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yandere-sins · 4 months ago

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Monstober - Day 5: Naga/Lamia [Elemental Sacrifices Part 1/4]

I am fashionably late and since this story was supposed to come out on my birthday I switched the prompts since we all know Nagas are my roman empire, hehe >:3

Also this is part 1 of 4 of a little mini-series happening in this Monstober Challenge, and I will lovingly call it the Elemental Sacrifices. I know we already had a sacrifice before, but what if—hear me out—we have 4 more? Yes, I thought that was a good idea too, glad we agree :D

(They are not much related aside from the concept, but they are in the same universe, so maybe there's some potential for future ideas! :D)

Prompt: Day 6: Naga/Lamia | Scales // Wrapping around // Poisonous Warnings: Yandere, AFAB!Reader, Sexual Actions (Dub-Con, Use of Aphrodisiac, Drinking said Aphrodisiac and getting it stabbed into your arm, Deep Kissing, Accidentally cutting your own tongue, Fingering), Violence (Biting with fangs, Description of (meager) fighting, Cutting the enemy, Blood mention), Monsters + Descriptions of Monsters, Light self-degradation, Long Post

The tradition had always existed.

From the moment you were born, you were told about the sacrifices made to the four gods, which took place twice a century. The four tribes would unite in peace and unity for this month of reverence, choosing their sacrifices carefully and laying down their weapons to organize and strategize the ceremonies so that no god would feel aggrieved. It was a wonder that people that worshipped different things, lived by different means, and usually clashed like hot and cold, light and shadow, could work together meaningfully to pay their respects, assure that everyone would continue to be in the favor of the different gods that roamed the lands you lived on.

And yet, somehow, it had always worked out.

"There, almost done," your mother mumbled, curling your still-damp hair around her finger so it would frame your face. You clenched your fists in your lap as you sat in front of the mirror, unable to even look at yourself without retching. 20 years ago, when you were told the stories for the first time, no one had assumed you'd be the one to be sacrificed in the next ceremony. No one informed you that your days were numbered, your purpose to be nothing but monster fodder.

Because that's what they were, monsters, nothing more, nothing less.

A two-headed snake, an ancient tree, a tentacled beast, and a fire-spewing reptile with wings—those were the four monsters you and the other tribes worshipped with offerings and sacrifices. All your life, you practiced the mindful handling of the teachings, learning how to hunt, fight, and serve your god. But even so, just because you were born the child of the leader, you were going to be discarded by your own people, and your hatred was as fiery as the vulcanos that surrounded your homeland.

"I heard the water tribe sends their most wonderful singer this year, too."

It was a frail attempt at small talk, and you couldn't care less about how pleased your mother sounded as she told you about the other sacrifices. The other poor souls that probably wanted nothing more than to run away about now. You had hidden your tears very well with your head hung low, but you couldn't imagine the other sacrifices felt any less miserable as you did.

You had plans for the future, plans that involved leading this tribe and creating a family sometime. Maybe participate in a war with the other tribes and show off the prowess of the fire tribe leader's oldest child. It was in the nature of your people to be strong and powerful, as was the exceptional artistry of the water people.

"And the earthclan sends another one of their scholars. I don't understand why they think the nature gods would like all these people hiding with their noses in their books, but I'm sure they have their reason for choosing them. Oh, but the wind people are also sending their ruler's child, just like you!"

A tone of pride swung in her voice as she continued arranging vividly red flowers like a crown in your head, pulling at strands of your hair to wrap them into the stems so they'd hold. "And yet, you'll make the prettiest sacrifice of them all. You'll make us all so proud!"

Inside of you, a war broke loose. A war you knew you couldn't win as you knelt on the floor of your childhood home, the place you always thought safest in all of the lands, yet it was no longer the place you'd return to after this expedition. All your good deeds and all your achievements were for naught because when the announcement was sent out that the sacrifice was going to be held that year, it ended your life instantly.

A part of you knew it could happen. Although you never wished this fate on anyone, you had always hoped for a sibling, born or adopted into your family, that could take this responsibility from you ever since you learned of it. Other tribes voted. They chose by luck or by skill at the time of sacrifice. But not yours. Yours had traditions, which meant the leader's strongest family member would go to the gods and ask for their blessings. Get eaten in exchange for a promise of safety and prosperity that the monsters could easily break on a whim. Returning would mean the blessing failed, so that wasn't an option. If you couldn't appease them alive, you would do it with your death. The ultimate sacrifice.

"Now, you're perfect. Look at you, my pretty child."

Pushing her fingertips into the underside of your jaw, your mother forced you to look up into the mirrors. Tears tumbled from your eyes as your head snapped upwards to avoid the discomfort of her nagging touch, and you watched her expression fall in her reflection. Not from sorrow, mind you, but anger.

"This is your duty," she reminded you. "Now that you have grown up and proved your worth, you should feel honored to be chosen."

You bit your tongue, swallowing the disrespect you wanted to voice. You couldn't care less about the sacrifice, about gaining the ire of some monster that some old people had decided to worship. About your mother's opinion or that of anyone else!

Deep inside you, you were afraid. Fear, first and foremost, had always been your teacher. It showed you the boundaries of your abilities and pushed you to perform deeds beyond your capabilities in times of need. It wasn't something to be ashamed of or scolded for; it was natural and normal.

But right behind it was anger. Anger at this tradition, anger at your family, and anger at the monsters for demanding lives in exchange for peace. Gods they called themselves, but there was nothing godly about how they conducted their demands. They were cowards with a taste for human blood, and instead of fighting and being slain by those humans, they demanded sacrifices to satisfy their hunger.

And there was nothing you could do to save yourself.

If you rebelled, you'd be dragged out by your limbs and hair, even if that destroyed the work they put into prettying you up. Who needed to be pretty when they'd be eaten alive? Still, as a warrior at heart, you couldn't imagine a greater shame than to force your friends to bring you to that dreadful sacrificial space, even if they might think it was for the greater good. If you had to go out, you wanted to do so with your head held high, no matter how foolish that pride of yours was. It was better than to put your unfair death entirely into the hands of others.

If you were going to be a martyr, then you'd at least die fighting until your last breath.

---

"That's far enough," you announced, coming to a halt at the edge of the lush green forest you used to hunt in. Before you, vulcanic stone spread in dark hues as far as you could see. Ash filled the air, mixed with the taste of metal and fire. Nothing grew on the stone ground, it was as welcoming as a death threat. Veins of red broke through the stone, leading to pools of lava that was cooking beneath the stone surface, the air simmering from the heat that immediately greeted you, coating your skin in a sheen of sweat. Once you had found the duality of this place beautiful. Now you dreaded it, hands curled into fists as you took slow, steady breaths to calm yourself.

"I wish to face the gods myself."

"Go forth then. Make us proud," your father expressed, resting his hand on your shoulder. A simple squeeze was all you got, and much like your mother who hugged you before your departure, their gestures were too brief to be any comfort. You wondered how they could have possibly come to terms so quickly with losing their own child when you, the one to be sacrificed, were struggling with your fear and pride.

Every step on the hot floor was like a stab of a knife in your back. The hunting party that had accompanied you watched as you continued your journey towards the sacrificial space the ancestors had created, their gazes like whips that spurred you on. But they didn't linger. Since they didn't have to tie you down on the altar, they had no reason to watch the gruesome death of their own kind, knowing that either way, you weren't going to return. You knew the way back to your village like the inside of your pocket, years of roaming the jungles teaching you how to go home. But they'd kill you before you cursed the village with your failure to be sacrificed. Merciless, cold. You were no longer a part of them. You were a meager part of the tradition now.

However, the way to the altar was actually more of a challenge than going home. You had only been there once as a child, laying flowers down for your uncle, who had been the last sacrifice years before your birth. Your father may have called him your uncle, but it turned out he was an adopted orphan who ended up paying for his dedication to your family much later. Your father seemed unsympathetic towards him, but it dawned on you that he must have never been close to this brother of his, probably knowing the fate that awaited him.

You never knew your uncle, but back then, you had been proud of him, too.

That day was also the first time your father explained the traditions and the importance of keeping them up. How much honor it brought to your family and how many lives it saved to lose one person. You wondered why, after he taught you so many skills, worked so hard to make you a respected member of your tribe, and loved you like a father would, he could so easily send you to your death. But it slowly dawned on you what kind of person your father was. One that didn't truly cared for his "family", only for his own pride and gains. And you had been so easily fooled as to believe him all this time.

It took you much longer than you remembered, but eventually, you reached the grounds your ancestors had created for this spectacle. It was close to the foot of the volcano, an altar erected from the stone sprouting from the ground with nothing else present in this wasteland. The heat had increased substantially over time, every breath burning in your lungs, your eyes dry, and your feet chafed from walking over the smoldering stone for so long. Dread was no longer a constant companion as acceptance slowly crept into your mind. You had seen the bones of many humans on the way to this place. Apparently, not everyone had been so lucky to have made it this far, either the environment or the monster killing them before they reached the altar. Or maybe themselves, now that you thought about it.

The sight of the raised altar forced a shuddering breath out of your lungs, the stinging sensation barely enough to distract you from the blaring truth. You were going to die. One way or another, you would. Touching the side of your leg, you felt the leather holster beneath your dress. The dagger you sneaked would probably not be enough to kill the monster, if there ever was one. Still, if you could inflict some damage to it, perhaps your tribe would one day snap out of the trance that it was this immortal threat that your ancestors appeased by offering their own children to it. Maybe they'd see the wounds and realize they didn't have to cower in fear of it, and thus, maybe your sacrifice would not be in vain.

Brushing your hand over the warm stone, you felt an untypical cold shudder run down your spine, knowing it was meant to be your deathbed. You wondered how many before you had laid here, waiting for the monster to come. How many had prayed, hoped, and begged to be saved, and how many had fought and struggled like you were going to. Following in their footsteps now, you knew they did what they thought was their best. That was the greatest honor you could bestow on them.

You hoisted yourself up, struggling to climb on top of the massive stone slab, before you sat close to the edge and stretched out your legs, feeling the burned and chafed soles of your feet crack as they finally got some rest. Hissing, you were confronted with the pain, yet you only sighed, swiping your hands over your face to free you of the sweat that was desperately trying to cool you down. Even if you were used to the warmer temperature of your home, it was nothing against the volcanic heat, and you almost admired it for burning for so long, never bothered by anyone. The air was as heavy as your soul felt, trapped in your body and scared to the heavens.

Imagining the snake did very little to soothe your mind, but you still tried to prepare for the shock its sight undoubtedly would be. You imagined a snake as tall as a building, with two heads splitting apart at one end. Heads with sharp fangs and venom dripping out of their mouths, eyes that ate you up before their maw even got close to you. It would slither over the ground, nimble, avoiding the lava pools, but too large to hide behind the wasteland it reigned over. Bloodlust urging it on as it smelled the sweet fragrance of the flowers on your head, which were delighted to bloom in the warm temperatures. A green tail? Brown? Perhaps a little of both? Maybe its scales were dark red like all the blood it drank from the sacrifices.

"Look at that, they do sacrifice their own kind."

Deep in thought, the heat probably having gone to your head, you hadn't noticed the chafing sound that slithered closer from behind. Only when someone suddenly spoke did your mind alert you of the danger, and you jumped down from the altar, swiftly spinning around and bracing yourself. One hand hovered over your dagger beneath your dress, and the other arm stayed defensively in front of you. With the distance you managed to jump and the massive altar separating you from the monster, you were at a surprising advantage, and it felt good to have the upper hand.

Your eyes widened at the sight of two men standing behind the altar, one of them leaning down on the stone surface right next to where you had sat. In contrast, the other stood straight with his arms behind his back, but both watched you with burning intensity. Immediately, you noticed their similar appearances, the light grey hair falling from their heads, bound by braids, and still with countless strands falling over their exposed chests. Their eyes were like marbles, reflecting the different colors of the area in them, elongated pupils slightly vibrating as they fixated over and over on you. But what really put you off was their size. Their legs must have been easily as tall as the altar, and that was no size a normal human should have had.

"Mother never told us sacrifices were this cute."

The man leaning on the table rolled over on his side, his hair splaying all over the altar in waves. And yet, even while moving, his gaze never trailed off—but yours did. You let out a horrified gasp as the scaled tail of a snake buckled and arched to accommodate the man's movements, and with a surprised jolt, he reared upwards, exposing even more of the tail that started at his hips.

A moment of silence washed over you three, and you felt incredibly exposed and stared down by two pairs of eyes as if they were pinning you into place. Willing you to not move a muscle, to be eaten without putting up a fight. No one said anything before the startled man laughed out loudly, shaking his head and holding his belly before slapping his free hand attention-seekingly against his companion's arm.

"That scared me," he chuckled. "I've never heard that kind of sound before."

The other man let out a hum of agreement, nodding his head before looking back at you. You were at a clear disadvantage, unsure where to look first and who to focus on, as you were outnumbered by the two. The one that kept talking was smaller than the other, although this could have been the heat playing tricks on you. Both were muscular, but he was less refined than his almost-twin. You wagered you could take him on if there wasn't a scaley tail winding from his hips. That would be additional weight you couldn't topple, no matter how much you playfighted the other hunters and warriors of your tribe, which sometimes outdid you in terms of weight and size.

The quieter one, on the other hand, had the typical looks of a working man in the village: big arms coming from a strong back and toned muscles that the woman would drool over, while the other seemed fit and nimble. But your eyes unwillingly focused on the tail as the two scaled the altar, moving forward oddly in sync until it became clear why.

Their two strands of tails flowed together between them into one massive one.

It was mesmerizing, you had to admit, the scales an iridescent white. But whenever the tail moved, it took on the hues of the land, grey and red, only to return to their original color as it wound itself. You were awestruck and panicked at the same time, as the tail seemed to be neverending, wrapping around the altar, finding hold on the stony ground that even your feet struggled with. Fear filled you as you watched their slithering movements, the mistake in your thinking now glaringly clear: The monster existed, and it had come for you.

"Y-You're the monster!" you screamed, and the smaller one of the two scrunched up his nose, taking offense. The white scales swept over the altar, landing in the space between you and the stone with a heavy thud. His body was barely shaken by the impact, so perfectly in balance with itself despite their unnatural split into two different entities, and the seriousness of the situation rained down on you like their sharp gazes as you realized there would be no chance of you overpowering either of them.

Even with their connection, they spread out too far to reach both simultaneously. They could still move independently, even if their range was limited to what their body could give. But even without them rearing up on the tail, they were almost two heads taller than you were. They knew their body better than anyone, and you didn't doubt they had some tricks up their non-existing sleeves to best you.

Biting your lip, you finally slipped your hand beneath your dress, never letting the monster—monsters—out of your sight. To your surprise, you watched their gazes slip to where you raised the fabric, observing you with curious intention, their split tongues slipping out from their lips, tasting the air as they ogled at your exposed thigh.

Your hand curled around the grip of your dagger, and the moment you pulled it from its holster, the snakes lept forward. There was no time to be proud of yourself, but your reaction was immaculate. You jumped back just in time to avert the nimble one's grabby hands, even drawing blood as your blade slit open the skin between his thumb and pointer finger.

However, as fast as you dealt with one of the snakes, you couldn't recover quickly enough to avoid the second pair of hands. Much like you anticipated, their range was too extensive to fight both of them at once, and although you ducked beneath one hand of the stronger monster, his second hand latched on, right in your hair. You watched as the red petals of the flower crown loosened and swayed in the air like a sad veil of defeat.

Your head was yanked back, and you acted quickly, directing the knife towards the unprotected free shoulder, somewhere that would hurt. Somewhere that would leave a visible scar and show everyone that these monsters could be injured. But a bloody grip around your wrist prevented you from pushing the dagger into the creature's partially scaled bodies, your hopes crumbling into ash.

"You good?" the more muscular man asked, and the other clicked his tongue in annoyance while you flailed and struggled in their grip. Your free hand was useless as you couldn't even reach forward enough, and so were your legs as you stood on your tiptoes while they yanked you around.

The latter lifted the hand that was holding your wrist to his mouth, licking up the blood that spilled from the cut on his as he maintained eye contact. You bared your teeth in both pain and defiance, not showing any of the miserable fear and panic you felt inside. You didn't manage to do what you came here for, and you felt the power surging through their bodies just from their hands on you. The failure gnawed at your determination, the fight as good as lost.

"We're not monsters," he hissed, glowering at you, although it looked more like a pout. "But you sure are quick on your feet."

Their comments should not have caused your heart to swell with pride, but hearing it from the monster you swore to hurt in exchange for your life did feel good.

"Surely you wish you'd have gotten an easier meal, monster! But I won't go down until I have shown everyone that you can be wounded and defeated! That you will bleed if the people unite! There will be no more sacrifices once they've seen what I did to you!"

"We're not monsters!" they repeated in unison before exchanging a brief glance with each other.

"Well, I won't call you god and beg for your mercy!" you spat, and the lips of the snake with your hand in his grip curled into a grin.

"Are you sure about that?"

With his blood coating your hand, he raised it way over your head, causing you to gasp as your whole body strained to accommodate the movement. His hand slipped upwards, a few fingers holding you in place, while some snaked between your palm and the knife in your grasp, prying your hold from it inch by inch. You let out a soft whine as the leather grip was torn from you and watched the metal clatter to the ground.

But you didn't have the time to mourn the loss of your only weapon, not when your arm was bent backward. Immediately, your free hand shot up, trying to dig your nails into the fingers wrapped around your wrist still.

That was your greatest mistake. With his free hand, the quiet monster immediately reached for both of yours, wrapping them in his palm as quickly as their tail could around your body.

You were kept on your tiptoes as you felt the scales of said tail slither over your skin. Creeping beneath your soles and running up your ankles, squeezing the flesh of your shins firmly together before wrapping around each thigh individually. You kicked and squirmed, but their tail was almost as unrelenting as their hands, and you involuntarily winced as your wrists were squeezed together as if tied by a rope.

"It's true we are not the monster you're trying to defeat," the leaner one claimed again, licking his wound like an injured animal.

"That's our mother," his brother explained curtly, and your head whirled around to him, the questions etched into your face.

"Look at us; we're only half the snake she is."

With an exasperated huff, you looked back and forth between the two, reeling at the revelation. "That's not possible! You... you are a snake with two heads. It's exactly as it's told in our stories!"

"They're not wrong..."

"I mean, she is a literal snake with two heads. And she's gigantic. You should be glad she didn't find you first, or you'd be even less than a small snack for her."

"And our dad is human. Like you."

You must have looked rightfully befuddled as the two went back and forth on their explanation, but once they were done, you could only gulp, unsure what to make of the situation. "So... you're not the monster that demands sacrifices?"

"No."

"Not really."

"Then..." It was hard to form the words that zapped through your mind, your mouth suddenly feeling dry again as the adrenaline sifted from your blood flow. Nothing could rationalize this situation, and you were still strung up by their hands and tail. This almost felt too good to be true, so you had to take your chance as long as you could. "You'll let me go?"

A moment of silence hung over all three of your heads before the brothers slowly ripped their gazes off you to exchange sly smirks. You wobbled as their body—and by extension, yours—set into motion, slithering back to the altar until you were sat down, your back forced to rest on the stone like a lamb to slaughter, hands hanging over the edge above your head and legs still wrapped by their tail.

"Oh, you can't just leave," the lean one purred, coming up from below you and planting his clawed hands firmly on either side of your arms. "The nights get so cold, and the days are so lonely with our mom busy occupying our dad. She never lets us play with him or come back to our home. Won't you keep us company for a while longer? I'm sure you can teach us some things, and we can teach you."

The other settled on the opposite side, still holding your hands in place as he grunted in agreement. You felt the bile rise in your throat as one touch slipped below your line of sight, claw-like nails raking up your thigh and moving beneath your dress. Their intentions got more apparent as the fabric was gripped from above, too, slowly, sensually raising over your skin until the hip strap of your underwear was revealed.

In a last-ditch effort, you tried to struggle once more, legs tugging upwards and kicking at the ever-winding tail while your hands twisted in their hold, causing it to crush down onto your bones even more. That wasn't how you wanted to go down; it wasn't the fight to death you thought you'd have!

"End me, then. Get it over with," you yelled out, laying your head to the side and closing your eyes, the reality too hard to face. Sooner or later, you'd die anyway, and if this were the things you'd have to endure, you'd rather be dead. It wasn't the kind of sacrifice you wanted to be, one defiled and molested before you'd be killed, so you'd rather be dead than witness it.

"Hush now," someone murmured, and you felt a hand sweep underneath your chin, turning your head forward again before tugging it up and over the altar's edge. Your eyes snapped open as your instincts kicked in, but as you opened your mouth to scream, it was quickly covered by another.

A tongue slipped between your opened lips before you could close them, slashing around inside harshly and clogging your throat. There was too much to take, and you gulped down the wetness it brought, sloshing it everywhere to the point it dripped from your lips, running down your face that immediately heated up beneath the fluid. It tasted sweet and even when you wanted to stop, you couldn't, gulping down all that was given to you.

Your body began to relax while you felt a hand drive down the front of your torso, brushing an entire palm over your breast and getting stuck on your nipple. You jolted, a pang of electricity flying to your head and down your spine, your back arching as you couldn't understand what was going on anymore. You had never felt this sensitive before, and as the hand continued to roam from one side to the other, finding the budding nip beneath your dress and twisting it, you let out an unholy moan into the mouth of the monster, your own tongue lashing upwards until it got caught on a sharp fang. Despite not feeling it, you were pretty sure your tongue was ripped open, but even more of the sweet-tasting, addictive stuff dripped from the fang, gushing into your mouth. You gobbled it up, considering you had nothing to drink throughout your journey, and your mind was not getting enough of the taste.

"Considering how quickly you got hooked on our mating fluids, I'd not be surprised if you do end up calling us gods when we're done with you."

You barely heard the voice of the curious onlooker beyond your line of sight, your mind wholly crazed by the liquid that coated all of your mouth and senses. It took almost more work to extract the monster's tongue from your throat than it had putting it inside. Your head followed it upwards, unwilling to part while the drool kept dripping down onto your face.

As you were freed of the kiss, a shameful, miserable sigh of disappointment escaped you, and you barely regained the ability to reply, "Never," in response to what the snake had said. That caused both of them to chuckle, and the sound sent a core-clenching, spine-tingling warmth throughout your body. Your lips quivering as your mind begged for more of that deep rumble cursing through their bodies.

"We'll see about that," the monster from below mumbled as he raked his claws over your thigh. Immediately, you were jolting upwards in their hold, caught between pain and pleasure as he lightly scabbed your skin. It was a small revenge for his own wound, and the scratches burned deliciously as they welcomed the hot air all around you two. "You're already so wet for us."

"It's called sweat," you mewled defiantly, the sound of your voice not befitting your sarcasm. You clenched your legs together, but it was a vain effort with the tail still stuck above your knees, easily prying them open by driving upwards. The scales rubbing over your skin didn't help your misery at all, and you wanted to throw your head against a solid wall with how dizzy and needy you felt. It wasn't you on that altar, but a very distorted version of you, one that wanted to be fucked silly even though what you really wanted was a good fight.

The two laughed at your comment, and you moaned in annoyance at the electricity that sapped through you at the sound of their voices. Your head fell back over the edge, and you came face to face with the more muscular one of the brothers as he lowered himself to your eye level. His eyes raked over your face, then up to your exposed neck just waiting to be bit.

"You're so cute," he mumbled, split tongue darting out again, tasting the air. Your pussy clenched as you wished for that tongue back in your throat or, even better, caressing your quivering folds below that were begging for something to fill their loneliness. The experience was new to you, as you had never wanted intimacy like this with anyone before. You had been so focused on your goals and diligently upholding your parents' rules and traditions that you never craved anyone, but especially not these two beasts.

"I'm not cute," you mewled, closing your eyes and biting your lips as you felt the sharp claws hover above your abdomen, gently stroking the skin below your navel from side to side, your core clenching even harder with pure, undiluted desire. But when the fingers slipped beneath the rim of your underwear, you moaned as you expected them to dip into the wet mess that lay just beneath, the expectation almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh, yeah?" the snake-man grinned, and you felt one finger press into your slit, your folds welcoming it warmly and with a shudder going through your body. You quaked in pleasure, eyes blown wide open, and the two fangs of the monster were all more prevalent as his lips split into a toothy smile. "So cute," he doubled down, pulling your arms taut until your body stretched to the last of its capabilities.

With his lips gently brushing against your forearm, you were wholly unprepared for the sharp pain as he dug his fangs deep into your skin. But the shriek quickly turned into a moan, your hips grinding against the finger probing at your entrance as more of the aphrodisiac went straight into your bloodstream. You watched the dark fluid drip off your arm, causing even more heat to spread where it flowed, and you were mercilessly whining as you couldn't move your hips nearly enough to satisfy your needs.

"Please," you snapped upwards, staring at the creature settled on top of the altar next to you, leisurely rubbing his hand along your pussy.

"There goes the begging," he reminded you, and you bit your lip to the point of hurting yourself.

Fuck, that wasn't what you wanted to say. It wasn't how you wanted to die, you never intended to let it get this far. Pathetic, pathetic, absolutely pathetic. You were a fucking warrior, you fought threats and hunted prey, you were not going to surrender to them—

"Fuck!" you gasped out loud this time as one digit slipped inside you. You felt it hook inside your pussy, slowly dragging out despite being clung to firmly by your insides. All the faster did he push it inside again, every joint that buried inside you made you arch your back and rejoice. You nearly avoided being scratched open inside, purely by how slick your pussy and his hand were by now, more fluids gushing out as he pulled his finger from you again and again.

Simultaneously, another digit curled down, fondling the heated folds until it pressed down on your clit, forcing a mewl from you. Fangs tore out of your skin, but you barely noticed as the two fingers united, taking up more space inside of you and scissoring your walls apart until you felt your pussy gaping and drooling obscenely.

"I'll not... submit," you stammered between bated breaths. "I'll not... be your plaything."

"And we wouldn't want it any other way," they chimed in unison, exchanging a satisfied glance before grinning.

"Mom always said to look out for the feisty ones."

"We just didn't think you'd come to meet us so soon."

"Or that you'd be this fun to play with."

Your whole body shuddered as both fingers were pulled out of your terribly needy hole. Your breath was almost non-existent, the lack of air only stimulating you more as you heard the sloppy sounds of your wet pussy letting go of the monster's fingers. A hand slipped beneath your head, helping you to hold it up as you watched the leaner brother lifting his pointer and middle finger to his face, split tongue lapping out to taste your slick pulling strings in the gaps while maintaining eye contact with you all throughout it.

"They're perfect," he purred as he looked up, stretching his arm towards his brother, who leaned forward to have his taste of you from his brother's fingers.

"Damn, that's sweet," he commented too on your fluids, licking them from his lips as he looked down at you in a mix of surprise and awe.

"And so pretty, too."

You felt their eyes in the same way their claws had raked over your body. Hungrily, with the intention to harm you. And yet, your hole kept gaping, needing more stimulation, wanting more. You were the pitiful prey you kept denying you were, but it seemed that in their eyes, you were so much more than that.

"Our little fighter," the one at your side murmured, stretching upwards to hover beside your face.

"Are you not even finishing what you started?" you spit, your venom not nearly as effective when your voice sounded as if you were drugged and disgruntled.

"Oh, I will, little fighter. We're going to make sure you can take us before spreading you on our cocks and make you cry out in pleasure until you call us "god". But before that, you have to be good and let us take you to our nest. Bonding will take so much time, and you are much too vulnerable out here."

"Fuck you," you grunted, trying to elbow him, but your arm barely moved.

"Keep it up," he grinned. "Wouldn't want you to give up too easily. Breaking you in is part of the fun."

"You're a fucking monster after all."

The snakes hummed thoughtfully as you were finally pulled off the table. Instead of being dragged by your arms or wrapped in their tail, however, you were slung over the bigger brother's shoulder, feeling his hand immediately settle beneath your asscheek, not so subtly poking at your pussy with his claw.

"Let me go!" you demanded weakly, your sore hands pounding pitifully into his shoulder.

"And miss out on all this fun? I don't think so," the leaner brother answered.

"Mother told us you can't go back anyway," the one carrying you added, throwing salt into the wound. They were right, but that didn't mean you'd go down so easily, even if your legs were still quivering and your head throbbing with need. "They'll kill you on sight, won't they? And then they'll return you to the altar so we can eat you."

A hand clasped around your jaw, claws digging into your cheeks as your head was lifted to face the leaner brother. "You know we prefer a different taste," he grinned, and you felt your anger rise again together with the shame of his implication. Collecting your saliva and some of the residues of the aphrodisiac, you spit them into his face, not caring whatsoever what that meant for you.

The snake-man scrunched up his face, quickly wiping it away. "Save your drool," he snarled, and you grinned victoriously despite the clasp he held your face in.

But as if on cue, a large palm flattened against your ass, and you jolted forward on the shoulder, eyes blown wide open as you gasped. You couldn't believe it as the wave of pleasure finally crashed into your rockfest resolution, your toes curling upwards and your eyes rolled back, your orgasm hitting you harder than even the slap had.

"Oh, god," you whispered breathlessly while riding the high of pleasure and shame as you felt your juices leaking even through your panties, dripping and running down the body of the other stronger brother.

"Seems like you finally get it, sacrifice," the guy in front of you noted, brushing his thumb over your lips, which opened automatically to his beckoning.

"Let's go, brother," he urged. "Seems our little fighter needs just a bit more convincing as to why they'll love being ours. I can't wait to make their belly swell with our clutch, just like Mother has always told us."

"We're lucky we found a mate so quickly," the other agreed, and you let out a defeated huff, no more words to counter them with coming to your dazed thoughts.

Their tail set into motion, scales slithering over stone, while your mind drifted off, the aphrodisiac having too much of a hold on your conscience for you to be rid of it quickly. You were going to be taken by the monsters, and if you thought you were helpless before, your body now barely felt like it belonged to you. It was as if you weren't its master anymore, but that drug and those snakes were. You could only shiver, even though the air was getting hotter the closer you three got to the volcano, wondering if you at least fulfilled your duty as a sacrifice.

And when that duty would finally end.

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togglesbloggle · 12 days ago

Text

We're in the early hype cycle for Civ 7, which is all well and good- Civ is Civ, it's gonna be amazing and completely destroy large chunks of global productivity for a while. They're doing an unusually good job of targeting me in particular this time- the "build something you believe in" ad copy is one of those sentiments that has root access to my brain.

But anyway, sifting through the pre-release details has me thinking again about the... I guess you'd call it a 4x game still, but the game that part of me always wishes Civ was. I think a lot of people probably have a sort of personal 'Civ Prime' in their heads, actually, the secret changes they'd make if it was 'their' game. My own Civ Prime goes like this:

Actually-existing Civ always takes the stance that cultures create persons; you build a settler, send it off to some promising river valley, and plonk down a town. The glorious leader then directs the citizens to harvest and cultivate the fertile land around them, and surpluses of food allow the population to grow.

As a corollary, the map in actually-existing Civ starts out nearly empty; aside from a few barbarian camps and city states (or in Civ 7, the 'independent settlements'), the area outside your borders is in a pristine state of nature. And that's all well and good for game purposes, but in "my" Civ I'd reverse this entirely: civilization, not as some supra-human entity that creates and defines humans, but as a narrative that structures their identities and guides their values.

Consider a hex map of the usual sort, but the yields per tile are the local surplus, that is, the amount that tax collectors can extract from the people indigenous to that location without killing them. You begin play at the dawn of agriculture, as a leader/stationary bandit with enough military support and personal legitimacy to enforce those taxes, funnel the surplus towards a centralized urban center, and direct it towards military, priest, or artisan classes. Every hex is a conquest in miniature; at least at first, the size of your territory is directly downstream of your military strength.

That strength is tracked as "Might" or some such civ-wide stat, initially a strict function of how much wealth (that is, grain) that you feed in to it. This represents loosely organized, loyal bravi who are in your employ; they go to hexes you designate, dominate the locals, and render a tile 'productive'. In times of crisis, you can- very temporarily- initiate a levy to make these become traditional army units (and indeed this is the only source of such units, at first). As long as these exist, they are tremendously destructive to any hex they're on, friendly or otherwise, acting as a natural disaster that damages future tile yields for several turns; if every tile around them is already so damaged, they disband automatically. And of course these 'crystalized' forms of Might reduce the 'liquid' Might you have to control tiles, so lengthy wars will also see borders destabilize because you can no longer enforce order in the outer hexes.

But of course military strength isn't the only priority; grain (and later, currency, etc.) sent to the Artisan class allows you to slowly build permanent structures, which have their own bonuses as you'd expect. It's a time-horizon question; investment in Might is a larger immediate bonus, including higher revenues, but wealth spent on infrastructure accumulates.

This is also how you seed new urban areas: Artisans can build things like fortresses, temples, etc. (depending on the initial bonuses that you want) on rural hexes that are distant from existing cities, with tribute from hexes always flowing to the nearest such seed. That wealth in turn supports the new military, industrial, and cultural classes centered on that hex. This can also happen automatically in neutral territories; wherever there are large volumes of unclaimed surplus, NPC urban centers are liable to form at random and begin acting as your opponents.

You can also invest in "Culture," which in the early days generally means a priest caste. And this is where I get a bit clever.

Culture is an umbrella for anything that counts as "an idea", everything from religious formation, to technology, to philosophical ideas and organizing ideologies. There's a base track, mostly 'pure idea' stuff like mysticism and foundational concepts like writing and lawmaking; throw in a few unique ones for your chosen Civ identity (Egyptians get something about handling river flooding, whatever). And every point invested in Might and Artisan classes also helps unlock new ideas to be researched here; once you open those up, they can be researched here with Culture points. All contain some kind of advantage; new types of army units to levvy, new structures to build, higher yields or new types of resources to extract from the map- the usual.

The trick with culture unlocks is, they're not bonuses for you only. Ideas appear in the urban hex where they're researched, but they spread to adjacent hexes at some fixed rate, hopping from tile to tile and stopped only by uninhabited regions like mountain ranges or extreme deserts that don't have a high enough population- and following trade networks from city to city especially quickly. For example, "irrigation" would be an idea that greatly increases grain surpluses in every hex near a river, both for your territory and for neutral or even enemy hexes as it spreads.

As compensation, whenever your ideas spread to a hex, you gain a slowly-decaying bonus on that space called authority, which means that you require less military force to extract its surplus, and it's easier for you to contest the tile against another sovereign. This attenuates with distance from the originating point, but if you're investing in Culture at a good clip, the hexes immediately around your urban centers will be very cheap or even free to extract wealth from. If you're really booking it, hexes will spontaneously submit to you without ever being formally dominated. This creates an "imperial core" dynamic as the game matures, with your military might being concentrated in the provinces, and allows you to extend your reach much further than you otherwise would, extract wealth accordingly, and push yourself in to a virtuous feedback loop / golden age where you snowball outwards with both territorial gains and rapid intellectual progress.

The double-secret trick here is that authority decays; spreading ideas to a tile can only secure its loyalty for so long before they become the 'new normal'. With proper tuning, every civ's "golden age" period would last for a while, but then when it inevitably reached natural barriers or other obstacles, this would reverse into a death spiral. Absent further expansion, authority would begin decaying faster than it was gained, first in the outer provinces; military expansion would give way to managing a cascade of discontent and rebellions, which would further weaken the imperial core- and so on, unto dissolution.

The triple-secret trick is this: rural hexes are just hexes, but when a fully fledged city rebels against the sovereign empire, the player can declare the rebel city to be the 'true inheritor' of their legacy, and jump ship. In other words, you can take either side in a civil war. This switch triggers the legacy empire to become a more passive computer-controlled entity, and gives the emergent civilization a slew of cheap new ideas to promote, rapidly building their own authority- which of course has particular bonuses against their former overlords. Humankind and Civ 7 both implement an "Ages" system to simulate the rise and fall of civilizations over time, but this has the virtue of being a more organic/emergent property. Instead of artificially converting every Roman city in to the HRE in one fell swoop, the HRE emerges from the rotting carcass of Rome at a single point and carves out its own sovereignty by the sword.

And now you face an interesting dilemma while you play: authoritarian social policies like suppressing foreign ideas can secure the longevity of your empire for centuries longer than it might otherwise last, but you know that sooner or later, the empire you're now controlling will be your immediate opponent during a new phase of expansion. Permissive social policies and liberal attitudes to trade and ideas will make that rebirth go further, faster, than it otherwise would. So do you defend the power you have now? Or do you make yourself vulnerable to your own future?

#late game would see major changes to this dynamic #e.g. nationalism allowing you to convert indigenous locals into 'citizens' that are more permanently loyal #professional militaries that can be paid from coffers instead of pillaging hexes #and so on

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 7 months ago

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from the flames | b. blake

masterlist

summary: season three — to signify the newly recognised alliance between the sky people and the grounders, a celebration is held within polis’ market square. a bonfire, alcohol, and the bawdy pulsation of drums is a sure-fire recipe for a stimulating night. add a watchful bellamy blake and his dancing muse into the mix, and, well… i’ll show you the consequences of such a potent combination.

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because i’m short, deal with it <3

notes: i haven’t recently been watching the 100 so the timeline and characterisation may be a little off. also, ik this took me a long ass time, but i’m gonna try and make sure the next two parts come out a little quicker <3 i love y’all!

word count: 2.5k

“People of Kongeda and Skaikru, tonight we gather as one, united by a common purpose and a shared future of alliance. Before us, this bonfire symbolises more than just a flame; it is a beacon of hope, an opportunity to cleanse old grudges and pain that has divided us for far too long.

“Let this fire signify a new beginning and serve as a reminder that unity is not our weakness, but our strength. Let it be known that from this day, we join not as enemies, but as allies, and anyone set upon spilling the blood of our allies is spilling the blood of us all. Let it be known: Jus drein, jus daun!”

“Jus drein, jus daun!”

As much as Lexa’s words intended to inspire harmony, the crowd massed below the second-floor balcony of the dominating tower she resided on reacted in any way but. Fierce declarations of worship were cried out; large fists were pumped in celebration; and misty clouds of brew and saliva were sprayed into the tepid night air.

All was well, for the first time since we landed on Earth.

“Happy Unity Day,” I murmured to myself, taking a sip from the metal cup in my hand. I was standing on the outer edges of the unruly crowd of dark, rugged figures, who were surrounding an unlit wooden mountain and raving as it abruptly burst into vociferous flames.

The monstrous tepee of sticks was raging at the centre of Polis’ trading square, an open area bordered with stalls and operating food vendors that infused the air with a salivating meaty aroma. Glimmers of light chipped away into the familiar starry night above and an orange ambience was cast throughout the square, seeming to blaze beneath the skin of those who orbited the fire.

It was a somewhat perplexing scene: to be together as one people, celebratingratherthan being at war with one another.

A pensive mechanic stepped in beside me, eyeing the mixed crowd of Grounders and Sky People.

Raven folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t you think the fact that the Ark originally had thirteen stations and the coalition now has thirteen clans is kind of…”

“Unsettling?” I finished for her. “Yeah. Probably best not tell these guys the story of how Polaris got blown out of the sky. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”

“Polaris… Polis…” she continued contemplating. “Think there’s anything equally unsettling about that?”

I looked at Raven. She looked back at me.

I sucked in a sharp breath—“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation”—and tipped the harsh contents of my cup down my throat. The liquid was molten in both its ferocity and colour and was infused with some potent earthly spice; it was a blow to the stomach upon consumption.

“Is that such a good idea?” Raven asked, judging me as my head craned back to capture the last few drops of throat-scorching goodness. “I’m all for pouring a glass when the occasion calls for it, but these people have stomachs lined with steel—what do you think yours is made of?”

I grimaced at the taste. “You tell me. You’re the genius.”

The roll of her eyes was deafening. “I’m just saying, they’ve probably spent decades perfecting their drinks to suit them, to match their tolerances. I mean, even that human fountain over there couldn’t handle it.” She nodded towards a cluster of barrels where a titan of a man wearing armoured shoulder pads and breastplates was hunched over, violently emptying his stomach onto the cobbled ground.

I swallowed my own stomach at the sight.

“I just assumed you wanted to spend the night somewhat differently,” she said, a sweet undertone of provocation twisting her words.

My brows furrowed, and I turned to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her lips twitched at the corners—never a good sign.

The thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. Her unspoken words had already been circling my mind for days, weeks, months even, increasingly accumulating with both heat and fervour.

As ironic as it was, I think it’s fitting to compare my situation to that of a star’s formation.

There I was, a delinquent sitting stagnant in a cold nebula of misery in the Sky Box, parted from my family and friends, sent hurtling to Earth to die, only then to have my cold, miserable cloud intruded upon by a fiery presence, a head of tousled brown waves and a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes.

An awakener. An activator.

This intruder began filling my head with his words, his laughter, his brooding stare. The weight of his presence began to grow; thoughts of him consumed me. From the most surprisingly vulnerable conversations to even the tensest arguments, he had a heat inside me swirling and it was sweltering to unfathomable heights. It showed no signs of stopping.

Raven’s malevolent brown eyes were pointing plainly at something far behind me as if to answer my question. I knew what I would see even before turning around to look, but moronic as I was, I looked anyway.

Chin hovering over my shoulder, my eyes wandered through the scattered crowd of Grounders and Sky People alike that loitered the bonfire’s outskirts. There, sandwiched between Lincoln and an unoccupied trading stall, was a face that not only had my stomach contents lodged in my throat, but my heart as well.

Bellamy.

He was standing with his arms crossed, each one concealed beneath his distressed guard jacket. And although his stance screamed ‘Don’t talk to me,’ his face said otherwise. He and Lincoln were engaged in some high-spirited conversation, much unlike themselves (although the supply of drinks may have been to blame). Bellamy was speaking through one of his overconfident half-grins while alternating between gesturing to-and-fro with a single hand and tucking it back under his opposing bicep.

My chest was burning; the bonfire somehow must’ve seeped into my heart.

It should be stated here that when a nebula accumulates enough particles, it turns into a protostar—not a main sequence star like our sun, but something that holds the potential to be. At this point, the formation is at its most precarious. If a sufficient amount of mass is not acquired, the protostar will fail to stabilise and will cool into a brown dwarf, forever existing in the cold, lonely expansion of space as a reminder of what it could have been.

Bellamy’s head gravitated in my direction. Our eyes met through the asteroid belt of rugged figures between us. My breath caught in my throat, and I turned back around.

A reminder of what it could have been.

Sometimes I worry my insufficiency has damned me already.

“Oh, my god.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my god, Raven, why would you put me through that?”

“In the hopes that you’ll finally grow a pair and do something about it,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink to conceal her smirk.

“About what?” Now I was just being evasive.

She let out a frustrated huff and folded her arms over one another. Her countenance was a reflection of impatience: the raised eyebrows, the slight downward tilt of her head, the pursed lips. I almost laughed at her theatricality; then again, I almost cried because I didn’t want the reason behind it to be true.

I wanted Bellamy Blake.

The confession was boiling inside me; it was burning the tip of my tongue, and I knew I had to let it out to cool. And if the words were never spoken to him, then they at least had to be expressed to someone else, even if I never admitted them in the exactness I felt, for the exact words would be so heinous, so—hedonistic, that if anyone were to hear them, I’d be thrown into lock-up for the rest of my days.

“Fine, I guess I’m… attracted to Bellamy,” I spoke slowly, cringing at my own words. Raven’s face immediately lit up like an overzealous Christmas tree, her smugly curved lips parting to no doubt release an incongruous stew of condemnation and encouragement, which I stopped before it could even start. “Anattraction that I am not going to act on, Raven; our friendship is rocky enough as it is. I mean,” I scoffed, “have I even told how we first met? I held a pocketknife to his neck our second night on the ground because he threatened to pry off my wristband in my sleep. And he actually tried! You know that tiny scar he has on his cheek? That was from me!”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget how much of a self-righteous dick he was for a while there,” Raven mused. Her face then screwed with confusion. “Wait, how did you two even become friends? Because when I came down, you were at each other’s throats every single day over one thing or another, and then out of nowhere, it was as if the slate had been wiped clean.”

Ah.

The day the slate had been wiped clean.

A thick blurriness blanketed my vision as my mind withdrew from the present. You know when you get run down with some kind of sickness and your mind gets all scrambled and foggy? Like a fever dream? That’s what that day seemed like to me. Too many unimaginable things had happened, too many emotions and losses were felt, and I’d only shared them with one person before.

“You still there?”

My gaze flickered to Raven momentarily. She was staring at me, half with impatience, half with concern. “Just—” I raised my hand slightly in front of me “—give me a second.”

I inhaled. One, two, three. And I exhaled. Three, two, one.

A vulnerable creature of some sort nestled in my brain, softening the tone of my voice as I hesitantly began, “It was the, uh, the day the Exodus Ship crashed. My dad was on it,” I said, my last words barely audible. “Knowing that he was gone was one thing, but watching the ship crash? That messed me up for a good while.”

Raven, taken aback, muttered her apologies. I just shook my head in return. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the memory into the cobwebbed corners of my mind, and then continued, “Bellamy had found me in the woods that night. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. I think that seeing me in such a vulnerable state forced him to set aside his asshole-ry for a while because he actually managed to… comfort me.”

I remembered the tone of his voice, so shockingly gentle yet hardened in his trademarked sort of way as he reassured me endlessly that I would be okay. I remembered the warmth of his body as I lay crumpled and sobbing in his lap on the forest floor, clinging onto his arm as if it kept me from plummeting into a bottomless pit. I remembered his hands, swiping away the thousands of tears that streaked my face, the hair from my eyes.

I remembered our brief conversation as we walked back to camp: “I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” he had said, to which I whispered, “Thank you,” and after a short pause, he spoke again, “We all need someone sometimes. I know we don’t have the best history together but… I can be that someone if you ever need,” and then, once more, with an unwelcome flutter in my stomach, I whispered, “Thank you.”

A small, bittersweet smile lifted my lips. My voice sounded distant to my ears as I continued speaking. “We still nicked at each other here and there after that—that tension between us has never really disappeared—but there was also this new mutual understanding. And somewhere from mutual understanding came a rough-around-the-edges friendship, and then friendship turned into something else.” I paused to recollect my thoughts. “Well, for me, at least.”

Between the moment I started speaking to the moment I stopped, my gaze had wandered sheepishly to the toes of my boots. I felt so exposed, like the outer layers of my being had been cracked open to reveal a part of my soul to a girl I hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t drink often.

I stood awkwardly, waiting. The weight of my confession and vulnerability were looming above us.

Raven was quiet; she made no witty remark or tease. Her eyes had only softened with understanding, shifting back and forth as my words were mulled over in her brain. And it was only from her foreign silence that I realised what her next question could be: why don’t you just tell him?

I began, “I don’t want to ruin—"

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she finally interrupted, shaking her head as if to dismiss my unspoken sentiment. “The age-old ‘I don’t want to ruin what we have right now’. But what exactly is that?” Her eyes once again interrogated mine. “Because I’ll make it clear to you right now and say that what you two have is not just friendship. Come on. You and Bellamy?” She shifted her head to catch my drifting gaze. “Anyone with eyes can see something is there, but clearly, neither of you have a pair.”

Talk about tough love.

A harsh outflow of air exited my nose, and I pushed my hair back out of my face. Everything was much more complicated than I thought it was. Was I really as blind as Raven said? I would have already seen what she does if it were true, right? Did Bellamy really feel the same?

Am I drunk?

I glanced behind me once more, catching a glimpse of Bellamy tilting his head back to finish his drink, exposing the sculptured column of his neck. Heat flushed through my cheeks.

Christ. I couldn’t let this one go. There wasn’t a chance.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, still watching him.

An uproar of hoots and howls exploded throughout the square as the sound of drums and horns began to play, bringing my attention to the second-floor balcony of the Commander’s Tower where the noise floated down from. Drums pulsed with bawdy rhythm; horns bellowed with lewd backbone; a woman purred tribal vocalisations.

Bodies began swaying in disharmonious synchronisation around the bonfire, in pairs, in groups, individually. What tethered them was the raunchiness of their movements and the subtle carnality of their interactions with one another. I’d never seen anything like it; as I looked over at Raven and saw her similar intrigue, I knew she hadn’t either.

That was my mistake—to even acknowledge her in such a moment, especially after speaking about our previous topic. Her lips began stretching and stretching into a particularly wicked grin, and she turned to me. The devil was burning in her dark eyes.

Her answer to my question: “Give his eyes something to look at.”

part two

#bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake smut #bellamy blake fluff #bellamy blake imagine #bellamy blake fanfiction #the 100 #bob morley #bob morley smut #bellarke #bellamy blake x clarke griffin #wife of all dilfs ✍️#bellamyblake #raven reyes #bellarke fanfiction #bellamy blake x you

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cherubimcore · 2 months ago

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in another life

pairing: emperor caracalla x fem!reader

author's notes: so... i'm still in my brainrot era for caracalla and can't stop thinking about him, this is supposed to be a romeo and juliet based fanfic but i don't think that it's similar?? i tried, okay... also this is VERY occ for caracalla and there is probably some inconsistencies about ancient rome :)

warnings: character death

in the sprawling empire of rome, power was a fickle god, worshiped by many and feared by all. the twin emperors, caracalla and geta, ruled with an iron grip, their partnership fraught with rivalry and shadowed by whispers of rebellion. their reign was a delicate balance between ruthless control and the ever-looming threat of betrayal.

you arrived at the so-called capital of the world with your father, a king of a distant and prosperous kingdom that bordered this grandiose empire. rome had extended its hand in friendship to your land, offering an alliance that promised prosperity in exchange of the rich resources that they coveted. but beneath your father’s polished words and ceremonial offerings lay a darker purpose: he had aligned himself with the rebellious senators, promising aid in their scheme to assassinate the emperors.

as your father’s only child, you were raised to understand the intricacies of court politics. you were his crown jewel, the tool he wielded to charm, to negotiate, to manipulate. in the emperor’s court, you were not just his daughter—you were his weapon, his most valuable pawn in this dangerous game. raised to charm and manipulate, you knew your role well—to earn the emperors’ trust, particularly caracalla’s, and distract him long enough for your father’s plan to unfold.

your arrival was announced with all the pomp rome could muster. the imperial palace loomed above you, an oppressive monument to the power of the two brothers who sat on its throne. emperor caracalla and emperor geta greeted you in the grand atrium, their guards standing stiffly at attention.

geta spoke first, his smile cool and diplomatic. "we welcome you to rome. we hope this alliance will strengthen the bonds between our nations."

caracalla stood beside him, his gaze sharp and appraising as it rested on you. where geta greeted you and your father with the smooth diplomacy of a seasoned statesman, caracalla’s approach was raw, unfiltered.

"your daughter must be the jewel of your court," caracalla said, his eyes lingering on you. "tell me, princess, are you here to negotiate for your father or to keep us distracted with your beauty?"

his eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the noise of the palace faded into nothingness, a blush crept up your neck, but you met his gaze without flinching. "perhaps both, caesar. beauty has its uses, after all."

he smirked at your boldness, though something in his expression shifted—a flicker of interest, perhaps. it was the beginning of a dangerous dance, one you were unsure you could win.

your father laughed, the sound forced and hollow. "she is here to learn, caesar. to see the heart of the empire and to witness its greatness."

"and perhaps," geta interjected smoothly, "to see a future where our nations stand united."

the meeting was brief, a show for the gathered senators and nobles. but as you followed your father out of the hall, you felt caracalla’s gaze linger on you, heavy and unrelenting.

days turned to weeks, and you found yourself drawn into the web of roman politics and deeply intertwined with your father’s plan alongside the senate, your role in the plan was clear: earn caracalla’s trust, distract him, and keep him blind to the storm brewing around him. but the emperor was not an easy man to deceive.

caracalla was nothing like his brother. where geta was polished and calculating, but still easily manipulated by your father’s tactics and the promise of becoming more rich and powerful with the fake alliance, caracalla was unrestrained, he moved through the court like a lion in a cage waiting for an opening, a weakness to attack.

this was the man you had to win over.

but, despite your father’s warnings, you found yourself intrigued by him.

it all started the very next day.

the palace gardens were caracalla’s private sanctuary, a place rarely visited by anyone but the emperor himself. you had stumbled upon it by accident, your wandering taking you through a small, ivy-covered archway that led into the hidden oasis. the air smelled of blooming jasmine and freshly turned soil, and the sound of a trickling fountain filled the space.

you were admiring the garden when you heard a low voice behind you. “you’ve found my secret.”

startled, you turned to see caracalla standing just beyond the archway. he wasn’t wearing his usual armor or the heavy robes you saw him wearing the other day, but a simple tunic and sandals. the sight of him like this—relaxed, almost unguarded—caught you off guard.

“i didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quickly, scared of the outburst that you heard happening in the walls of the palace when emperor caracalla felt unease “i didn’t realize this was yours.”

he stepped forward, waving off your concern. “you don’t need to apologize.” his tone was light, but there was a faint amusement in his eyes.

you shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to leave or stay. “it’s… beautiful here. i wouldn’t have expected this from you.”

his lips curved into a small, sardonic smile. “because you think I’m incapable of appreciating beauty?”

“i think you spend so much time commanding armies, intimidating senators and watching fights in the colosseum that it’s hard to imagine you planting flowers,” you said boldly, surprising even yourself.

he chuckled—a low, warm sound that made your chest tighten. “fair. but even a tyrant needs a place to think.” he gestured for you to follow him deeper into the garden.

you hesitated, then complied, walking beside him as he led you to a stone bench beneath a towering olive tree. the fountain gurgled nearby, its water sparkling in the afternoon sun.

“you come here often?” you asked, glancing at him.

“when i can,” he admitted, sitting on the bench and gesturing for you to do the same. “this was my mother’s garden. she designed it herself.”

the mention of his mother softened his voice, and you sat down, intrigued by this side of him. “it’s lovely,” you said. “she must have been a remarkable woman.”

“she was,” he said quietly. for a moment, his usual bravado faded, leaving something raw and unguarded in its place. “she loved things that grew. said it was a reminder that life could flourish even in the harshest conditions.”

his words surprised you. this wasn’t the cruel emperor you had been warned about, the man whose name was spoken with fear and loathing in equal measure. this was someone else entirely—a son mourning his mother, a man seeking solace in a world that demanded so much from him, as a princess soon to be queen, you felt for him.

“i think she’d be proud of what you’ve done with it,” you said softly.

he glanced at you, his gaze searching. “and what about you, princess? what do you think?”

you hesitated, unsure if he was asking about the garden or himself. finally, you said, “i think there’s more to you than what people say.”

his expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “and if i told you i don’t know how much of that man is left?”

you looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not the monster your father had painted him to be but a man struggling beneath the weight of an empire. “then maybe you should spend more time here,” you said gently, gesturing to the garden. “it seems to bring out the best in you.”

he smiled then—a real smile, not the sardonic smirk or the calculated grin you had grown accustomed to. it was fleeting, but it made your heart skip all the same.

“perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice soft.

the two of you sat there for a while, the silence between you warm and unspoken, the garden wrapping you in its quiet embrace. and for the first time, you wondered if you had misjudged him entirely.

as weeks turned into months, your encounters with caracalla became more frequent and intimate. he shared stories of his childhood, of the relentless pressure to prove himself, while you offered glimpses of your own struggles—carefully omitting your father’s true intentions.

one afternoon, during a rare moment of peace, caracalla pulled you aside, leading you to a hidden alcove in the palace. “i want to show you something,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

he revealed a small pendant, its surface engraved with intricate patterns. “my mother gave this to me when i was a boy,” he explained. “she said it would protect me.”

“it’s beautiful,” you said, studying the craftsmanship.

he hesitated, then pressed the pendant into your palm. “i want you to have it.”

your breath caught. “i can’t take this. it’s yours.”

“i trust you with it,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “and… i trust you.”

the weight of his words left you speechless, and as he closed your fingers around the pendant, you realized that your heart had betrayed you entirely and you felt the first stirrings of guilt for the betrayal you were complicit in.

days passed and you hadn’t heard from either emperor caracalla or emperor geta, not even your father, who was starting to feel unease.

“what if they found out?” he would repeat to you pretty much every night after another day passed without hearing a word from the twins “did we underestimate them somehow? did the senate underestimate them?”

a part of you wanted that to be true, that both of the emperors discovered your father and the senate’s plans, even if that would mean your death, even if you would have to stare at caracalla’s eyes after you had betrayed him, you could do that as long as he didn’t die.

but then the gilded invitation arrived in the early hours of the day, you were already awake, anxious about your father’s anxiety, so you were the only one in the house to pick them up from the praetorian guard, after thanking the man and closing the door, you admired the letter’s ornate edges and wax seal marking it as a token of the imperial court. you turned it over in your hands, noting the unfamiliar handwriting on one of the envelopes. unlike the formal script of past correspondences, this handwriting was bold and deliberate, almost impatient.

breaking the seal, you unfolded the parchment and read:

“to honor the customs of your homeland, a ball will be held tonight in the imperial palace. wear your finest attire. i will be waiting. – c.”

your breath hitched at the signature. not geta, whose name was synonymous with the empire's carefully curated diplomacy. no, this was unmistakably from caracalla. the thought of his hand crafting those words sent a strange thrill through you, though you quickly shook it off.

that evening, the palace was aglow with light, torches and lanterns casting a golden hue over the sprawling marble corridors. the distant hum of music grew louder as you approached the grand ballroom, your gown—a rich fabric from your homeland—whispering against the polished floor.

inside, nobles twirled in an elaborate dance, their laughter mingling with the music. the scent of spiced wine and fresh flowers filled the air. yet, despite the overwhelming splendor, you felt his presence before you saw him.

caracalla stood near the far end of the ballroom, his dark attire contrasting starkly with the vibrant colors of the guests. his gaze swept the room until it found you, and once it did, it remained fixed, unwavering.

you hesitated, your heart racing. you could feel the weight of his attention as he made his way through the crowd, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

“princess,” he greeted when he finally reached you, his voice low and rich.

“caesar,” you replied, curtsying slightly.

“you wear the traditions of your homeland well,” he said, his eyes tracing the intricate embroidery of your gown before returning to meet your gaze. “the room pales in comparison.”

heat rose to your cheeks, and you struggled to maintain your composure. “flattery is unbecoming of an emperor.”

he smirked, leaning in slightly. “then perhaps i’ll save it for when we’re alone.”

before you could respond, he extended his hand. “dance with me.”

you glanced around, noting the curious stares of the other guests, but you knew refusing would only draw more attention. reluctantly, you placed your hand in his, and he led you to the center of the ballroom.

the music shifted to a slower tempo as he pulled you into the first steps of the dance. his hand settled firmly on your waist, his other holding yours with surprising gentleness.

“you look uneasy,” he observed, his tone teasing but not unkind.

“i’m dancing with the emperor,” you replied, forcing a small smile. “should i not be?”

“perhaps,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. “but I’d prefer if you didn’t look so ready to flee.”

his words struck too close to the truth, and you averted your gaze, focusing instead on the rhythm of your steps. yet, even as you tried to maintain distance, his presence was overwhelming, his gaze drawing you back to him.

“you intrigue me,” he admitted softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“why?” the word escaped before you could stop it.

“because you’re different,” he said simply. “you don’t fawn or flatter. you look at me like…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “like i’m human.”

for a moment, the mask he wore—the ruthless emperor, the conqueror—seemed to crack, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. it unsettled you, yet it also drew you in.

the music slowed, and the dancers around you began to disperse, but caracalla didn’t let go. instead, he guided you toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the court.

“why do you do that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“do what?”

“look at me like…” you faltered, unsure how to articulate the intensity of his gaze.

“like you’re the only one here?” he finished for you, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

you nodded, your breath catching as he took a step closer.

“because you are,” he said, his voice soft yet resolute.

before you could process his words, he leaned in, his hand rising to cup your cheek. the kiss was slow, deliberate, and completely disarming. for a moment, the world fell away, leaving only the warmth of his lips and the steady pressure of his hand on your back.

but as the reality of what was happening sank in, panic gripped you. you broke away abruptly, your breathing uneven as you stepped back.

“i… i can’t,” you stammered, your voice trembling.

his expression didn’t falter. instead, a faint smile tugged at his lips, as though he had expected your reaction. “it’s all right,” he said gently. “i’ll wait.”

his confidence unnerved you, and before you could say anything more, you turned and fled, your heart racing as you slipped into the shadows of the palace halls.

even as you disappeared into the night, even after you went to your room, changed clothes and tried your best to forget what happened his words lingered in your mind as well as his lips against yours.

unbeknownst to you and caracalla, the senators had finalized their plans the night of the ball. your father’s role was to provide soldiers to infiltrate the palace under the cover of night, but he himself also wanted to be present to see the emperors being eliminated in a swift, coordinated attack by his men.

later that night doubt began to creep into your mind. caracalla, for all his flaws, had shown you a side of himself that few others had seen. his ferocity masked a profound loneliness, a desire to be understood that resonated deeply with you, besides you couldn’t deny to yourself anymore you were actually falling in love with him.

after twisting and turning in your bed, feeling the pendant he gave you as a gift weighing more and more as the hours passed you decided to confront your father.

"are you sure this is the only way?" you asked, your voice trembling

he turned to you while putting his armor, his expression hard. "do not forget your duty, my daughter. rome is a beast that devours all in its path. if we don’t strike first, it will destroy us."

you wanted to believe him. you wanted to convince yourself that caracalla was nothing more than a tyrant, that his death would save your people. but the thought of his blood on your hands made your chest tighten with a pain you couldn’t explain.

so when your father turned around to leave the house and meet with his soldiers and the senate one last time before killing the man you so loved, you made a decision on the spot.

the halls of the palace were dark and eerily silent, save for the soft rustle of your hurried steps. the chill of the night bit at your skin as you clutched your cloak tightly, the pendant caracalla had given you swinging against your chest with every movement.

you shouldn’t have been here. you shouldn’t have left your chambers, defying your father’s orders and the pact he had made with the senate. but the thought of caracalla lying dead, betrayed by those closest to him, made it impossible to stay away.

when you reached his quarters, you hesitated for a moment before pushing the heavy doors open.

caracalla stood by the window, his figure outlined by the pale moonlight. he turned at the sound, his expression softening when he saw you. but his brow furrowed when he noticed the fear etched across your face.

“princess,” he said, his voice low, laced with concern. “what’s wrong?”

“they’re coming for you,” you said, your voice trembling. “my father… the senate… they’ve sent soldiers to kill you and your brother.”

he stared at you, his face unreadable. “you shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “if they find you with me—”

“i don’t care!” you interrupted, stepping closer. “i couldn’t let you die without warning you. without trying to save you.”

his jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the sound of boots echoed in the corridor outside. the soldiers had arrived.

caracalla moved to draw his sword, but you grabbed his arm. “no,” you said desperately. “you can’t fight them all. you’ll die.”

“and what would you have me do?” he asked, his voice heavy with resignation. “run? hide? i am caesar. if i must die, i will die standing.”

the doors burst open before you could respond, and a group of soldiers flooded into the room, their swords drawn. at their head stood a centurion, his gaze cold and unwavering as he pointed his blade at caracalla.

“step aside, princess,” the centurion commanded. “this is not your fight.”

you moved in front of caracalla, spreading your arms wide. “if you want to kill him,” you said, your voice steady despite the terror coursing through you, “you’ll have to kill me first.”

“don’t make this harder than it has to be,” the centurion said, his tone almost pleading. “step aside. this is justice.”

“justice?” you spat. “this is treachery. and i won’t be a part of it.”

the soldiers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. but the centurion raised his blade, his resolve hardening.

caracalla’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and you turned to face him. his eyes, usually so fierce and calculating, were soft and full of something you hadn’t expected—peace.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion.

“yes, i did,” you replied, your voice breaking. “because i love you.”

the words tumbled out before you could stop them, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. “i love you,” you said again, tears streaming down your face. “i don’t know when it happened, or how, but you’re not the monster they said you were. you’re flawed and human and—”

caracalla silenced you with a smile, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. “i love you, too,” he said, his voice as soft as the breeze outside. “i think i have since the moment i met you.”

he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, as if you could somehow pour all the words you hadn’t spoken into that single moment.

when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a whisper. “i wish we had more time.”

“in another life,” you said, your voice trembling, “the gods will grant us that wish.”

a shout from the soldiers brought you back to reality, and caracalla’s arms tightened around you.

the soldiers moved as one, their blades piercing through you and caracalla in unison. pain blossomed in your chest, but it was dulled by the warmth of his arms around you. you felt yourself falling, and he held you tightly, lowering you to the ground as his own strength faded.

your head rested against his chest, his heartbeat slowing beneath your ear. his lips pressed to your forehead one last time.

and as the darkness closed in, you clung to the hope that somewhere, in another life, you would find each other again.

in the years that followed, your story became legend. the foreign princess and the emperor who fell in love despite the odds, who died together in defiance of a world that sought to tear them apart.

the marble pillars of caracalla's room bore silent witness to your final act of defiance, and in the years to come, flowers were left there in quiet tribute to a love that defied the gods themselves.

rome remembered you not as a traitor, but as a symbol of love and loyalty—proof that even in the darkest times, light could be found in the unlikeliest of places.

#caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #caracalla x reader

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mysticalserenity-tarot · 3 months ago

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💭♡ What they want you to know? (Pick a pile)

{How to pick a pile? First, take a deep breath with your eyes closed to clear your mind. When you open your eyes, don't hesitate – pick the image that immediately grabs your attention or stirs up a memory. Remember, you can pick more than one pile if you feel called to. If none of the images stand out for you, it means there's no message for you at this time. You can always come back to it later.}

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. ▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. ▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı.

Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3 (from left to right)

Hello, and a huge thank you to everyone for your incredible support. It means a lot!

In this collective pick a pile reading, we'll reveal what your specific person (no matter who) wants you to know. Let's see where your energy takes us.

Disclaimer: This is a collective reading I picked up on multiple energies, so please only take what resonates and leave the rest. When something resonates you usually feel a light energy and in your heart you can feel it's your message, and the pic that attracts you is a clearly sign.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. ▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. ▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı.

💬 PILE 1

3 of Cups, 3 of Swords, 6 of Cups (9 of Swords)

Hello Pile 1, and welcome to your reading. Let's dive in!

Oh my dear pile 1, your person is truly struggling, as confirmed by the struggling card itself, the 9 of Swords. They want you to know that they are in a challenging period, whether you're asking for a platonic, romantic partner, or family member. Whoever it may be, your company is the thing that keep them going. I sense that you have an optimistic, uplifting, or magnetic energy that they miss, and they miss the warmth of your hugs and the softness yet directness of your words. They truly hope to reunite or unite with you, and I see them asking the universe or their beliefs for signs. They're unhappy but won't admit it or say it directly - this may be someone afraid that you could reject them or hurt them in some way, so they prefer to keep their feelings to themselves. I'm sensing emotional energy, like they're getting upset or teary as they think about missing you. The 9 of Swords suggests struggle and tension, but there's a sense of hope that they'll see you (again). As if you left them thirsting for your presence.

Before you, they felt like a nobody, but after you, they feel like life has a meaning and purpose. If you left them, they want you back, and if they left you, they want you to take them back [Unless this is a toxic ex, please ignore them and keep going with your life, you deserve better and I promise you, you'll get better.] This person is feeling nostalgic, as indicated by the 6 of Cups, and I keep hearing "I'm grateful" for the impact you had on their life. You inspire them to do and be better, and they see you as a source of inspiration and support. They view you as “the light at the end of the tunnel”. So sweet!

However, they may struggle to express these feelings and may even feel like they're holding back. For some of you, I get the feeling that you'll reconnect in the future, possibly with a rekindling of an old flame. For others, they're waiting for you to reach out to them, especially if you're the more confident or bossy one.

33/333 and the number 3 may be significant for both of you, relating to growth, expansion, and the positive energy you bring to each other. That's interesting 33 summed up is 6 which is on the 6 of Cups and 6 represents harmony which further shows this positive energy you bring to your person's life.

Thank you for allowing me to read your energy, Pile 1.

Note: -If you enjoyed this and my other readings, and you'd like to support me further, you can do so on my ko-fi , I'd greatly appreciate it. It's not mandatory.

-For further guidance or a personalized reading, feel free to book a reading through my Tumblr DM or email [[email protected]]. I'm here to help you navigate life's challenges and find clarity. We can decide the price together. [I will be providing more details on my paid readings in the future. Keep an eye out for it]

💬 PILE 2

7 of Swords Rv, Ace of Wands, 4 of Wands (Judgement)

Hello Pile 2, and welcome to your reading. Let's dive in!

When you chose your pile, many of you may have thought of your divine counterpart/soulmate or future spouse. The Lovers card confirms this. But this reading is open to everyone and anyone, as always. Your person is dealing with a karmic partner or is in a relationship with someone who they thought was the one, but it turned out they were just a liar. They are feeling deceived and are paying for their naivety and bad decisions as a karmic lesson. They want you to know that they want a new beginning with you; which will open doors for the both of you, and they're tired of relationships that do not satisfy them or that are not what they seem at first. They want to celebrate this new beginning together like it's the first serious relationship you've ever had, even if you or them have been with other people in the past. Listen to your intuition and be patient. Divine timing is there for a reason and will not 'annoy' or 'frustrate' you, even if it may seem like it at first.

They believe in you strongly and want to emphasize that you have so much potential. Trust yourself, believe in your capabilities, and balance them with practice and logic. Patience and loyalty are required for your relationship to be stable and grow stronger. Reminder that karma is not just painful, but also teaches invaluable lessons. However, to move forward in your relationship, positive karma must be sought, which teaches lessons but also helps you expand as individuals. On a positive note, every person you encounter leaves you with valuable lessons that make you thrive in the long run.

I don't believe this is someone that would leave you for no reason, I sense strong admiration and attraction between you two. Whether in a romantic or platonic way. Wands, which also depict passion, in your spread are speaking louder!

Spiritual Awakening may be significant as well as fire elements (perhaps you or them are fire signs or have fire placements). You or your person are going through an awakening which confirms the karmic path currently.

Thank you for allowing me to read your energy, Pile 2.

Note: -If you enjoyed this and my other readings, and you'd like to support me further, you can do so on my ko-fi , I'd greatly appreciate it. It's not mandatory.

💬 PILE 3

King of Cups, 2 of Cups, 8 of Swords Rv (5 of Wands)

Hello Pile 3, and welcome to your reading. Let's dive in!

I see some conflicts in values occurring, potentially between partners, friends, or family members. Some of you may be considering or thinking about your current partner, but this reading is open to everyone. They are advising you to compromise and communicate effectively to avoid the last word syndrome. Your loved one feels unfairly left out and want you to share your emotions, both positive and negative, with them.I know you may be afraid of their answer but they want you to know that if you talk with eachother like two mature people there's nothing to be afraid of, they'll tell their opinion but ultimately the decision is yours, they know they can't cage you and is a wrong thing to do. They want things to work out with you because they love you, even if they don't express it all the time. Expressing love doesn't always require saying 'I love you. Instead, they want open communication, trust, and to release self-imposed limitations within the relationship. Things can improve if both of you communicate effectively, even if disagreements occur as it's a normal part of any relationship. As always, this applies to both platonic and romantic love. (you may resonate with some messages in pile 2, if you feel called to). However, for a few of you, there may be challenges due to being on different lengths. Your guides may suggest leaving this person as someone more suitable could be waiting. But remember, the future isn't set in stone. If you feel strongly magnetized to someone, trust your intuition as it may surpass what the cards indicate.

Craftsmanship and charm or bracelet-making may be significant for you and your person. Additionally, I had somehow a vision of someone playing Jenga in a logical, strategic manner, which seemed peculiarly specific.

Thank you for allowing me to read your energy, Pile 3.

Note: -If you enjoyed this and my other readings, and you'd like to support me further, you can do so on my ko-fi , I'd greatly appreciate it. It's not mandatory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ANY LIKE/REBLOG/COMMENT IS APPRECIATED, ALSO IF YOU LET ME KNOW IF IT RESONATED.

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK.

ALWAYS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EACH ONE OF YOU'S SUPPORT, I'M GRATEFUL 🤗🤍~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note that I used AI language bot to help improve grammar and spelling in my readings, as English is not my first language. However, the interpretations and insights provided in my readings are all my work, based on my intuition and the cards' symbolism.

Disclaimer: Tarot readings are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to predict or dictate your future. The cards provide insights and guidance, but the ultimate power of choice lies with you.(piccolo evidenziato)

#pick a card #pick a pile #tarot community #tarot blr #tarot blog #pick an image #tarot cards #collective reading #tarot readings #love tarot reading #love reading #spirituality #tarot deck #the light seer's tarot #mysticalserenity tarot #love reader #intuition #intuitive reader

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circeyoru · 11 months ago

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Collection of Overlords _ Part 4 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

The (somewhat) Request (it's more of an ask of when this is gonna be out)

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 (here) — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 — Part 11 — Part 12 — Part 13

The reunion and meeting of the century, or perhaps even longer, was on the way. With you seated at the head and your hand-picked souls to the side of the table. To your left starting with the closest was Zestial and Carmilla, to your right should be Alastor but he remained standing by your side behind you so not counting his empty seat, you have Rosie then Zeezi

Now, opposite to you, on the other side of the table were the three Vees, with Vox at the center and the other two, Velvette and Valentino, on either sides

With a soft hum, you decided to change the setting a bit. You snapped your fingers and the long rectangular table changed to a circular one, everyone seated in more sophisticated armchairs catered to their unique forms. There were equal spacing between each of them as well, allowing you to see them individually. The room altered thanks for your spatial ability, making it bigger than what it was

You told Carmilla that she could keep your little table and the chairs once everything was over since you changed things without her knowledge. She was move than happy to accept your gift

Another snap of your fingers and everyone’s preferred drink appeared in front of them and some snacks were placed around the table. You welcomed them to drink and eat to their hearts’ content since it has been a while you had been with them all

“Before we begin… I hope it’s expected that you keep the knowledge I shared during this meeting to yourself, and not attempt to use it to your advantage for future purposes.” You warned with a heavily aura around you.

All your Overlords bowed their heads deeply as a sign of submission to your command and warning.

“Now, I’d like to start the meeting with the latest event I’m sure you all are aware of.” You announced, a hologram of the former Hazbin Hotel building appeared at the center of the table, “There wasn’t any request or orders from me, so I believe some rewards are in order.”

While your Overlords nodded in agreement to your plans, you placed your elbows over the surface of the table, plopping your chin on top of your intertwined fingers. You gave them a moment to recall their actions before you revealed your awardees.

“Carmilla Carmine.” You named your first.

“Yes!” Carmilla strengthened up even more as she put down her cup, folding her hands over her lap while her body was turned in your direction. “My Liege.”

“For your assistance in providing angelic weapons to the soldiers who bravely brought for the Princess’ cause without asking for compensation,” The hologram of the hotel shifted to the side to a territorial map of the Pride Ring, a particular land beside Carmilla’s current domain blinked, “You will be rewarded with an additional land. What do you want it to be for? Name it.”

Carmilla bowed her head as she requested, “If you’ll allow it…” At your silence and smile, she continued, “If I can have a research lab with a testing ground, and another storage unit.”

Your smile widened as your head tilted to the side, “Consider it done.”

Your knuckles knocked on the table. The hologram of that particular domain enlarged and two buildings formed on that land with streets and roads to connect it with Carmilla’s owning domains. Not even a second later, the building shook like an earthquake. Though on the outside, it was merely shaping into what the hologram projected

Things like these were not hard to do, at least, if they were you. You do things like these to reshape Hell into what the human population done in their advancement, that’s how the Pride Ring has been since human souls that are marked to go to Hell was the only Ring they are stay or go to. You do what you could to make the Ring more fitting for them

However, as none realized it was your doing, most would believe Hell’s landscape changes as natural as breathing. Something similar to the ‘mother nature’ concept. It’s enough to give you a good laugh, so you leave it be

Your souls were quick to realize the power they were dealing with. A being capable of shaping Hell without effort and mere thought, it was terrifying yet applaudable. Who would think they have such power? Not even Lucifer can do something of this level

Just think. What if you were to fight for real with your powers? Right now, you have been behind the scenes lurking. You have your Overlords to reign over certain domains and groups of demons. But what if you were to go to war?

Those under you were aware that you were powerful, yet they can’t measure how much so. They aim to please you not merely for the possibility of being rewarded, but to maintain what freedom you’ve given them and your favour

While they don’t outspokenly discuss it, they are aware of their standing within your Elites

“Next, Rosie.” You turned to the other side.

“Yes, Darling Liege?” Rosie smiled back with a wave, enjoying her cup.

“You’re very brave and noble to allow your Cannibals to go to war against the angels without worrying over the lack of training, you’re not even aware that there’d be angelic weapons provided for them to fight with.” You retold to everyone else of Rosie’s feat, “Very commendable.”

Rosie chuckled, covering her mouth with a shy schoolgirl with their crush, “Aww, you’re giving me too much credit. I didn’t even join the battle!”

You nodded in understanding, “Yes, I’m aware, so in addition to your town expansion, I’ll be paying a visit to Cannibal Town in the near future.” Your smile widened as you spoke, “I’ll provide your people a feast, you can bring everyone around.”

Rosie gasped with joy, unable to hold it up, she got up and came over to hug you tight. “Oh! My Liege! That’s wonderful!” She let you go while ranting on and holding onto you, “Everyone will be so excited to see you again!”

You’ve been wanting to deal with your screaming, pleading, and whining insects for some time. You only require the insects’ soul, their bodies worth nothing to you. Yet the large variety would make for a good feast for the Cannibals that oh so loved to devour the flesh of the demons like a pack of wolves

Your knuckles once again knocked on the surface of the table, Rosie’s town expanded and new buildings were built in an instant, mirroring the hologram on the table. A wave of weaker shakes came to them, though it was because Rosie’s place was farther away

Like your relationship with Carmilla’s daughters, you formed special bonds with the citizens of Cannibal Town. Though you had a good laugh when you realized they first tried to eat you out of fear from your mere unannounced presence. They were immediately immobilized and nearly wiped off the map if not for Rosie’s quick interference

It was understandable for you, since at the time, they barely had enough land to live in and it wasn’t like they were particularly strong demons. Think of a colony of ants, they were only the workers and there were no other demons apart from Rosie that they rely on for their continued survival in Hell

So when you came along with that dangerous aura around you, they had to act. Even if they die trying, at least Rosie could lead the other cannibals away. They were such interesting demons that you came back to greet them again

The quickest way to a cannibal’s heart was food and you had more than enough. Adding to the fact that you gave them homes to live in and a town as their own territory, you were more than reverended by Rosie’s people

“Last.” Your head turned over to Alastor, everyone looked over in suit. “Alastor, My Bloody Doe.”

“My Liege.” Alastor stepped forward and kneeled down to your side, staying below your eye level so you weren’t looking up at him. “And Saviour.”

“Not only have you been helping the Princess with her passion project, but you also battled against Adam, the first man and the extermination’s leader, bravely. For that, let’s fix something precious of yours.” You opened your hand for him to place his broken microphone crane in.

Alastor presented the two pieces to you and you took it near where it was cut in half. You pushed them together and sparks flew, in a blink of an eye, the crane was as good as new. The eye in the microphone opened and looked around. “Finally! I’m back!”

“Fixed and I added a bit of life to it.” You passed Alastor his reward, “You’ll find that it’ll be near impossible to break it now. Even if it’s broken, it will amend itself to be even stronger.”

Alastor bowed, his head even lower than before, “I’m undeserving of such a gift.”

“Yes, now sit down in your seat, would you?”

Everyone else watched in envy. It was no secret that Alastor was your favourite. They could tell by the title you allow him to address you by and the little nickname you have for him. They also understand why too

Alastor unknowingly cleared a number of weaker Overlords that refused to submit to you, not only removing them from your domain, but he also shared your interest in torturing those souls. Trapping them in his everlasting broadcast. He was the only one who kept the title the sinners gave him; The Radio Demon

While he didn’t start off with complete obedience and submission, his dedication and loyalty to you proved his worth later on. While others waited for your order in fear of appearing arrogant, he seized the opportunity to impress. It was after Alastor’s actions did the others became more active

Without a doubt, Alastor was the quickest you took a liking to. The quickest to gain an interest in and the quickest to raise up your favourability chart

When he disappeared for that long, as did your presence, the other Overlords wondered if there was something amiss. So they silently waited for Alastor to return to get in touch with you once more. As they waited, they got sloppy

A loud slam on the table made everyone turn their heads to the source. Vox, with a shaking fist, was standing up with a scowl on his screen, “Oh for f**k’s sake! He didn’t even win! He lost and retreated! He was a complete showoff and ignorant of his powers! He doesn’t deserve the Master’s praise and reward!”

Zeezi scoffed, folding her arms over her chest, “Like you’ve done f**k!”

Vox growled, turning to the giant Overlord, “You’re in the same boat!”

Zeezi smirked back, “Yeah, but unlike you f**k**, I’m fine with My Sovereign’s decision.” She gasped sarcastically, “Wait! You interrupted!”

“T wouldst doth thee both valorous if ‘t be true thee quiet down. (It would do you both good if you quiet down.)” Zestial warned the two before Vox could continue to embarrass himself.

Velvette got up as well, “You know when to talk when it suits you, don’t you, fossil?!”

Carmilla glared, “It was a word of advice!”

“Please! Like you’re any better.” Valentino taunted back with a grin, “You’re nothing without your little weapons.”

Rosie chuckled condescendingly, “Oh, dear, you’re one to talk. You can’t do much!”

Electricity sparked, Vox’s eye twitched, “You all shut the f**k up! You’re all ganging up on us just because you got numbers now!”

Velvette laughed along, “I bet you’re all a bunch of pussy cats! Can’t fight without guaranteed success.”

Valentino added, “I bet my soul I can take you all on and knock you down a few pegs.”

Crack!

Note: And that's when Velvette knew... she [redacted] Hahahhahaha! This meeting is getting way too long I feel. But it's gonna end somewhere in the next part. Lucifer's gonna appear~ Any theories? Before that, how you think of this part???

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

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arabellasleopardcoat · 10 months ago

Text

Unforgivable (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond and you are tired of being pawns. Instead of chess, you decide to play draughts.

Requested: Yes! Because nothing is more PDA than murdering the man who dares touch your wife.

A/N: Isn’t like, a rite of passage writing Baratheon reader?

Warnings: Mature language, attempted SA (Bedding ceremony, ripping clothes), implied smut. Enemies to lovers to the cursed play.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.”

Being a second born son isn't easy. Getting all the responsibilities and none of the recognition stings, yes. But nothing does more than knowing you are the spare, and that the throne is right at your fingertips. It is like throwing a steak in front of a dog and ordering him not to slobber.

Aemond is not a dog. He is a dragon. And that makes it much more worse. He can’t help but crave, but want. Sink his teeth on it and snarl, tear apart until nothing is left. As he rides towards the Stormlands, with the very real possibility of running into one of his nephews in his future, he thanks the Seven for his self control.

As he left, his mother had reminded him of the importance of behaving with the utmost decorum. To secure the alliance, Aemond must perform his duty and forget all thoughts of vengeance.

Were it to turn into an all out war, they are greatly disadvantaged. The number of dragons they have is not enough to form a real opposition to Rhaenyra. If they have enough soldiers, though, perhaps it will make the whore think twice about starting it.

But even without her, Aegon needs this. He will forever need to prove his legitimacy as a King to the rest of the realm. After all, their father had nearly twenty years to make him heir and had only done so as an afterthought. Everyone would wonder what did that say about his character. His brother needed to prove himself a capable ruler, one that would unite the Seven Kingdoms and protect them under his banner.

This is a war that will be fought through connections and resources, not violence. Aemond’s hatred cannot jeopardize that. Duty must come above everything else.

He only hopes duty doesn’t come with the face of an ugly cow. Securing the alliance with the Baratheons is vital, and his grandsire had made it apparent Aemond should use any means necessary to get what they required.

“Play your cards right, Aemond.” He had said, staring at a map of Westeros. If looks could make an entire nation bend the knee, it was for sure that after that glare, all the Kingdoms would be for Hightower. “Offer them trade, lowered taxes… Borros is an easy man to fool. Never was one for the letters, that one. But if he won’t budge… He has five daughters.”

Aemond had only nodded. Despite not being spoken out loud, the message was clear. Try not to, but if necessary, marry one of the little fools. For that was what they were, with a father as Borros Baratheon. Everyone in the Stormlands knew their lord could not read. And the so-called Four Storms were praised for their beauty, grace, and manners. Not for being particularly learned.

Five daughters. Surely, his grandsire had been wrong. Everyone he asked agreed there were Four Storms. It had struck Aemond as odd, that he would make such a simple mistake. Otto Hightower was a figure larger than life, a great thinker that commanded every room he was in, and blessed with an excellent memory. But it was not as odd when considering the amount of stress the poor man was under.

Everything felt urgent and not quite real. Aegon’s transition had been an easy one in the logistical side of things. His grandsire and mother had been already running the realm. But despite being prepared for Rhaenyra’s resistance, they hadn’t expected her to actually gain supporters. They had prepared, but Aemond still felt as if none of this could actually be happening.

His lack of a bride, purposeful in case an alliance was needed, was soon to come to an end. He felt much like he imagined maidens must feel like. Aemond was about to be sold to the highest bidder, and in this case, that was Borros Baratheon. And whichever of his little fools was the least annoying.

Well, he was in no need of a clever wife. If it were necessary, Aemond would pick the more pleasing one and be done with it. He could place her in another wing of the Red Keep and not have anything to do with her.

When he enters Storm’s End, Aemond is taken aback. He had done his research about the Baratheons. Four Storms. A couple of sons. Borros and his old Lady Wife. But the gossip he had been privy to had been outdated. Because next to Borros Baratheon sits a girl in a smaller throne. You. His new bride.

Borros doesn’t stand up to greet him. Neither do you. Aemond fights to remain calm, despite the display of disrespect. He focuses his attention, instead, on the contrasts between the two of you.

Borros is sprawled without a care, legs spread and belly sticking out. You sit primly, legs crossed at the ankles. You are a beauty, next to the man you are married to. A maiden in the bloom of youth, around Aemond’s age. What could have possessed your family to marry you to such a beast?

It had not been an indiscretion. You do not show any sign of being with child or being nursing. You also sit very proper and proud. If you are a little deviant, it doesn’t show in the way you hold yourself.

The lady of Storm's End, mother to the Storms, has to have passed recently. Otherwise, it would make no sense why Aemond had not heard of it. And while he understands the urges men tend to have, when faced with a second chance at marriage, this is a bit much.

Aemond was in no place to judge, considering his birth had been the consequence of a similar match. Yet Borros Baratheon was no king in need of heirs, and you were young enough to be his daughter. Seven Hells, if Aemond’s guess about your age was right, you were around the eldest Storms's ages. Disgusting. Your beauty was wasted in such an unmannered, daft beast.

“Prince Aemond.” Borros says, lazily scratching his belly.

“Lord Baratheon.” Aemond hates himself for it, but forces himself to bow his head. Then, he turns towards you. “Lady Baratheon.”

“To what do we owe the honor?” The answer is dripping in sarcasm. Borros, of course, must already know why Aemond is here. He has either already made his choice about what side he is on, or he intends to make Aemond grovel. Neither sit right with him. The thought of humiliating himself for a Lord’s pleasure is one that makes his back stiffen and anger burn hotly in his stomach.

He is a Prince of House Targaryen. Not some beggar that has come to plead for aid. But Aemond grits his teeth and starts sprouting the script he had written in his head as he rode here.

“It’s with great sadness that I inform you of my father’s passing. Of course in these trying times, we must remain united, and no house has stood with Targaryens…” The speech has as much emotional conviction as if he were speaking about the reproduction of cattle, which is to say, none. He knows this is not what will convince Borros. He is a simple man. Borros likes good food, good wine and women. The language he speaks it's not flowery, heartfelt speech, but rather gold and land.

“So you seek an alliance.” Borros extends his hand, impatiently. Aemond nearly bristles at the interruption. He only manages to keep his temper in check through years of taking Aegon’s insults. “Pass me the letter your grandsire has written.”

“Here.” Despite knowing the man doesn’t know how to read, Aemond hands it to him. Men’s egos are fragile things, and he knows too well how the sting of embarrassment can fuel hatred. He is not going to risk his chance and insult him.

Borros opens it. He scans it over, noticing the royal seal. Then, he shifts towards you.

“Girl, come here.”

Aemond's brows raise. Did Borros keep you by his side not only for his personal satisfaction? The existence of your little throne makes more sense that way. Surely, not even that fool would be so crass as to have you on display just to show off his younger bride.

You go to him, barely acknowledging Aemond. You skirt around him as if he were part of the furniture. He gets a whiff of your perfume, something expensive and decadent. It’s that what makes Aemond take a second look at you.

You wear a black velvet dress in one of the latest fashions of the capital. You are dressed better than most ladies at court, hands, and neck dripping in jewels. Your hair is held back by a golden hairpiece that emulates the antlers that the Baratheons are so famous for.

Perhaps you are a way for Borros to flaunt his riches. A power play meant to intimidate visitors. Not only has he managed to get a younger bride, but he showers her in jewels. It might be a way to show off his manliness, to show his vassals and other lords that he is still powerful and virile. It has to be the stupidest thing Aemond has ever seen.

You take the parchment from Borros's hands. All tiny steps and swaying hips, you get even closer, to whisper in his ear. Your muttering is fast and frantic, and despite how acute Aemond's hearing has gotten since the loss of his eye, he can't make out the words.

The expression on the Lord's face shifts, from annoyance to amusement.

“Taxes? Lowered taxes?” Borros asks, nearly laughing. “That’s all you are willing to offer?”

It had been, in fact, all that his grandsire had been offering at first. The best thing to do when starting a negotiation was to start lower than what you actually intended to offer. Then, when you gave in and offered more, the other person would feel like they were winning.

“No, my lord. Merely the starting point. If you read the last few paragraphs, you will see trade…” Aemond tries to redirect the conversation back to the important part, but he is surprised to find that he can’t. Because you cut him, smoothly, and with a smile so sharp it might make Vhagar nervous.

“We will see you offer us a trade deal that’s worse than what we already have. Are lowered taxes and worsening of our trade deals what we should expect from our new King? I shudder to think how King Aegon treats his enemies, if this is how he treats…”

Aemond's eyebrows raise. So you speak. And quite eloquently. Strange for a trophy wife. Even stranger, that your husband allows it. Men who marry little girls young enough to be their daughters are not known for their consideration towards women.

“My Lady, with all due respect…” Aemond needs to stop you because if what you say it's true, then his grandsire has made a grave miscalculation. Or a shrewd attempt to fool Borros Baratheon. Knowing him, the second one is more likely. He has a tendency to underestimate other’s intelligence. It was a flaw often found in bright men. Aemond suffered from it himself.

You do stop speaking, staring at him with hatred in your eyes. You either hate men, him, or being interrupted. Perhaps all three. Your eyes narrow, and you look on the verge of doing something very unladylike.

Gods. If you were Helaena, or his wife, he would already have reprimanded you. Aemond turns towards Borros, hoping to get some show of camaraderie from the man. Women, so easily offended. Surely, he would put you back in your place.

But instead of scolding you, the man gave Aemond an angry scowl.

“I will not tolerate any disrespect towards my daughter, Aemond Targaryen. Let her finish.”

The omission of his title would have stung in ordinary circumstances, but not this time. He was too busy gawking over the fact that you were not Borros' wife, but his daughter. You two were nothing alike.

Daughter. Of course. That’s why the man defers to you, why he has you seated to his right. At least that count his grandsire had gotten right. Five daughters, indeed.

“As I was saying. I do not understand why we should take your side. We have yet to receive an offer from the other contenders. Your terms are not generous enough to declare yet.” Your answer is clipped. You are clearly annoyed with him, but you do raise good points. Aemond sees no trouble in listening to you. If Borros wants to indulge you, a little girl playing politics, he won't be the one to stop you.

“So you think, my lady, that you should play both sides?” Aemond arches an eyebrow, leveling you with a glare. No matter how many good points you make, he is not above intimidation to get what he wants. He knows he cuts an intimidating figure, with the dark clothing and the eye patch. Many of the women at court avoid him for that very reason.

But unlike the women at court, you do not wither under his gaze. You bloom. Your back straightens, and you give him a calm look. Your eyes are sweet, almost as if Aemond were flirting with you and not looming menacingly.

“It’s hardly that. I’m simply waiting to make an informed choice. You barge in here, unannounced and in a hurry, hoping to pressure us into an alliance you clearly need.” Your speech is well pronounced and to the point. As soon as you voice it, you seem to lose all interest in him, brushing past to get to your tiny throne.

Aemond turns and stares, unashamedly. The nerve on you. While you might have seen through him, it didn't allow you to just disregard him like that. Who did you think you were? You were just a lady? He was a Prince, the blood of the dragon!

“And we Baratheons are no pushovers.” Borros adds, approvingly. He seems to take your opinion, turning towards you for approval. The man clearly loves you. “We are stags.” Your eyes narrow. Your father clears his throat and rushes to add. “And does. We do the pushing.”

It’s not a good line, but it gives Aemond an opening. If the man cares for you such, it's not wealth that will sway him, nor the promises of land. There is only one thing a man with five daughters could want, especially regarding his favorite one.

“I do have something else to offer.” Aemond says, eyes firmly on Borros. He is purposely excluding you from the conversation, knowing it will sting. Good. You have been horrible to him so far, you deserve it.

“Do tell.” You insert yourself regardless, and he turns to you with his more welcoming smile. You have just dug your own grave, and you don't even know it. It will make his victory much sweeter.

“I would marry you. You are beautiful, and clearly intelligent.” Aemond's expression turns malicious. Your face pales, turning an awful gray shade. You know as well as him that you can't deny him.

“And what use do I have for a second son?” Your hands go to your hips, and you jump out of your tiny throne. You stalk forward, all bared teeth and bravado. Gone is the pretense of sweetness. When cornered, you bite and bite hard.

The insult stings, and Aemond has to fight the urge to slap you. You got quite the mouth and a talent for knowing where to strike. It’s a dangerous combination. He wants nothing more than to exert vengeance, but confronting you now would be unwise. Instead, Aemond fantasizes about what he will do to you if he ever gets you as a wife.

Pinch you. Tug on that pretty hair. Maybe smack you in the arse until you were begging for forgiveness. His mouth twists into an ugly smile. The mental images give him the strength necessary to turn towards your father and try to sway him.

“My Lord, you cannot keep her here forever. You surely know what will happen when you are no more. She will depend on the mercy of his brother. The Lady needs someone to take care of her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way you are baring your teeth. Whoever said you were a doe was wrong. You look more like a boar, pretty features twisted in rage.

Lord Baratheon laughs. This time, it's not mocking, but full of humor. Aemond decides it to take it as a good sign.

“And so you now ask I give you my doe. You are a bold man, Prince Aemond.” Definitely a good sign, then. Now he is suddenly a Prince again. Aemond turns towards you and gives you a smug grin. Your hands wrap so hard around the fabric of your pretty gown, he hears a ripping sound. Your father remains oblivious.

“I would be her fiercest protector. Staunchest supporter.” Aemond hurries to reassure him. Borros just needs a little push to give in. He can practically savor it. What does a father fear the most when handing a daughter away? “I would never force her to obey me beyond the reasonable respect a wife should have for her husband.”

It is, of course, a load of crap. He fully intends to take you down a few pegs. But what Borros doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Father…” You cut in, urgently. Your father is too busy looking at Aemond like he is his hero to notice. The expression on his face is close to orgasmic bliss, as disgusting as the thought is. Any more, and the man will burst from happiness.

“She would want for nothing. I would treat her as it befits a woman of her station. There would be no greater joy for me than getting her hand in marriage.” Aemond pleads. That is true. At least halfway. You would live comfortably, he would make sure of it. And he would be glad to marry you, if only to be able to get his revenge. Would you want for nothing? Doubtful. You would probably want your family, a loving husband, being away from the Red Keep… But financially, you would be set.

Borros stands and gives Aemond a pat on the back. His expression lights up, looking ten years younger. In contrast, your face falls. You look between the two of them, shaking hands, and look ready to bawl.

“It will be an honor to join our houses, Prince Aemond.” The man boasts, joyfully. Aemond smirks. As petty as it is, he feels as if he has conquered a Kingdom. There is nothing sweeter than the look of pure defeat you wear.

But hearing your father so happy about the match seems to be the last straw for you. You step between the two of them.

“Why not Floris? She is the prettiest among us all. Or Maris? She is very learned!” The offer is desperate, and by the look on your face, you know it. Your face scrunches up in disgust, as if you cannot believe your words. Betraying your sisters for your own safety seems low. Aemond can tell you don’t mean it, but knowing that you are trapped so well you are lashing out pleases him.

Your father's hand goes to your wrist, and he pulls you forward. You go easily, and Aemond makes a mental note of it. He finds interesting how easy you are to subdue if handled properly. Your father seems to have a knack for it.

“You will have to forgive my doe.” Borros says, ruffling your hair affectionately. You stare, looking like a disgruntled kitten. It's clear you are not impressed. “She has the Baratheon temper, but can be quite sweet too. Hence, the name.”

“Of course.” Aemond says, magnanimous. He will need to play the devoted fiancée until he has you out of here, less your father regrets the agreement. But after… Oh, he is going to have fun taking you down a few notches. “Only looking out for her sisters. After all, it's odd the eldest is not married and this one will be.”

You smile at him. Your smile promises pain. Aemond wonders, for the first time, if you have similar plans for him. If you do, he welcomes the challenge. It will be even sweeter when he prevails.

“She is very sensible.” Your father plays with a stray curl behind your ear, tucking the hairpiece more firmly. He remains ignorant of the heated glares Aemond and you are exchanging. “Always has wanted to be swept off her feet, though.”

“Father, perhaps he should take a look at my sisters first. The famous Four Storms.” The words come out between gritted teeth, eyes still burning a hole through Aemond.

“I don't need to, my lady. Are any of them as politically inclined?” He does not dare reach for you, with your father on the way. He would like to touch you. Aemond is not sure about why he feels that urge, but he thinks it is due to your infuriating nature.

“They are not. Cassandra, the eldest, is the friendliest. There is also Floris, the most beautiful, and Maris, the most learned. Ellyn, I'm afraid, is too young.” You rattle, counting with your fingers.

Borros coughs. He eyes Aemond warily, as if expecting him to suddenly announce he doesn't want you anymore. The man loves you, but he is not blind to your faults. Something about his attitude makes Aemond think that this is not the first time you try to spook a suitor.

“I see.” Aemond answers, coolly. “I do not want a Storm. I want a Doe.”

You glare even more. You go sit on your little throne. By the Sevens, you truly are disagreeable. Spoiled, pampered, and with a temper unlike he had ever seen. A match made in the Seven Hells.

Your father gave Aemond a curt tilt of the head. Aemond sighed, and went to kneel by your side.

“I want to court you, if you will let me.” He grabbed your hand. Your skin was very soft, but your palm felt clammy and cold. Curiously, he dared slip his hand lower, checking your pulse. The beat of your heart was not steady, but rushed, and it filled him with a sense of achievement. You were terrified. Smiling against your skin, Aemond pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “I did not lie when I said I found beauty in your mind and words.”

It was no lie. You were beautiful in the way young maidens were, sweet and untainted. But you had a mind as sharp as any man. It was a combination Aemond would have admired greatly, were it not for the fact you were a terrible, spoiled brat.

“A war is about to break out. I don't see where you would find the time.”

“If your father allows it, I would take you with me.” Aemond stepped slightly closer. Perhaps, he could entice you. “Would you enjoy riding a dragon?”

“Ah, so you can abandon me in some forgotten wing of the Red Keep and have me away from my family?” It comes out bratty, and scared. A little girl who fears being alone.

Borros tenses at the tone. Almost as if acting on pure instinct, he reaches towards you. His hand goes to grab at your arm, making sure you are still there. Aemond will have to tread carefully, else he missteps and loses all the progress he has made with the man.

“You would have a seat at Aegon's council.” Aemond takes your hands in his. He is on his wits end on what he could offer you. Never before has he met a woman so unimpressed by anything he has to give. In your tiny, sheltered world, everything is perfect already.

“Gods know he needs it.” Borros muttered, under his breath. Aemond ignores him, choosing to squeeze your hands instead.

“I would listen to you.” He pleads, but you, terror of a girl, are ignoring him. Your eyes are focused elsewhere, no longer in his. A guard is hurrying forward, and Aemond can tell the wheels on your head start to turn.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon!”

Aemond, kneeling next to you, straightens. You curl your hand around his.

“Don't!”

“My Lady…” Aemond fights your grip, trying to detangle himself from you. Your hand goes to his nape. You squeeze, as if directing a dog.

“You said you would listen to me.” Your grip is firm. “Prove it.”

Aemond is seething with rage, with the urge to chase and tear Lucerys apart. But you do not budge. Your hand turns into a chain around his nape, a collar for a dog. You force him to remain kneeling at your feet as your father dispatches Lucerys.

Humiliation bubbles up at his throat, choking him. Not even the Pink Dread incident had come close to this feeling. Utter, profound, embarrassment. He can feel his nephew's eyes lingering on you, in the display of affection that seems so casual. A suitor kneeling for his lady, resting his head on her lap. It could be affectionate, were it not for the fact that it’s you.

Aemond is not hiding his face in your lap to feel you pet him, no matter if you behave like he is. Instead, you are forcefully keeping him in place, and he rather look the lovesick fool than the weakling who can’t fight a woman’s grip.

You pet his hair. You smile. He is powerless to stop it. It is then Aemond realizes that you are more dangerous than he had thought. You were so used to bending men to your will, he had not noticed that you had done the same to him.

Not any longer. He would make you pay. He vowed it.

“When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

You liked your life. Your sisters were sweet, if a bit distant. Your father was caring, to the point of actually listening to your opinion. The library was full of books, and you had warm furs and pretty dresses. Life was good. Why would you choose to leave this behind? Storm’s End was your safe haven, the place where you could be yourself. You wouldn’t trade it to go live at the Red Keep with a bunch of incestuous deviants whose reign was under question. You refused.

The thought of going away and having to play the dutiful wife to Prince Aemond made your stomach turn. You were not stupid. You knew the amount of freedom you had here was unusual. There, your voice would be silenced. Nothing you said would be of consequence as it was here. Even if they listened to women, they wouldn’t listen to a stranger. If you were King Aegon, you would rather have your mother’s council over the one from a strange goodsister.

Making sure the door to your rooms was locked, you threw yourself on the bed and screamed from rage, muffling the sound in your pillow. You were frustrated beyond belief. Anything you had tried, Prince Aemond had countered. And your father! Oh, your father had given you away so easily, as if you were no more than cattle. Did he truly believe that you would be treated as promised?

How could your father be so blind? He had not felt Prince Aemond tremble from rage, when he heard the voice of his nephew. The one who had taken his eye. He had not seen his expression sour as you interrupted him and proved yourself to be smarter than he was.

You stood up and looked around. You kicked your bed, and quickly regretted it. Your shoes offered no protection against the impact, and you swore.

“Seven Hells!” And you looked around, embarrassed from your outburst. But there was no one around to witness it, and that fact enraged you even more. You wanted to make your annoyance known.

Your rooms were empty, not a single maid in sight. They were probably tending to your sisters. There was to be a feast in honor of the Prince, but you had no plans to attend. Hence, you had called for no attendants.

You started to pace. Aemond Targaryen would regret taking you from your home. You vowed it. Despite knowing you were falling victim to childish pettiness and letting it cloud your senses, you couldn’t help it. You were angry. Angry. Angry. You wanted to claw his remaining eye out, pull on his hair, elbow him as hard as you could.

Women had everything to lose when it came to marriage. It was their destiny. They lost their connection to their house and were sent to another. They changed hands like property. And the men, the owners, had everything to win. Trading a daughter off like one would do to a rook before starting a game of Cyvasse, they gained an alliance. And receiving a woman, they gained a dowry and vessel for their children.

You knew the day would come where you would be plucked from your home, but you had foolishly hoped that being one of the many Baratheon daughters spared you from that fate. There were so many of you, your father could not hope to marry you all. You wanted to be more than just a way for a man to gain heirs.

But instead, you were going to be carried off towards a place far from your home, where you would not get to be a person fully. You doubted Prince Aemond would give you the same leniency your father gave you, or that he would listen to your opinions. No matter what he said, he was still a man. And not any man, but one you had humiliated.

Men did not often like realizing you were smarter or bolder than them. Those characteristics had served you well to keep marriage away during the years, but it seemed like this time they had failed you. Not only they had made Prince Aemond interested in you, they had also angered him. After seeing the look on his face when his nephew had entered the hall, you could tell he was not one to forgive and forget.

You could have handled it better. By the Seven, you were smarter than him. Why had you been so hostile? If only you had thought to manipulate him back then. How could you have been so stupid? You grabbed a vase and threw it to the floor with all your strength. It shattered into tiny pieces with a loud noise. It didn’t make you feel any better.

You sobbed. A look at the broken pieces and you thought of your maids, having to pick it up. The thought made more tears come to your eyes. There was a warm, wet feeling clogging up your throat. You were not such a bad person as to make them clean a mess you had made purposefully, so you kneeled and started picking up the pieces.

The commotion clearly attracted someone’s attention because there was a knock on your door. You ignored it, and continued obsessively picking up the pieces. You placed them all on top of a cloth, arranging them neatly. The ceramic was sharp, and the borders made your hands sting, but none drew blood.

The knocking became louder.

“No!” You shouted, denying whoever it was. Probably one of your sisters, checking up on you. Or a maid. Or guard. Who knew. You just wanted to be left alone to wallow in your misery.

“My lady, the Prince is requesting….” Of course, they weren’t checking on you. You did no longer matter. Now, you were little more than cattle, mattering only in regard to your owner. This what not the life you had envisioned, not at all.

“And I said no.” Why should what Prince Aemond wanted matter more than what you wanted? You wanted to be left alone. Be able to come to terms with what was going to happen and think of a plan. What was your next move? You had no time to think of it. Already he was imposing his presence.

The servant did not answer. You thought you were finally going to be left alone, but the respite was brief.

“Sister.” Floris’s voice echoed in your rooms. She had a loud, commanding tone, similar to your own. She had gone ahead and opened your door. “You should not behave like this.”

“I do not care.” You sat down on your bed, arms crossed over your chest. Despite knowing you were in the wrong, you didn’t need her to rub your mistakes in your face.

“You should.” Floris took a dress out of one of your trunks. It was one of your yellow gowns, made with intricate gold stitching. She laid it down on your bed, smoothing the skirts down, and gave a pleased sigh. “It is like a fairy tale. You get to be a princess.”

“I do not want to be a Princess.” You looked at the dress and scooted towards the edge of your mattress, trying to avoid it. Floris spanked your thigh, hard enough to make you yelp. “It is the truth! I don’t…”

“Then think of it this way.” She interrupted, annoyed. She, too, had the Baratheon temper. “That man that you are rejecting and humiliating is the man you will spend your life with. Who will have power over you. You are smart. You know this.”

“Father could…”

“Father is not going to change his mind.” Floris frowned. She smoothed your hair down. The hairpiece was making your head hurt, but just like your father, she only tucked it in more firmly. Your head felt heavy. Floris wiped your tears away, examining you with a critical eye. “You are a lucky girl. You have our father’s favor. Win the Prince’s.”

“I told him it should have been you.” The confession slipped from your lips, unprompted. It brought a smile to her face.

“Then you are a fool.” Floris smirked. You could tell she meant every word. Your sister had always had ambitions above her station, much like yours. But hers were more in line with what was expected of your sex. “Had it been me he had chosen, I would have not thought it twice. Fix your face. Before he decides to fix it with his fists.” She gave you one last look, before leaving you to your rapidly darkening thoughts.

You did not need the reminder of what Prince Aemond could do to you, once the two of you were married. You knew. But she had put it so coldly….

Floris was hungry. She had always been. Ever since you were children, she had always craved more. In a household full of girls, she had gotten used to fighting for her due. And not only that. Floris always managed to thrive. Were it her in your shoes, you had no doubts she would have Prince Aemond wrapped around her finger and a plot to get him either power or riches so she could keep a lush lifestyle. Her advice was blunt, but well-intentioned. This was an opportunity, and you should treat it as such.

You got up. You washed your face. By then, it was very late. The storm continued hitting the castle with the same vigor. There were hardly any servants in the halls. You went to sit at one of the windows, watching the rain fall.

Despite the late hour, something told you he would come to you. Sitting on the windowsill, you could taste the tang of metal against your tongue each time you breathed in. The night felt electric. You knew it was just what storms were like, but something about this one felt foreboding.

Watching the water made you feel calmer, and more focused. As the droplets tumbled down the sides of the castle, you reflected. But no rationalization helped you vanish the thought that this night was significant. Destiny was changing right under your eyes, and you could do little but watch it unfold.

“Here you are.” He spoke, after an eternity. You turned your body towards him, but made no move to get up. Somehow, watching him loom over you felt wrong. Like he shouldn’t be.

“Here I am.” You replied, before softening your voice. “I was waiting for you.”

Instead of softening himself, Prince Aemond scowled.

“You are the most impudent woman I have ever met. Haven’t you learned that you should address your betters properly?”

His comment grates on your nerves. You want nothing more than to scream at him. But then, you remind yourself of what this is. An opportunity.

“I apologize, betrothed.” You say, very gracefully. “Do you wish to sit with me?” And you add a good bat of your lashes for good measure. It usually works on your father, so why not on him?

The Prince frowns. He seems to take your much more subdued behavior as sarcastic.

“You are absolutely impudent. When we marry…”

You interrupt him before he can say more.

“You will hit me?” You raise your eyebrows. “Is that what you mean to say?”

He reaches for you. You flinch back, before remembering you are right at the windowsill. The window is high enough that the fall would kill you. You scream, panic taking hold. You reach for him, for the sides of the castle, for anything that could save you from certain death. Aemond grapples at you, desperately grabbing your shoulders and hair in a death grip.

“I have a right to discipline you. And I will, if you do not mind your tongue.” He snaps, pulling you against him. He is careful to move both of you away from the window. Your heart beats harshly in your chest. If he had lost his footing, if he had been a second slower… You could be dead. You could be dead.

“Discipline. Discipline.” You repeat to yourself, in a daze. “As if I were a child.”

“You behave like one. I will treat you like one.” His expression is very telling. Your face heats up. You swallow. Dead. He could have killed you. You are not too sure how you feel about your confrontation with mortality.

“And if I apologize?”

“I am not sure if I will believe a change of heart.”

And oh, how it stings. He wants to humiliate you. It makes your anger flare up again. You clench your fists and stare at the rain. You count to ten in your head, watching the droplets fall outside.

“Of course, my Prince.”

"Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,"

The storm passed, and so did your tantrum. You had become very quiet and subservient. The perfect wife. It unnerved Aemond.

Had the near-death experience rattled you as much as it had him? Aemond kept thinking it had been his fault. He shouldn’t have reached for you in such a manner, yet at the same time, the fear in your eyes had filled him with vindication. Your heart had beaten as fast as the one of a frightened bird. He had been able to feel it through your pulse points, jumping under his hands.

He had had your life in his hands. And it had felt great. That was what power was all about, Aemond thought. And oh, how low you had been brought by it. Gone was your uppity attitude, gone your terrible manners. You had clung to him like a frightened child, pale and anxious. Something roared inside him, Aemond had finally felt like the conqueror his ancestors were. A true dragon.

You had not made mention of the incident to anyone else. Of that, he was sure. His soon-to-be goodfather would have not allowed the wedding to go through. And your sisters would be much more afraid of him. Instead, Aemond had Borros singing his praises and little girls chasing after him, begging to play or older ones trying to curry favor.

Despite having been humbled quite throughoutly by fate, you were not one to sit idle. You were a spitfire, and so, Aemond could not help but believe he was being lulled into a sense of safety before you would strike. But what were you planning?

Your blank looks and serene smiles gave nothing away. No matter how cutting his remarks, or insulting his words, you did nothing but stare. At most, you would fake a laugh. Suddenly, it was as if you had become as empty-headed as your sisters. It drove him up the walls. He would have given anything to know exactly what you were thinking.

Your composure finally broke on the day the two of you were set to depart. You were to travel with Aemond to the capital, which meant flying on Vhagar. A look at his dragon, and your face crumbled. Perhaps, you remembered the last time the two of you had been alone and in the heights. Perhaps, you feared the oldest dragon alive.

“Girl, here.” Lord Borros ordered, passing your belongings to a servant. You stared sullenly. Your father gave you a look, becoming you over.

“I do not want to go.” You stomped your foot. Your antler headpiece shook with the motion. It made your face scrunch up even more. Were you…? Oh, you were. It was priceless. No matter his constant harassing, not even once had you looked close to tears. Not even when he had crudely remarked how he was going to bend you in half and spank your pretty little arse for your defiance before taking you during the wedding night. Not that he was actually going to do that. Aemond just liked frightening you.

“Lord Baratheon…” Aemond warned. He was unsure of what or why he was doing it. He should be loving this. You were finally breaking under the pressure. But instead, he felt oddly empty. It was much better, much more stimulating, when you fought back. Now, it felt oddly like a kidnapping. As if he were taking some poor, delicate girl from her home against her will.

It was stupid. Marrying was the duty of every noblewoman, and you were not a girl. You were his age, for the Seven’s sake! But you looked so hurt, so defenseless… It was not at all like he had envisioned.

What was different from that meeting in the tower than from today? Was it, perhaps, that in certain lights you looked disturbingly like his mother? You had the dark Baratheon hair, and when he watched you from behind, you looked just as powerless.

A Prince was not supposed to hurt women. It was what made him superior to Aegon. The maids in the corridors did not run from his mere sight, nor did the noblewomen avoid sitting by him at feasts. He was thought of as dutiful, not a deviant.

But frightening you had felt delicious. There had been something so primal in your fear, something that had made him feel sure of himself for the first time in years. Aemond had been in control then. He knew his mother and grandsire would be disappointed in him, but he couldn’t help it. He was as twisted as any other Targaryen. Must be the Valyrian blood.

Aemond had been raised under the faith of the Seven, and so, still had some empathy and principles. If he had not been as pious as he was, he would have been as lost as his brother after his first taste of real power. Aemond wasn’t, and so, still felt capable of being sorry for the woman he had so admired at the beginning. Despite all your disagreeable qualities, you were sharper than anyone else he had ever met.

“Girl, you are going.” Borros looked like he was starting to get angered by you. Privately, Aemond felt a bit annoyed at his hypocrisy. He said he was not escorting you to the capital because he had business to oversee as the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond could tell that wasn’t the real reason. He would rather not give you away because it would mean saying goodbye to you forever. You would no longer be his, but Aemond’s.

His ire, the only way Borros had of showcasing his feelings, had not spared anyone lately. Your Lady Mother had been called a dumb whore more times that Aemond could count, for not preparing you better. Your poor sister, Casandra, had been belittled by him after daring to ask about the fate of the dresses you wouldn’t take with you.

“If a daughter of mine is becoming a Princess, you can bet she will take all the dresses she needs, and I will not have you behaving like a vulture.” He had screamed, red with rage.

Floris had wisely hidden herself in her rooms. You, instead, had screamed right back that he was fuzzing too much and that he was overbearing. Which Borros was. The man fuzzed over you, making sure you had the best of everything to take with you, to the point of overwhelming. The row had been spectacular, and it had ended with you giving him the silent treatment, as he muttered fondly about his proud little doe.

It made Aemond think of his father. After his death, he had only felt panic and a sense of urgency. Never grief. But this man, so rough, so ignorant compared to his own father, would be wept thoroughly. He could already tell.

Right now, of course, similar as you were, neither of you got it. Instead, you gave your father a look of absolute betrayal and ran off, trying to hide your sadness at his scolding tone.

“Ah, that one. She is not used to harshness.” Borros shook his head, as if whatever you were going through was a product of female hysterics and not the fact that you were grieving the loss of your home and family.

“Or being told no.” Because you wouldn’t be like this if Borros hadn’t raised you like this. Most noblewomen resigned to their fate early on, they were not raised with delusions. Borros had a point, your mother should have prepared you better. He should have, too.

“I am afraid I might have done her more harm than good. I have always had a soft spot for her. Out of her sisters, she is the most like me.” Borros voiced exactly what Aemond was thinking. His reasoning, though, made him have to try hard not to cringe. While not exactly the prettiest woman on Westeros, you were tempting enough. You had nice manners, when you cared to use them, and a sharp intelligence that spoke of a deep cultivation of the proper arts for a lady.

“She has my temper, I mean.” Borros chuckled, once again guessing his thoughts. In looks, you took after whatever ancestors were blessed without a warrior’s physique. “And she is much more gifted with her letters.”

“Oh.” Aemond said, quite dumbly. He had underestimated Lord Baratheon, just as he had underestimated you. The great beast of a man wasn’t just a beast, but rather gifted with talents of his own. While he may not have been able to read great treatises of philosophy and history, he could read intentions and thoughts just from a man’s face.

“A good thing, in a man. But in a woman? She is not used to not being heard, she is loud and takes a lot of space. The world is not kind, not kind at all, to women like that.” Lord Baratheon spoke, again showcasing a deep insight Aemond would not have thought him capable of.

His mind wandered. Rhaenyra. Loud, brash, bold. Charming when she wanted to. Yes, the world wasn’t ind to women like the two of you. After all, weren’t him and Aegon trying to usurp the throne right from under her? Just because they didn’t agree with how she had chosen to live?

It had been the wrong choice, sure. But it had been the path Rhaenyra had picked for herself, just as you had planned to do before Aemond swept in. Lost to perversion and sin, perhaps producing your own bastards. No. Your course needed to be corrected, and thank the gods Aemond was here for it. You needed to learn your place. He would listen to you, but you would always follow his lead. That was the only way to keep you on the right path.

“No, it is not.” He agreed, still thinking of how he could help you. Stubborn little doe that you were, Aemond knew it wasn’t going to be easy. And worst thing? You were brave. Many women would have cowered at the sight of him, or at the threats he had thrown your way. Not you. Not even once, beyond that time in the tower, you had looked afraid.

“You have to promise to not try to break her.” Borros warned, clapping a hand against Aemond’s shoulder. The man threw all his weight behind the gesture. It was considerable, and Aemond was once again remembered of why they wanted the Baratheon alliance so badly. Borros Baratheon was a brute, yes, but a great warrior. Deadly with the Warhammer.

His hand squeezed Aemond’s shoulder so hard, he thought he might bruise. A threat, thinly veiled. Aemond prided himself on the fact that he did not flinch under it.

“Many men would. It is the easiest approach.” Because it was. What could you do with a woman who was not afraid, and who was used to doing as she pleased? The same thing his Uncle had done to Rhaenyra. You broke her. In whatever way it was necessary. Either through pleasure or through pain.

It was known that women were more carnal creatures. They lacked the impulse control men had. They were more prone to sinning, and they were more often controlled through their basal needs. That was why they had no business on the battlefield or in the throne. And why the thought of having a home and nurturing children spoke to them. They were just all instinct and emotion, with an overall lack of rationality.

“But you are not just any man, are you? You are a Targaryen. Your house needs strong women.” Borros argued. Aemond cringed at the word. He was right, despite the unfortunate wording. You were not just any woman. You had shown yourself capable of more rationality. Perhaps Aemond had to nurture that in you and get rid of your most instinctual behaviors. Teach you by example, until you understood the role you had to play.

“Then what? She will not come willingly, that much is clear.” But how? How? That he now knew what he had to do did not mean he knew how to get there. It could take years, and right now, you had to leave before sundown.

“Her anger will pass. And a bit of advice. She works better when it is the carrot and not the stick.” And it made sense, it showed rational behavior. You didn’t balk at the first sign of pain, but you were greatly tempted when faced with rewards. Much like him, you endured.

You had been raised a brat, yes. But an intelligent one.

“Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.

Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

Th’ effect and it."

The view from atop Vhagar is spectacular, but you can’t seem to enjoy it. It is a unique opportunity. Aside from those with valyrian blood, no one gets to just ride a dragon. Much less, the most ancient one. But Vhagar is too terrifying for you to sit at ease on her, and you keep thinking of that night in the tower.

You don’t want to die. A fall from here would mean plummeting to your death. You are overly conscious of your every move. You don’t want to die this far from your home. Lately, it feels as if death lingers around you. There is danger everywhere. On top of the stairs, near the training grounds, on top of Vhagar.

Aemond seems to be having the same thoughts because he grips you so tightly to him that it nearly hurts. Every time you breathe, his hands move with your stomach. He is holding you so close it’s making you feel awkward, but you are too afraid of falling to say something.

Storm’s End and the Stormlands are becoming smaller in the distance. Without meaning to, you start to tear up. You no longer can see the banners from the top of the towers, and you can’t remember what they looked like. It’s such a silly thing, being unable to figure out if it is the Baratheon sigil or just a plain yellow one, but it makes a pang of sadness take hold of your heart.

You suddenly wish you had spent your last days memorizing your childhood home and spending time with your family instead of trying to vex Aemond. He is now all you have. The only person outside yourself who will remember your home once in the capital. You bet Aemond never paid as much attention to the details as you did, but surely, he must remember something.

Perhaps that thought is what prompts you to curl your hands around his wrists, seeking comfort. He stiffens, and moves his hands higher up your bodice. You let him go without a word.

“What are you doing?” Aemond whispers against your ear. The wind makes it hard for you to hear him otherwise.

“I am scared.” You answer, trying to project your voice over the wind. He gives a put upon sigh, but reaches for your hands. When his hands envelope yours, you nearly jerk in surprise. Aemond is warm, and touches you very gently. Much more than he had the night of your betrothal. You had not expected him to conform to your unspoken offers of a truce, thinking him as proud as you.

“You should not be. Vhagar is a well-experienced flier.” He soothes, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. You lean back against him, and Aemond seems to welcome the gesture. His breath changes slightly, but you can feel him relaxing against your back.

“It’s not about Vhagar.” You sniffle slightly. “I…” But how to explain? How to explain all of this to a man? This feeling of loss, of not belonging. Of being taken, yet at the same time doing your duty. He would never understand it.

“Why are you scared? Aren’t you so proud, so self-sufficient?” It seems Aemond hasn’t forgotten the slights you committed against him. While he might be willing to indulge you when it comes to fear of Vhagar or heights, he seems annoyed by anything else. You wish he wasn’t. Being comforted by him had felt really nice. For a second, you had actually thought everything was going to be alright.

“Don’t be like that.” You plead, voice breaking slightly. You don’t want to sob, but you feel on the edge of it. Aemond’s hands squeeze yours. He sounds tired when he next speaks.

“You have not apologized.”

“Nor have you.” You say, taking a deep breath. You are trying to keep your tone even, but anger leaks from your next words like poison from a wound. “I admit my tone was not the best. But you treated me like cattle. Or worse, a pawn.”

“Pawn?” He asks, the words seeming to give him pause. You jerk one of your hands from his grip, angrily wiping away your tears.

“On your brother’s game. Do not insult my intelligence, Prince Aemond.”

“We are all pawns. You, me, Aegon.” His tone is sharp. As if you should know this already. Are all men such fools, you wonder? Why would anyone be a pawn on someone else's game when they can play King on their own?

Cyvasse has always been a pastime of yours. You learned how to play it as a child, on your father’s knee. As he planned his ambushes against the dornish and commanded you to watch closely, watch better. There was always an out. Prince Aemond could not see it now, but you could.

“I do not want to be a pawn.” You whisper to him. A test. A prod, to see if he is willing to change the game.

“Neither do I.” He answers, grimly. Prince Aemond kisses your temple, soft and sweet. And the idea grows in your mind. Perhaps, this is not a Cyvasse board but a draughts’ one. They are easily mistaken, after all. Both checkered. But in draughts, even the most simple of the pieces can dominate the board.

And there it is. The opportunity you have been looking for.

“Is this a dagger which I see before me

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.”

The day of your wedding ceremony, a storm rages around the Red Keep. You and Aemond exchange your vows inside the royal Sept, with an air of grim determination. None of your family is in attendance. His, instead, fills the seats of the Sept.

His grandfather proudly boasts of the alliance to anyone who is willing to listen. It is no secret to anyone that the dismissal of Prince Lucerys from Storm’s End has made Rhaenyra’s cause take a blow.

What did Borros Baratheon see, that convinced him to betroth one of his daughters to Aemond? The nobles ask themselves. Surely, if even a renowned fool like him could see something wrong with Prince Lucerys, it must be obvious for the whole realm to see. The question mark on the legitimacy of those Velaryons changes into an exclamation sign. His poor, Strong nephews, doomed not to inherit anything at all.

“Well done, Aemond.” His grandfather had said to him, pulling him aside after Aemond had returned with you and the promise of Borros Baratheon himself leading his men into battle. “The girl, she reminds me of your grandmother. Bright, but well-behaved. I am glad you found enjoyment in your duty.”

And surprisingly, Aemond had. He had warmed up to you on the ride home. You were sweet when you wanted to be, and he had finally managed to find some common ground with you, which made you more interesting.

You still had impulses. But when asked to cooperate and behave in front of his family, you had proven surprisingly agreeable.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to cause your Lady Mother a fright. I understand she is heavily burdened.” Your last comment had been said with a puzzling smile on your lips, and Aemond had found himself losing sleep over it. What did you mean by that? Were you making a subtle dig at him? Or was it at his siblings? Or perhaps, simply commenting on the near civil war about to break out?

The memory follows him all the way to the hand fasting and the wedding feast. The storm outside does not subside, perhaps a goodbye to the doe that is now becoming a dragon. You tear up during the hand fasting, and even manage to look the hopeful bride. If Aemond had not been betrothed to you, he would have thought you loved the idea of marriage. That you loved him.

You do not. It does not bother him. Both of you have agreed that love will come with time. For now, you are both trying. You are much better at it than him, less cold and guarded.

“I want us to be friends, at least. Care for each other.” You had said, holding his face in your hands as you shared your first dance as a married couple. Aemond had not been expecting the gentle touch from you, focused on not missing a step. He had startled. But you had guided him to look you right in the eyes, expression sincere. “Or I shall wilt so far from home, husband. We have been doing better.”

“We have. And I care.” He had brushed your hair away from your face, sensing your melancholy. It must have been hard on you, Aemond mused, getting married without any of your family present. You had been behaving spectacularly, but you were still very sensitive. Your father had warned him about it for a reason, after all.

“I do too.” You had reassured him, eyes glassy, before hugging him. Aemond had decided then that he would need to protect you from any harm. You were awfully fragile, nothing to do with the Storms you had as sisters. His doe. Dramatic, vain, but so sweet.

His new resolve faces its first test when the feast starts to die down. The bedding ceremony approaches, and your eyes, nervous, go from the increasingly drunk Aegon to Aemond and towards the empty seats left behind by his mother and grandsire.

Aemond only needs to follow your gaze a few times to understand what you are trying to convey. Gone are the only two possible moderating influences on his brother, his mother had retired when Helaena had become upset by the noise and his grandfather claimed being too old for such a celebration.

The crowd gets rowdier and rowdier as the end draws near. They are drunk and eager for a show, and know the best one is about to be provided by the two of you.

Aemond has already decided to endure this. While the thought of those hands all over his body it's not a pleasant one, he doubts the women would dare go any further. You, though. Your laugh is stilted and your eyes keep darting to the exit. Determined as you are to appear brave, you force your lips into tense smiles.

It’s not long after before someone calls for the bedding. All bravado, you get up on your own when the men, led by Aegon, approach you.

“Gods, you are a lucky bastard.” He says, as he starts to tug at the sleeves of your dress. Something tightens in Aemond's chest and he sees red. He had hoped that he had conveyed to his brother that he cared for you, but Aegon either didn’t care, or was stupid enough not to notice.

How could he? Even his grandsire had congratulated him for finding pleasure in duty, it was that evident. And Otto Hightower was not exactly the most perceptive of men when it came to emotions.

Aegon eagerly rips one sleeve out of the bodice, and you can't hide your flinch. Aemond sees it even among the crowd of women that are trying to divest him of his own clothes. Some lord's hands are greedily wrapped around your waist, squeezing your flesh. There is panic on your eyes. Brave, stubborn, little doe that you are, you don't say a word.

But even if Aegon had not noticed, how did he dare touch something that was his? The only thing to his name, and he dared envy it, try to take it away. Aemond had endured Aegon’s needs going first his whole life. Seven Hells, even marrying you meant catering to him and putting aside his own desires. But his brother was too selfish to even keep his hands to himself and not fondle his bride.

There is another ripping sound. The other sleeve of your dress, now gone. You struggle to keep the bodice up, a hand against your chest, but some lords are already jeering and tugging at the waist of your dress. You whimper, barely audible.

“Enough!” Aemond orders, pushing away the women and grabbing his gambeson from one of them. Enraged, he nearly throws the men off you. “Enough. No one touches her.”

“Brother, we were just having a bit of fun…” Aegon shouts, and Aemond grimaces. This close, he can smell the alcohol on his breath. What a poor excuse of a King he was, drunk and groping a woman who wasn’t his to touch.

You flock towards Aemond like a scared bird. He places his gambeson over your shoulders, trying to cover you in case the dress fails to stay up. You shrug it on, gratefulness shining in your eyes. It only serves to irk Aemond further. He wants to strangle Aegon and his stupid friends.

“I do not care.” Aemond barks, and pushes Aegon off him. “Where is the Septon? Send him in, now.”

“You should not take that tone with me.” Aegon warns, puffing up his chest and advancing again towards you. You flinch, huddling impossibly close to Aemond’s side.

“I do not care! What do you think this is? First night?” Aemond snaps, right back. The confused crowd stands back, starting to notice something is wrong. “Did you ever paid attention to your history lessons or were you drunk then, too? It is abolished!”

“I…I…I” Aegon splutters.

Aemond huffs. He grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulder, to the delight of the crowd. Many men cheer and hoot, but he makes sure to keep their hands away from you.

“I laid their daggers ready;

He could not miss ‘em.”

Your hands still shake when he sets you down. For a moment, you had thought you were being carried off to be bedded, and all the nasty promises Aemond had made you before your truce had come to mind. He had a right to it — now. Your father was not coming to save you.

Panic had threatened to drown you. But then, once the two of you were out of sight from the crowd, Aemond squeezed one of your hands and placed you down on the corridor for you to make your way there on foot.

“Thank you.” You say to him, once in his chambers. Yours, now. The thought brings tears to your eyes, and you are not sure why. You knew you were going to marry him, and he was not as bad as he seemed. Why were you crying?

The day had been taxing. Emotionally and physically. Sadness and excitement had all mixed into one, and the wedding preparations had not allowed you a second to rest. You had been on your best game, bringing Aemond over to your side, and enchanting the court. Laying the groundwork for when you decided to move your own piece.

You had not planned for the reality of Aegon Targaryen, though. Being almost assaulted on your wedding feast was not what how you envisioned meeting the King. It only steeled your resolve. You had to get rid of him.

But no matter how politically sharp you were, you were still a woman. The threat of assault and rape would forever hang over your head, no matter how high in the game you were. And it hurt. Because you could never win.

You sob. You had been doing everything right. How could this have happened to you?

Aemond approaches you from behind, loudly. He is almost always silent in his movements, a predator stalking prey, so you know he must be exaggerating for your benefit. One of his arms wraps around you, trying to comfort you. The touch is tentative, hesitant. When you do not pull away, Aemond hugs you fully from behind, pressing his forehead against your nape.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity. Until you were no longer shaking in his arms, until you had no tears left. Only then, Aemond pressed a soft kiss to the first knob of your spine. And to the second. And the third. He softly traces the places they would be under your skin, lavishing them with attention.

You don’t stop him. His touch is comforting and familiar. Aemond has saved you twice now. That night, when you were enemies in a tower. Tonight, when you were already his woman.

When he reaches your bodice, he doesn’t tear the broken garment apart. Instead, he unmakes every button with care. The dress slips from your form with a soft murmur. For a second, the reminder of Aegon, his friends, and what they had tried to do to you, makes you tense up.

Aemond doesn’t say a word. He just hugs you to him, cradling you in his arms. When you are calm again, he kisses your nape once more.

Your eyes dart towards the bed, in the middle of the room. Around it, some candles provide a low lighting. Aemond kisses your shoulder, and moves one of the straps of your shift aside.

You shudder. Your knees feel weak. It’s a new feeling, but one that fills you with warmth. Pooling in your stomach, towards your core. Making you slick between the legs.

His kisses move from your shoulders, down your arms and towards your wrists. Each kiss feels soft and warm. It makes you forget about King Aegon and his friends, and their dirty little hands all over you.

Aemond touches you softly enough to want to lose yourself in his touch. It is clear he has done this before, and that he cares. Your husband, your improbable ally. So you do. You lose yourself in him, in his body, in the kindness behind every touch. It is only as you come to be, laying with your head on his chest, that you think of it again.

You are satisfied and warm, laying under the covers. Aemond is by your side, eye closed. Softly, you run your nails down his chest, watching the skin and flesh give. His body is so different from your own, thin and elongated, but softly muscled from all his training. There are some scars on him, pink raised flesh standing out among the white.

“You are smarter than him.” You say, your voice low. You are speaking treason.

“Hm?” Aemond’s hand starts caressing your back. His eye remains closed.

“Your brother.” You reply, listening attentively to his heartbeat, You try not to tense under his ministrations, not give your move away.

“I was more dedicated to our studies.” Aemond’s heartbeat starts to feel faster. You feign calm, focusing on other things. It would not do to let your excitement show. You trace a more silvery scar on his side. You wonder how he got it. Training? Riding Vhagar?

“Your education was fit enough for a King.” You say, after a while. You are so close you can taste it. Shifting to lay on your stomach, you peer up at him from between your lashes.

“It is.” Not was. Aemond’s eye meets yours. Your look turns knowing. “It’s no use. He was born first.”

“The world is cruel. Princess Rhaenyra, too, was born first.” You say, boldly. What is it, to usurp a usurper?

Aemond smiles. Slow and cruel.

“He should not have touched you.”

His hand goes to rub at your shoulder. There is a mark there. His teeth, bruising and awful blue. What had possessed him to do such a thing, you did not know. Otherwise, your lovemaking has been soft and tender. Not at all what you had expected.

“With a brother like that, you have to learn to share.” You whisper, once again treason.

His grip on you tightens.

“The only man I intend to share you with is the one who will be my heir.”

It is only years later that you come to know the truth. Both of you are old and scarred by the many atrocities you have committed. The first, of course, the hand you had in the murder of the King.

The chronicles will tell, years after, that it had been a confusing incident. Someone had poisoned Aegon. Not you or Aemond, of course. A servant on Prince Daemon’s payroll, who had been tipped about what wine the King would drink. With him, goes each one of his sycophants. It starts a war. Aemond and you stand, silent watchers of it all, as both sides tear each other apart, conveniently sent to a diplomatic mission with Dorne that bears no fruits.

Is it more of a crime to be the hand that wields the sword, or the man who in the face of an atrocity just watches? His nephews die. All and each one of them, including Aegon’s children. Until both of you can march into King’s Landing, Baratheon forces at your back, and take the Iron Throne.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Aemond asks, as you watch your grandchildren play on the foot of the Iron Throne. You sit on his lap, cradled comfortably. It has been worth it, you think. It has all been worth it.

“Of course I do.” You smile, so in love with him it hurts. Your sword and shield. Your King. The one that you chose to place on the throne.

“There was a mark on your shoulder.” Aemond rubs the spot where a scar has formed after all the times he had bitten you when you made love. “His fingers were all over it, and I thought, if I lack an eye, he will have to lack a hand.”

The next king wears an antler crown. History books will not remember you or know what you did. But both Aemond and you do, and as you share a secret, vicious smile, you know it. The most dangerous thing to walk the Red Keep was you all along.

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