#placed upon the altar

[fuiru]

A 44 year old man goes to a K-Pop Concert

I promised you a report on the K-pop concert that I, a 44-year-old accountant, went to a couple of weeks ago with my wife and daughter in Toronto. So here it is.

The band we saw were Ateez. They're my daughter's favourite band and my wife's second favourite. I know most of my mutuals are similarly aged like me and may not be familiar with them so let me give you a brief primer on Ateez.

Imagine the most attractive eight men you can think of, just unfathomably beautiful specimens of aesthetic perfection, and make them sing songs that somehow combine the subjects of 'dancing like nobody is watching' with 'we live in a dystopian hellscape that we must all work together to overthrow'. Give them an ongoing music video story lore that literally nobody - not even the band themselves - understand, so that online discussion of their visual motifs looks more like the fevered rantings of a conspiracy theorist, complete with speculation about alternate realities and time being a Moebius strip. There is also a giant sand timer, for some reason.

That's Ateez. That's what you need to know.

Now, K-pop concerts are very different to the gigs I've been going to for the last 28 (!) years. There's no support act, for a start. Also the band perform for like, three hours, with breaks for costume changes and interpretive dance. Furthermore, hanging above everything is the constant looming threat of mandatory military service.

So this being my first such concert, I wasn't sure what to expect. What happened was difficult to explain, but I will try as I am already six paragraphs into this write-up and I'm too invested to stop now. Here goes:

In his Wicked + Divine comics series, Kieron Gillen places modern pop icons as deities, feeding upon and gaining strength from the worship of their fans at the altar of musical performance. I thought I understood that metaphor. I thought I understood it AS a metaphor. I was wrong, because that night Ateez WERE Gods with a capital G and we were their worshippers, a crowd emanating adoration (in the religious and non-religious senses), bestowing strength upon them and gaining their strength in return.

If that sounds weird, it probably is. But as pointed out above, I have lived over four decades and never yet experienced anything like the overwhelming passion of that crowd, the utter abandon with which they conveyed their love for the band.

"But Fuiru, what of the actual music?" you ask. Thinking back, there was a moment in one of their songs - I can't remember which - where I watched the stage, and the people around me, taking it in, and I thought, "Man, I just love Music". But that doesn't answer your question, sorry.

Ateez's music is bloody great. As a tiresome indie/rock/metal kid I'm resisting the urge to add the usual tiresome indie/rock/metal caveat of "...for pop music" because honestly that does it a disservice. They have some genuinely amazing songs. Halazia is an absolute fucking masterpiece that descends into furious hardcore breakbeat. Bouncy is a big, brash racket that somehow is also a perfect pop song. Utopia, Wonderland, and Guerrilla are similarly superb. The obligatory boy band slow number is represented by Dancing Like Butterfly Wings which will make you cry because you will forever associate it with your twelve year old daughter being pointed to and waved at by her favourite Ateez member (Seonghwa) because of her Seonghwa-branded lightstick.

That might just be me, though.

So in summary: being a 44 year old dad at his first K-pop concert rules and you should endeavour to partake in the experience if the opportunity arises.

Finally, for any Atiny reading this: my bias would be San or Seonghwa but my wife and daughter said they were taken so it’s Mingi. My concert outfit (designed and created by my offspring) reflects this.

[hinamie]

places one last offering upon the itfs make it out alive altar bc if they die /i'll/ kill them

[kitten4sannie]

ateez and corruption kinks… that’s it I just had to let that out into the void

communion

pairing: priest! yunho x nun! reader (fem)

summary: priest jeong wishes to share another communion with the most beloved member of the monastery.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: for the love of god (lol) if sacrilegious smut isn’t your thing do NOT read this,, however if it IS wellll i got something good for you <3, wine drinking, but like, in an unconventional way lmao, nasty perverted dom! yuyu, subby cock hungry! reader (can we blame her tho?), implied sex slave training, oral (giving/receiving), deepthroating, finger sucking, cum eating, implied toy usage (the toy is um….well…a religious object…)

a/n: oh nonnie idt you realize what you’ve unleashed with that ask ^^ there’s nothing i love more than corruption 🖤 physical, emotional, psychological ughhhh,,, anyways writers block and some shitty real life stuff have been taking turns beating me up the past couple months so i thought this might be a good escape for me :3 i hope you enjoy <33

p.s: i’ll be posting two more fics with a corruption theme very soonnn,, one features perverted bsf wooyoung and the other involves frat boy sannie 🫶🏼

song rec: take me to church - hozier (i mean come on….)

No matter how dark the communal church grew in the late hours of the night, the bright light of the moon still shone through the fragmented mosaic glass, now casting a myriad of gleaming crosses across your face and body as you sat on your knees upon the altar. You raised your hands up to begin worshipping your Lord in the way you were taught by Father Jeong, gingerly opening his robes to unveil the point of your focus.

Yunho lifted up a ceremonial bell and rung it once, his robes pooling around his feet, watching as your thighs squeezed tightly together underneath your heavy garments, your shaky exhale fanning over his exposed, twitching cock, finding the unyielding look of pure lust inside your eyes to be so beautiful he could shed a tear. Over the many, many communions you’ve shared together, it seemed that the bell reminded you of your loyalty to him and to your shared savior, of the pleasure you shared all in the name of God.

He pushed your veil off to expose your hair, before he placed his large hands on either side of your head, his long, slender fingers wrapping securely around it. “And, what do we say now, Sister L/N?” he asked softly, as though he were testing you, dragging his tongue over his top set of teeth, letting out a few heavy breaths.

“O’ Lord, for which I am about to receive, is truly your most precious Body and your life-giving blood, which, I pray, makes me worthy to receive for the remission of all my sins and for everlasting life,” you recited your prayer like many times before, the wetness between your thighs everlasting, watching Father Jeong let go of your head for a second to pick up a chalice of wine from the ceremony table behind him.

Yunho held the gold chalice just above his waist, growing that much harder as the dark liquid began to pour down his long, curved length, spilling off of his sticky tip and dripping into your open mouth. “The Blood of Christ…” He watched you swallow it all down, like the obedient servant you were. Something this sinful simply had to be holy, didn’t it? He swallowed down the abundant saliva that filled his mouth. “Ahh?” he voiced, like he was waiting for you to say something.

“Amen,” you sighed out, licking the remnants of wine and pre-cum from your lips, your trembling fingers clasping around his bare hips.

“Amen.”

Yunho then thrusted forward until he hit the back of your parched throat, eagerly dragging you back and forth along his sizable cock, using you like the faithful cocksleeve you were, the repetitive sounds of squelching, gagging, and muffled moaning sending delightful shivers down his spine, much like the sacred hymns did to him every morning during mass. “Sister L/N, your throat has molded to the shape of my cock, has it not? Bonding with me all these long nights, over and over, it’s like you were made for me, and only me. Tell me, Sister, does taking the Body of Christ down your throat make you feel closer to God?”

You let out a stunted, pleased moan, blinking a few tears out of your dazed, half closed eyes, watching as a blurry version of Father Jeong brought his rosary up to his lips to kiss it. Due to being trained so consistently, you knew to relax your jaw and throat in order to take all of him without fail, your gag reflex nonexistent, simply drooling all over his long, heavy cock instead, much to Yunho’s delight.

“Oh, God, let His will be done….” He hunched over slightly, in order to pound himself into the back of your throat over and over, thick strands of pre-cum and saliva dripping from your chin and landing onto your previously pristine garments, his fingers closing in around your bulging throat to feel himself moving inside it. It was simply too much for the priest to handle. “So…nnngh–sovereign, so pure, this divinity…” Yunho expressed between heavy pants, suddenly pulling out until his twitching cockhead rested against your splayed out tongue. “Sister L/N, you must show me something heavenly so that I may fill you with the Holy Spirit. Be quick, for I am at my limit…”

Licking the beads of pre-cum from his slit, you began to lift up the layers of your tunic until your bare cunt glistened underneath the moonlight that was casted over you like a spotlight, the edges of your skin glowing as though you were a real life angel, one that was sent down from above to tempt Yunho, especially now that he could see you in your most vulnerable state. “Father Jeong, please see what I’ve done for you. I’ve kept myself full…so that I may take you inside properly…”

It was then that Father Jeong fell to his knees before you, looking up at the slick heaven in between your thighs, before leaning in to lap up the abundant wetness from your lips, his hot tongue practically melting against your cunt as he ate you out like a starved man, spreading your open with his ringed thumbs. Maintaining steady eye contact with you, he slowly pulled the hood of your clit back to expose your weak point, wrapping his plush lips around it as he began to suck and lick until he had you trembling above him, your nails digging into the dense wood of the pews. “Cum before me,” he commanded, dragging his tongue along your fluttering slit up to your throbbing clit until you let out a beautifully broken cry.

You spread your trembling thighs open just enough to allow what was filling you up the entire time to slowly come sliding out, both you and the priest letting out a similar gasp once it did. A thick, slick-covered silver cross landed inside Yunho’s open palm. He watched diligently as you lifted it up to his mouth, not even having to say anything as he sucked it clean. Without exchanging words, Yunho stood back and squeezed his throbbing cock, just as you lowered yourself back down onto your knees with a loving smile, watching with pride as he began to shudder, long spurts of his hot cum landing onto your tongue and disappearing down your throat.

“What a thing of beauty….” The priest swallowed hard, letting out a shaky breath. “You never fail to bring me close to our Savior, my dear,” he praised, reaching down to rub the remaining remnants of his seed over your swollen lips and onto your tongue with his thumb, pulling it away from your mouth and licking the last of his saltiness off of his digit himself.

“It’s all for the greater good,” you softly replied, slowly standing up and hiking up your now soiled garments, so that you could bend over the pew, spreading yourself wide, opening the gates of your heaven and giving Yunho access like every blissful night before. “Now, please allow me to bring you even closer.”

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© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[vexwerewolf]

Harrison Armory

I think a lot of people fundamentally misunderstand Harrison Armory, Lancer fans on Tumblr especially.

Harrison Armory is not Nazi Germany. Harrison Armory doesn't actually have an exact parallel on modern-day Earth, and it would be difficult to draw them without potentially insensitive implications.

I think the closest parallel I can draw is late-stage Obama-era America, with a lot of Nordic-style public investment and China's Social Credit system.

People depicting the Armory as a cold, grind-obsessed hypercapitalist nightmare are thinking of IPS-N. The Armory looks after its citizens, at least in as much as happy workers are productive workers. Even as a colonial subject, you can expect a decent standard of living simply because they don't answer solely to shareholders - for better or for worse, the Armory has a vision, an insistence upon the dignity of Humanity which wouldn't allow them to let you live in squalor. This is a cold, haughty kind of beneficence - they don't care about you per se, it's just that allowing you to suffer would reflect poorly on them.

You will get healthcare. You will get free, frequent public transit that you might not even need to use, since every city is walkable. You will get clean water, healthy food and safe streets. You will get frequent vacations and as many sick days as you need. No matter your ethnicity, birth gender, gender identity, religion, sexuality, physical or mental ability, the Armory has a place for you. The Armory does not discriminate.

The Armory is expansionist, for sure, but it chooses its new acquisitions carefully - Diasporan worlds under the thumb of ruthless dictators, repressive theocracies, avaricious hypercapitalist oligarchs. If you're a colonial subject, the Armory have likely liberated you from tyrants.

What do you give in return? Complete cultural obedience.

You will not cause a disturbance. You will not rock the boat. You will not question the benevolent system that gave you this abundance. The Armory gives you all the choices that really matter to someone like you: eat what you want, shop where you want, buy what you want - after all, every shop, every café, every restaurant is an Armory subsidiary, so whatever cuisine you favour, whatever brand of dataslate you prefer, the Armory is making back most of the salary they pay you. The Armory puts a roof over your head. The Armory protects you from the wolves at the door. The Armory even lets you vote on your local representatives (they've all got spotless Socials, so you know that no matter who you choose, they're loyal, attentive citizens). Are you not happy? Are you not grateful?

Show us. Show us you're grateful. Show up to the Foundation Day parade. Salute the statues of Harrisons I (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE), II (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE) and III (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE). Recite the Pledge. Volunteer for the local Guard Corps - or better yet, the Colonial Legion. Don't you care about your community? Aren't you proud of your nation? Don't you want to give back? Aren't you a good citizen?

What's that? Dissent? You little shit! You ungrateful little worm! After all we've done for you, after all this Great Nation has sacrificed for you, you dare ask for more? Harrison I (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE) sacrificed himself on Union's altar for us - for YOU! Harrison II (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE) died refusing to bend the knee, refusing to sacrifice our freedom - YOUR LIBERTY! Harrison III (PRAISE THE DIRECTOR GENERAL, LONG MAY HE SERVE) tours the Purview to see and hear your fellow countrymen and address their concerns, and you dare question his right to rule? The Steward Council is comprised of only his most trusted advisors - do you doubt their commitment to our values?

We live in the best and brightest era of human civilization, the problems of the past all behind us, and all you can think about is ways to drag us all down. You ungrateful, shiftless, lazy little bastard. You want me to call the local Social board? See how they feel about your profile? If you don't feel like the Armory is doing enough for you? Well, let's see how you like it when the Armory does nothing for you. You clearly don't have the spirit or the courage to be truly free.

Ugh, dissenters, am I right? Fuck, sorry about that, folks. Yeah, that was... intense! Anyway, let's not let that whole sordid ordeal ruin this party. Let's all just chill, take an edible, and celebrate what we came here to celebrate - the Colonial Legion incorporated its first all-trans Genghis brigade! What a win for progressivism, right? You'd never see that in the Trade Baronies! Praise the Director General! Long may he serve!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

like this, you feel a little like a lamb laid at an altar.

wrapped up in shimmering silk, a heavy sash tied around your waist, not loose enough to slip, not tight enough to beget discomfort — layers upon layers, a pure-white, nearly translucent shawl draped around your shoulders, jeweled pins gleaming between your locks like shells under water. a pile of molten rubies. the fabric weighs heavy on your bones; were you not sitting with your knees against the floor, you might have found it difficult to keep them from buckling.

but you are. seated on the elevated flooring in one of his temple’s chambers, wearing robes that suguru dolled you up with himself; reverent, in doing so, the very point of this occasion. or so he says.

biting at the inside of your cheek, you withhold a sigh. when he said he had a surprise for you, wearing such a blinding smile, looking so pleased with himself — well, you weren’t really expecting this.

(then again, that glint in his eye has never been a particularly good sign.)

and now you’re… exposed, for lack of better words. 

the centre of attention.

suguru’s voice echoes throughout the room, laced with intention, heavy charisma. low and commanding.

”worship your god,” he almost seethes, but you can tell he’s putting effort into keeping his vocal chords smooth, in maintaining his composure. ”worship them properly.”

before him, on the flooring just below you both, are rows of people in dogeza, tucked in on themselves, bowing deeply. his congregation, gathered just for you. murmuring, under their breaths, their foreheads nearly smushed against wooden flooring, a quiet whirlwind of whispers seeping in through the gaps. praiseful lulls, recited scriptures, pure worship.

… it’s an odd sight, if anything. you can’t help but squirm, discomfort gnawing at your bones. 

suguru seems to notice, because he speaks up.

”… are they not to your liking, my love?” he asks, curious, coaxing, syrupy sweetness on the tip of his tongue. his voice is so soft, when he speaks to you, it almost makes you feel at ease with the audience before you. he crouches down in front of you, bangs swaying idly. ”should they bow deeper…?”

an inhale of air. the room smells of incense, weighing on your veins, making you sleepy. ”n-no, it’s just —” you stammer, gnawing at your bottom lip, senses finding solace in the scent of lilies and magnolias on your robes. ”i feel a little… out of place?”

a hum, buzzing at the base of his throat. then, a raspy chuckle. ”… you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

suddenly, he’s bowing too — leaning forward, until his forehead nearly meets the floorboards, hands planted firmly against them. so handsome, from this angle, the bridge of his nose catching a glint of light from the lamp above him. glancing up at you, with a smile that only makes your heartbeat sputter further. 

he curls a hand around your leg; slipping his fingers under the fabric, until your ankle is exposed. slowly, tenderly, he noses at the spot, angles his face to press a kiss there. a whispered lull of his tongue.

”this is the treatment you deserve.”

your breath hitches, in the back of your throat. feeling his warm lips on your bare skin, against such a vulnerable spot, just below your sensitive achilles tendon. despite his calm demeanor, his soothing voice, your nerves are roused — eyes darting to the rows of men and women on the floor, still kneeling dutifully. they aren’t looking at you, diligent in their murmuring, their silent prayers, but you still feel so thoroughly exposed, like they’re seeing something that should be for the two of you alone — suddenly suguru’s lips are moving, as if he’s intent on worshipping every inch of you, and —

”s-sugu—” you squeak, scooting away, gaze shying from his own — a hushed whisper spilling from your parted lips. ”i don’t want them here.”

… that gets his attention.

honeyed, amber eyes suddenly harden. a crack down a frost-slicked lake, a sudden drop in temperature. it’s as if a switch is flicked; his face settling into firm lines, left eyebrow giving way to a twitch.

and he stands up. sharp, low-lit eyes gazing down at his congregation with a tight-knit expression.

”out,” he orders, a razor’s cut of his tongue. ”at once.”

a voice as clear as the toll of a bell, hiding no intention. it rings out from the depths of his throat, echoes behind his teeth and above the gathering of people at his feet. cold and jarring. even you aren’t entirely unaffected by the dominance he exudes, like this; you count yourself lucky to never be at the other end of it, to always be met with the sun’s glow and not the sting. the room goes eerily silent.

before you can blink, his followers are dispersing, like a flock of ravens — or a group of cornered mice — rising to their feet, and leaving the room. scattering away, though not before bowing once more.

you exhale, in relief. 

it’s easier to breathe, when it’s just the two of you. even though the incense makes your eyelids heavy.

”forgive me, my darling,” comes his voice, as he crouches down to meet you at eye level again, cradling your face with both hands; gaze warm and slick with sweetness, lips meeting yours for a kiss. 

a cube of ice against a furnace. you melt into his touch. 

”i don’t know what i was thinking,” he clicks his tongue, voice sinking an octave — you can taste the bitter hints of his displeasure even when he pulls away. ”making you watch those bugs prostrate themselves. no, that just won’t do…”

regret clouds his sunsoaked eyes, smudges them at the corners. coal on soft linen. he looks beautiful, like this — silky, raven locks like a river flowing down his shoulders, eyebrows furrowed and lips dipping out into the slightest frown. a pleasant storm, in his expression, the way he sculptures himself for only you to see — but then the warmth, his hands against your face, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones. you picture him plucking apples from an orchard and feeding them to you, slice by dutiful slice. 

”i-it’s okay.” another kiss, in between your words. as if he’s still apologizing. ”i appreciate the thought, but… i don’t need to be worshipped, you know?”

a sudden silence.

(a familiar glint, in his golden eyes.)

the corners of his lips heave themselves up, like the branches of a ginkgo tree. his voice is ripe with mirth. 

”… oh, but you do.”

before you can figure out what that look even means — his heavy hands are slipping down, down, and he’s leaning forward to press his lips against the fabric of your robes, a kiss above your breast. your heart.

then he’s pulling away. standing up, leaving you blinking, a fawn in front of a chain-link fence. 

suguru steps down, the soles of his sandals meeting the flooring in front of you, his broad figure taking up the empty spot his followers left behind. with practiced ease, an elegance you cannot help but watch in mesmerized silence, he bows —

deeply, knees hitting the floor. hands clasped together in silent prayer.

and then he smiles, again. 

a shaky breath leaves your lips. his hand reaches forward, slithers around your ankle, fingers curling around your foot and coaxing it forward until your leg is ghosting against his broad thigh. you can only blink, feeling the pumping of your heart just beneath your throat, warmth blooming from the tips of your ears to the fat of your cheeks. he kisses your ankle, as if picking up where he left off — and meets your flustered gaze with nothing but sunlight.

molten lava. heat. 

(reverence, reverence, reverence.)

”well, then,” he breathes, eyes glinting under dim lights. ”allow me to worship you properly.”

[astra-ravana]

Using Demonic Sigils

Demonic sigils are specific types of symbols or seals that are used in various magickal traditions to represent, summon, or communicate with demonic entities. These symbols are believed to hold the essence or the power of thr demon they represent, acting as a focal point for rituals involving these entities. The use of demonic sigils dates back to ancient times and has been incorporated into numerous magickal practices and grimoires throughout history.

Historical Origins

The practice of using symbols or seals to represent demons is ancient, with roots in cultures around the world. However, the formal use of demonic sigils is most notably documented in medieval and Renaissance grimoires. These texts, such as 'The Lesser Key Of Solomon' (also known as Ars Goetia or Lemegeton), provide a catalog of demons, each accompanied by a unique sigil.

A sigil can have immense power because it's a gateway to a certain energy. It's like having a direct line to a powerful person, except that the person is a spiritual force, not constrained by the time/space continuum. The ancients knew all too well that our world is not only physical, that there are entities among us that we can't perceive with our ordinary senses, yet they can be communicated with through symbols which activate our higher intuitive faculties and open a door for their arrival.

Purpose And Use

Demonic sigils serve several purposes in magickal practices, including:

• Summoning- Sigils are used in rituals to summon demons, providing a method for the practitioner to focus their intention and call forth the entity.

• Communication- Sigils facilitate communication with demonic entities, acting as a bridge between the practitioner and the spirit realm.

• Command- In some traditions, possessing a demon's sigil gives the practitioner a degree of control, over the entity, compelling it to perform or grant requests of the summoner. Most entities will resist this type of magick and some may turn hostile. Use sigils with respect and consideration.

A sigil of a summoned demon can be utilized in various ways after the ritual. For example, by carrying it with you, placing it in a prominent place in your home, an altar dedicated to the demon, or in some cases of baneful magick, placing it near the target, burying it, burning it, etc.

Creation And Activation

Demonic sigils found in grimoires are traditionally received through mystical revelation or compiled from older texts. Modern practitioners may use these historical sigils or create new ones through various methods of sigilization, such as the rearrangement of letters from the demon's name into a symbolic design.

Activating or charging a demonic sigil typically involves ritualistic practices. These can include specific invocations, the use of ceremonial magick tools, and the creation of a ritual space. The goal is to energize the sigil and open a channel of communication with the entity it represents.

There are also techniques that can be used to create a unique sigil that connects a person with a specific demon for the purpose of attunement. Such a sigil being charged and activated to serve a single connection rather than everyone who chances upon it, can be a more powerful conduit. It is comparable to a dedicated VS a shared network.

Authoritative Texts With Demonic Sigils

Some grimoires contain extensive lists of demonic entities, their attributes, and corresponding sigils. Here are some notable texts that include information and drawings of demonic sigils:

• The Lesser Key Of Solomon (Ars Goetia, Lemegeton, Clavicula Solomonis)- Particularly the first section, known as the Ars Goetia, which details 72 demons along with their sigils and methods of summoning them.

• The Grimoire of Honorius- Attributed to Pope Honorius III, this grimoire includes sigils and instructions for summoning spirits, including demons, and is known for blending Christian and pagan elements.

• The Book Of Abramelin- Written by Abraham von Worms, this book describes an elaborate ritual known as the Abramelin Operation, designed to obtain the knowledge and conversation of one's guardian angel but also includes information on the summoning of demons as part of its broader magickal practice.

• The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum- An appendix of Johann Weyer's 'De Praestigiis Daemonum', this text lists 69 demons along with brief descriptions and is notable for its critical perspective on the practice of demonology.

• Grimorium Verum- (Latin for True Grimoire) is an 18th century grimoire attributed to one 'Alibeck the Egyptian' of Memphis, who purportedly wrote itnin 1517. Like many grimoires, it claims a tradition originating with King Solomon.

• The Munich Manuel of Demonic Magic (Codex Latinus Monacensis 849)- A 15th century grimoire, this manuscript focuses on necromancy and demonology, including sigils for summoning demons.

• The Grand Grimoire (The Red Dragon)- Known for its powerful rituals and the summoning of demonic forces, this book also contains sigils and instructions for making pacts with demonic entities.

• The Black Pullet (La poule noire)- While primarily known gor its talismans, this grimoire also includes methods for creating sigils and rings that are used to grant the user various powers, including influence over demons.

• The Sixth And Seventh Books Of Moses- These books are a collection of magickal texts that purport to describe the magick practiced by Moses, including the use of seals and sigils associated with both angels and demons.

The sigils found in these texts are often used in their original form even today. There have also been modifications and new sigils are constantly being created, especially by chaos magicians.

[bennysblabbering]

Bonding with the King

Kinktober: "Double Penetration" || Ryomen Sukuna x reader

contents: heian Sukuna, curseuser!reader, vaginal & anal fingering, vaginal & anal penetration, multiple cocks, large insertion, creampie, excessive cum, slight cum inflation

words: 3k

g/n afab reader

↓ Fic below the cut ↓

The great King of Curses sits atop a lavish and elegant altar, his enormous figure sitting leisurely on one leg and elbow and looking as intimidating as ever. The raised floor was adorned with a soft cotton mat and decorated with a number of gold and red pillows, a scarlet satin sheet lazily draped over his thighs. Upon your entrance into the extravagant room, he beckons you over with one hand, his expression remaining flat. The deep tone of his voice fills the space despite the distance between you.

“Come.”

You nod and bow, slowly making your way to him- the subject of everything you fight for and devote yourself to. You’d never interacted one on one, but you made the choice of your path in life; that being a curse user, making it your life goal to see a world of anarchy ruled by the Disgraced One himself. Standing before him, you choose to look at your feet instead of the man in front of you- testing Ryomen Sukuna was not on your list of things you’d like to try. He huffs, amused at your behavior. Normally, and especially during battle, you were much more assertive and loud-mouthed; the person he saw before him was not the usual one he was used to. 

“Look at me, Y/N.”

Your face raises to observe the face of the monarch. You’d seen your superior many times before, but not this close. He was absolutely breathtaking. Your eyes drink in his appearance; rose-colored locks, four intense ruby eyes, a wide and masculine figure with four muscular arms, and his entire body adorned in intricate black rings and lines that added to his beauty in the way that spices enhance the flavor of a meal. 

The sheet is lifted by a large arm as he smiles, his eyelids lowering flirtily. “Join me.” 

As the lower half of his body is revealed, you take notice of the two distinct bulges protruding from his pants in the spot between his legs. Two…..two.

You gulp and nod, feeling your body weaken at the sight. You were unsure why he’d called for you, but it seemed like he may have had some erotic plans in mind. You hadn’t particularly noticed him taking any interest in you before, but perhaps he had been hiding it well or you had been too oblivious. Or maybe you’re overthinking it.

Sneaking yourself meekly under the blanket, you lay next to him. Your arms and legs tense anxiously as you tenderly place your palms against his chest, almost scared to touch him, as if he were made of eggshells. The warmth radiating off of his body had a simultaneously comforting and arousing affect, making both the inside and outside of your body increase in temperature. His chest was impressive in size, and softer than you’d imagined. You didn’t even realize you’d been squeezing a little until he chuckles. “Enjoying yourself?”

You respond with a soft yelp. His muscles were so plush and warm under your touch, and you can’t believe you let yourself get lost in that feeling. You internally curse at yourself for your lack of awareness as you draw your hands away, clutching them close to your body. “I-I’m sorry, Sukuna-sama. I didn’t realize I’d gotten a bit carried away.” 

“It’s quite alright, Y/N. If I didn’t want you touching me, I wouldn’t have brought you here.” His eyes narrow, looking at you hungrily as two of his hands reach for yours and bring them back to where they used to be. A light blush creeps onto your cheeks as they feel the flesh of the other under their touch once more. 

Now a bit more settled in and comfortable, you sigh and slowly start to release the anxious tension in your body. Being in the presence of a man so much larger, warmer, and stronger  than you was not only oddly comforting, but…it made you crave him. His attention, his touch, his….

Your lower leg brushes against the hard protrusions you’d noticed before, and you quickly remove your limb, mortified, yet incredibly aroused at the sheer size of them. They had to be at least 9 inches if you had to estimate. You hear him hum, and you look back up into his intense eyes as he smirks. 

“I enjoy your company, Y/N. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you for a while.”

Moving a hand down to your waist, he starts to stroke up and down your body, ghosting over your chest and back down your side, giving your ass a squeeze. “I’m going to be transparent with you, Y/N. I desire you carnally. I’d like to take you right here and now.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eye contact fails to waver, your heart and body leaping at the thought of being fucked by the king of curses…especially if he really does have two. You nod with a shaky exhale, feeling complete and utter exhilaration. “Y-yes sir. Anything for you.”

The giant man growls in satisfaction, content with your answer. He moves in to place his flushed lips on yours, your faces meeting sensually in a way you’d only ever fantasized about until this moment. His large fingers sneak under your robe, finding their way to your clothed cunt, and you whimper into his mouth as you instinctually buck your hips into his touch. Even his fingers were huge, probably ⅔ of the size of a standard cock; you knew you’d have to start with those and work your way up if you wanted to take him properly. 

You mumble against his lips, your speech coming out shaky and whiny. “W-would you like me to take my clothes off, sir?”

He pulls back just slightly, your faces only millimeters apart as a malicious grin spreads across his face. Your heart skips a beat, a wave of fear and arousal instilled into your core from his intense expression. 

“No need.”

He immediately rolls you onto your back, using the upper two hands to pin your wrists above your head while the lower two effortlessly rip the fabric off of your body. The layers are removed from you without mercy; as to be expected from such a powerful entity, he takes what he wants when he wants it, and will stop at nothing to obtain what he desires. In this case, what he desires is you. 

You gasp as the cool air hits your exposed skin, your entire naked body now presented to the man above you. A low rumble escapes his throat as he shamelessly takes in your figure with his eyes, feeling his cocks twitch at the sight of the subordinate he’s craved for so long finally disrobed before him. The way you were displayed was tantalizing like a well-prepared cut of meat, and he planned to indulge himself just as he would when satiating his gargantuan appetite. 

“My, my, what a sight to behold.” He takes one hand off of one of your wrists, using the other hand to hold them together in one. The fact that both of your wrists could be held together by one huge hand of his made your core clench in excitement. Using his lower two hands, he spreads your thighs apart, the one free hand exploring your body by palming your chest and torso, pinching a nipple and smirking in satisfaction when you yelp. 

Sukuna uses a single fingertip to swipe up and down your folds, humming as he finds how wet you already are so pleasing. You gasp softly at the touch, your back arching off of the mattress from the exhilaration of his touch.

“How eager. Adorable.” 

He strokes your pussy a few more times, gathering slick on his finger before he inserts it into your entrance. You gasp dramatically from the satisfying stretch from his digit and moan as he slides it in all the way to the knuckle. Ever so slowly he slips it in and out of you, twisting his finger just slightly and curling inward on each thrust. You cry out in pleasure as he repeatedly hits that spongy sweet spot, making you dizzy. “Ohhhh my god, Sukuna-sama…you feel so good…”

“Oh, you think that feels good? Just you wait, it’ll only get better from here.”

He pulls his wet finger out of your pussy with a soft ‘pop’, pressing the generously lubricated digit against the hole below while looking up at you to test your reaction. You let out a whimper, nervous at the new sensation- you’d never had anything inside your ass before, and had no clue what it would feel like. You gulp and nod, trusting him with the new experience. 

He starts to push in and it burns, but you can’t deny it feels incredible. It was completely unlike anything you’d experienced before, and it made you all the more excited to feel what would inevitably be coming next. You squeeze your eyes shut and wince, taking in a breath with a hiss as he starts to push deeper, inch by inch, until his entire finger is nestled inside of you. “Fuck…”

He lets out a low chuckle, resting his thick digit for a moment to let your hole accommodate. Letting go of your wrists with his other hand, he drags the fingertips down your torso before rubbing your clit with a thumb and inserting the middle finger into your neglected pussy. Your whole body writhes in pleasure as all of your sensitive spots are being paid attention to by his skillful hands. You squeeze and rub at your own nipples, adding to the stimulation, and your mind starts to slip into an aroused haze as he starts up a quicker pace with both fingers. 

“How do my fingers feel? This is only a fraction of what’s to come. I want to prepare you properly for penetration.”

Your jaw hangs open as whine after whine escapes your throat. Struggling to find words, your response comes out weak and stuttered.

“Feels…so g-good...Su…Suk-kuna-sama. I’m…r-ready…for more…p-please…”

A low groan rumbles from the large man. “I was going to add a second finger to each hole, but since you sound so eager, you’re really making me aroused. And now I can’t wait any longer.” 

He pulls his fingers away and sits back onto his knees, pushing the waistband of his pants down. What’s revealed is exactly what you’d predicted- two absolutely gigantic erections, thicker and longer than any cock you’d ever seen. They each had a ring marking about 4 inches from the base, and were visibly throbbing from his pulse, twitching with each heartbeat. He had one set of balls, though they were just as gigantic in size to match; about as large as one would expect for a body part responsible to create enough testosterone for 3 men.  You want to look him in the eyes to see what his expression looks like, but you can’t pry your gaze away from his perfect and rock hard pair of manhoods. 

Pinning you down by the shoulders this time, he lays on top of you. You didn’t need to look far to see his expression this time- your faces were almost touching, his carmine gaze locking with yours, a pure horniness emanating from the aura. The King of Curses was starving to satiate his cocks, and you were going to be his victim of choice. He presses his lips to yours once again, roughly shoving his tongue into your mouth. You meekly whimper, muffled by the connected orifices, as your faces meet and saliva messily spreads across the bottom half of your face. 

He pulls away from the kiss and sits up slightly to look down and line one cock up with each hole- the top one in your cunt and the bottom one in your ass. With a possessive growl, he holds your hips and pushes in slowly as your eyes widen and jaw opens as far as it can go. In this moment, you could have sworn your eyes would pop out of their sockets. As huge as his cocks looked, they felt even bigger. You were almost literally being split open as both of your holes were stretched further than they ever had been. 

Sukuna gently presses a warm hand to the center of your chest, helping to relax your body and feel more comfortable under his touch. Two other hands massage your shoulders. “Breathe, Y/N. If you tense, it’s only going to hurt more. Undo the tension in your body and the penetration will be much easier.”

You close your eyes and nod, taking a deep breath and trying your best to let go of the tightness in your spine as he slips in a few inches more. The pain of the stretch was starting to subside, turning into pleasure as you let out a soft sigh. He clearly wasn’t as far as he could go yet, but you already were enjoying being fuller than any man had ever made you feel before. 

The huge man leans forward and on top of you- the sheer size of his hips between your legs making them spread wide open; as your bodies become parallel, your ankles are in the air, your body completely helpless underneath the giant. He finally settles in with one last push, now inside you as far as possible. He was at least up to your belly button, if not a bit more. A long, satisfied groan leaves his lips. “Do you feel good being stuffed by my cocks? You like being stretched and filled just right by the one you serve?” 

You can only nod in response- any sense of coherent thought left your body as soon as you felt him inside you. You can still feel his pulse throbbing in his members even when inside you, and the feeling of it makes you whine. Feeling so small underneath him and completely as his mercy felt exhilaratingly thrilling, as if you were his toy made to satiate his needs. 

Growing impatient, he starts to thrust, much quicker than you’d anticipated for him to start at. The unexpected intensity filled you with pure pleasure, rolling your eyes back so far it hurt as you desperately wrap your arms around his neck and claw at his muscular back. In and out his thick cocks mercilessly bullied your insides, claiming you as his own as you could only lay on your back and helplessly take it. 

Tiny, high-pitched whimpers were all your body could manage for vocalizations, feeling such incredible bliss your mind was completely blank. Your pussy had never experienced sex like this before, and your ass had never experienced attention or penetration of any kind previous to this. Your mind and body were lost in the new sensations, completely overtaken by felicity as Sukuna’s lengths pounded into you with a vigor only known to him. 

“You are mine Y/N, understand? From today onward, I will be the only man to bed you. Your holes are for my cocks and my cocks only.”

The large tongue on his abdomen protrudes from its lips, bending downward to flick against your clit as he continues to mercilessly rail into you. You cry out with a loud moan, the obscene sound filling not only the room, but would be sure to pass through the walls and let everyone in the building know what you two were up to. You look down at where your bodies were connected, not only noticing the oral muscle, but your stomach was bulging from the pure size of Sukuna’s cocks. Up and down the flesh of your stomach moved, in tandem with his thrusts. 

“Y…yes, s-sir…o-only….you…”

His stomach tongue presses and flicks against your bud harder, and your climax hits you quickly, crashing over you with a violent wave as your body tenses from the white hot euphoria. Your fingers dig into the skin of his back, which would have drawn blood had it been a normal man you were with. He continues to pound into you, fucking you through your intense orgasm as it overtakes your body. 

As you slowly start to come down, his own hips stutter and he groans, pressing into you as hard as he can as he fills you with his release. His hands grip onto your hips for dear life, his fingers digging into your soft flesh, sure to bruise. The sheer volume of his load is several times that of an average one as he spills his seed into your holes over and over. The hot fluid begins to drip out of you and yet his climax is still going strong, making the bulge in your stomach slightly larger from the voluminous amount of cum. 

“Mine….mine….you’re mine…”

After an unexpectedly long amount of time, he finally comes down from his own high. His hands remain on your hips but release the aggressive claw-like hold as he starts to catch his breath and grins. He slowly pulls his softening cocks out of you, some of his excessive release leaking from your abused holes in a sticky, warm mess as it mixes with your own fluid. 

He moves to lay down next to you, wrapping his arms around you as you can feel your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. He looks down to see your sleepy face, chuckling as he strokes your thigh.

“That was very satisfying, Y/N. I enjoyed that quite a bit. Get as much sleep as you’d like. I will have Uraume fetch you some new clothes and a cup of tea.”

You nod and hum contentedly, snuggling up to his warm chest and sighing. You’d never felt this satisfied before, and you could only think about what it’ll feel like again. Having sex with the man you idolized was going to get used to, but you looked forward to the next time. There was certainly much more with him that you could explore together. 

For now, you would get some much-needed sleep.

[baelarys]

𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

Aemond targaryen X reader niece velaryon

word count : 1121

Warning : Incest, fluff

You found yourself in the Great Sept alongside Helaena and the Dowager Queen Alicent, praying for the departed. The dimly lit space, created a solemn and reflective atmosphere. You knelt at a small altar dedicated to the Mother, choosing a spot farther away from Helaena and Alicent to give them some privacy in their grief.

The heat of the melted candle wax dripped onto your fingers as you pressed them into the soft material, perhaps seeking comfort in the repetitive sensation. Whispered prayers filled the air, each word a murmur of hope and redemption. The atmosphere was heavy, not just with the incense perfuming the air, but with the palpable sadness emanating from the hearts of the mourners present.

You were not a person of faith; you never held your beliefs in the Seven. However, somehow, the place brought peace to your grieving heart. You prayed for your mother and brother, asking the Warrior to protect them and end this war.

"Your Grace... we must leave now," one of the knights entered the Sept, visibly alarmed. Helaena approached you, helping you to your feet as you rubbed your small pregnant belly.

Outside, the noise intensified. Following the guards, you headed for the exit, where the jeers of the commoners echoed in the air. They had gathered around the Sept, expressing their discontent.

"Get the queens to the carriage," one of the guards ordered as they assisted you down the steps.

With each step, the tumult became more evident. The crowd swirled, their voices a mix of anger and desperation. The guards formed a protective shield around you, trying to contain the commoners and ensure your safe passage to the carriage.

The black veil covering your hair fluttered in the wind and lashed against your face. You tried to descend one of the stairways, but the enraged crowd forced you to retreat.

"She’s the queen of sins!" one of the commoners shouted, throwing rotten food and trash at Queen Alicent, whose face was struck by the refuse.

"Keep moving!" the Kingsguard commanded, using their cloaks to shield you from the garbage.

"Long live Queen Rhaenyra!" the crowd chanted, cheering your mother’s name. You paused for a moment, watching as one of the commoners ran with the black and red banner of House Targaryen. Helaena covered her ears, overwhelmed by the deafening roar of the mob rushing towards you.

In the chaos, you were separated. Alicent screamed in alarm upon seeing that Helaena had been left behind, surrounded by the furious crowd. The guards hurried to find her, leaving you alone with a knight who used his body to shield you. The commoners drew closer, cornering you against a wall. One of them tried to touch you, and as you turned your face away, you felt a deep scratch on your cheek.

Amid the turmoil, a commoner grabbed Alicent by the arm, refusing to let go. A guard intervened, cutting off the attacker’s hand. You managed to reach the carriage, stumbling inside as the mob swirled around you. The carriage began to move, and you finally breathed a sigh of relief as you headed back to the Red Keep. You touched the scratch on your cheek, feeling the small drops of warm blood oozing out.

"Are you alright?" Alicent asked, helping Helaena sit properly while adjusting her dress.

"Yes," the young woman replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"Long live Queen Rhaenyra," you murmured, processing what you had heard. The people clamored for their true queen.

The interior of the carriage was silent, broken only by the sound of wheels on the cobblestones. Alicent, her face shadowed by worry and sadness, looked at you with eyes full of questions and doubts. Helaena, trembling, kept her gaze down, trying to recover from the experience.

The strength of your beliefs wavered in the face of the people’s fierce loyalty to Rhaenyra.

"They hate us," Alicent finally said, her voice full of bitterness. "The people hate us."

The reality of her words settled in the air, heavy and dense. Once you reached the Red Keep, you withdrew to your chambers, seeking a respite from the outside chaos. With trembling hands, you removed your jewelry, carefully laying it on the dresser. You approached the mirror, examining the scratch on your cheek more closely.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Aemond entered the room, quickly approaching you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, but before you could respond, he placed his hands firmly on your cheeks, inspecting the scratch with concern.

His eyes scanned your face intently, searching for any sign of further injury. The contrast between his determined expression and his gentle touch made you feel a mixture of comfort and vulnerability. Aemond leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing your skin as he examined the wound.

"It’s just a scratch," you tried to say, but the seriousness in his gaze stopped you.

"This shouldn’t have happened to you," Aemond murmured, his voice tense with a mix of anger and worry. "I promise it won’t happen again."

The determination in his words was palpable. Aemond gently moved his hand from your cheek but didn’t step away, maintaining a protective proximity. The silence in the room was filled with the implicit promise of his protection and the gravity of the events surrounding you.

"Let’s clean this wound," he said, guiding you to a chair and taking a clean cloth to moisten it with fresh water. He gently dabbed the damp cloth on your cheek, wiping away any trace of blood.

"I’m fine, Aemond," you said once more, trying to calm him. You took his hand and gently moved it away from your face, grateful for his dedication and love.

Aemond looked at you intensely, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and lingering concern. He placed his hand on your belly, feeling the baby growing inside you.

You leaned in to leave a kiss on his cheek. You felt Aemond wrap his arms around you, hiding his head in your neck, sighing at your scent. His warm breath clashed with your skin, causing a tickle as you left small caresses on his back.

"I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you," Aemond whispered against your neck, his voice breaking with emotion.

"We’re safe now," you responded softly, trying to reassure him. "As long as we’re together, we’ll be fine."

Aemond slowly nodded, his arms tightening around you, as if afraid of losing you. You stayed there, embraced in a moment of silent intimacy, the outside world momentarily fading away as you found comfort in each other.

[the-duck-eternal]

[berriblossom]

Oh, Great Divine!

☆| It's time for a SAGAU, more so a comforting one. Reader's gender is ambiguous and gender neutral, archons adore reader, in this sense the Nahida tag is platonic!|

☆ Tags/warnings! | Socially Aware Genshin AU, archons and people of Teyvat treat the reader as a god or heavenly figure, religious references (cathedral of Mondstat and Narukami/ Sangonomiya Shrines of Inazuma) some minor lore for reader, Reader is referred to as "Their Grace" or "My/Your Grace" and "The Great Divine" ALL PORTRAYALS ARE FICTIONAL!! anyway, enjoy.|

Within the lands or nations of Teyvat, for centuries the practice of worshipping an Archon was beyond common, more so for those who wish not to believe in spiritual practices concerning the gods of each element are more on the rare side to find. However even if such existed, there was one thing to never be doubted within the lands of Teyvat.

The Great Divine's presence over mortals and immortals alike.

The creation of Teyvat in many national mythos credits the sole ideas and creation to the Great Divine. Even the archons and the sources of their celestial names were blessed upon them by their divine grace. Depending on which nation you visit, some may say that their archon is specifically blessed by their grace.

In Mondstat, the nation of wind, song, freedom, wine, and bard's ballads, once every 100 years they celebrate the freedom blessed to them by Barbatos and the Great Divine. A tradition stretching for the last millennial to show the love and deeply routed affection given by its people and archon. Yes, Barbatos, or now the "drunken" bard known as Venti among his people. Every festival of a "New Eve" as they call it, is another 100 years for him to show his affection for his beloved divine. Despite his defiance to Celestia and the natural order placed after your departure, he still fully believes in your care and love for humans and archons alike. To Venti, whispering to the wind like he did with you thousands of years prior, even in his wind-spirit form. You'd sit together where now the great tree at Windrise and speak about the future of Teyvat, something despite having the authority over you simply spoke to him as:

"For what will come, Your nation will prosper and learn the true meaning of freedom and song..."

So to this day, he sits under that tree and thinks of the years since, missing your warmth from curling up in your hands as a wind spirit to laughing and humming beside you in his divine form. He has seen it for the last few hundred years, the art, songs, plays, books, and even food and weapons made in your name, and every hundred years he repeats the same. A small prayer from his soul is whispered into the wind as he tells his deep care and love for his dear grace. And the people of Mondstat no different, all gather at the great Cathedral and warmly sing about the Great Divine and Lord Barbatos as they place to wine, food, and gifts at the altar of your image. When alone Venti will sneak in and sit under your statue, missing the warmth of your hands but relishing the love in your image.

In Liyue, the nation of Geo, contracts, and the adepti, the greats divines are influenced by the first contract Rex Lapis made with them over 7000 years ago, even before Liyue was a fully combined nation. Zhongli remembers the conversation you two had, sharing a simple game of wit and tea. Then he was immature to your influence and power but now he relishes in it. Proudly in his vast historical knowledge, preaching his love and the power the great divine holds. How you could shape the sea with a flick of your wrist, how you've created mountains from your fingertips, how your vast knowledge is spread throughout teyvat as a bible to be studied and read over and over again. But mostly what he and all of Liyue celebrate is the contractable care and affection you give him and the people of Liyue.

This time around Liyue is a time spent every hundred of years a new eve of dawn as it is called, one Zhongli and his fellow adepti never get tired of. A time to give gifts of care to neighbors, friends, and even coworkers in the busy harbor. Even the Northland Bank celebrates by lowering interest on loans!

(But only for this amount of time and by the next New Eve of Dawn the Interest WILL reset)

But mainly it is a way to give worship to the Great Divine and their trust in Rex Lapis and his Adepti to protect and serve Liyue. Everything Zhongli has done was for your gratitude and divine love. So when a New Eve comes, he sits anywhere in Liyue, the mountains, hills, somewhere to overlook the harbor, and enjoys a warm cup of tea. Your favorite while imagining your smile as you talk, the games you'd two play. He watches his disciples and Apeti celebrate with gifts, food, and songs at your altar set around Liyue. He sips his tea and awaits your fated return, happy to share more memories and stories with you.

Within the land of Eternity, formerly transcience, Inazuma's style of celebration differs slightly from some nations. The Grand Narukami Shrine would hold a private ceremony, cleansing the sacred Sakura tree and your statue underneath, barhing the precious stone engravings with crisp clean water. Meanwhile the people if Inazuma would be celebrating on their own occasions, firewroks light into the clear sky, dancing ceremonies at the teahouse fill with guest.

However, the new electro archon herself sits alone at the top of Tebshukaku. Quietly walking down memeory lane in her mind. For the last five centuries of the New Eve of Dawn celebration, she'd sit in her space of Euthymia alone in solitude quietly sulking at the idea of your everlasting figure. How her and Makoto would chat down the lane of inazuma speaking about plans of you, speaking of your visions of the nation of electro, Makoto laughing at how embarrassed Ei used to be around you and your divinity. Now Ei smiles solemnly..

She knows now that she as archon must take the mantle, for in your teachings that it the goal of the heavenly principles you've left. Fated to return, she prays that you'd come to her first. She dreams and imagines in her meditations within her quiet Euthymia that you'd hold her. That her loneliness would be cured indefinitely. But for now she waits, with a plate of dango and some ofdly colored tea, shit eats alone as the fireworks set off atop Narukami island, she whispers a promise to herself and her nation on your honor.

"For it will be fate...my grace...you shall return to us...to eternity...we shall be reunited."

Far off in the lands of eternity, however, the island that formed the resistance sings and dances around the bonfire, the resistance army of Sangonomiya and Watatsumi laugh as they praise the late OmiKami, or the serpent god Orobashi. The fire dances as troops tell stories, shrine maidens sing and laugh, and her priestess sits while holding a book. She smiles softly. Kokomi looks above at the horizon and sees the corpse of their late god, she wishes silently to herself and for her ancestors to below the sea. That once the great spirit of life and forefather of the vishaps would return to bring life to the benevolent serpent. But for now, she sits alongside Gorou as they watch the troops enjoy the holiday.

Within Sumeru, however, and alongside it, Fontaine...the New Eve of Dawn has been on the academic calendar differently, which is how some older nations react. For those in the rainforest, it is a blessing of Lessor Lords Kusanali's birth. For the dessert, it is the bringing of a new promise for the scarlet sand kings doubted return. Within the nation of dendro, it is a holiday of now academic activities, no scholars shrouded in work, but a day off. The people worship by their own will and sit in taverns, bars, and cafes to drink mereily while chatting with friends. Some visit your altar within the Akademiya, and others pray at home.

Nahida sits on a branch of the great tree that houses the knowledge many wish to obtain, in her hands an ancient seed of fate, she herself has no memory or knowledge of where it came but holds ot and teasures its existence. For she has a kindling that it is tied to this divine spirit that is expected to awaken. From her small conversation with Apep, the seed is treasured. Hence, she holds it and feeds the growing plant bits of dendro elemental energy. She sighs as she watches the sun set and the cheers from the streets and grand bazars performances. Nilou must be dancing now, she thinks. She hums a small song while kicking her feet, her hands warm with caution. She may not know you yet, but she knows already... Your spirit and divine will watch for her and her nation. The goddess of wisdom has many questions for the great creator of this world, but for now, she just hums and sits happily, a great birthday gift indeed.

Meanwhile, in Fontaine, similarly, it is deemed a weekend off of work. Many go home, some go to the Opera to catch performances of the holiday, others read tabloids of the steambird that some random person in the court has the great divine in their basment all along. All fiction truthfully. Furina reads her book as she makes another plate of pasta macaroni. For the occasion, she bought extra special ragau to taste amazing. She dances around her kitchen listening to soft music. For years her mind would have doubted and even hated this day, anxious fears of disappointment and disapproval looks from her days as stabding archon. Would you have hated her? Did you think she failed fontaine and you? Was her a cursed human taking title of archon an insult to you? Furina had nightmares even of the prohecy and your return to see fontaine gone and underwater. But now, as the prophecy and fontaine were safe and out of fear, she ate and asked a good question this new century.

"What kind of pasta would their grace like..."

Soft rainfall drops onto the steps of the Palais Mermonia, the evening rain was forcasfed but welcomed, Neuvillette wrote on the papers softly, agreeing to a few celebratory events the Opera wanted to hold. Usually Lady Furina would be jumping for the task but here he was. Dread builded in his soul. This time of year brought many pains to Neuvillette.

A new century meant a new set of hundreds of years he gets to oulive humans, melusines maybe, but also the clock inches closer and closer to your return. Neuvillette spent early years of his lofe researching and discovering his species and kind for decades. Figuring that if you are the forefather and creator of vishaps and the sovereignty. Why was so many things done the way they were? Why ddi the power the gnosis and archons hold come from them? Why can't he understand your implications, even such his ancestors didn't wish to think against? What power do you hold and how did aid Fontaine in the end? He knew Focalor and Egeria spoke to you, even asking for forgiveness before your departure, so why? Neuvillette, places his pen downs and stands to look out the window of his office to look down at the streets of the Court of Fontaine, a glass of crisp water swirls in his hand. He sips slowly and sighs, coming to think.

"In this new century...please with it, may you come along too my grace."

In the nation of fire, victory, war and passion, raors could be heard from the stadium of flames as people of different tribes shouted and cheered the competitions down below. Surfing races, climbing achievements, conbat bouts, even break dancing competitions held. Mavuika sits at her throne above as her people cheer and celebrate, raising glasses, foods, gifts, and money even in your image. She slips away from the fesitivites to be alone in the speakers chambers, past the sacred flame, and into her personal get-away. Now empty, she stares at the famous wheel of the sun, Natlan has held for centuries, the same you blessed the first pyro archon with, as their rules of ruilibg were left in your favor. She smiles as she too holds her head high, similar to her ancestors before her.

She remebers before she was even archon, how her parents would tell stories of the Great divines influence, love, and power. That the spirit of victory belongs to the pyro archon yes, but the strength was given by you as well. She remembered your fave engraved in ancients temples and stones around Natlan and now some statues around the lands too. She knows too well her nation is blessed by your, not only for the peoples cheers and vitcories but the long-lasting stay they've had against the threat of the abyss thus far. Maybe when you return and ward off the abyssal threats for good, she top could ask something of you...for that she won't know until she sees you herself.

"Until we meet my grace...may your memeory burn eternal.. and your power live within my people."

-> Did i go overboard, yes...but eh...hoped you enjoy, and also i may make a small series out of this..who knows..

[merakiui]

[0] 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, abuse of power, descriptions of religious imagery, attempted non-con, hypocrisy, solitary confinement, rollo is immensely creepy, archaic mindsets and logic masterlist // prologue (you are here) // one

Without a shred of sympathy, discarded like dross, you are thrown before Father Flamme’s feet.

You have enough grace and dignity to resist the urge to grasp at his robes and beg for forgiveness. Instead, you condemn yourself to silence, allowing his piercing stare to stab through you with a judgment so precise it might just slice the skin from your skeleton. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, and you can almost taste his disapproval, much like a snake might parse chemical witchery in the air.

“Lift your head, if you would,” he commands gently, and you do as you’re told. He folds his arms over his chest and looks on, cold as winter’s frost. You watch his finger tap out a soundless rhythm. “I must ask of you, Sister, to provide reason to your recent absences. As a child of God, you have taken oath to follow His wise teachings and devote yourself to serving this church. Am I wrong?”

“You speak wise and true.” You rise to your feet and, ignoring the brutes who so rudely cast you forward in the first place, bow your head in apology. Father Flamme waves them out without sparing so much as a second glance. “You are right that it is my duty to serve the church. I ought to be doing just that and yet I have failed to do so. Undeserving I may be, I ask that you pardon my negligence.”

Father Flamme hums. Standing in front of the altar, backdropped by a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, he is bathed in a colorful, angelic array. He strides towards you, covering the short distance in just a few clicks, and places his hand upon your shoulder. You’re led from the steps and down the aisle. It feels more like you’re being brought away for slaughter, a lamb primed for punishment.

“There is no doubt you are genuine in all that you do,” he notes, sliding his hand down your arm. Those slender, spidery digits curl into your woolen sleeve. “You are impartial and well-bred, a woman of impressive patience and virtue. Qualities of which arouse an admiration most potent.”

You know the rest of your convent is much the same, which is why it puzzles you that Father Flamme should praise your humble name in such a sickeningly fond manner.

“You are too kind, Father,” you acquiesce. “As a modest servant of God, it’s my pleasure to devote myself to Him, the church, my fellow sisters, and the community.”

“Hmm. A laudable outlook.” His lips quirk up in a smile. Strangely, it looks sharp and predatory. It does not reach his eyes.

Father Flamme steers you in the direction of another stained glass window. This scene is of The Resurrection of Christ. You gaze at His face and wonder if there truly is something up there, watching over the world’s sheep as they live out cyclical days in their pastures.

Immediately, you realize you should commit yourself to writing lines to chase that doubtful notion away.

Father Flamme rests his hand on your other arm to hold you in place. “A quote paraphrased from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-two, verses thirty-six through thirty-eight, if you’ll listen: ‘When asked which is the great commandment of all in the law, Jesus would reply, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment.’”

You nod mechanically, only half-listening. After observing you closely, he frowns.

“What troubles you, Sister?”

“It is hardly a burden worth shouldering. I assure you I’m of sound health. My recent habit of absence is most unbecoming of a sister. I should sooner confront the great shame of my actions than let it fester within.”

“There is still time to atone. You must seek counsel and, having taken it in your arms just as God embraces all, you will know forgiveness.”

You rest your hand upon Father Flamme’s, which has somehow found its home at your hip. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

He smiles that empty smile again. “If He is to provide for you, you must first lay yourself bare before him. I am no fool, Sister. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I have been truthful, Father. I would never lie under this sacred roof, nor would I have the gall to do so in your presence. It would be an offense so beastly I could not bear to let it weigh heavy on my heart.”

“Yet, rather than scorch your tongue with a dissolution of the truth, you evade the simplest of queries.” His fingers toy with the knots of your cincture. “What manner of tale will you spin to mystify me next?”

Reacting on instinct, you rip yourself from his immoral grasp. The nave is as silent as the grave, so stuffy it’s suffocating. Father Flamme narrows his eyes at you. His gaze cuts through you like blood swirling through the cracks in ice—like a scalding brand pressed onto flesh.

A thick tension blankets the air. You merely stare at him, and he levels you with the same calculating intensity. Both of you are searching the other’s face, hoping to find an explanation for such polar opposite behavior.

You’re courageous enough to break the quiet first.

“If it would please you, Father, I will graciously offer myself up for confession. There is no reason or need to circumvent the Lord.”

“Sister (Name), if you may spare the time, I entreat you to take a short stroll with me.” Before you can object, he offers his arm. “All children are lost lambs who will soon find their way when following the path illuminated by God’s brilliant light. You are no different. It is my duty to see that you are no longer led astray by temptation and the litany of filth propagated by the fiend.”

Sensing no other option, you link arms with him and subject yourself to his whims. “I’ve a frightful feeling. Most frightful indeed.”

“By all means, confide in God and trust that He will provide shelter. Under His sacred roof, He will lend an ear just as I am doing now.”

You inhale a steadying breath. At this moment, Father Flamme is all you have. In the depths of your heart, you’re aware he’ll never understand. He will never know the morbid secrets that dwell in darkened corners, swept expertly away. And if he knew, you would never be welcome in the church again. Your fellow sisters would certainly turn their noses up at you, loathing the sin of your very existence.

Even as you walk alongside the righteous bishop, you feel an overwhelming itchiness.

“Recent events have led me to believe—though I pray it isn’t true—that my heart has been possessed with a ghastly malady. Umbras waltz in my peripheral—no trick of the light, I assure!”

“Perhaps it is merely a case of wicked dreams?” he posits, leading you through the aisle like a father might accompany a bride on her wedding day. You shake your head insistently, and so he holds his hand up to soothe your frazzled disposition. “Peace, Sister. The songs of night are naught but whimsical folly weaved from the silk of zealous minds. You would do well to shake yourself free of their deceitful shroud.”

“I shall do so most ardently.”

“To rectify this trouble, might you consider attending evening mass? It can only do you good.”

You step up towards the altar, keeping pace with Father Flamme’s casual gait. “Oh, I couldn’t. As of late, I’ve felt uneasy in my solitude. I fear my shadow is not my own…”

His verdant eyes are so stark against the pallor of his face that it reminds you of coins placed over those of the dead. His arm slips away from your waist and, gathering your hands in his, he assesses you more carefully. Under the watchful stare of both Father Flamme and a crucified deity, you feel as if someone has taken a spoon to your soul and scraped it out. And then, for extra, unnecessary measure, they’ve flattened it out on a table for dissection in hopes of picking apart each of your dirtiest secrets.

“Oh? Do elucidate.”

Hazarding a glance at the cross situated grandly in multicolored glass, you lower your voice so as to not be heard by any outside parties. Paranoia grips you in a clenched fist.

“Something—what it may be, I could not begin to form ample conjecture—is hunting me.”

He does not grace you with a reply, and this only incenses the unrest bubbling within you.

“How say you, Father? What is it that causes me such nocturnal torment?”

His features are set in perfect neutrality; it’s impossible to glean any sort of emotion from the way he acts. He coaxes you closer, pulling you along towards the altar. 

“It is with great devastation that I must behold you as you are,” he says, breaking the suspense. “Tainted with the despicable sins of the world outside, young and promising as you are… I shall remedy that.”

You open your mouth to voice concern, but in one swift motion he shoves you against the altar. You land with a thud, your back colliding against sturdy mahogany. It happens in a flash, like the final expulsion of breath from your lungs in the wake of the end. He’s between your flailing legs, pushing you up and onto the cloth-covered surface. Brass candlesticks scatter in a haphazard clatter. Globs of wax bespatter stone floors.

In the quaint tranquility of the church, the struggle is louder than a newborn’s cry.

Your chest heaves in a panic. 

Gracious God above, I implore you—save me from this wretched devil!

Your pupils flit wildly, assessing every area within your range. There must be a means to escape! Above the ornate display, his head hung, your god looks on silently. He does not offer a whit of protection.

“Father—”

Frigid fingers crawl upon your legs like a flurry of scurrying rats. You blink up at him, helplessly hopeful.

He inhales a long, steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “God, have mercy. Have pity on this wayward soul. May she be cleansed beneath my fingertips, pure as freshly fallen snow, and may you forgive her every transgression.”

You sputter an incoherent noise.

He opens his eyes and smiles serenely. “Amen.”

Squirming beneath him, you resist his touch like it’s flickering flame. “Father, I beg of you… Quell your frustrations and release me at once. I am innocent.”

He sighs, unconvinced. “You are exquisitely venust, Sister. As sweet as the first buds of spring. You must know it is impossible for beauty to exist freely when there are fiends who wish to tarnish it—who will trample upon the virtuous garden in which you bloom and pluck you by the root, rough as barbarians. Thus, it is my duty to see that you are scrubbed of their detestable influence. May God pardon my iniquity.”

His hands slide up your calves beneath your habit. You watch, prickled with horror, as he parts your legs. 

“Belle chose, unfurl your petals so that we may make feet for children’s stockings.”

He leans over you, reaching to secure your wrists with one hand. The other climbs higher in its rapacious pursuit of a place most sacred. In the midst of your ferocious thrashing, you espy His divine eye once more.

I adjure you, Lord… Save me from this demon. You must. Please, Lord…

Silence. A haunting, engulfing silence. 

There is no salvation to be found beneath the cross. None for you, as it appears so disturbingly clear.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you snap, tearing your arm free. “You would allow yourself to fall lower than the ground you trod upon—to so flagrantly commit sacrilege in His hallowed home?!”

“It is not I who is to be scorned so. I am guiltless,” he sneers. But then he smooths his scowl into that of pristine, practiced patience, and he speaks in a soft, pitying tone. “Oh, Sister, you have allowed them to tip poison into your precious ears… Your perception is clouded with the cobwebs of that uncouth crowd.”

“To stand at his feet and reveal your malice in such a grotesque manner… You are no better than swine!”

“You shall see there is no better solace to be found than with me.” Tenderly, he fits his hand, cold and skeletal, in yours. “I shall shelter you from all that is cruel and unjust. You need only take my hand.” His fingers flicker at your inner thigh, waltzing in circles. His incessant petting sends a shudder wracking through your body. Paralyzed as you are, you recognize the monster lurking just beneath human flesh. A demented desire flashes in his eyes. You’ve never felt more lost. “And your sins shall be forgiven.”

Father Flamme leans down, chancing to catch the scent at your neck. You reach between your bodies, searching for the garter secured around your thigh, and unsheath the dagger from beneath your habit. It’s thrust at his throat, the sharpened edge pressed close enough to pierce through the collar of his alb and draw the slightest pinprick of blood. Clasping the ivory handle in a trembling fist, you face him with a fire burning in your fear-filled visage.

Perhaps it is his own disbelief that prompts the rattle in his chest—an ominous chuckle. 

“You are a bride of Christ, yet you dare turn a blade on me?”

“You’re a man of God, yet you besmear His holy name with the sin of your incorrigible lust?”

“You are mistaken, Sister.” He grabs hold of your fist with both hands and folds his fingers over yours in mock prayer. As if intending to stoke your ire, he tilts his head in taunt. “Let my blood run red on this altar and you shall know of my humanity.”

“Defile the Lamb of God and you are no shepherd but, rather, the wolf who adorns himself in woolen mendacity.”

Before he can utter a response, the doors burst open. Father Flamme releases your hand and climbs off of you, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. An icy gale claws at the interior, and with it two men arrive in a whirlwind rush.

“Your Excellency, forgive our intrusion!”

Your arm falls to your side and, with a mounting sense of defeat, you gaze at the ceiling. You don’t feel soothed, but you must compose yourself. And so, shoving your frenzied emotions to the side, you sheath your blade and scramble to make yourself presentable once your feet are back on the floor. Brightening at the sight of the two villagers, you cradle your rosary and pray silently.

Dear God, may you smite he who spreads abhorrent rot with his fingertips and, in witnessing a most magnificent death flail, gralloch him without mercy.

“Ah, gentlemen, what fortuitous timing,” Father Flamme greets them, smiling. “Do come in. I’ve a task for you, if you would be so inclined.”

You linger behind, cautious like a gare-fowl often is when at the receiving end of a hunter’s rifle.

“Your Excellency, you need only ask and we are at your service.”

“Before that, you must accompany us to the hogs,” the other interjects. “Death has soiled these grounds, Your Excellency. A sight so barbarous it forebodes only the worst! You must come—come and behold the infernal darkness which has cursed this village!”

Father Flamme glances between the both of them, assessing the urgency of the situation that has been so cryptically illustrated.

“As you have described, the present circumstances appear dire. Oh, but I do require your assistance before that, gentlemen. It shan’t be too arduous a task.” He turns on his heel and indicates you with an outstretched hand. “Sister (Name) totters at the precipice with her fickle faith. As it is my duty to ensure all are well in the arms of God, I must take…caution—you might say—in sorting such a sensitive matter.”

The men exchange bewildered looks.

“You imply…punishment, sir?”

“Nay, I think not!” you interrupt, striding forwards. You’re stopped by Father Flamme’s arm, held just in front of your chest to keep you in place. “Father, I am steadfast in my faith. I have—”

“If such were the truth, you would not speak nullifidian filth.”

Pushing past him, you plead with the men: “Sirs, he knots his tongue and utters dishonesty! You know of my virtue—my loyalty to Him. And of my father, who has provided comfort and care, the means by which I was raised into the woman you see before you, I am justly proud. As the daughter of (Last Name), I sicken with the thought of bringing dishonor to my father, my faith—all of which I hold true in my heart. Sirs, you must believe in—”

Father Flamme lifts his hand to silence you, but you’re aware of his cunning machinations. “I ask of you this, good sirs. When sailors set out at sea, do they allow themselves to fall prey to the song of the siren? Just as those wretched sea-beasts sing, so, too, does honey pour spoiled from the mouth of a sinner. Her words serve to chart a course for ill-founded temptation.”

“Sister, your virtue I do not question.” The villager addresses Father Flamme next, disregarding your presence entirely, as if you are naught but a worthless speck. “What shall we do, Your Excellency?”

A smile curls on his lips. “Take her to the tower just beyond the village. She shall remain in solitude for seven days. That shall provide her with ample time for contemplation.”

The men approach you without a hint of remorse on their lips. Cornered, you look to Father Flamme for guidance.

“Father, I beg of you—you mustn’t send me away! I shall repent! I shall do so before you now.”

“It serves me no satisfaction to subject you to solitary confinement.” He folds his hands in front of him and observes the spectacle of your resistance. “You have proven to me your doubt in the capabilities of the Lord. It is my right to correct your contumacious thoughts. I’m certain your father would share this sentiment. No daughter should empty her mind of His valuable teachings.”

“Do not speak as if you have dined with my father,” you hiss, wriggling in the firm hold of both men.

Father Flamme steps closer and smiles. “Let us away.” 

You are dragged, struggling all the while, out of the church and down the steps. There is a ferocious bite to this year’s autumnal weather. Father Flamme is gracious enough to drape his cloak over your shoulders just before you’re lifted onto a horse. He mounts his stallion and, with the crack of a whip, the four of you are off towards the decrepit tower at the rugged foothills of the mountains. No words are exchanged. You’ve said more than enough and you still remain the accused, guilty due to distorted logic.

The tower, which had once appeared so distantly out of your mind, gains striking clarity as you approach. You gaze helplessly at the man transporting you. He offers nothing of substance, his gaze focused squarely on the dirt footpath ahead.

When you were but a babe, the tower served as a warning for all children in the village: Those whose souls are stained with the sins of their atrocities shall wither away in silence.

There was once a raving madman who was imprisoned there in your youth. A heretic, he was called. Driven to his end, his sanity thin as a hair, he scraped at the walls and pulled loose bricks free until his fingernails cracked and blood trickled down his hands in rivers. When he had created a sizable opening for himself, at the peak of his derangement, he climbed out to meet the sun’s soft rays, a singular blessing owed for years of captivity. And then he threw himself from the tower, landing in a broken spattering at the very bottom.

In the years following, the tower housed numerous prisoners. It is a cold, unforgiving place, existing solely for the ugly and the crooked. And, now, the misunderstood. The wrongfully accused.

As you’re helped down from the horse, you ponder how many have been sent here to live out time for unfair accusations.

You’re joined by the second villager shortly, and they flank you like soldiers as they shove you along.

“Have you no sympathy, sirs!” you snap, shaking yourself from their grip. “To treat me so callously when my devotion is fervent and true! I am no fabulist.”

The men say nothing and amble onwards, pushing you closer to the tower. One of them attempts to seize your wrist; you evade him gracefully. Father Flamme observes your outright stubborn refusal and hums his disapproval.

“Unhand me! I’ll go of my own accord. I’ve feet for a reason, and thus they shall work as God intended. I need not the assistance of fools. My legs shall be the ones to carry me.” Punctuating that with an indignant huff, you stride ahead.

What brutish handling… These doltish fiends sit under the tree of knowledge and yet not a single fruit falls into their laps. To think this is how they would treat someone sworn to the church—and a lady, no less!

The latch is weather-worn, and it creaks a discordant note when lifted. You peek into the shadowed entrance and frown. Before you are subjected to the impatience of the men at your side, you step into the dimness. It is alight with the red-orange slivers of a setting sun.

“You shall wait here. I will accompany this misguided Sister to the very top. After which, we shall return to the village and I shall accompany you to the hogs.”

The men nod and stand at attention.

If you’re so dedicated to foolish play, you would be wise to salute, you think with a sardonic tut.

Father Flamme offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Ignoring his attempt at chivalry, you lift your habit so as to not trip on it and begin the lengthy ascent up the spiraling staircase. He chuckles and follows your lead. Every wooden step creaks under your weight. Something brushes your face—dust, perhaps. You swat at your face, grimacing. The scent of mold and rot clings to the bowels of this tower like maggots on a corpse, impossibly redolent in ways you shall avoid giving thought to.

I must not breathe so deeply, lest I wish to savor the taste of decay and bitter rage.

You carry on, ignoring the creeping revulsion and the stench of death as it clouds the air, accompanying you on your journey. A door waits for you at the top. You note it is without a lock.

“A bird will not fly in captivity,” Father Flamme advises, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely furnished room. It’s equipped with the essentials a common prisoner would need. You can’t help feeling less than human the moment you pass through the threshold.

It is enough of a sight to wear on my eyes and render them woefully sore.

He meets you at the door and offers an embroidered reticule. “I shall retrieve you in seven days’ time.”

You eye him dubiously and, upon sensing no additional malevolence, swipe the reticule from him. “May you rest guilty on your bed of lies.”

He leans in close, his voice as faint as a phantasm. “May you reflect on what it is you hold dear, for I assure you it is well within my reach.” He pivots and begins his descent, his footsteps tapping out a resounding rhythm. “You will learn a glorious lesson here. Treasure it as you would a child.”

Minutes later, the door below shuts and the latch is dropped into place. The noise races up the stone spiral in echo, filling your ears with its haunting reverberation.

Now you’re truly alone.

“How boorish he must be to condemn me to this prison!” You slam the door in your anger and drop the reticule onto the bed. In an effort of appraisal, you feel the lumpy mattress. It’s packed full of straw. “I am not nameless, nor am I a harlot. Yet I am gifted the opulence of peasants. I can scarcely accept such generosity.”

Alas, this is your new misfortune.

To busy your idle hands, you open the reticule and peer inside at its contents. A thumb Bible rests beside a bulk of misshapen cloth. Gingerly, you unwrap it to find bread, cheese, and salt pork. Somehow—and you have every right to be fastidious—you doubt this modest portion will be enough for seven days.

“And not a drop of water!” you announce to the empty room. “He has an astounding amount of faith in me if he thinks I will surrender so simply. One day he shall get his gruel. I’ll make sure of it.”

Until then you will never know peace.

Bundling the rations, you place them within the reticule alongside the Bible. Perhaps you should have requested writing implements or a book—anything to preclude the impending accidie. 

Beyond the window, which is sized perfectly for the smallest bird, the sun disappears below the horizon. Ink spills across the sky, darkening the surroundings outside the tower and leaving room for stars to speckle the vastness. You sit at the edge of the bed and wrap your fingers around your rosary.

“Dear God, you know I am faultless and so I ask that you guide me in understanding your ways. Father Flamme speaks of protection in your home and yet when danger is knocking you are not there to answer.” You tug anxiously at the beads. “If you are there, show me… Show me that you hear my prayers. Show me that I am not alone. That even I, imperfect as I may be, am deserving of your sanctuary and forgiveness. Amen.”

Shrugging the cloak off, you fold it into a neat square and set it at the end of the bed. Your veil and coif are next to go, and you take immense care in handling both. You slide your dagger out of its sheath and set it on the bed. The night is cool and so you resolve to remain dressed as you are, in your robes and chemise.

“I will endure these seven days. Each one, night and day, I will be strong. My faith will never falter. I will never waver,” you whisper, repeating this oath like a mantra. You settle into bed, sparing a final glance at the square cut into the brickwork, where a starry sky wraps the world in a celestial counterpane. “Perhaps then you might acknowledge me.”

Clutching the rosary close to your chest, comforted with the weapon at your side, you drift into dreamless slumber.

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[littlefireball]

can you do a fic with Ateez Seonghwa x virgin reader? Where she never even touched herself, never orgasmed or squirted so Seognwha does all that and they go the full way but she bleeds when he goes in but mother seognwha knows what to say to push her through and get her to the pleasure. From their she squirts on him while he goes rough?

🐈‍⬛

I add some settings on it (⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠) hope you like it

ꜱʜ|ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ (ᴀ/ᴍ)

ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ x ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ|ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ, ʙʟᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ|ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2ᴋ

In a secluded and desolate village, an inexplicable prosperity has taken root, defying all logic and expectations. The villagers attribute this miraculous transformation to the blessing of a mysterious deity, whose influence has brought life back to the barren land.

However, this prosperity comes at a grim cost - the sacrifice of an 18-year-old virgin every hundred years. The purity and sincerity of the sacrifice are believed to prolong the village's prosperity, as decreed by the deity worshipped by the villagers.

For unmarried women like you, reaching the age of eighteen brings a looming nightmare rather than the promise of adulthood. From a young age, you've witnessed your younger brother bask in the favor and attention of your family, while you remained in the shadows, neglected and unappreciated.

To your parents, you are merely a pawn in their pursuit of wealth. If you marry into a prosperous family before turning eighteen, it's deemed a success; but if you remain unmarried, you are destined to be the sacrificial offering.

Growing up devoid of love, surrounded by loneliness and ignorance, you've struggled against the unfair expectations placed upon you. Despite your efforts to resist, you were met with scolding and mistreatment, leaving you isolated and unheard.

One day, as your entitled brother demanded your servitude, you felt a surge of resentment at his audacity. Reluctantly complying with his demands, you couldn't shake the bitterness that had taken root within you.

Confronting him about his reckless behavior with the family's money, you were met with denial and deflection. Your parents, quick to defend your brother, silenced your attempts to speak up, leaving you feeling betrayed and abandoned.

As you were confined to the cabin, awaiting the inevitable sacrifice on your eighteenth birthday, the weight of injustice and abandonment pressed heavily upon you. The darkness surrounding you mirrored the bitterness that had seeped into your soul, a stark contrast to the prosperity that had come at such a high price.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, laughter still echoed through the halls of your home. They looked forward to the moment you die as it meant they could live a new, prosperous life.

Their words only served to fuel the fire of resentment burning within you but you could do nothing.

You often wondered what your fate would be, knowing that the day of sacrifice loomed closer with each passing sunrise. The thought of being offered up to appease the deity, to maintain the facade of prosperity, filled you with a mix of fear and defiance.

—--

Night fell, casting a cloak of shadows over the altar as the ritual neared its zenith.

"Let us offer our gratitude to the Y/L/N family for their generous contribution!" The priest's voice boomed, the family members standing by, basking in the adulation of others, oblivious to their true nature.

Their affections lay with money and their son, not with you.

"Their daughter shall shape our destiny!" The air was heavy with incense and the eerie chants of the priests, their ominous words sending shivers down your spine.

You knelt at the heart of the altar, adorned in lavish garments but devoid of any semblance of joy. Seeing them pretending vaguely, a surge of resentment welled up in your heart. The unvented anger transformed into tears, cascading down your cheeks and saturating the eye mask, yet no one took notice. Memories of the past raced through your mind as the priest drew near; jealousy, anger, sadness, all negative emotions flooding your thoughts.

You felt yourself unraveling, the echoing laughter pushing you towards the brink of collapse. Desperate to block out the sound, you reached for your ears, only to find yourself restrained; yearning to break free, yet bound by invisible chains.

The priest's approach felt ominous, a foreboding presence signaling impending doom. You shook your head in denial, attempting to resist his advance, but the relentless footsteps shattered your resolve. You didn't want to die, there were still so many unfinished tasks; you didn't want them to prosper, to lead a life of luxury… What you craved was vengeance.

“Offer yourself to our God!”

“No! I refuse to meet my end like this!”

“There is no escape, child! Your destiny is to be a sacrifice! It is your duty!”

“NO! Even in death, I will not let you win! I will not make it easy for you!”

“What nonsense is this?!” “Just end her life!!”

With a swift motion, he thrust a sword towards your heart, invoking the deity's power.

But instead of searing pain and spilled blood, darkness enveloped you, wrapping you in an eerie silence.

Panting heavily, you realized you were not hurt. Unable to see anything as you were blindfolded, you could only follow the sound.

"Let me see this year's sacrifice," a voice echoed through the church, accompanied by the slow approach of footsteps, causing your heartbeat to speed up because of nervousness.

As the figure drew closer, Seonghwa knelt before you, lifting your chin to gaze upon your graceful form draped in black sheer fabric.

"It seems good, huh? But your resentment is the strongest among all the sacrifices I've seen," he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip and cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. Nervously, you swallowed saliva and made a barely audible sound.

“Don’t want to be mine? That’s nice, you know?” His gaze shifted from your trembling throat to your chest, where the metal bra accentuated your ample bosom. The sheer fabric did little to quell his burning desire. He leaned in and planted a kiss on your chest. This sudden act made you recoil slightly, unable to find a word.

“You hate me, huh?” Again, you swallowed nervously but did not dare to answer. Hate him? Maybe? Were it not for his presence, you would not have been chosen as a sacrifice. But, it was your so-called family members who did evil things. This was a simple question but you didn’t know how to answer it.

"Speak, girl. I hate it when others don’t answer my questions," he demanded in displeasure. Although you couldn’t see his face, you could still feel his anger.

"I… I apologize," you stuttered, fear gripping you and preventing you from relaxing. Seonghwa smirked, relishing in the feeling of others obeying his commands.

“So, what’s your answer?”

“I…hate…I hate them all.” He raised his eyebrows and said provocatively, “So, it's because of me that you hate them. Am I right, girl?”

“I…” You found yourself momentarily struck silent by fear. But upon reflection, you realized there was nothing left to fear - you were already deceased, after all.

“Yes.” After a deep breath, you found the courage to speak. “If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been chosen as a sacrifice, and I wouldn't be… disliked.” Your unexpected response caught him off guard, as he had never encountered someone who didn't desire his attention.

Determined to sway your opinion, he sought to engage you further.

“What is your name, my dear?” His tone softened, coaxing you to reveal yourself. Surprisingly, he did not react with anger.

“Y…Y/N…”

"Y/N, a beautiful name," His voice, deep and alluring, stirred something within you.

"Relax, Y/N. Why the tension? Tonight, we shall indulge in my desires. But fret not, for it promises to be an enjoyable experience.”

His touch traced a path from your face, down your neck, shoulders, and arms. The cool sensation sent shivers down your spine, igniting a tingling warmth that spread through your body, eliciting a soft, hesitant sigh from you.

“And I’ll change your mind."

His gaze fell upon the handcuffs on your wrists, your delicate wrists trembling slightly, arousing his perverse desire for dominance. He whispered in your ear, his voice extremely seductive, licking and gently biting your earlobe, teasingly grazing your ear.

"Umm…" A shiver ran down your spine as an electric current coursed through your ear, and your body temperature raised, causing your cheeks to redden.

"You're really sensitive, aren't you?" He licked the back of your ear, the sound of his tongue against your skin stimulating your nerves, making you tremble; his lips gradually moved downwards, pecking at your collarbone, sucking on your fine skin, leaving faint red marks.

“Did you touch yourself before?”

“What is touch…?” Smiling, he held your hand while trailing down to your lower core, and slowly got closer to your clit.

“It feels good.” He guided your hand, his slender fingers stroking your clit with a gentle touch, slowly sunk down to your lower core. As both of your fingers entered your cunt, a tingling sensation spread through your body, eliciting soft moans of pleasure. Seonghwa's satisfied smile encouraged you to explore further.

"Come, fuck with me," he whispered. You felt a mix of excitement and curiosity as you pleasured yourself under his guidance. The sensation of his touch, combined with your own exploration, sent waves of pleasure through you.

His hands enveloped your back, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, soothing your nerves. Your breath quickened, heart racing as he increased the intensity of his movements, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, drawing out soft whimpers of delight.

His velvety lips teased and tantalized your skin, his breath hot against your ear, igniting a fire within you. Your body instinctively responded, allowing him closer as his hands held you close, pulling you into his embrace.

A soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on, his desire growing with each sound you made. Your body responded eagerly, the climax building within you, your walls tightening around your fingers, urging them deeper. It was so weird but exciting. You could tell there was something inside your body, as you touched it, a numb feeling surged throughout your body.

"You're doing so well, my dear," he praised, a blush rising to your cheeks at his words. “I’m gonna…oh gosh!” You shut your eyes tightly as the climax was about to take over you. “Cum, girl.”With a final, shy moan, you reached your peak, the pleasure overwhelming you.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before withdrawing. A pang of emptiness lingered, but his question brought a spark of anticipation to your eyes.

"More?" he asked, lifting your chin and drawing you closer. With a nod and a shy smile, you whispered, "Yes, I want more."

"Good. All I can think about is how good you're going to taste." Before the words even finished, he pounced on you, the cold touch of the ground sending shivers down your spine. He reached for the buttons on the back of your neck, undressing you from the waist up, leaving your chest fully exposed.

He buried his head between your breasts, continuously sucking and licking. You keenly felt his tongue swirling around your nipple, causing a tingling sensation. The wet and warm feeling enveloped your left breast, while his hand gently squeezed and massaged your right breast, occasionally flicking the nipple with his thumb.

"Ah…" The stimulation on your body made you shyly moan, igniting his desire even more. He lifted his head and kissed your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks on the skin that were no longer pale red but slightly darkened purple.

He admired his love bites while appreciating your beauty. "You're so fucking gorgeous." He growled like a wild animal against your chest, now it's time to unleash the beast inside him.

"Put your hands on your head. You can't put them down without my permission, understand?" You obeyed his command and raised your hands.

He removed all his clothing, kneeling completely naked in front of you, and pressed against your outer lips, occasionally grazing your hole. His erect member has been uncomfortably constrained by his tight pants for far too long.

“It may hurt a little bit. But it's gonna be fun, don’t worry.” He entered your cunt in one go, making you throw your head against the ground. His huge cock was much different from his fingers and tongue─that’s harder, longer, and thicker.

The intense pain was almost unbearable, as if your lower core was being torn apart. Blood flowed, wetting his thick cock and even dripping onto the floor. Your body burned like a flame, sweating all over your body.

"You're bleeding, babe. Does it hurt?" His voice was soft as silk, gently tugging at your heartstrings in a way no one ever had before.

"Yes… it hurts," you managed to reply through the discomfort. "Don't cry, just try to relax." He leaned in to place a tender kiss on your forehead, his simple gesture of concern bringing tears to your eyes. Despite the pain in your lower body, it felt like nothing compared to the past beatings you had endured.

He kissed you gently, offering comfort without any aggression. There were no bites, no invasion of tongues, just sweet and tender kisses. Your lips met softly, filled with warmth and affection. The pain slowly faded, replaced by a growing desire. You wanted him to move, to pleasure you with his gentleness.

"Please, my god," you whispered between kisses, causing him to pause. "I think I'm okay now."

"Tell me what you want, darling. Just say it," he encouraged.

"I want you to move, please," you requested, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"Don't hate me now?" He chuckled at your reaction, finding you utterly adorable.

"Kidding," Before his lips met yours again and he began to thrust rhythmically. The pace was perfect, neither too rough nor too gentle.

"Ah, my god!" Every thrust hit the right spot inside you, eliciting a cascade of sensations. Your body responded by producing more moisture, adjusting to the feeling of his cock sliding in and out.

The warmth and wetness enveloped his cock, driving him to the edge of sanity. Combined with the sucking sensation, it was impossible for him to hold back.

"You're so tight, I can't handle fucking it." He wanted to fuck you as hard as possible, but not now. He needed you adjust first. He could see your past─what you have endured, how your so-called family treated you. Horrible memories invaded his mind, and although he wasn't frightened by them, he felt pity for you.

“oh my pretty.” He moved faster but not rough at all. His wet chest pressed against yours, letting you feel his strong muscles and physique. Oh shit, you loved this feeling so much, you felt so tiny under his frame. The pain you felt before has already disappeared far away and replaced by endless pleasure and lust.

Settling your legs around his waist, he entered deeper and you bent even more. He first pulled out a bit, and then pushed in fully, repeated over and over again. Every time he thrust deep, he couldn’t help but whimper as he saw how your chest shook from his movement.

“Moan for me, my doll.” You obeyed his words and moaned loudly, accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, forming a beautiful melody in Seonghwa 's ears. He pulled you up, making you sit on his thighs. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he thrust upward that made you throw your head.

Following his movement, you bounced in a slow pace. He trailed down to cup your ass cheeks to pull you closer. Your lips met again as he leaned down to kiss you. This kiss was like the breeze blowing through the petals, full of tenderness, giving you a numbness.

Seonghwa placed you back to the ground gently before turning you over. "Want me to be rough?" "Be rough with me, my god." In the momentary withdrawal, he turned you over directly, and once again entered from behind. His hands pressed against your waist, controlling the movement of your body back and forth, causing your breasts to violently shake.

“Ahh, please, keep going.” “Of course, my little whore.” He cupped your breast while squeezing your nipples and showered your nape with kisses. The scent of you fills his nostrils, very tempting.

He gradually lost control and snapped into your ass with only raw emotion. Sat up straight again to push himself even closer to your limit. He could feel his cock twitch every time he went deep and you moaned loudly. He was going to cum but he wanted you cum first. He needed it, needed to feel your warmth once again wrapped up his cock.

“Baby, I want you cum, cum for my cock. I need you.” His words and thrusting made you dizzy. Everything was overwhelming. You totally lost in the pleasure as he kept sinking down to hit your g spot.

“Hmmmm…Ahhh…please.” There was one more step to reach your climax. Seonghwa knew it as he slid down his hand to your clit. He continued to thrust while stroking, pushing you to climax.

The stimulation all over your body was like an electric current, which not only sent shivers down your spine, but also made the flame of desire in your body bursted out.

You found that the more you press down on your waist, the deeper his cock could go. Desire had already replaced your thinking. You lowered your body as much as possible and spread your legs so that you could reach climax as his arching member deep inside you.

“Your pussy feels amazing, you do that so well. Cum for me, babe.” ”Ah~my god~” You squirted with a high-pitched groan and Seonghwa came after a few thrusts. Your legs were shaking like a leaf and knees went weak. You fell to the ground, out of breath, your body having been drained of all your strength by lust.

“Are you okay, babe?” Seonghwa gently turned you over and took off your blindfold. The sudden light hitting your eyes made you very uncomfortable, but you quickly adapted. A handsome face came into view, and you could finally see Seonghwa 's appearance.

“I’m fine, my god.” He brushed your hair, gave you a loving smile and slowly picked you up before withdrawing from you. His hand trailed down to caress your lower core, full of his seeds. “Not hurt at all, hm?” You shook your head and replied to him with a smile. He chuckled at your smile, pulling you closer to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re mine now. No one will hurt you.” Seonghwa patted your head and pecked on it, making your tears welled up your eyes. Oh, maybe he was truly a god that loved his people…no, or I should say, his sacrifice. Who tells him love having sex so much?

But there was one thing he couldn't lie about. He was a little heartbroken when he found out about your past. At the very beginning, he thought that was only an illusion but his feelings toward you gradually changed. You seemed to be different from those girls he met.

-----

“Darling?" He called you darling every time because he found you liked this name.

“Yes, hwa?" You turned around to give him a peck.

“I killed all the people you hated. Did I do well?” He wrapped his arms around your waist while inhaling your scent. Your eyes widened a bit as you never expected that he would slaughter the whole village.

"You killed them...?"

"Yes, darling. I can do anything you want because I am your God."

[filmsmakkari]

the tale of a princess and her fair lady

rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader

Summary: The daughter of House Velaryon makes a promise to her princess

CW: None!

A/N- I have not written and published a fanfiction since I was 14... bare with and pray for me.

The chamber was silent as a young girl with silver hair knelt before hundreds of candles beneath the stained-glass windows of the starry sept. Though she had never been a believer in gods and myths before, her love and worry filled her so deeply at present that she was brought to her knees in prayer.

Lady (Y/N) of House Velaryon had been in love with Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen for the better half of a year. They’d known each other since childhood and had always been quite close. Being the only two daughters of the great Valyrian houses in the Red Keep, they’d always felt that no one could understand them as well as each other. Their relationship, which had always toed the line between platonic and romantic, had turned into an unadulterated love affair the day Rhaenyra realized that her disdain for marriage to a man had never truly been about marriage, but more so the man.

Ever since, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra had been living in pure bliss, catching each other’s eye, walking with linked arms in public, and worshiping each other’s bodies during those private moments brought on by the cover of night. In recent days, however, the girls have been slightly at odds with each other, as (Y/N)’s parents have posed a potential marriage between Lady (Y/N) and King Viserys to strengthen the realm. Rhaenyra had hardly been able to look at her lover as she could soon become her stepmother, and she didn’t want it to be more painful by prolonging their relationship until the moment (Y/N) stood at the altar.

On this day, the 13th of the eighth moon, the princess had taken a most dangerous risk in flying to her family’s seat of power, Dragonstone, to subdue her wretched uncle Daemon, who had been squatting there for a year and who had just stolen a dragon egg for his unborn bastard child. (Y/N) had gotten wind of these plans and miraculously arrived at the dragonpit just before Rhaenyra took flight. (Y/N) had implored her princess to be safe, telling her that she would not know what to do if anything happened to her. Rhaenyra, overcome by the love and emotion she had been repressing, could not think of anything else to do but cup (Y/N)'s cheeks and pull her into a kiss. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in shock for a moment, but she quickly got over it, placing her hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek and wrapping her free arm around her waist.

How lovely that kiss was, (Y/N) sighed, remembering it. Rhaenyra had left after their lips broke, and (Y/N) had been in the sept worrying ever since. Eyes closed, she murmured promises to the seven that she would never sin again if Rhaenyra was protected.

Upon hearing a familiar voice softly calling her name, (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered open. She quickly turned her head to see none other than Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her princess. The purest love in her life. Her everything.

(Y/N) ran to her lover, immediately cupping her face and kissing her fiercely. Rhaenyra met (Y/N) with the same passion, grabbing her tightly by her waist and pulling her closer. 

Two dragons burning together under the midnight sky. 

The kiss communicated everything they had been too afraid to say. “I’m sorry.” “I miss you.” “I need you.” “I love you.”

The two girls finally broke apart for air, giggling shyly in the throes of their young love. 

Suddenly serious, Rhaenyra looked deeply into (Y/N)’s eyes. A pure shade of violet only found in those with the true blood of Old Valyria, with little flecks of blue- a trait passed down from her seafaring ancestors. She then scanned (Y/N)’s entire body, her shimmering silver hair, braided at the top, loosening into long coils past her backside—the curves of her breasts and hips, the softness of her hands, and the way her brown skin shone in the moonlight.

“A true Valyrian goddess, you are,” she said.

(Y/N) looked down shyly at the compliment. Rhaenyra lifted (Y/N)’s chin with her finger and stepped closer, leaning her forehead against hers. A moment of sweetness and intimacy. 

“Kivio naejot sagon rūsīr issa va moriot,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Dōrī jorrāelagon mirre tolie hae ao jorrāelagon issa.”

Swear to be with me always. Never love any other as you love me.

(Y/N) exhaled. “Oh, issa dārilaros. Nyke kivio, jaehossi uēpossi arlȳssī."

Oh, my princess. I swear, by the old gods and the new.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

The Mantis and His Moth

Yandere FtM Mantis Hybrid Cultist x Male Moth Hybrid Reader CW: Noncon, forced oral sex, aphrodisiac pheromones, musk, scent kink, eating pussy like it's groceries, pussy eating on period, minor character death, human-hybrid sacrifice, fictional religions, indoctrination, brainwashing, cannibalism, terms like pussy and cunt used for trans male genitals, dick riding, biting, overstimulation, non-sexual bondage, drenched in pussy juice, partially suffocated by pussy, public but discrete pussy eating, praise Word Count: 3.6k (Comm for @vanberryhearts, their OC Salem Blackthorn can be viewed HERE)

You grunted as you carried the box. You weren’t very strong, and it was filled to the brim with cans of food to go to the church’s community food drive and you were carrying it around back. The back door was closer to the basement and it was easier to walk it around then go through multiple rooms in the church. Plus the building was all locked up anyway. You had meant to bring the food earlier but you had gotten caught up with other matters.

That was okay though, the fence that led to the back of the property was ajar, so you were just gonna leave the food on the back porch and it would be easy for the priest, Salem Blackthorn, to take it down when he found it there the next morning. He was a strong mantis hybrid man and could carry down much more easily than a small moth hybrid like you.

After you sat down the box you started making your way off the porch, but as you did so the door suddenly opened and Salem stepped out carrying a large object that had been well wrapped in some type of cloth.

When he saw you he seemed surprised but you were already stepping forward and helping him with what he was holding. You barely noticed that the robes he was wearing, while ornate and clearly for religious purpose, were not the typical garb of a priest. They covered most of his body. The hood hid his tan skin, pretty blond hair, and relatively short antennae from the world.

“Oh wow, this is really heavy! I don’t mind helping, where are we taking-”

You tripped on the step off the porch, unbalancing Salem and causing him to drop what he was carrying. It fell right off the porch and landed beside you. The wrapping had been damaged and peeled away and what you saw took a moment for your brain to register.

A bloody corpse with bites ripped out of it in many places.

Before you could think to move Salem was upon you, pulling you into the church and down into the basement with a hand firmly over your mouth as he whispered into your ear.

“I’m sorry dove, you really weren’t supposed to see that.”

The priest took you into the room farthest from the stairs then put a gag over your mouth and left you tied in a chair in the middle of the room before running back upstairs, presumably to take care of the fallen “package” that he had left uncovered outside. He left you alone long enough for you to get a good look at your surroundings. You had never been down here before.

And after taking note of what was around you doubted many people that had seen this place were still alive.

In front of you there was an altar. A medium sized and intricately stone sculpture of a spider lay in the center. In front of the statue was a large silver goblet filled with blood. An offering. The sculpture’s eyes were inlaid rubies and its gaze filled you with despair. It was a depiction of the arachnid goddess, Arachna. She was mostly worshiped these days by small clandestine groups huddled in small dark rooms hidden from the gaze of society.

Much like this room.

Though you certainly hadn’t expected a worshiper of the insect god, The Great Moth Regalis, to be a disciple of the foul Arachna. Though you supposed that’s exactly why it was such a perfect cover.

Not fighting wasn’t an option. You struggled with every ounce of strength that you had. Sweat dripped down your brow. You didn’t want to end up another bitten corpse with your blood in that goblet as a sacrifice to the spider goddess.

You wriggled and writhed in your binds, drawing blood from various places where the ropes chaffed your bare skin. Your wings burned with the effort of flexing and vibrating them to try and squirm free. And your throat ached with the burden of trying to scream through your gag.

The binds were too formidable. Clearly made by someone who was experienced with this sort of thing.

All your struggles amounted to was making the chair you were in lean over and fall, causing your head to smack painfully against the cold concrete floor. You almost wished it had been enough to knock you out or even kill you outright, then and there, then you wouldn’t have to be conscious for the fate that surely awaited you as soon as Salem returned. All that you could do was cry as you awaited death.

Salem was so frustrated. How could he have allowed this to happen? He had left the gate unlocked allowing you to just traipse upon him right at the exact moment that he was hauling out the body?? The timing was absurd! What were the odds?

He ran over to shut and lock the gate that allowed passage to the back of the church before returning to the body. He re-wrapped the body properly, as it was an important part of the ritual, as he pondered what to do about you.

Killing you was out of the question entirely. Aside from the fact that he never killed any permanent resident or their visiting family, to avoid arousing suspicion, he also harbored quite a strong crush on you. He had sense he first laid eyes on you during his first sermon.

Your eyes stared up at him hanging on every word that passed his lips. So devout, so diligent in your charitable works, so deliciously… innocent…

Oh, how he longed to corrupt you. And to make it even better you were a regal moth hybrid. Such hybrids were regarded as being good luck to those around them as the insect god Regalis was a regal moth himself.

Just the thought of indoctrinating you into the cult made his heart flutter and wetness flow from his crotch. It would take his defiling of the mother religion to new heights and surely make Arachna happy.

The mantis had not yet put his desires into motion. He had planned to slowly get you more and more attracted to him before working on getting you addicted to his pheromones until you were totally dependent on him. Now it appeared that he would have to rush forward without much subtlety. But that was okay, he could definitely do so.

He finished with the body, taking it to a pit he had dug earlier, and placed it in carefully before topping it with a small apple sapling. Just one of many that would match the little orchard he had growing in the field behind the church.

You flinched when you heard the door open and trembled with pure fear, your mind conjured forth innumerable horrors, all the manners in which he may torture and eventually kill you went through your terrified mind. You renewed your futile bid for freedom, floundering about as best you were able.

When Salem saw you he scoffed.

“Tsk, tsk.”

He bent down to right your chair and brushed your cheek with all the tenderness in the world after doing so before placing a gentle kiss on your tear soaked cheek.

“There, there, my little moth. No need to be so scared.”

Obviously, those words did nothing to dispel you of the terror that had so thoroughly stricken you, if you even took notice of them at all with all the adrenaline coursing through you and your heart beating faster than it ever had before.

You looked up at him with pleading eyes as sobs racked your body.

“Aww. Please don’t worry, pretty thing, you won’t be suffering too much longer.”

This made you shake and sob much harder. This was it. That was his way of telling you that he was going to snuff out your life. That you’d be joining that other body wherever it had been dragged off to. You’d be offered up like a slab of meat to the vile spider. You were getting dizzy and hyperventilating. This couldn’t be happening. You were a good man and you had so much to live for. So much good to do.

Then something unexpected happened. Salem disrobed himself of the cultist garb he had been cloaked in, revealing a drooling pussy and dizzying your mind now not with a lack of air but with his musky pheromones.

He spoke as if reading your thoughts.

“Don’t worry, I am not going to fuck then eat you. That’s actually a harmful stereotype derived from feral regular mantises, not something a mantis hybrid does!”

You really had no reason to believe him.

Though he did lure in tasty horny sacrifices in with a promise of sex before forcing them to eat him out, to dose them with his pheromones, before partially eating them alive and then killing them. But that was because it was what Arachna demanded! Not because he was a mantis hybrid!

Still, he had no intention of harming you and you did not require the extra details at this time.

The tall man undid your gag and let it fall away before replacing it with his dripping wet cunt, pushing your head into it gently but firmly. You tried to move your head but were ultimately unable to avoid the smell and taste of his sex.

The smell was just amazing, slowly making you blush and your face feel overheated. The feeling soon spread all over your entire body. It relaxed your tense muscles and caused your member to tent in your pants. You whimpered in need as you began eagerly slipping your tongue into your captor, lapping at his surprisingly sweet pussy juice.

He smiled down at you, removing his hand as he no longer needed to force your face into it after his pheromones took effect.

“Such a good boy for me~”

No one could resist the scent of his pussy when presented directly in their face. They’d feel no pain and every touch would feel amazing. It didn’t hurt that little mothies like you were naturally attracted to sweet nectar-like fluids.

Your moans and overstimulated whimpers were just precious to him. Making him wetter and wetter. He toyed with his clit as he allowed you to drink up his fluid at your own pace. Your face was already absolutely drenched.

It seemed as if there was just no end to the impossibly delicious fluid that flowed from him like a fountain.

He had to push you away so that he could untie you and remove your soaked clothes, revealing your excited cock. You weren’t even paying any attention, just trying to get back into that pussy. When you were finally released you dove right back into it, clinging to him with both of your arms as you slurped his cunt.

When he came it was a fresh torrent of pheromones even more potent than the last. You became so overstimulated that you could barely move. He guided you to another room in the basement, one that was closer to the door.

You could barely stand by the time he got you through the door so he gently picked you up and carried you to a soft bed, laying your pussy juice covered body down carefully as if he was afraid you would shatter to dust in his hands.

If you had been one of his usual victims, one of the tourists he lured in off the street, this is when he would have started devouring you to death before draining out your blood and wrapping you in spider webbing. But you were his cute little moth so he would treat you with the utmost care. And one day you would help kill tasty snacrifices for Arachna. It would be Salem’s perfect relationship.

But until then there was something more urgent that needed attending to.

He lowered himself down onto your hard cock as he placed a finger coated in his nectar for you to suck while he rid you. He took his time, savoring the delicious moment when he took his sweet little new boyfriend for the first time.

You didn’t last very long at all inside the heat of his pussy, quickly mingling his fluids with your cum. You cried as you climaxed, it was all so much. The feel of the silk beneath you, the touch of his teeth gently nibbling and sucking the flesh of your neck, his hands trailing up and down your sides. Every touch against your skin made you shiver in pleasure.

It was all okay though, Salem didn’t mind at all. His naturally drugged juices kept you hard and ready to go several times over, he didn’t stop riding you until your balls had been thoroughly emptied into him and each orgasm began to approach the borderline of pleasure into pain. He had finished while riding you a couple times as well. The sight of your pretty little face gasping and moaning with the burden of too much pleasure, your erratically twitching antenna, your sporadically fluttering wings, practically sent him into a rut. Made him feel a primal urge to fuck you over and over until you were soaked to the bone in his juices and no one could deny you were his and his alone.

You were the only moth worthy of worshiping and giving pleasure. Not that pitiful god of yours. He’d make you convert to his faith with an unyielding flood of sex and love.

And that was exactly what Salem did.

Every waking moment, barring those where he had to maintain his priestly facade, were spent in unfathomable pleasure followed by aftercare and honeyed words. Sex, pheromones, cuddling, doting, feeding (he often mixed his very own pheromone laden “sauce” into your meals). But mostly the sex. You tried to remain devout, to maintain the hold on your beliefs, and while it took longer than Salem had expected the transformation was all the stronger for having been tested so thoroughly.

There was a brief relapse in the early days of the process. One of the church’s nuns had entered the bedroom you were being kept in down in the basement. You begged her for help as hope returned to your heart, only to be dashed as she held up a spider pendant. That’s when you realized all the nuns must be members of the cult too. Later that day, in response to having asked for help, Salem was extra “attentive.”

Despite the brief setback, your mind eventually transformed. You found yourself hopelessly clingy and in need of your Salem. You no longer needed pheromones for sex and were more than eager to taste him or slip inside him and often initiated the encounters yourself. When the two of you weren’t busy making love you clung to his arm. He made you feel happy and secure.

He no longer kept you locked in the basement, instead you attended services as normal. Making up an illness as an excuse for your previous absence.

But the changes to your ways of thinking and behavior didn’t stop at being hopelessly in need of your mantis boyfriend. He had also successfully moved you to the worship of Arachna. It thrilled Salem to no end knowing he had fully converted you, a moth of all things, into being a being of sinful debauchery and Arachna worship.

But there was still one important thing left to do to officially solidify your position in his cult. Your baptism in blood. You were nervous, but eager to appease your new goddess. And of course your boyfriend. In no small part because he said that after you did this with him then you could get married in the eyes of Arachna.

All you had to do was make your first sacrifice. Salem assured you that he would lure them down and drug them, all you would need to do is kill them with him and help wrap them in the traditional way that Arachna demanded.

You were really nervous, but Salem calmed you down. He selected yet another tourist who he said deserved it. Whose greatest contribution in life would be as a sacrifice to Arachna. He assured you that he was doing a service, he only selected the scum of society. He had mystic ways of knowing the kinds of things that they did.

Though at this point your mantis had so much control over you that even if he had told you that you were killing an angel you probably could have been convinced that you were doing the right thing for Arachna.

The soon to be corpse that Salem had selected for you was an ant hybrid. He eagerly followed the handsome priest down, thinking he was getting lucky with a priest of his religion. Which Salem pointed out was further proof that he was vile. Followers of the moth were not to seek pleasure from someone of the cloth, if he was a half decent person he would not violate his own religion so readily.

Salem had him sit in one of the rooms in the basement, they both disrobed and Salem guided the ant’s head to his cunt, forcing him to get drunk in much the same way you had been your first time with Salem.

Though this hybrid’s night started similarly to yours it would end quite differently.

After he was thoroughly inebriated from the musk and pheromones produced by Salem’s sex he was led by Salem into the altar room where you were waiting anxiously.

Since you were unable to bite him to death like Salem you used a knife instead. It was a small mercy as it ended him much more quickly. Not that it would have mattered, he was so drugged that he wouldn’t have felt anything but pleasure anyway.

“A-and you promise this won’t cause him any pain?”

Salem stroked your arm comfortingly.

“Of course not my little moth, he will feel nothing but pleasure and through his death he will be cleansed in the many eyes of Arachna. We are saving his immortal soul by discarding his corrupted flesh.”

With renewed resolve you leaned him over a bucket and slit his throat allowing the warm blood to pool into the goblet before you set it before the statue. Your mantis has you at least lick the knife. It was a jarring metallic taste that made you flinch and curl your antenna in disgust. Salem chuckled and assured you that you’d get used to it.

And you did, during subsequent sacrifices the mantis hybrid would bite pieces off the victim for you since you lacked teeth sharp enough to do so. Then he’d chew the chunks and feed them to you while the two of you made out so you could enjoy the full ritual. You definitely learned to enjoy the flavor of fresh meat and blood.

When all the blood had left the ant man you wrapped the body up in your own silk as Salem guided you in how to do the wrapping then the two of you hauled him out, Salem doing the antlion’s share of the work, and buried him before planting a tree.

Many months after your first kill, on a Sunday morning, Salem was giving a sermon. Your fellow church goers thought you were absent from service but you were present, just not in view. Not in their view anyway. You were closer to the priest than any of them. Right under the pulpit. It was a grand fixture, large and imposing, wrapping around and concealing all of Salem’s sides. Perfect, as it turned out, for concealing a lover worshiping between the mantis’ legs.

You were making out with his pussy, kissing and licking it lovingly and deeply. You started letting out little whimpers and gasps as his extra potent pheromones kicked in. He was on his period and it seemed the blood you were lapping up gave his juices an extra punch. As you began to forget just exactly where you were, getting lost in his bloody cunt, you began to make soft moans and whimpers.

Salem continued his sermon unabashed, passionately railing against the sins of the flesh. Preaching about how Regalis demanded marriage before fornication, as he carefully took one of his hands and pushed you into his crotch to silence your noises before they got any louder.

You had some difficulty breathing as his sex threatened to drown you, but you continued to seek out the unique flavor and musk. Your antenna curled as you came untouched, your moan thankfully muffled by Salem.

Salem came soon after, his pussy absolutely gushing all over you. All the stimulation, all the taboo thrill of getting oral sex from his little mothy while making a mockery of the opposing religion, honoring Arachna through hedonism, the sight of his debauched darling struggling for breath and looking up at him with half lidded eyes lost in pleasure, it all culminated in the best orgasm of his life.

He didn’t let it show on his face though.

Salem wrapped up his sermon, once more reminding the church goers to resist temptation as they filed out the door. When the last one left he stopped pressing your face into him. You gasped for breath momentarily but went right back to licking him clean.

The mantis smiled at the scene below him, you were covered in his lubricant, face smeared with his blood, you looked absolutely ruined just for him.

“Such a good boy.”

He stroked your wet cheek as he allowed you to continue for a while, basking in the pleasant sensation, until finally he took you back downstairs. He’d worry about cleaning under the pulpit later. Right then it was more important he cleaned you up and rewarded you for such a good job.

[daemonbrain]

Little Viper

Prologue | Chapter 1

(Daemon Targaryen x Dornish!Reader)

Summary: The sun could not reach you here, not in this city of rain and stink. (Un)fortunately, you found yourself at the mercy of a dragon's fire.

You've missed the heat, you supposed.

3k, CW: arranged marriage, canon divergent, canon-typical violence, canon-typical misogyny, reader is homesick, smut, little bit angsty, will update as I post.

a/n: if your new the prologue isn't necessary to read, just some extra insights. tbh i like the writing on this better bc its nice and angsty 🥰 comments are always extra appreciated, happy reading!!

100 A.C.

It was too hot here.

You allowed the maids who had come into your washing chambers to scrub at your skin vigorously. The one to your right rubbing your arm near raw, it did not matter.

It felt healing to sink into the sweltering hot water, the humidity almost unbearable with the lack of circulation. The room was full of maids brought from Dorne tasked with tending to you hand and foot, to have you the very image of a Princess on your special day.

You dared not utter a word; you feared what you did not know. With your volatile state of mind, you did not know what would come out of your mouth. There was no feeling. Just the scrubbing, the heat, the incessant tugging at your hair.

…

The hours of diligent work upon your appearance made the sight you were. Your white gown embroidered with great care to detail, suns speckled about harmoniously with the textures of the fabric. The corset drawn so tight you could feign fainting halfway up the aisle.

As you stood outside of the great wooden doors to the throne room, the cloak of yellow and orange lay heavy on your shoulders. The burden of peace thrust to you and for the love you bore your people you would do your duty.

“Princess,” A voice interrupted. Shaking yourself from your stupor, you turn to heed the man’s words. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, you willed your quaking body to arrest the futile show of fear.

The absence of both your father Prince Mors and brother Prince Qoren left you lacking accompaniment to the altar where your promised would stand.

May the gods grant you many a more moons, father. Reap the harvest of peace sown through your abandonment.

Imprisoned in your brooding, it is unclear to know anything beyond that of your own body. The sound of the heavy doors being pushed, your title being heralded resonating through the room. Your body moving faster than your mind, possessing you to move forward.

May they grant your future reign stillness and calm, beloved brother. May they bless you with the choice of a joyful union when the time comes, built upon this peace.

In spite of the pace your heart raced, the in-style shoes popular among ladies of the capital forced a slow walk. You would not be fearful, not of a Targaryen. A Martell does not stoop their head down to the blood of the dragon. To be as stubborn as a mule was not to let the tears prickle at your eyes, nor allow the fury which claws at your throat like a bound beast rise to the surface.

Step after step, every noise previously present went quiet at the approaching bride.

Raising your head, you are met with a sight which triggers your urges to turn heel and run south until you felt the grainy sand of the Dornish desert beneath your feet again.

He was beautiful.

Your gaze is met with his own violet one. His mouth an unashamed and harsh line, as if there was nothing he loathed more than standing at the end of this oh so blessed procession. Like two furious crashing waves in a storm tossed sea, your own discontentment intensified as you pushed forward.

It felt like your lifetime had passed you by when you took your place in front of the silver-haired Prince. Though his imposing frame carried a noble bearing, his stance was loose, his garb and hair revealing a hurried dressing.

Did he too fight such a deplorable match?

Briefly bowing your head to the septon, he returns the gesture and makes a subtle motion at the yellow and orange cloak which rests on your shoulders. It was meant to be Qoren walking down with you, him to remove the symbolism of your house’s protection and surrendered to Targaryen mercy.

But Qoren was not here. Nor your sickly father

Just a Prince with an expression of fiery wrath, chilling your bones. Refusing to acknowledge the humiliation that came with a lack of kin to give you away, you would help yourself.

So be it you relented. Taking the fabric between your fingers you tug it off in a swift motion and allow it to drop to the floor. Though your dress was befitting of a winter bride, covering every bit of your scented and oiled skin, you had never felt so vulnerable before.

“You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Daemon’s anger was temporarily subdued as a hint of unhidden pleasure came over him. He basked in the moment with twisted satisfaction, sensing your delicacy to the act. Taking the cloak of his house- a black and red fabric- and placing it over your shoulders. Keeping his eyes on yours at the tense and silent refusal to look away. Though all he could see was a Princess draped in the colours of his own noble house, surely.

So wicked it felt as though the Stranger itself had cloaked you.

Praise the strength of your near-wobbling legs for not giving out as Daemon stepped back.

“Father,” Your father idles, sick and feeble in Sunspear or mayhaps just too cowardly to see the cost of his peace.

“Mother,” Your mother lay in the ground, gods rest her soul.

“Warrior,” May he grant you courage to face this fate without fear.

“Maiden, Crone, Stranger,”

The room faded as you looked to Daemon who remained unmoving, continuing to leer. The gesture caused you discomfort, your already delicate insides ready to spill themselves. How could one so ethereal debase himself to such lack of grace.

Beauty touched by the gods they say of dragon's blood… It is a shame the statement carries weight.

“Bear witness to their vows.” The septon gestures to Prince Daemon. With an irate expression Daemon casts a glance to his right, tearing his eyes away from you to look to his father, Crown-Prince Baelon. You caught what was unsaid between the two, brief as it was. His stare is one of finality, not dissimilar to your own father’s as he threw you on to the sea bound for King’s Landing.

With a roughness certainly not unnoticed by the crowd, Prince Daemon hastily grabs your hand into his own. Calloused against your softer skin that causes a shiver to creep down your spine. As if sensing… relating with the feeling, his hand gives an involuntary squeeze. The septon ties your joint had together and bids Daemon to repeat after him.

“I am yours,” His teeth practically almost shattered from the way he gritted through his words, his heart having no truth in his words. “And you are mine. Whatever may come.” Daemon glowered as if he wanted to rip you to shreds himself.

His breath stunk of wine.

You had a duty. You had a duty and for all that you held dear you would do it. You had a duty… surely…

Surely the gods would grant mercy unto your soul for such a willing act of forfeit?

“Hurry up.” Daemon pigheadedly interrupted.

Coming back to your current affairs, you see that the septon was in fact waiting for you to repeat the vows back.

Taking a deep breath in, your mouth opened yet no words emerged. The revulsion seated deep within your soul infecting the rest of your body with denial. You withhold the want to pull away, You are sure your betrothed would not stop you if you ran. He held you just as he was expected, the now loosened grip preparing to separate already.

“We all have duties to uphold.” The great Prince Mors -your father’s- voice echoed.

Paying no mind to the judging stares, you force your feelings aside. “I am yours, and you are mine… Whatever may come.” Your eyes round and brimming with the emotion which swirls behind them.

…

The feast was just as miserable of an affair. Daemon had left you almost immediately, seeking refuge in a bottle paired with idle talk with his brother and a Lord whose name you did not know or care for, rather than be by your side. Not that you had any objections. You ripped the cloak of black and red off the moment your vows had been done feeling as suffocated as one could be, and to the surprise of none. Had you been paying closer attention you would have noticed the exasperated expression that dawned on Daemon's face.

A sorry sight you were. The Princess of Dorne atop the royal dais, unshed tears and anger held solely by your pride. As the few of your fathers advisors here on his behalf engaged in small talks with the King’s courtiers, you were left to fend for your own. After all, no one else dares approach the viper on such a high pedestal.

Looking on at the festivities, the music being played grows louder in your ears while courtiers spun about. All dutifully ignoring the ever present tension within the room as their Prince sinks into his cups with a loose tongue dripping of bravado on one side of the room, and the foreigner sulking in the other.

You gripped your cup tighter as you observed your betrotheds- your husband’s hands grab at yet another yet another goblet of wine -one of many he’s had upon arrival- there is a slight sway to his stance. With luck, perhaps he will choke on his own stomach contents in a drunken stupor by the end of the night.

Even so, fortune's favor never does seem to smile upon you. You found no favor when you were subjugated to this.

The familiar figure of Princess Aemma approaches, ending your isolation. Sitting up straight, you nod your head to the Arryn.

“Princess Aemma. I trust you are enjoying your evening.” With a mouth pressed far too tight and eyes widened a bit too wide to hide the weariness which tingled with every blink. “Princess.” She gestures to the chair next to your own.

“You may sit wherever you please. I am hardly in any position to refuse company.” It was the moment you heard the chair shuffle closer that you found the cutlery far more interesting.

“It would be audacious to presume I may sit anywhere… I would not want to make my good-sister uncomfortable.” You gulped at the word “sister”, maintaining a steadfast gaze forward. You were sure she meant it in good spirits. No matter the intention, the stabbing feeling to your aching heart remained.

With a bitter chuckle you return your focus to the woman seated beside you. “You are most gracious Princess.”

Biting your lip you lock on to the sight behind her. Daemon’s eyes unnervingly on yours while his father takes hold of his arm, leaning close to speak discreet words. His brother Viserys to his right, a blissfully ignorant expression listening to the lecture.

Aemma notices the Prince’s withering gaze. Gently smiling she moves her head to the side, blocking your sightline.

“I must say em- I am certain you’ve heard a plethora of congratulations, I wished to give you mine. May the gods bless you with a joyous and fruitful union.”

“Many congratulations, though I am not sure as to why the sentiment for this plain day.” She afforded you kindness, but your mood was too far soured to repay it in full. You’ve no need for a sister, you have a brother already. Perhaps. It is unclear whether his abandonment of you while you waited on the shores of the Blackwater Bay for his arrival was his way of wiping his hands clean of you.

All the same, you were no longer of his house.

The Princess moved to continue, but was quickly interrupted by the heavy footfalls and subsequent hand landing roughly on your shoulder. Your body jolted away from the touch instinctually, only eliciting a loud and mirthless laugh from the figure behind you. Pivoting your body towards the brazen soul, dreading what you surmised. For there is only one in this hall who could presume to lay hold of you in such a way.

Grasping for your wrist, Daemon’s hand clenched around like a wolf’s maw to its prey. “It seems my father grows displeased at your solitude, Princess.” Using his leverage he begins to pull you in his direction. “You can cease your dawdling and spare me your excuses.”

Reeling your shock at his blatant handling, you firmly planted yourself into your chair. Digging your heels in as you look at him incredulously. “I am quite fine as I am Prince Daemon.”

His eyes narrowed with ire, the mark of his vexation stretching his mouth into a frown as he attempted another stronger tug. “I’ve no patience for your refusal, join me-”

Abruptly, Aemma interjects Daemon’s demands, “You need not worry Daemon. She is far from lonely, I am here with her. Viserys busies himself with others so i’ve no intention on leaving for some time.”

Fixing his attention to Aemma, Daemon’s expression is one of apathy as he finally manages to bring you stumbling to your feet. “A shame you are not the one she is meant to cling to then.”

You barely had the time to recompose yourself before you are whisked away. “Easy!” You hissed while dragged by Daemon’s persistent hand, long strides forcing you further and further from the table you resigned yourself to acceptingly moments ago.

With a chuckle, he continues on to the dance floor. “I’m to spend time with you wife. I’m to dance with my bride on such an evening, my father says.” His words drenched with resentment as his fingers dig harder into the fabric of your sleeves. Too far gone from your secluded (and missed) seat, you are helpless but to let Daemon weave you through the crowd. People part way for the Prince as he centers himself.

“You offer such kindness allowing me to ‘cling’ to you!”

Prying free from his clutches, the two of you stopped in the middle of the throng. He prowled about your dress-clad form. The thunder outside clapped as if it tried to help his unwelcomed scare tactics. Tracking the movement with your eyes, you respond.

“But how disappointing, here I thought my dear husband wished to parade me around this grand hall of his own volition.”

He scoffed as the tempo of the music quickened. He grabs onto your hand with an iron-like-hold, forcing you to follow his (sloppy) lead. “Ah, so I married a fool. Many things i‘ve heard of your family, but stupid? Did I get the rotten apple from the poisonous tree?”

Married or made to marry you wanted to quip. Though, it was unwise to speak plainly to a man whose side you would be made to stay by for the foreseeable future.

“I’m glad you have heard so much of my family then, my prince.” You must avoid disgrace when in the company of these unknown people however much it pains you to treat the man who forcefully whirls your body about like a sack of potatoes.

The moment the words left your mouth you regretted it. Daemon’s mouth quirked up into a sneer when he leans in far too close to your indifferent facade. If you turned your face your nose would brush against his, more prone to the dangerous glint which sparked within him.

“I’ve heard a great deal… Dorne seems to be such an interesting place, yes?”

Yank after yank after yank you look less that you are being danced with and more of a likeness to the training dummies you used to watch the house guard jostle in practice.

“Dorne boasts a great many things not found North of its border.” You grit. Your brain clanged around your skull from the movement as you attempted to find your footing. All the while, you spot the blurred faces of the onlookers this “dance” attracts.

Digging your fingers into Daemon’s forearm, he either does not acknowledge or understand the silent request to seize his brusque movements. His purposeful embarrassment garnering murmurs of those who witness it.

Snickering, he attempts -and somewhat fails- to lower his voice. “More free. Is it true? Do I have a wicked woman to tame?” Daemon’s breath hot on your cheek compared to your blood which runs cold at the accusation.

What else would you expect from a vulgar young prince to imagine of your reputation besides rumors meant to make Dornish less “refined” than the other kingdoms. Not pious as a Hightower, nor familial like a Tully. Lustful like a scoundrel.

Your cold countenance formed like steel, a knight's shield around your displeasure. “I assure you I am as unspoilt as any other maiden.” Your voice sounded prickly as you finally managed to rip your hands away from Daemon’s. Rolling his eyes he makes another attempt to grab at you, stating some unpleasantness of the song not being finished. Moving your arm farther out of his reach you send a glare that would ward off your most persistent suitors, “I’ve no wish to dance anymore Prince Daemon.”

Before any other protests could come out, you fled. Slipping through the crowds, your ears caught the murmurs which rippled by. Your cheeks flooded with the heat indignity. Each time you braved a glance upwards you were met with eerily hollow glances.

You believed yourself to be much more skilled at concealing your true feelings of Daemon. After all, you did not begin weeping the moment he opened his depraved mouth like you wished to. In spite of what you thought to be a masterful act, the odd glances cast your way seemed to say otherwise.

Sick you made out.

The cascade of whispers continued as you pushed through, noticing a few of the Dornish courtiers present with the same bereaved visage.

In sleep you managed to catch.

As the seconds passed by, you found yourself more closely surrounded. Bombarded by small frowns and pitying gazes. Turning your head back you see the head of silver-hair bounding closer again.

You did not feel the closeness Daemon imposed when he made his way to the back you. He did not notice the way your face went slack, stripped of the will to move. It was not your union they looked on with pity for.

He took your silence as trepidation. “That was quite rude Princess… you should learn to use a more revering tone with me. It may do you some good, you know.” He took your silence for trepidation as he smirked, looming over you. He was mistaken.

The ground felt as if it crumbled beneath you. Your breath coming in short huffs as the overwhelming grief threatens to crush you under its weight.

Prince Mors dead

Had Daemon not been behind you, your body would have collapsed onto the cold stone of the floor.