make you swallow it.

His hands have an iron grip on your waist as he looms over you, and you struggle to push and shove at his shoulders for a breath. It’s only when he moves on, leaving his tongue outstretched as he drags it from your mouth to your jaw that you can breathe.

“Remus!” You cry, struggling to escape his grip, ‘No, no- please! Please let me go, I- I don’t know what James made you but please, it’s me! Don’t hurt me, Remus please don’t hurt me, I-”

His hand snakes up your throat to clamp over your mouth. The tears that had beaded in your eyes are flowing down your cheeks now as you shake with a sob, and the clear liquid trickles over his scarred skin.

“Dove,” He murmurs, hot and wet into your neck, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You’re only able to manage a confused whimper from behind his heavy hand, but he licks a stripe along your jaw and bumps the tip of his nose into the bridge of your own.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” He asks, breath fanning over your cheek. You nod, still wary, and he coos in sympathy, lips pressing to your skin.

“No, darling.” He promises, and the grip he has on your waist that’s pinning you to the tree seems a lot less sinister now, “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have let you run.” He dips his nose to your neck, takes in a breath, a drag of your scent that flows through his veins like ecstasy if the shuddering exhale he releases over your skin is any evidence.

“No,” He lets out a wry chuckle, mouthing once more at your neck, “I wanted a chase. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m going to eat you, dove. And then I’m going to fuck you. Do you understand?”

He uncovers your mouth so that you can answer him, and you let out a sharp gasp, “Remus, I- What?”

“He said energy,” Remus pants, still licking at your neck like it’s coated in ambrosia. He breaks away with a heavy groan, like it’s a monumental feat to tear himself away from your skin, “James said, it’ll be converted into energy. Well it was.”

He gestures to his torso, and your eyes travel down his scarred chest until they reach- oh god.

Shit, he’s hard. Like, painfully, achingly, astoundingly hard, his cock so erect that it’s curved up towards his belly and already leaking precum. Your mouth falls open and you swear it lines itself with drool, your chest still heaving from the adrenaline of the moment.

“I’m on fire,” Remus pants, head downturned, hands in fists as his side to keep from touching you. The veins in his hands pop and his arms tremble with the force of his grip. You catch a hollow, empty feeling below your belly at the sight.

“I’m- I can’t control it, I need- I need something,” He grunts, snapping his head up so that he can meet your eyes, “If you don’t want this, tell me now.”

“Remus, I- I don’t-”

“Tell me!” He roars, eyes wide as he breathes heavy, “I need to know now, Y/N. Yes or no?”

“Yes!” You nod vigorously, eyes fixated on his twitching, leaking cock, “Yes, Remus, I want this.”

He reaches for the skirt of your nightgown with a swift hand, and in one fluid motion, it’s torn off of you. Your breath hitches in shock as your back suddenly hits the bark of the tree behind you, and Remus bunches your nightgown into a strip of fabric.

“Hands up,” He instructs, and as you’re fumbling to process his words and comply, he repeats it, “Hands up!”

“I am! I am,” You gush, arms shaking as you hold them above your head, “Remus, what are you-?”

“Around the tree,” He instructs, gripping one of your wrists and pulling you to the side with it. You stumble as he manhandles you, but manage to catch yourself in the soft earth below while he puts one of your wrists on either side of the tree branch above you.

He makes quick work of your wrists, tying one end of the nightgown to your right wrist, then slinging it over the tree branch and securing the other end to your free wrist. It means that you’re hanging from the tree by your wrists, your feet just barely still touching the ground.

“Remus,” You whimper, squirming in the cool night air. You feel much too exposed, breasts lit by the moon and panties the only thing stopping you from being completely naked. But when Remus steps back to admire his work, something inside of your stomach begins to coil at his blackened eyes.

He drops to his knees and they hit the ground with a dull thump. The ghostly fire you’d felt from the thought of his touch before was now pleasurable instead of painful. Now you ache for him, a heavy gush of slick already gathering behind the fabric of your panties.

It’s no surprise that Remus zeroes in on the lacy material. He starts mid-thigh, pressing his nose into your flesh like he’s trying to drill a hole there.

“Mm,” He groans, mouth opening to press haphazardly to your skin. He grunts into your flesh, fingers rising to squeeze at your skin.

“Smell so fucking good,” He rasps, his voice gruff from the effort it’s taken him to restrain himself, “God, what- whatever James put into this stuff didn’t stop my senses from heightening. Fuck, it’s like- hnngh,” He licks a fat, wet, hot stripe up your thigh, flicking his tongue into the crease of its base, “‘Never tasted you like this before, dove.”

“Remus,” You whimper, squirming in your restraints, trying to force yourself lower to meet his tongue at your thigh, “Please, please hurry.”

“I- mmf,” Remus’s nose presses against the hood of your clit, lips ghosting over the fabric covering your slit, “Dove, I can smell you, I can smell how wet you are. I can smell it, fuck, dripping, pooling in your cunt. I-” He lunges for the hem of your panties with his teeth, snagging the fabric on his canines and tearing it off of you, “I need to taste you, darling.”

Apparently he’s done savoring you. His teasing touches and slow buildup are nowhere to be seen, now he leads with his tongue and jams it into your cunt with almost no warning. Your thighs jerk at the sudden intrusion, but once you get them back in place you try sinking down ont his face with what little give your restraints give you.

“Oh! Oh, Remus,” You shriek, your exhale laced with a gluttonous moan as Remus’s tongue laps at your slick, “Oh, god, you feel so good.”

“You taste amazing,” He marvels, speaking with his face buried so far in your cunt that you think you feel the words more than you hear them. They crawl up your spine, thrumming through your blood and lodging themselves into your brain, only egging on the pleasure rolling through your core.

Remus’s tongue is eager and rough, his mouth alive as he ravages you from below. You feel the scrape of his teeth against your clit, and the sensation is so jarring that you nearly snap the branch above you from how hard you straight against your restraints. He has no boundaries, no limits, no control as he sucks you dry, tongue running over and over and over again through your folds to lick up any last drop of slick that your cunt is still pouring eagerly. He drags a tongue full of the stuff to your clit, smearing and covering the sensitive bud in your slick. From there, when it’s coated and dripping, he sucks it dry, tongue bobbing against the bundle of nerves so desperately that you squeeze your thighs around his face.

He seems to realize that you’re uncomfortable now, with the way you’re struggling so hard to bring him in impossibly closer. He doesn’t need to think twice before he grabs the backs of your thighs, nails digging into the soft, pillowy flesh of your ass.

He spreads your legs further, wrapping them around his head and throwing them over his shoulders. It means he can attack your cunt from a new angle, nose grinding against your clit as he makes out with your hot, wet pussy.

He’s insatiable, sucking slick out of your cunt that it hasn’t even produced yet. His tongue runs wet and eager over the most sensitive parts of your body, and flicks impossibly far into your hole, squelching obscenely as he tongue-fucks you.

“Fuck,” He growls, the animalistic sound sending a shiver up your spine as he hauls you further against his face, smashing his nose and tongue even further into you. His words are spoken into your cunt and his lips, tongue, and teeth all grate against your folds, the humming vibrations of his voice nearly sending you over the edge.

“Cum,” He snarls, demanding and rough. He fucks his tongue into you relentlessly, nose providing constant stimulation to your clit as it bobs against the nub, “Cum! Cum on my face,” He orders, and you let his words fuel the blaze of pleasure that’s burning hot and wild at your core, “I want to eat your cum, dove, now.”

The last word tapers out into a raspy growl, a gruff edge to his voice that makes it final. You let the coil that’s been slowly tightening below your belly finally burst, and you cum just as voraciously as he’s been eating you out the entire time.

You feel like you’ve squirted, but you can’t tell for sure, because his mouth is sucking the cum out of you before it can go anywhere. There’s no splatter on his face because his mouth is latched tight to your cunt, lips suctioned so that your release shoots into his mouth like his does so often in yours.

He grunts and groans viciously into your pussy as he licks you clean, tongue lapping over every available inch of your cunt until you’re sure it’s got no remnant of your slick or your final release. If his saliva wasn’t replacing your slick, you’re sure you’d be dried out by now, completely sucked void of all of your wetness.

When he’s milked every last taste of your cum out of your folds, he growls in frustration. It’s a huffy sort of sound, and your cunt is already tingling with the prospect of your next release.

He pushes your shoulders off of him and in one fluid motion, stands and lunges for your wrists. He knocks his face into your own to do so, and you have to lean back to take a breath when he kisses you because he’s such a presence.

His tongue is just as eager in your mouth as it was in your cunt, and you can taste your own release on him. He licks up your own tongue, groaning as he nips lightly at your bottom lip and smooths over it with a sweet lap of his tongue. You beg for more in the way that you tip your face up into his own, and you feel him wrestling with your nightgown where it’s tied around your wrists. He kisses more aggressively the harder he strains to blindly untie you, and when he finally loses his patience, he growls down your throat.

“Fuck,” He snaps, abandoning the careful grip he has on each side of the knot and tearing the fabric in two instead. Apparently his senses weren’t the only thing still heightened, it seems that his strength is above average as well.

“Run,” He pants into your mouth as you nearly fall to the ground. Your thighs are shaky, and you don’t think you can move them, but when he grips your jaw and snarls again against your lips, “Run.”, you force them to support you.

It feels like deja vu, sprinting away from Remus in the forest, but this time it’s better. Because this time you’re content with, aroused by your role as his prey, and the predatory presence behind you makes your cunt leak.

It’s another round of chase, and you can actually feel his heat behind you. It’s in the breaths that fan over the back of your neck, and as they fade away you realize he’s letting you have the illusion of escape once more. He’s too close to hide, your flight is fruitless.

Now he’s stalking you, as you slow down in a clearing. He’s hunted you down, he’s tracked you through the trees and he’s got you trapped. He’s the perfect predator; cunning, sharp, hungry.

A sudden noise from your left makes you sprint to your right, and you’re tackled only three steps away. You feel Remus collide with you and only his hands shield your bare back from the messy earth beneath you, but you’re not sure you’d be able to feel the scrape of a twig against your skin even if he hadn’t put his hands there, because his cock is already inside of you.

He doesn’t give you any time to process your takedown before he’s jackhammering into you, cockhead nudging at your slit before you’d even hit the ground. He’s got you locked in, and you shout at the unexpected, but pleasurable intrusion.

“Remus!” You scream, shaky legs wrapping around him by instinct. Eating you out without giving himself any stimulation must have been torture, because his cock is so hard you think you could snap it off if you bent it wrong.

It’s pounding your pussy, Remus is thrusting so fast and so deep into you that you think it might burst through your insides and tear you apart. He’s fucking like a rabbit - hard and fast - but you think you’re technically his as the big bad wolf destroys you.

His tongue had loosened you, and you��d accumulated more slick during the hunt that’s squelching and sloshing around his stiff dick. He’s leaking precum, a steady ooze of the stuff that gets driven into your cunt as he fucks roughly into you. He’s close to his own release already, the buildup of licking out your pussy having gotten him plenty aroused. His dick is already twitching inside of you, and your steady cries through the night air as his hips slap against yours, balls hitting the globes of your ass, only egg him on further.

You swear he howls when he cums. It’s a long, loud, haunting sound that he pumps into your neck, his teeth gnawing at your skin like he’s the wolf you thought you’d escaped from.

You can feel him biting at your shoulder as he fucks his orgasm into you, cum spurting from the head of his cock and painting your insides, gushing out around his length as he pounds you. You’re like a ragdoll in his grip, your body shaking with the force of his thrusts.

“Remus, Remus, Remus!” You chant, mouth barely able to form the words as you fight back open-mouthed screams. Your throat feels sore at how loud you’re screaming, how intensely the force of his thrusts are rocking you back and forth on the forest floor, and when he’s milked his orgasm dry, he gives you no warning before flipping you over.

His heightened strength really comes in handy as he lifts you effortlessly from the ground below him, and flips you onto your stomach. It’s a movement you’re not ready for, and your arms barely catch you from face-planting into the forest floor.

“Remus!” You shriek, his name like a mantra as he butts his hips up against your ass. You’re worried he’ll try fucking your ass without easing you open first, but he plunges straight for your cunt again, this time from the back.

You’re sensitive, of course, from not only your first orgasm but the way Remus had just ravaged your sloppy cunt, and your second orgasm is fast approaching. From this angle, Remus’s cockhead slams against your clit for a few thrusts before he slots it into your leaking cunt, and the repeated pressure that slaps your clit has you already cresting.

“Oh, god!’ You cry, head hung so close to the earth that you can smell the dirt inches from your face. Your thighs are trembling as Remus’s cock fucks through them, and you cum with fire spreading through your veins. He feels the constant convulsions of your cunt spasming with your orgasm, squeezing his cock as pleasure pulses through your folds. You’re screaming, or at least, you think you are, but you can’t tell, because your hearing cuts out for a moment.

When it comes back, Remus is grunting hot and heavy into the back of your neck, teeth once more digging into your skin. Apparently there’s still some animalistic urge in him to bite, to prey, to devour.

His cock is barely less stiff now that he’s fucked through his first orgasm, but apparently the feeling of you cumming around him is already leading him to a second. He’s impossibly horny, skin shining with sweat under the pale moonlight above that drips onto your back from his hairline. He licks it away, moaning at the salty taste and smearing it into your skin.

You cum in tandem, because your orgasm leads his on, then his slams another straight into you. You’ve never cum twice in a row this fast before, you’ve always had a moment to breathe, but apparently Remus can fuck two out of you in a minute straight if he tries.

Your core is ablaze, white hot pain curled into crawling tendrils of pleasure sticking to your insides and climbing your nerves. They overload your senses so much with burning bliss that your arms give out and your cheek slams hard into the dirt beneath you. It would hurt, if you weren’t so overwhelmed by sensations elsewhere.

He fucks his second orgasm through your third, gripping your hips and driving his cock so far into you that your vision starts darkening.

“Remus!” You sob, injecting your cry with as much of the pleasure coursing through your veins as possible, shouting out to the night that he’s responsible for your undoing. You slump tired and spent onto the dirt below you but Remus is still fucking out his own orgasm, dick twitching and shooting loads of cum into your gaping cunt.

He only slows when his cock starts going numb from the friction of your hot cunt, and he pants against the back of your neck while slathering the skin there in an array of sloppy, messy kisses. Finally he drops, landing on his side in the dirt and staring at your fucked-out face

“Oh, dove,” He pants, chest heaving harder than yours had been after being chased, “Fuck, you were- hnngh, are you okay?”

He watches your eyes drift shut, unconsciousness tugging hard at your mind. Your body is so overstimulated that it shuts down, and you nod weakly, “Mhm, jus’- jus’ tired, Rem.”

“Yeah,” He chuckles weakly, eyes marginally less dark than when he’d hunted you through the woods. Now he knocks his nose into your own, something so similar to a wolfish display of affection that you’re surprised he hasn’t sprouted fur.

“Catch me,” You beg, feeling your knees close to giving out, skin creased by the outlines of leaves and dirt, “Catch me, Rem, please-”

“I’ve got’cha,” He soothes, throwing an arm around your middle to tug you into his side. You’re covered in sweat, and your arms and shins are lined with muck from the forest floor, but Remus takes care to keep your cunt, slick and oozing with his cum, away from any contaminents.

“I’ve got’cha,” He repeats, humming into the crown of your head. You can’t seem to get enough air in, but with each inhale of oxygen that you gulp down with your head against his chest, you find it easier to slip away into the void that’s beckoning you behind your eyes.

“Rest,” He pants, holding your head to his chest, mouth open as he breathes towards the sky. His skin is sweaty, but so is yours, and your eyes fall resolutely shut at his command.

When you wake you’re back at home, tucked neatly and carefully into your own bed, under your own blankets. Your entire body is sore, everything from your cunt to your back to your knees, and you find yourself incapable of moving due to the ache below your belly.

“Remus?” You call, your voice floating weakly through the walls of your cottage. You’re pleased to find that you’ve been cleaned up, there’s no dirt left caked into your skin.

All’s clean but your cunt, still packed tight and oozing with Remus’s release. Apparently he’d taken extra care not to waste any of that.

“Here,” Remus emerges from the other room, a towel around his neck, a tank top over his chest, and a bulge in his boxers. He’s sweating profusely, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d crawled into the oven.

“What- what are you doing?” You squint blearily up at him, watching as he raises one end of the towel to wipe at his dripping forehead.

“Working out,” He huffs, grating the towel against his skin, “It’s insane, dove. Jus’ can’t sit still. Prongs really fucked me up with this potion shit, I’ll have to tell him to tone it down.”

“No!’ You speak before you can think, face flushing hot afterwards, as if you’re not residually warm enough.

“Hm?” Remus pants, staring curiously at you as he rubs sweat from his shaggy hair.

“Um,” You flounder, feeling the sticky remnants of Remus’s cum still gooey inside your cunt, “I like it. This- this potion thing. This was… good.”

Remus cracks a smirk, stalking towards the bed with heavy steps, “Yeah? You liked runnin’ from the big bad wolf?”

“Remus!” You whine at his teasing, squirming away when he grips your jaw. He turns your face towards him, and the tight hold of his fingers on your jaw makes you whimper into the kiss he presses to your mouth.

“I’ll tell ‘im,” Remus grunts, lips wet where they stick to your own, “That m’girlfriend,” He licks a stripe up your tongue, panting as he tastes you, “Likes gettin’ hunted. ‘S that it, love? Y’cunt get all wet when you were runnin’ from me?”

“Yes,” You whimper, licking desperately at his mouth as he tongues you, “Remus, I- I need more, please?”

“Ah,” He tuts, pulling away but keeping your jaw firmly in his grip, “No. Not yet, dove.”

“But-!”

“I’ll tear you apart,” Remus warns, eyes flashing dark again, “You’re tired, and you need to rest. You can’t take any more. Later, I promise.”

“No, I can take it, please! I can,” You beg, going so far as to paw at the waistband of his boxers, “Please Remus!”

“Enough.” He snaps, releasing your jaw and backing away. The tent in his boxers is obvious, but he knows you’re too weak to get fucked again.

“‘S for your own good,” He tells you, wiping away a tear that beads at the corner of your eye, “But I’ll make you a deal, dove. I’m gonna go finish my workout. By the time I’m done, if you’ve finished that whole glass,” He motions to your nightstand, and you turn to see a cup of water there, ice cold, “Then I’ll fuck you again. ‘Kay?”

“Okay,” You nod vigorously, excitement already twisting your stomach, “Okay, Remus, I- thank you.”

“Mhm,” He kisses you one last time, teasingly chaste where your tongue chases after his own. Before he straightens up fully he leans in to speak beside your ear, and his gruff, dangerous murmur curls arousal around your spine like a spring coiled tight, waiting to fly, “And don’t even think about touching yourself, dove. I’ll smell it if you do.”

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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lunarblazes · 4 months ago

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The raid was going fine until Scar froze time. At least, that's probably what happened. If the raid wasn't going fine before then, it would be comforting, but Scar couldn't really remember it very well, to be honest. He remembered lots of panic, which was normal whenever he did a raid, but Grian had been doing fine, last he recalled. Very self-sufficient. Impressive!

It probably had to do with the fact Scar refused to wear full armor. It wasn't meant for tree elves--the cold metal was uncomfortable! Grian couldn't yell at him for that!

He could definitely yell at him for this, though. This was a bit of a problem, even Scar could see that.

The raid was going fine, honest! It was fine! Until, well, an evoker had cornered him, and he'd panicked, and Grian had dove towards them with his sword out, intending to help, and. Well.

His magic was defensive. It really wasn't his fault, if you thought about it. Vex magic was fickle!

Scar did do this, though, and they did have a problem. He floated above the ground, his skin tinged a ghostly blue, and felt the red pulse through his veins. He sighed.

"G, I messed up," he complained, turning to his friend, "I--"

He stopped. Grian wasn't standing next to the evoker. He wasn't even standing where the evoker had been.

He was floating. Right in front of Scar. Tiny, blue, and glowing, with his miniature white wings splayed out behind him, his features blurring into each other.

"Ohhhhh, oh no," Scar moaned, putting his head in his hands. "Oh… oh no."

He should have known this would happen. He should have known! Whenever a vex spawned, an allay would follow, and Grian had killed the evoker. If it had hit the evoker, the magic would have just dispersed with the totem, but no, Grian had to come and play the stupid hero…

It really was all Scar's fault. He didn't look up.

"Scar?" Grian said shrilly. "What did you do?"

"You're an allay?" Scar replied timidly.

"I'm a what," Grian hissed, poking at his tiny wings. "What did you do?"

"Vex magic? To phase through the evoker's fangs?"

"How does that have anything to do with me," Grian said. "Also, aren't you supposed to be an elf?"

"The ears are fake," Scar said solemnly. "And you just--happened to be in the blast radius! I don't know! Cub is much better at this than I am!"

Grian paused. "…you could have been wearing armor this whole time?"

Scar's ghostly face flushed. "No! I mean, technically, yes, but it's so unfashionable! It doesn't match my hair at all!"

Grian stared up at the sky, clearly exasperated. His eyes were pure white. Scar shifted uncomfortably, resolutely ignoring the fact that he wasn't really sure how to fix this. It would be fine. Someone had to know, right?

"Well, at least the raid's stopped!" Scar said cheerfully.

"The raid…?" Grian glanced down at the nonchalant crowd of pillagers milling about. "Oh. That's… nice, I guess."

"Yeah, they don't register us as players anymore," Scar said, waving a hand. "So they can't see us!"

"They--they don't see us as players? Are we mobs now, Scar?" Grian stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Um." Scar said. He tried to think of a response that sounded sure and like he hadn't accidentally just unmade his friend's code. "…no?"

Grian's expression did not relax. His eye twitched. That was impressive; Scar didn't think he'd ever seen an allay so frustrated. It was a novel experience.

"Can we at least get the stupid vindicator for your prank before they start trying to kill us again?"

"Why not?" Scar shrugged, floating over to the minecart. He pursed his lips, focusing for a moment, and…

Pop! His hands solidified. Quickly, Scar snatched the minecart's edge and sent it flying towards a nearby vindicator. The poor mob didn't know what hit him before he was facedown in the cart, unconscious.

"There! Easy, see?" Scar grinned, turning to Grian. "All part of my master pl--"

His sentence was cut short by Grian barreling towards him erratically, like a butterfly that had just emerged from its chrysalis, and phasing right through the edge of a house before he managed to stop himself about three centimeters from Scar's head.

"These wings suck," Grian panted, jerking wildly in the air, obviously trying to stay steadily aloft and failing miserably.

"You're supposed to float, G. Not fly." Scar demonstrated by doing a little flip in midair.

Grian stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "What? That--no. That doesn't work!"

"I just did it." He did another flip in case Grian had missed the first one. "See?"

Scar might have just exploded his poor winged friend's brain. It was as if he'd entirely bluescreened from the blatant disregard for physics spirits like them showed.

"Chin up, G. Think about all the pranks we can play until we turn back, being able to float and phase through walls!"

Grian brightened slightly, begrudgingly, temporarily abandoning his worries about flight and movement in his strange new form. "Well. I won't say no to a little bit of pranking, once we get this fella back to your base."

"Of course, of course!" Scar said nonchalantly, solidifying once more to push the vindicator on course. "Adios, raiders! It has not been fun!"

Pranking would buy him some time to actually figure out how to turn them back. Probably. Or at least get Cub to do it. It would be fine!

#hermitcraft #goodtimeswithscar #grian #lunar prophecies #inspired by scar's comment in s9 ep4 about them encountering a raid glitch #that made all the pillagers start ignoring them #i went hey what if #vex magic shenanigans. actually #writing is so hard lately but i wanted to do something short for once

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genshin-impact-updates · 1 year ago

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Alone under the cold light of stars

"Did you see that? As the dove emerged from the hat, the corner of Freminet's mouth turned up very slightly. Imagine how he'd react if we could find a way to make a whole flock of them fly out! After all, as his big brother, it's my duty to make him laugh."

— Lyney winked as he discussed with Lynette after a rehearsal.

◆ Freminet

◆ Yearning for Unseen Depths

◆ Renowned Diver of the Court of Fontaine

◆ Cryo

◆ Automaton

As the realm of Hydro, Fontaine's underwater vistas are positively breathtaking. But not everyone gets to enjoy this mysterious world beneath the waves. Even for those who have mastered the basics, diving can be full of peril to say the least. Among the ranks of able divers, Freminet is renowned for his outstanding professionalism, exceptional ability to stay focused, as well as his abundant maritime knowledge. It's just a shame that, as a classic lone wolf, he never accepts commissions from others.

As the younger brother of Fontaine's famous magical duo Lyney and Lynette, Freminet prefers to stay out of the limelight. Other people's gazes, responses, and comments make him uncomfortable and interrupt the rhythm of his breathing. He prefers instead to slip away and bask in the weightlessness of the ocean, pouring his heart out to a Romaritime Flower.

He looks indifferent, but in fact it's just that his passion never comes back up for air.

#genshin impact #genshin impact updates #genshin impact news #official #freminet #a third sibling... there's a story here i can tell

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 30 days ago

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Of Sauron's Lust on Season 3

Now Sauron's lust and pride increased, until he knew no bounds, and he determined to make himself master of all things in Middle-earth, and to destroy the Elves, and to compass if he might, the downfall of Númenor. He brooked no freedom nor any rivalry, and he named himself Lord of the Earth. A mask he still could wear so that if he wished he might deceive the eyes of Men, seeming to them wise and fair. But he ruled rather by force and fear, if they might avail; and those who perceived his shadow spreading over the world called him the Dark Lord and named him the Enemy; and he gathered under his government all the evil things of the days of Morgoth that remained on earth or beneath it; and the Orcs were at his command and multiplied like flies. The Silmarillion

Oh boy, Sauron's lust will increase and know no bounds in Season 3; this is a description of the "War of the Elves and Sauron" from Tolkien.

What kind of mind palace shenanigans will happen in Season 3!? Now that Sauron has a open line of communication via bound, and has already “bore a hole” to “slither in”to Galadriel.

Let’s see another example of when “evil lusts” in Tolkien lore:

Then Morgoth looking upon her beauty [Lúthien] conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart since he fled from Valinor. Thus he was beguiled by his own malice, for he watched her, leaving her free for a while, and taking secret pleasure in his thought. The Silmarillion [Lúthien dances for Morgoth on his Dark Throne, before she puts him and all the host of Angband to sleep with her magic singing]

Tolkien comes back to this "evil lust" Morgoth felt for Lúthien on several works:

…Yet I will give a respite brief, a while to live, a little while, though purchased dear, to Lúthien the fair and clear, a pretty toy for idle hour. In slothful garden many a flower like thee the amorous gods are used honey-sweet to kiss, and cast then bruised, their fragrance loosing, under feet. … A! curse the Gods! O hunger dire,O blinding thirst’s unending fire! One moment shall ye cease, and slake your sting with morsel I here take! In his eyes the fire to flame was fanned,and forth he stretched his brazen hand.Lúthien as shadow shrank aside. ‘Not thus, O King! Not thus!’ she cried. … …And her wings she caught then deftly up, and swift as thought slipped from his grasp, and wheeling round, fluttering before his eyes, she wound a mazy-wingéd dance… The Lay of Leithian, The Lost Road and Other Writings

"Nay," saith Melkor, "such things are little to my mind; but as thou hast come thus far to dance, dance, and after we will see," and with that he leered horribly, for his dark mind pondered some evil. Book of Lost Tales vol.2

Then Morgoth laughed, but he was moved with suspicion, and said that her accursed race would get no soft words or favour in Angband. What could she do to give him pleasure, and save herself from the lowest dungeons? He reached out his mighty brazen hand but she shrank away. He is angry but she offers to dance. Commentary to the Lay of Leithian (The Lays of Beleriand)

Celeborn was his name. We met in a glade of flowers. I was dancing and he saw me there. Rings of Power, "The Eye", 1x07

Wait, what? I’m not implying Sauron will impersonate Celeborn, mind you. Only that there is already a reference to Galadriel dancing in “Rings of Power”.

Celebrimbor’s father (who was the most evil among all sons of Fëanor) also lust after Lúthien (like Celebrimbor himself after Galadriel in Tolkien lore):

...why Curufin looked with hot desire on Lúthien [...] thereafter never near might win to Lúthien, nor touch that maid" Lay of Leithian

Apparently, Charlie is right. Sauron might ravish Galadriel, yet. Her mind, of course.

Dead dove enjoyers: come to collect your ship.

#saurondriel #haladriel #sauron x galadriel #galadriel x sauron #Saurondriel season 3

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readychilledwine · 2 months ago

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What Dreams May Come

Part One - Asher

Summary - 50 years after sending his pregnant mate and children into hiding, Tamlin wants nothing more than to reconnect with his family.

Warnings - Rhys Slander is HEAVY in this series, references to smut, references to abuse, death, schmurder, fated mates and hidden family trope, kind of angst, tension, if you see an error, no you didn't 👀

A/N - I was going to wait to post this mini series, but I can't. I've been rereading it over and over and judging it harshly (as I do all my writing), so I'm putting it out there before I abandon it. Ps- each child has their own powers. You will learn each child in depth during Araceli's chapter. These are just little previews. Bonus points if you can figure out what Asher’s might be.

🥀What Dreams May Come Masterlist🥀Tamlin Masterlist🥀Master Masterlist🥀

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears (seriously peep the blog. Adorable season court Dividers)

Asher was thoroughly unimpressed with the horned beast staring him down as he flirted with the twin river nymphs he had been chasing for a few days now. Feral eyes were locked on his chocolate brown ones before the body of the beast because to slowly approaching. Asher sighed as the nymphs dove back into the water of the river, whispered melodically in their native tongue. “And what manner of beast are you,” He motioned up and down. “I believe parents should write stories about you. Ugly thing, you are.”

He froze as the beast shifted, long blonde hair and sun kissed skin replacing the fur. Strong arms went across a wide chest, “Be careful with your words, son. You look just like me.”

Asher, in fact, did not look like Tamlin. Tamlin screamed of sun, golden blonde hair and green eyes, Asher sang for the moon, dark short hair styled to one side, deep chocolate eyes he must have gotten from his mother's side, tanned skin. It was in their facial structure, the sharp jawline, the nose. That is where the signs of Tamlin rested in his son.

He had grown into a tall male, strong from what Tamlin could tell, but definitely with the same soft heart he had. Tamlin could see it in those eyes. Eyes that currently swan with confusion. The Lord of Sping simply opened his arms smiling as his first son dropped the act and came to him.

“Dad,” the word was foreign on Asher’s tongue. They had been in hiding for so very long, not even mentioning the word out of fear. Asher had not been held by his father since he was 4, but it felt like he remembered.

Hugging Tamlin, hugging his dad, it reminded him of the first warm rain in a season. Of getting a blanket warmed near the fire on cold nights from his mother. Asher melted into it, savored it as he took in the vaguely familiar scent of petrichor and freshly trimmed grass.

“I missed you,” Tamlin's deep voice made his eyes close as he rested his head on his shoulder. “Tell me everything. Tell me every happy moment, every ache, tell me you hate me. Anything, Asher. Anything.”

His mother was not home when Asher brought him back to the cave she had turned into a true home. The rumors that she could move mountains were, possibly, not rumors in her son's eyes, because, behind the waterfall the cave was hidden by, she had created a home. Everything he and his siblings had needed was magically summoned and made by his mother. They never wanted anything during the 50 years they had been isolated.

Asher knew now his mom's magic ensured they had beds, blankets, comfort, through technically stealing. To be conjured, it had to come from somewhere. He had written a poem once about being a shopkeeper in the Night Court and coming into an emptied out shop, but Asher would put money on his mother somehow leaving a note to bill the High Lord of Night.

Asher had also written a poem about his Uncle finding said bill. His mother told him it was inappropriate while smiling and folding it into her back pocket.

He and Tamlin stayed quiet as he let the blonde male look around, “They say you can take the female out of the Night Court, but never the Night Court out of the female.”

Asher scoffed at that, “I believe she picked our furniture and goods on where she wanted to take from. Can't feel bad stealing from a rich asshole,” he quoted her exact words.

Tamlin gave him a look, his lips clearly trying to remain in a stern position. “Your uncle is a-”

“Pompous asshole who feels that he is the change the world needs by just existing and not acting,” Asher was raising a dark brow at him as he poured them some tea. “Mom told me.”

“Asher,” Tamlin continued to try to be firm, “We do not speak of family that way.”

Asher blinked at him, unphased. This child, his oldest son, his mind was unwavering. Not even the Gods themselves could convince them of his Uncle Rhysand's good had they tried. It was his mom's fault, she was blunt and cut throat with her honesty, even when she knew lying would have been best.

Asher had found the history. He'd read the story of how his grandfather had threatened the life of his grandmother, forcing his father's hand to tell him where Rhysand would be meeting his mother and youngest sister. He read how his grandfather forced his father to watch as he mutilated them.

He then read how Rhysand and his maternal grandfather got their revenge. Minds being melted, an innocent female, a victim in her own right, slaughtered mercilessly. Asher’s mother had still chosen his father, though. She was the only one who saw both sides and felt both heavy hands. Asher knew from the sadness in her eyes she would pick Tamlin again and again, though he had not met his own mate to know why yet.

“Do you always chase females,” Tamlin finally sat, relaxing enough to truly appreciate how handsome his son was.

A wide grin appeared on Asher’s face, “I can't help but to chase them. I've never met an ugly female, father.”

Tamlin internally cringed at the word father, so informal to the earlier plea of “Dad”. “So no type?”

“Pretty, and they all are. Has to enjoy my poetry, and they all do. I have a, uh, certain way with words."

“So you seduce them with just words?”

Asher glanced up, “Why try something else when I am so good at it.” His face was filled with pride as he went to the book shelf and grabbed a leather book worn with love. He handed the heavy collection of paper to him, “Go ahead. Tell me how fantastic I am.”

Tamlin chuckled as he opened the book. It was definitely made in the Night Court, a sign of where his wife had been technically stealing from outside the obvious furniture and leathers Asher was wearing. The pages were thick, stained slightly from ink transferring from paper to hand and back. His son's handwriting was influenced by his wife. Soft scrolls flowing together like a melody. The poetry was good, very good. “You haven't decided if you like Quatrain or Villanelle, have you?”

“No,” Asher shifted. “Should I have?”

Tamlin shook his head, “I'm over 500 years old and still bounce from around with different formats and stanza structures.” He continued reading an odd feeling setting into him before he closed the book and saw the shocked look on his son's face.

"You write poetry?!" He watched deep eyes light up and the conversation flew from there, father and son, bonding over poetry, over literature.

The topics grew, varying from serious, to funny, to gossip. Tea constantly poured between them as they discussed being forced to train, of their mutual love of chocolate, of their favorite writers. Tamlin learned so much as the hours past before Asher asked if he wanted some fresh air.

Asher was strong, mentally, emotionally, and physically. It comforted Tamlin as they moved outside using a back magical gate made by Araceli. It took them to a vegetable garden that thrived, insects flying all around, fruit hanging from heavy trees. “Where is this place,” Tamlin looked around.

“We're still in The Middle,” Asher laid out the blanket before gently tossing his bag down. “I'm sure you secretly do recognize the cottage we're near.” The High Lord did, nodding as he studied the place he'd been told his whole life to avoid. The Weaver’s home was deadly, dangerous, and forbidden. Yet his son sat outside of it like it wasn't even phasing him. “Mom made her a deal. The Weaver likes her hair. Mom likes the protect she gives us. Once a year, mom let's The Weave cut her hair for threads in exchange for protection and us being allowed to grow this garden.”

The horrified expression on his father's face wasn't missed by Asher. A bargain with a being like The Weaver was not taken lightly. His mom worked hair to ensure her hair stayed healthy, long, and ready. The Weaver claimed her hair had some magical properties, but all Asher envisioned when he was young was the ancient being using them as some sort of enchanted tie to his mom, ready to rip her from them and eat them at any given notice.

“Is she insane?!”

Eyes narrowed at him, “She was alone,” Asher emphasized the word making it a dagger. “She did a lot of dangerous things to protect us. You should be worshiping the very ground she walks upon.”

Momma’s boy.

Asher was still momma’s boy.

Tamlin shook his head, “I love her. More than you know and understand. I love you more than you understand.”

“Loved them so much you hid them away in one of the most dangerous places in the realm?” The soft female voice had Asher smirking. Tamlin turned to face a young blonde, her hair falling in soft waves with braids placed strategically to help prevent the locks from falling into soft green eyes.

This. This was him. Had Tamlin been born a female, this is what he'd look like. One cheek dimpled as she smiled, the asymmetry flattered her, complimenting soft cheek bones, a gently sloped nose, full blush lips. Along every inch of her face, freckles danced, marking her skin like soft kisses.

“Sister,” a pen met paper as Asher spoke. “You are busy little bee I see.”

Her hands were both filled with baskets almost overflowing with herbs, vegetables, edible flowers. Her nails had dirt under the nails and staining the skin. She carrying a look of pride and accomplishment Tamlin knew well. This was her garden and it was fruitful. “Your squash was ready,” she was speaking to Asher but her eyes were on Tamlin. “Momma said she could turn it into soup?” Asher nodded, but he was deep into capturing Something on page, a grunt was his only other response. She continued to stare at Tamlin, “Do you know which of your children I am?”

Tamlin wanted to roll his eyes at her, say of course, but he refrained, watching as she moved, sitting next to Asher but slightly behind him. “I know my own baby girl, Taryn,” the High Lord said. “Your dimple gives you away.” He couldn't help but reach for her cheek, but a firm hand stopped him from touching her.

“I don't believe my sister gave you permission to put your hands on her face.” A smirk of pride grew on Tamlin's face as Asher now fully looked at his father and little sister. “You may touch her when, and if, Taryn allows. Until then, no.”

Taryn leaned her head onto Asher’s shoulder as Tamlin lowered his hand. “You two are close?”

“Very,” they answered in unison.

“How were Darya and Amaya?”

“Who?”

“The river nymphs twins,” Taryn glared at Asher. “The two you've been trying to bed for a week now?”

Asher sighed and laid back, “They're impossible!”

Taryn and Tamlin glanced at him, “How so,” the high lord asked.

“They're identical! They said they only sleep with males who can tell them apart! Their hair is the same length. Their eyes both sparkle like a clear lake. They both have the perfect little nymph figure. Hair black as coal. They're gorgeous, fun, witty.” Asher covered his eyes by dramatically laying his arm across his face, “One of them I am most interested in. I believe it is Darya.”

“Does she have a shell braided Into her hair?”

Asher nodded at his sister's question, “She's.. she's just stunning. Inside and out. I may be in love."

Tamlin hid a smile as he reached into Taryn's woven basket filled with fruit and stole an apple. Asher continued telling Taryn his woes before sighing. "I wrote a new poem for her," he whispered with an air of insecurity. "I just.. wish she would respond some way, any way really.

He stood and then reached down to grab each basket, “I'll take these home. I.. I'm going to try just her. Maybe that will help?" He looked to his sister and father for some reassurance.

Taryn nodded, “I like that idea.”

“I think she's special.”

“Then she is,” Tamlin answered simply. “Go. I'll take care of Taryn.” Asher nodded, disappearing in the same gate his mother had opened.

Silence fell between the two on the blanket. The air was thick and heavy, a contrast to the brightness of his daughter's garden, to the smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes.

“You may hold me.”

4 words. 4 soft words. Spoken with hesitation, anger, grief, fear.

Yet they opened a floodgate as a father pulled his daughter to him, the process beginning again as the sunset behind them.

Tamlin knew his goal as he took him the scent of strawberries lingering in her blonde hair.

Board by board. Brick by brick. Nail by nail. He was going to rebuild his family. Even if doing so hurt him in the process.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

And my fellow Tamlin girlies:

@nocasdatsgay @pit-and-the-pen

#elizabeths.updates #send asks #acotar #acotar x oc #tamlin acotar #tamlin x rhysands sister #tamlin x oc #high lord tamlin #high lord of spring #tamlin #tamlin x Rhysand's sister oc

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huramuna · 8 months ago

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even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

story playlist

It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums.

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off.

How long has it been?

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human.

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have?

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall?

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes.

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here.

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer…

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears.

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you.

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell…

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by.

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now.

It all felt like a very bad dream.

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you.

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry.

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing.

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip.

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again.

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations.

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling.

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated.

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer.

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew.

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was?

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body.

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken.

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones.

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you.

What were you trying to remember?

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin…

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath.

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.”

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead.

You wish you were.

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys.

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb.

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out.

You should have listened to Alys.

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords.

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up.

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so…

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose…

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fic #aemond fanfic #aemond smut #dark aemond smut #dark aemond angst #my writing #even in undeath #hotd au

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