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hazelfoureyes · 9 months ago

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The Safeword is RadioApple (part 4 - Lucifer’s victory)

Read the first part here for intro and warnings and then decide:

Did Alastor win rock paper scissors? Smash this

Did Lucifer win rock paper scissors? Keep reading….

Alastor wrapped a firm hand around Luci’s neck, pulling him closer to nip at his ear. Lucifer peered down at you, a gleam in his eye that could only be called sinful. “We came to an agreement.”

The word ‘we’ felt like it was in bold. “To show just how much we want to work together for you. Wanna hear the plan?”

You nodded, holding your breath as you watched Alastor’s tongue snake out and lap at a thin line of golden liquid dripping down Luci’s neck.

“We know you’re not feeling one hundred percent today, kitten. So, instead of having you take more than you can, Alastor will be the focus.” You heard a hum from Alastor, pulling back from Lucifer and looking at you with half lidded eyes. His smile was closed, but something in his features conveyed to you a sureness.

Luci bent down, whispering in your ear, “Let’s ruin our big bad deer demon together.” His voice, the words, the hiss that decorated his lilt harkening back something ancient in you…it shot a pang of electricity to your lap. Who needs heaven, when they sent their best recruiter straight to hell?

To your great pleasure, you watched the objects of your desires strip each other naked. Surprising, given how Alastor disliked Lucifer seeing him in the buff. But everything had been pure shock since they got into your bed, so maybe you should steel yourself.

Attentions turned on you, wide eyed and fidgeting. Alastor lied down on his back, a sigh as you straddled his lap. With a few soft touches and strokes he was hard in your hand. You used his warm and soft cock head to stimulate your clit, gathering wetness to ease his entry. Slowly, the angle making him feel more like iron than flesh, you sat down on his length. You needed a second, moving forward or back felt like you’d accidentally rearrange something. When settled, nodding to Alastor, he pulled your legs forward, knees hugging his ribs.

You didn’t understand the angle yet, until you looked back and saw Lucifer’s sharp eyes gleaming in the lowly lit room. He popped open the small bottle with one hand, “Lean forward kitten, Daddy needs room to work.”

Alastor’s legs jumped when you ground down on his half hard dick. You’d never seen Lucifer so commanding, even that first night he was rough but he was still timid and lost in the sensations. This was intentional, Lucifer in his element in a new way for you and Alastor alike.

Pressing down on Alastor, stomach to stomach, you found his face a little out of reach for kissing. He was so tall, and lying down made it harder for him to stretch to meet you. You were very rarely on top, Alastor typically only comfortable with you riding when it was just you enjoying yourself, him with no intention to chase a climax.

He noticed your pout, sitting up with his elbows to bridge the gap better. His head tilted, mouth open and tongue reaching for yours. Your breath was already shaky, something unusually sensual about everything. This wasn’t fucking anymore, was it? Had this changed? From one slip of your tongue?

Alastor was hungry to feel your soft tongue on his. There was a deep comfort in you that he enjoyed, a place of safety behind your teeth. He put his weight on one arm, needing the other to caress your cheek, slender and long fingers roaming up your face and to your ear.

His entire torso tensed under you, head pulling back. He looked so unlike himself, teeth biting at his bottom lip through his smile, eyebrows high and furrowed. He was looking at you but a little past you.

Lucifer’s finger was massaging the lube into the soft and rarely lavished skin around and on Alastor’s hole. He was licking his lips, hungry for the reactions. He hadn’t enjoyed topping a man in ages, many seemingly forgetting the short king was entirely capable of taking the reins.

But he was showing restraint. Even just pressing softly against the tight ring of muscle was hitching Alastor’s breath. You felt him soften a little in you, you knew time would tell you if it was nerves or disinterest.

“Can I move?” A soft question muffled by his neck, you pressing your lips to his pulse point and sucking.

“Please, dear.”

You take to your task slowly, not wanting him to slip out. As Luci sinks in a knuckle, then another, soon a whole digit, you feel the radio demon come back to life in you.

Alastor was struggling. The foreign feeling of being entered was fighting for dominance with the slick heat of your cunt slipping around him. It didn’t feel bad, just unfamiliar.

As more fingers spread his hole open in preparation, he started to get pulses of pleasure up his balls and along his shaft. He knew you felt it, you moaning more as your body shook, rising and falling on him.

When Luci began to thrust his three fingers in and out of Alastor, you could see the change immediately. Eyes clenched shut, his hands came to your hips to hold you still. He began rocking up into you and back down onto Luci’s hand. You had no complaints, his strong arms lifting you with ease and freeing you up to focus a hand on your clit. The scene was too hot, his pleasure too intoxicating for you to keep your hands off yourself any longer.

The pressure of his muscle pulling with Luci’s fingers was morphing into pleasure, the pressing digits seemed to hit something he hadn’t found before, the withdrawal of those fingers also providing such a satisfying feeling.

Lucifer opened Alastor’s legs wider, free hand rubbing the flesh of his ass and inner thigh, “What beautiful skin you’ve been hiding. So soft and supple.”

The deer demon went pink in the face, “Just shut up and do it already, your majesty.” His usual cutting tone was blunted by how his voice broke as Luci’s fingers dug into his ass with crooked knuckles.

“You don’t have to, Alastor.” You reached a hand for his cheek, missing the first time as he didn’t stop bouncing you on himself.

“Yeah, you don’t have to, Alastor.” Luci was leaning his face against your arm, looking down at Alastor. He watched the blush deepen, the radio demon too prideful to say what he wanted. But Luci knew, he could feel it as Alastor tightened around him when he said Alastor’s name.

He knew the second he won the game in the lobby he was going to make Alastor lose face, whether with his cock or words. Both, it seemed now.

You felt Alastor buck a little, an embarrassed smile. His eyes shot to the right, avoiding the way you both were looking at him. You with sweetness in your eyes, Luci with a lusty fire lighting the red of his pupils.

Lucifer poured the lube down your own ass, it dripping to Alastor’s balls and between his cheeks. A long and deep moan rocked your chest, Lucifer’s rock hard girth thrusting between your cheeks. His hands were both rubbing the excess lube over Alastor’s ass.

“Is that necessary?” Alastor tossed his head back.

“No, but I love the sound it makes when I’m fucking you.” Lucifer kissed your neck, eyes dark and hooded as they aimed at Alastor.

You’d never seen Alastor look vulnerable before…the closest was his face before and during his orgasm.

Luci was drinking in the look on Alastor’s face. He went back to fingering the other man, scissoring them apart to make room.

“You’re so warm, Alastor. I’m worried my cock will melt.” Alastor’s eyes closed, smiley wonky. “And kitten, you’re so pretty bouncing on our big buck.” Wet and long tongue traveling up your neck.

One hand reached back, you gripping Luci’s hair as you met Alastor’s thrusts with your own. Every time Luci spoke it seemed he was determined to make both of you break.

Had he spoken like this before in bed, you weren’t sure how Alastor would have taken it. But for some beautiful reason, Alastor’s eyes went wide as his hips lost rhythm, suddenly jerking into you with fervor. He was so horny.

Your body felt cold as Lucifer retreated. Alastor sighed when the fingers quickly left him.

You both made a shocked yelp as you were unceremoniously yanked back to the foot of the bed. Alastor sat up, arms holding you up as you twisted around. Lucifer had taken Alastor by the thighs and effortlessly pulled his ass, and you with it, to the edge of the bed.

A shudder ran through Alastor with the realization just how much Lucifer had been holding back when he had been teasing him the day before. The chill first carried a tinge of fright, but then his nerves were flooded with euphoria—- Luci wanted Alastor to dominate him. He had fully let the sinner take the lead.

“Lie down and hold on,” your King smiled at you, giving a command you were happy to accept. As you rested your full weight in Alastor, you hooked your arms between his armpits and held onto his shoulders. Head rested on his chest, you kissed below his collarbone, salty skin so enticing under your mouth.

“Just tell me to stop if you want to tap out.” Lucifer smeared the lube coating you both across his leaking head and down his member before pressing into Alastor. Too tight, but the best they could manage, he used a little forced to get past his entrance. Again you felt Alastor seem to shrink a little in you, mind not able to focus on anything but what was about to happen. You weren’t moving now, just clenching around him to keep your own fire stoked.

The muscle too tight, a cock ring trapping the blood, Lucifer began slow and short thrusts into Alastor. The gentle rocking slowly bounced you against Alastor, your trapped clit rubbing into Alastor’s pelvis.

You could hear Alastor swallowing groans, jaw tense as he fought back the sounds Luci’s cock was making him create. His hands were rubbing your ass, gripping every couple of thrusts. One of Luci’s claws dragged down your spine.

“Don’t fight it Alastor. It feels better when you let go. Relax.” Lucifer’s voice was deeper than his normal speaking tone, “Let me hear you. Or do I need to bully your little g-spot to make you scream for me?”

Alastor’s eyes rolled back, Luci delivering on the threat immediately. Red and black hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead as his straining broke out a sweat. You nuzzled into his neck, giving soft bites and leaving love marks. Finally, a moan tore out of him, a growl of pleasure.

Luci grabbed your hips and held on, using you as his anchor point as his speed and depth picked up. The movement had you clutching onto Alastor to keep his cock from ramming through your cervix with Luci’s powerful thrusts.

You cried out Luci’s name, followed by a series of, “Fuck! Oh God—! Mmh, Luci…lu-,” as Alastor lost his grip on his sounds. His chest rumbled, hands threatening to cut into you as every exhale he made just a strident groan.

Lucifer felt his orgasm quickly building as he watched you both before him, sobbing from the pleasure he was happily pouring into his lovers. He worried if the high of the feeling reached any further he wouldn’t be able to contain his troublesome wings. He could soar with this ecstasy alone.

He wanted to hear one more prayer to him, from his newest convert. His soon to be third favorite sound rang out, his thighs slapping on to Alastor’s sticky ass. There was a pop as their bodies pulled apart and the lube tried to keep them together. Your mouth formed lazy kisses on Alastor as you couldn’t find the power to close it.

“Lu-,” you watched the smile fall apart on Alastor’s face, sharp eyes wet and struggling to keep from rolling back.

Almost. Lucifer was so close, pushing back against the pleasure. Say it.

Your wet pussy was gripping him like he was your lifeline, plush walls quivering over him. Opening him up wide and deep, sensitive and intimate insides fucked by his king’s thick cock. He couldn’t call for God, so he yelled out for the closest thing he had.

“Lucifer!” Alastor lost control of his radio echo, Luci’s name cutting through the room with a stark clarity.

With Alastor’s submission, Luci pulled out, jerking himself off for several pumps before he came onto Alastor’s pink and twitching hole. Before he was spent he sank back in to that welcoming heat.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck it back in to you, Allie.”

Alastor couldn’t stop now, he needed to give you his own seed, biology urging him to take you by the waist and impale you on his manhood.

Luci stopped moving, letting Alastor take over. Sandwiched between two vastly different sensations, Alastor couldn’t stop the embarrassingly unrestrained whines, a chorus of, “Fuck fuck fuck,” as his leaking slit smashed your cervix.

You could only silently sob into his chest, trembling when he gave your womb a punishing mating press. A flood of warmth, thick and determined semen scratching a primal itch for you both.

Pussy clenching, body hungry for every drop of your darling demon. Your hands wound into his hair, pulling off of him so you could reach his cheek. Lucifer’s hands roamed around your backside, pausing to rub at tight muscles. He enjoyed watching the cum dribbling out of you.

“Darling doe,” you always grinned when Alastor called you that.

Luci stared at your entrance, open and puffy. “Love?” His fingers grazed against your lower lips.

“More, almost got there.” You sighed, blood still flowing to your crotch with an ache.

Heaven, ironically, was Alastor whispering into your ear as Luci kissed your lower back, hands rubbing at your clit and fingers rocking into your spongy g-spot.

“I’m unworthy of your affection, let alone your touch.” Alastor’s hands were petting your head, mouth dropping kisses to your cheek and forehead as you whimpered. “You are my proof redemption isn't something found above.” Your body locked up, focusing all your energy on getting relief.

Sweet words into your skin, kisses fit for a queen down your spine, the very fingers that held the damning apple frothing your shared lover’s seed around in your cunt.

It was an effortless climax, a short but intense orgasm fueled less by stimulation and more by the immense satisfaction of the unlikely pile you were in. Luci lied on your back, body boneless above you.

The serotonin waned, Alastor tossing Lucifer to his left, you rolling off to his right. There was a brief moment where you looked at him, and then you both looked at Lucifer.

Luci’s lusty side was fully evaporated, bright eyes and goofy smile as he gingerly set his head against Alastor’s bicep.

You and Alastor looked at each other again, your eyes searching for an answer, question unnecessary. Your answer came in the form of a swift move of his arm, allowing Luci to be pulled into his side and letting his head take a place on his chest.

In his attempts to compete and always dominate over Lucifer, Alastor had been uncharacteristically interested in sex as of late.

You were hoping now, as he closed his eyes and tried to return to a normal heart rate, things would mellow out. Perhaps their tug of war for your affection would be laid to rest and you could all fill your time together with slightly less sex. You could finally show your love in a way you were happiest with.

Luci smiled as you cuddled into your place opposite him. He reached out and laced his fingers with yours.

The rock paper scissors hadn’t mattered, he had every intention of taking the lead regardless of his positioning in bed. After seeing how upset you were at their bickering, and how elated you were when you thought they had actually made a truce, he knew he had to go through Alastor, not around him. If he could become your equal under Alastor, he could have you without restriction. He needed to be full accepted into the triangle of horrors, as Angel called it.

A little piece of him fluttered, it was a nice … coincidence that he found Alastor to be a shockingly compatible lover for himself. Not able to put a word to it, he swallowed down a part of him that seemed to shimmer in his chest when he thought about Alastor’s after-sex smile, the way his chest smelled of sweat and passion, the vibration of his body as Alastor asked you if you’d like a little music.

The radio popped on, smooth and sultry sounds making your lids heavy. It was too early for bed, but your body didn’t particularly care what you thought after what you’d done to it.

Your eyes finally shut, staying focused long enough to watch Luci grin into Alastor’s chest as Luci tightened his hold on your hand.

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

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djarincore · 11 months ago

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a sacrifice in your name

SUMMARY: A paladin's oath means everything to them—but not to Simon, not when it comes to you.

ALTERNATIVELY: Simon sacrifices his oath to save you.

TAGS: oathbreaker!ghost, f!reader, DND!au, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, nondiscript violence, implied minor character death(s), Simon can lift reader, special villain guest appearance by Graves, body worship, cock warming, WC: 3.2k

A/N: a little what if scenario for vengeance paladin!Simon, who will always choose you over everyone else no matter the cost. and yes, the title is another sleep token lyric...

thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!

You wake to dim woods, a full moon overhead, and arms firmly encircled around your waist. The world bounces and sways in your bleary vision with a persistent ache pounding through your head.

Memories of the past few hours are a rapid flash of reds and oranges, sounds of crackling, splintering wood, and terrified screams echoing through the night. The bone-chilling fear of death seems to still freeze your sore muscles.

Now, as you slowly regain your senses, you realize you're riding atop a horse somewhere deep in unfamiliar woods in nothing but your night gown. The figure, whose arms encircle your body, grips the reins in front of you. Their own weight almost sags against yours. A helmet rests against your shoulder.

Icy fear crawls back through your body. You wish you can remember or get a clue as to where you were, but it is too dark and the horse is no longer on a path. The best you can do is escape, run, somewhere far from this stranger.

You jerk forward and claw at their arms, but you're blocked by leather vambraces. The stranger pull you closer to their chest, trapping your arms against your body.

“Let me go,” you plead. The stranger scrambles to restrain you and reign in the horse, who has become spooked by your cries. “Please!”

“Shh, you're safe,” a familiar voice soothes. It's grated, rough. Simon. “It's alright.”

Your body sags into his, but your heart still pounds. Your thoughts are mush in your head as you try to piece them together.

“What happened?”

The last thing you can recall is smoke and flames, raiders breaking down your door, and the blunt end of a sword bashing your temple.

Your query is followed by thick silence. A dark cloud of confusion hangs over you and Simon doesn't seem to want to offer any guidance.

“Simon?” You attempt to turn, but he holds you tighter, almost forcing the air from your lungs. And then, you realize he's trembling.

Simon, who was the pillar of strength, never trembled, never showed an ounce of fear. You grew worried.

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Just rest. We’ll be at an inn soon.”

A pit sinks in your stomach. An inn, but not your inn. If your fragmented memory serves you correctly, your inn is ash. The home and business your family-owned for generations was gone in a single night.

All the fight and adrenaline drains out of your body, leaving you weak and exhausted. You shut your eyes and lean against Simon, allowing tears to fall freely in the dark.

The neighboring town’s inn is small, cold, decorated with the heads of different animals and sharp weapons mounted on the walls. You hate it. There is no fireplace, no warmth, or life—nothing like your inn, your home.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

The owner is a bony, severe-looking man whose slimy gaze clings to you alone. Even as you cower behind Simon the man’s hunger makes you shudder.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner instead. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

“A bath for her.” Simon tosses an extra silver piece onto the counter.

You're covered in soot with a trail of dried blood running down your temple and a small cut on your neck.

The owner perks up. “Do you require any assistance washing?”

You can't help but cringe at his words and wrap your arms around yourself.

Simon’s hand darts over the counter to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and slam his face onto the counter.

“Shut the fuck up,” he barks, “and get it ready. Or I'll spill your fucking guts on the floor and you can wash that up instead.”

The man whimpers and you can't find it in you to feel bad for him. But you do worry. Simon always makes a point to keep his violence away from you.

His fury wasn't a sight you saw often. You only know the beginnings and ends of it. The deep breaths as he tried to control himself and keep his temper in check or the bloodied knuckles and split lips.

“Yes, yes, right away,” the man stammers.

Simon doesn't let up. You see the fingers of his pointed gauntlets curl tighter, forcing a choked gasp from the man.

“Mercy,” the man pleads, voice wavering on the edge of tears.

Finally, Simon flings the man back and he stumbles to catch himself from hitting the wall. Scampering off, the man disappears around the corner.

Simon heaves a sigh, bordering on frustration and exhaustion. His shoulders are tense and when you reach a hand out to touch his arm, he doesn't look at you. He hasn't since you woke up on his horse. His helmet being on didn't help either.

You desperately want to know what he is thinking. Simon was never a talker, but his eyes were always more expressive than his words.

His arm wraps around you, bringing you into his chest. Your cheek rests against his chest plate. The metal is cool against your skin. Your arms wrap around his waist in turn.

You want to ask him so many questions, but now isn't the time. You want to think he’ll explain everything soon, but his tension doesn't reassure you.

He holds you in silence until the owner returns.

The man's gaze doesn't fall anywhere near you this time. The bloodshot, green eyes stay firmly on Simon as he stumbles over his words and let's you know the bath is ready.

Simon takes your hand and leads you around the corner. The narrow hallway has a wooden staircase built into the left and leads further down to an open door. You can see the tub inside, a towel draped over a wooden chair beside it.

The washroom is a simple room with a basin and a chair. There's a standing mirror tucked in the corner you use to look at the grime covering your body. Your face is gaunt, a shell of yourself. Your fingers ghost over the frown you fear will become permanent.

Simon shuts the door and moves behind you like a pillar, poised to support your unsteady legs. “Off,” he commands with a low voice, brushing the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder.

Your clothes slip off easily and Simon guides you into the tub. The water is lukewarm at best and you curl your knees to your chest to conserve heat.

“Will you tell me what happened now?” Your question is quiet.

He runs a cloth over your shoulders.

“Raiders,” he all but spits.

“What of everyone else?”

“Gone.”

Your brows furrow. You just couldn't believe you were the only one to make it out. Your heart breaks for all the people who were lost.

“And the raiders?”

No doubt Simon made short work of those bastards. He always did.

Simon wrings the towel out and extends his hand. “Come on. Out before you get cold.”

You're redressed in your nightgown but not satisfied.

He leads the two of you up to your room for the night. There's a wooden bed tucked in the corner and a dresser beside it with an oil lamp. You grimace at the sheets which are covered in a layer of dust. You pull them off the bed and toss them to the floor.

Simon begins the quiet routine of shedding his armor at the door. It almost feels like you're back home. His helmet comes off first and rests on the dresser.

Finally, you can see the tight furrowed brows, the downcast eyes, and tense jaw he wears. There is a quiet conflict raging behind his tired eyes. He looks exhausted and beaten to the core. He leans his sword against the wall, places his gauntlets on the dresser, chest plate and greaves beside it.

You watch as each piece comes off, searching for signs of injury. He never returns to you without scars or bruises for you to fuss over. But piece by piece, his clothes are free of blood and his body doesn't tense from sudden movements.

No sign of injuries should be reassuring, but it only adds more questions.

“Are you okay?” Your hands run down his chest to rest on his abdomen.

He's quiet for a moment, tense beneath your hand, before he mutters a curt, “Fine.”

Simon takes your hands and guides you back onto the bed. He leans over you, forcing your neck to crane back. A hand cradles your cheek, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb, as his lips lower to ghost over yours.

You want to ask him more questions—ones he won't answer, he can't answer—but he stops you short.

Simon captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He kisses you with a hunger that he needs satiated. His hands cup either side of your face, always gentle.

When he pulls away there's something missing from his gaze, replaced with a despair that stretches beyond you.

“Simon…”

“Not tonight,” he whispers.

He never liked to talk about his missions, the evils he faced all in the name of upholding his oath. And you never forced him to, simply doing your best to provide him comfort in other ways. You gave him a home to return to, open arms to fall into, and loved him completely. But, the hollow look on his face warns you of something terrible, something that can't be healed.

He brings himself to his knees, head hung in quiet repentance. His lips press against your knee. Then his hands snake up, pushing your nightgown past your thighs.

You grab his hands before he can reveal anymore, but he is insistent.

He looks up between your thighs like you alone can offer him salvation for whatever sin is consuming him whole.

“I need you,” he pleads. “Let me have you.”

Simon doesn't wait for your response before he’s rising once again to push you against the bed. When his lips meet yours, it's fierce and demanding. His body cages you and you're helpless to refuse as he knees your legs open.

Simon’s rough hands explore the soft curve of your body. Your hands caresses the slender curve of his neck and into the silk strands of his hair while his thumb traces random patterns on your stomach before dipping below the waist of your panties. His fingers skim lower and lower, and you squirm when the dull ache between your thighs grows stronger.

The pads of his finger meet your sensitive clit for the first time and rub slowly. Your body seizes around him, thighs clamping around his, and your arms wrap around his neck to ground yourself around the sensation.

The way he gazes upon you so reverently, like a goddess worthy of his devotion, nearly makes tears spill down your cheeks. You let out a gasp as the pleasure in your stomach grows stronger.

Your hips move against his hand, demanding more. When his hand moves away to tug at your gown, you pout.

“Off,” he commands.

Nothing needs to be said twice, not with Simon. You pull your dress off, freeing yourself to the darkness and his roaming eyes. Your nipples are pert against the cold air. His calloused hands glide over your waist, mapping every inch and curve of your body to commit you to memory.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in awe. His hand cups your breast as he lays kisses across your chest. Between each kiss he says, “You’re mine.”

You feel yourself blossom beneath his reverent touch and words. You lift your hips to let him pull your underwear off. His hands slide up your calves, over your thighs, and eventually one settles over your mound. You arch into his touch. A sigh leaves your lips as he runs his finger through your slick folds.

Two fingers are thrust into you without warning. Your breath is caught in your chest as you clench around him. His fingers work inside of you, pulling sweet moans from your lips, until you come undone.

Simon lifts your limp body against him as he settles on the bed with his back against the wall. You lay against his chest, face buried in his neck, as a wave of exhaustion hits you. The traumatic night is finally catching up with you.

As you come down from your orgasm and your eyes grow heavy, he pulls his cock free and positions you above him.

You attempt to shift your hips down to take him, but he stops you with a gentle squeeze of your hips.

“I've got you. Just relax.”

Simon eases you down on his cock, stretching you open. You want to squirm, to move, to please him the same way he did for you.

“Just stay here,” he says, his breath heavy in your ear. His hands cling to you as he shifts your bodies against the pillows. You feel the stir of him in you and involuntarily clench. He groans, burying his face into your neck to regain control of himself. “Let me feel you.”

You stay in each other's arms until your breaths fall steady. The closeness, his warmth, is a comfort you relish. Your home may be gone, but you still have Simon.

And, for now, it is all you need.

Simon waits for you to fall asleep first, cradled against his chest, before he allows himself to feel guilt wash over him. The weight threatens to drown him and he clings onto you like a raft.

He leans his head against the wall, staring at the water-stained ceiling. A veil of unshed tears blurs his vision. “Forgive me,” he whispers.

To who and for what, he doesn't know. He just hopes those words are enough to make the ache fade—it doesn't.

He allows himself to fully recall the entire night before he found you, before it all fell to shit.

Simon returned to ruin.

He saw the plume of smoke in the distance and hoped it wasn't real, but it was. Your town was engulfed in flames, glowing in the dark as bright as day, burning in his eyes like hellfire.

He moved through rubble, mind swimming with dread, to find you at the center of town, bound and unconscious. There were men surrounding you who wore a familiar coat of arms.

Graves, the pain in his side who never seemed to just disappear, was standing in the center of it all. Simon had faced his men before, but never Graves in person.

Simon would have caught on to the strangeness of the situation if not for the fury boiling in his blood.

Simon knew what he had to do—kill him, make him suffer. His oath wouldn't allow his evil to continue any further.

Gods, he hated the cocky grin on his face.

“There you are,” Graves called out like he was greeting an old friend.

“What the fuck do you want?” Simon’s sword was already unsheathed, ready to taste blood.

“To teach you not to fuck with me.”

Simon almost barks out a laugh. He raised his sword toward the challenge. Not one of Graves’ men moved to help defuse the situation.

“Go ahead and do as your oath commands—kill me.” Graves stood proud, arms spread wide.

Simon took a step further.

“But if you kill me, your girl dies too.”

A henchman hauled you up and placed a dagger at your throat.

Simon, for once, faltered. The sword in his hand trembled. He tried to steal himself but found he couldn't catch his breath.

He couldn't kill Graves and reach you in time. And he was sure if he made any move to save you, you'd be dead already.

“If you don’t kill me, I'll let you leave with her. Make your choice.”

So that was the game.

“Fuck you,” Simon spat. “I don't know ‘er.”

Graves ignored the bluff. Something in his smile told Simon, he saw right through his bullshit. “Go ahead and be a hero, Ghost.”

“I'm not a hero.”

He scoffed at the word. Destroy evil by any means necessary. His tenant echoed in his mind. Any means necessary.

He was far from a hero. A hero didn't turn a blind eye to those in need to pursue evil. He left behind innocent's far more times than he can count in the name of his oath.

Would you become one of the souls he sacrificed too?

Ever since he lost his family and took up his oath, he couldn't allow himself to feel emotions like guilt, sorrow, or fear, less it made him weaker to deliver the vengeance he swore to uphold.

But, you were his new family, the love he found amidst his violent wandering. He couldn't lose the safety and warmth that you were.

No matter what he chose, you or his oath, he would lose a part of himself.

Simon wanted to plunge his sword into Graves’ chest and be rid of the man and his impossible choice and that fucking smug smile. He wanted to destroy his very existence, so not even the strongest magic or God could piece him back together. He knew the world would be better off without him. He knew it deeply.

Yet, Simon lowered his sword and made his choice to condemn the world.

“I knew you were a selfish one.”

“Give her to me.”

Graves waved his hand and you were dropped. Simon caught you before you could touch the ground. He wrapped his arms tight around you, shielding you from the world.

“Fuck with me again and I won't wait for you to save her.”

Simon gritted his teeth but didn't say a thing. He kept his eyes on you. There was a cut on your neck where the blade was, shallow enough to draw a sliver of blood, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Fighting Graves would mean your death. Simon didn't care if he died, but he would never risk you. All he could do was lift you up and walk away.

Each step away from that ruined town he felt a piece himself slip further into the dark, remaining in the wreckage. His limbs lost feeling; his chest constricted.

A rope pulled inside his chest, urging him back to finish his duty. But, his feet dragged against the force to continue forward.

When Simon stepped over the town's threshold, the rope snapped. He was left with cold, empty despair.

Simon held you because that was all he could do as he left behind the destruction and his oath. At least he still had you.

He condemned the town’s survivors to death and allowed evil to escape the wrath of punishment—and he would do it all again to save you.

He will tell you of his selfishness in the morning. But, for now, he will hold your bare form tighter against his chest, closer to his heart, convincing himself you will fill the piece of himself that will never return.

But the void is boundless. It is echoes of flame and terror, shame and guilt, and a haunting voice calling to him in the dark.

“Oathbreaker, what have you done?”

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod smut #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley smut #cod fanfic #cod x reader #ghost scenario #simon ghost riley #cod mwii

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juliepatterson-jdpconcepts · 1 year ago

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Release date 12/12/2023 - exciting :-)

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drdemonprince · 24 days ago

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so recently a girl I was hanging out w (we're both trans girls) indicated that she wanted to dominate me in the way I've wanted my whole life but I've never received (mostly not physical, sweet, predominantly psychological, soft, playing w the power dynamics, etc.). Since then I've been feeling some relief but also intense desperation, like I've been starving all my life and I've only just realized, and now the hunger pangs are eating into me.

I was just wondering if this resonates w how you understand kink and where this desperation could be coming from. I'm autistic, so I was wondering if it's desperation for the need to unmask? Or if it's about the shame of having kinky desires, and the relief that comes from getting affirmed that those things are ok? Is it really about a need for care, which I have received very little of my whole life? Or if I'm overthinking it— could I just have a deep gnawing hunger for submission in and of itself, where submission is, for me, as important as breathing?

Of course, I know you can't explain my own emotions, but any insight you have into the tangled web of desire, desperation, hunger, kink, care, relief, autism, trans shit, and isolation would be v v v appreciated. ty dr demon prince :)

I think what you might be responding so strongly to is the opportunity to express a side of yourself that normally has zero outlet. We can call it headspaces, or alters, or escapism, or playing a role, and certainly it has to do a lot with letting go and unmasking -- but the universal human explanation is that who were are is largely socially instantiated, and that it is impossible for us to be certain versions of ourselves without that self being welcomed, catered to, and interplayed with by another person -- the right person, in the right dynamic.

Kink can be so beautiful because it allows sides of ourselves that rarely find expression to interplay with others' also hidden or hard-to-activate sides. With one partner of mine, I get to be a slobbering obedient puppy for their nurturing, yet controlling mommy. Both of us are able to access sides of who we are that feel unreachable in everyday life, or unsafe to express. For them it's a gender euphoric experience that doesn't line up with their day-to-day identity and presentation; for me it's an escape from my mental burdens and the relief of being cared for. Yet it's also deeper. By playing at this long-lasting pet-handler relationship, I get to activate layers of trust and vulnerability with them that it would normally take years of processing and the exact right circumstances to reach. I get to collapse into their arms wailing without having actually been put through any real emotional ringer. I can be completely waylaid with emotion and need and become briefly dependent upon them and let them have full control over my body, without actually having to lose any of my freedom or having to worry about whether they can handle it.

That's just a personal and recent example. But I often feel that within kinky, headspacey social contexts, a different side of me is free to express itself and my ego doesn't have to mediate or hold the reins. I feel the same thing at Furfest, though it's not always sexual. I can just be a friendly, silly, huggy deer, and meet other people for their playful animal/toony energy too. Because we are all just being silly animals, I can relate to people that I might have very little in common with in terms of my day-to-day life. We don't have to talk about work, or our families, or political economy -- we can just dance and get stoned, cuddle and eat snacks, play videogames, compliment one another's outfits, live in the present right before us. all the over-intellectualization that normally separates me from people is just gone, and some more primordial feeling of animal comraderie is there.

And I miss that feeling of ease and friendliness DESPERATELY once furfest ends. It feels at times that when a bond or a social context like this disappears that some essential part of myself has been TAKEN from me. Because it doesn't just dwell within me. I can't just enjoy it alone at home. It has to operate within a living social dynamic.

It may be something like that for you. When I first discovered there was an entire community devoted to erotic hypnosis, my lifelong fetish, the universe seemed to open up with possibility and I was elated. I no longer felt doomed to a joyless daily existence. It turned out I could have real, meaningful fun, connect to other people, do something new that touched new parts of my brain. I could experience some of the sensations I had only ever dreamed about and believed were impossible to realize in actual life. I wanted to live in the hypno world forever (and I did get myself into some weeks-long waking trances that kinda mentally fucked me up because I was in such a frenzy, oops). It's a kind of love, finding your spaces, finding your people, finding the contexts in which some sacred part of you is free. It's a love of yourself, and the other person, and the context -- it's a love of being alive, which is often so sorely needed for those of us who are wired in such a way as regular life is usually unfulfilling or painful.

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sweetsaladpainterranch · 1 month ago

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Challenges in Raising a 6 Month Old Demon

Daddy Duty (your p.o.v.)

...

It was 7:30 am in the lobby of the Hazbin Hotel and you were preparing to leave to accompany Charlie and Vaggie. to the Vee Tower in order to conduct a new interview with Katie Killjoy for the furtherment of the redemption project. However, this means that you must leave your husband alone with your fawn in the hotel for the entirety of the day for the first time since she was born. To say that you sensed some amount of trepidation from the buck was an understatement, but you knew he’d rather kiss Angel before he’d admit to any weakness. (Plus the spider demon promised to assist if needed.)

“Darling, you’ve absolutely nothing to worry about.”, he promised you again with a tense smile while you placed the latest report of redemption numbers and notices from Heaven into a travel case, “But are you quite sure that you are required for this venture with our fearless leader?”

You sighed and finished gathering your paperwork, “Alastor, you know how Charlie is with logistics documents. She doodles across all of them and no one can figure out what in the hot sauce is on them. Not even her!” You grimaced when you remembered the last meeting at the Heavenly Embassy when the princess passed out her crayon version of the documents to the awaiting angels. However, none could read them and she broke out in another duet with Emily. So, you, with an administrative background, took the role as logistics coordinator for the hotel and forbade her from touching any more paperwork.

“It’s just one afternoon, love.”, as you walked toward the entry doors and to the waiting car, “There are spare diapers and clothes in the nursery for Evangeline, but she shouldn’t wake until 9. I have every confidence in your abilities.”

You leaned in and whispered low in his ear, "Do NOT let me down, Alastor."

You didn't miss the strained grunt of static that echoed within his throat as you placed a tender kiss goodbye on your mate's blushing cheek.

...

They're fine. They're fine. They're probably fine... You chanted to yourself throughout the entirety of the interview. It went exactly as you thought it would.

Katie says something cutting to undermine the hotel

Charlie slowly loses her confidence and temper

Vaggie encourages Charlie (which leads to an upbeat, determined song about friendship)

By the 2nd chorus, you stood by the camera with raised cue cards, with the redemption numbers that you had prepared in case things got off track, and made eye contact with Vaggie to return to the matter at hand. She took a deep breath to calm herself and began to rein her girlfriend in with a gentle hand to the shoulder. The princess instantly relaxed and shot the small moth a grateful look full of love before continuing to list off the successes of her project on your cue card.

You knew that look well and sighed with relief that things would be fine (in spite of Tom Trench somehow spontaneously combusting and collapsing onto the floor).

But your mind continued to wonder back to Alastor and your daughter. She must have woke up by now and he must've gone to tend to her, but what if she didn't want to feed? What if you didn't leave the correct formula or what if they try to burn down the kitchen again and destroy the entire hotel??

You cringe as you remember the last sparing duel between the two deer demons (over who got the last cookie from Rosie's) that lead to an entire floor of guests being trapped in the shadow realm for a week...😑... The idiots loved each other fiercely as father and daughter ought to but they were far too much alike. Always ending up locking horns (or antlers) in, what you can only assume to be, a futile attempt at familial communication.

Your mind flooded itself with possible worse case scenarios involving the entire city falling prey to shadow nonsense.

No... they'll be fine. He knows how important this interview is and I've only been away for the afternoon. How much trouble could they possibly get into?

Fortunately you grounded yourself in Alastor's promise when you caught Charlie finishing up the interview with the video from Sir. Pentious in Heaven attesting to his new life. Emily had asked that he work with her on behalf of the Hell Embassy to properly integrate newly redeemed souls. You handed the disk to the tech director and smiled when the princess cocked her eyebrow at Killjoy in victory as the video proved her capabilities.

The loveable snake angel had just made his stuttered introduction when the large screen surged to show the city center. Katie shot up to cut off Vaggie and Charlie's protest with a middle finger in their faces, "We now interrupt this holy shit-fest with breaking news from the heart of our lovely city."

Everyone looked at the screen in confusion and, then, continued with a sneer, "It seems that our dear Princess's own hotel manager is currently tearing a war path through the city while holding a the famed pornstar, Angel Dust, hostage along with his daughter, Evangeline!" She noticed how your aura darkened considerably at the mention of your child and snickered the rest of her broadcast. "I guess the Radio Demon is teaching his spawn to torture the unsuspecting guests of Hazbin Hotel from a young age after all!" She casted a side eye to the dumbfounded Charlie, "Seems like such a good idea to check in, dear viewers...", sarcasm and venom dripped from her mouth.

Vaggie cursed in Spanish and rose from her seat with a spear as you could only stare in sheer disbelief (and raising anger) at what you were seeing.

Sure enough, it was indeed an airal shot of a large, black and red blur waving around tentacles through buildings as another, much smaller but still giant, blur hopped in-between the appendages with a flailing Angel Dust caught in one puggy hand.

You were gonna kill them!

...

Hey everyone, this is not my best work but I just needed to write something fun. I think I'm goin crazy with these babies in my house 😂😂

-SSPR

(Sorry, I didn't have time to edit it 😅)

#hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #charlie morningstar #alastor x you

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erabu-san · 1 year ago

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They tried to not laugh.

Submit your request here !

"it would be Rude-olph (rude) to laugh, I won't rein-deer (dare)" -Cyno probably

I did a mixed of some request hope you don't mind ! (i was inspired) thank you so much for your kind message !

#my art #genshin impact #genshinimpact #tighnari #genshin impact tighnari #daily tighnari #cyno #genshin impact cyno #collei #genshin impact collei #sillies. l love them.#sumeru sib #do not tag as ship

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novaursa · 28 days ago

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Between Pride and Fire (heirs of a lion)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the tour

- Next part: royals

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The sun was still rising when Jason Lannister rode out of Casterly Rock’s gates, his cloak trailing behind him like the banners of his house. The air was sharp and cool, heavy with the smell of pine and damp earth, as he led a small hunting party into the western woods. At his side rode Lord Andric Lefford, a stout and affable man whose booming laugh seemed to echo louder than the calls of the hunting horns. The pair had been in good spirits since dawn, their conversation filled with tales of hunts past and whispered wagers about which of them would down the first stag.

“This forest is thick with deer this time of year,” Jason remarked confidently, gripping the reins of his horse with practiced ease. “You’ll see, Andric. By midday, I’ll have you carrying my prize back to the Rock.”

Lord Andric chuckled, his large frame bouncing slightly in the saddle. “Your confidence, my lord, will be your undoing. I’ve a fine hand with the bow—better than any knight in the Westerlands.”

Jason shot him a smirk, his green eyes glinting in the morning light. “Then let us make it a wager. A cask of Arbor Gold to the man who brings down the largest stag.”

“Done!” Andric replied, slapping his thigh with a laugh. “I’ll make certain your wine tastes all the sweeter when it’s poured from my hand.”

Their banter carried easily between the trees as the hunting party made its way deeper into the woods. Dogs darted ahead, noses to the ground, while Jason’s squires lingered a few paces behind, ready with bows and spears. The stillness of the forest was broken only by the soft crackle of hooves over fallen leaves and the occasional bark of a hound catching a scent.

Jason, for his part, felt alive. It had been moons since he’d had the chance to ride out on a proper hunt, with the demands of his new marriage keeping him close to home. It was good to be in the wild again, the wind at his back, the thrill of the chase whispering through the trees.

“Married life suits you well, Jason,” Andric said suddenly, steering his horse closer. “You seem—what’s the word? Settled.”

Jason snorted, though he couldn’t help but grin. “And why shouldn’t I be? My wife is a dragon, Andric. It’s enough to keep any man on his toes.”

“Aye, I’ll bet,” Andric replied with a knowing laugh. “And soon you’ll have a little cub at your side as well. You’ll be a doting father, no doubt.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “A Lannister doesn’t dote, Andric. We roar, and the child will learn to listen.”

“A roar can be gentle when it needs to be,” Andric countered. “Mark me—you’ll be as soft as a lamb when that babe is in your arms.”

Jason rolled his eyes, though his smirk lingered. “We’ll see about that. For now, let’s focus on finding this stag before your boasting puts it to flight.”

Andric laughed again, and the two pressed deeper into the woods, the sun now fully risen, its light filtering through the canopy in broken patches. The hounds picked up speed as they chased a scent, their barks echoing through the trees. Jason urged his stallion forward, his pulse quickening as he readied his spear, certain the hunt was about to reach its climax.

It was then that the shout came.

“My lord! My lord Jason!”

The voice, frantic and breathless, tore through the morning stillness, startling the birds into flight. Jason reined his horse sharply, turning to see one of his men—Ser Thom—burst through the underbrush, his face red and his chest heaving as he scrambled to reach them.

“What is it, Thom?” Jason barked, his mood darkening at the interruption. “You’ve just cost me a prize, man!”

Ser Thom staggered to a halt, his hands bracing on his knees as he gasped for air. “My lord… the princess… her labor has started.”

The words struck like a hammer, and Jason’s easy demeanor vanished in an instant. He stared at Thom, his knuckles whitening around the reins. “What did you say?”

“Princess Y/N, my lord. Her labor began not an hour ago. The maester sent me to find you.”

Jason’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as the world around him seemed to sharpen. He turned to Andric, who watched the scene with wide eyes, clearly uncertain how to respond.

“You’ll have to win that Arbor Gold without me, Andric,” Jason said, his voice tight but steady. “I’m needed at the Rock.”

Lord Andric gave a sharp nod, his expression one of understanding. “Of course. Go to her. The hunt can wait.”

Jason didn’t wait to hear more. He turned his horse with a swift tug of the reins and spurred it hard, galloping back through the trees as Ser Thom struggled to keep pace behind him. The forest flew past in a blur of green, the thundering hooves matching the frantic pounding of his heart.

Her labor. Gods be good.

The thought burned in his mind as he pushed the stallion harder, branches whipping against his cloak. Jason was no stranger to chaos or urgency, but the idea of not being there—of not being by your side—left a taste of fear on his tongue that he couldn’t quite swallow.

By the time Casterly Rock came into view, its towering walls rising above the cliffs, Jason’s face was flushed with wind and sweat, his pulse racing as if he’d just fought a battle. He rode straight into the courtyard, dismounting before the horse had even come to a full stop. The servants barely had time to react as he stormed inside, his boots echoing through the halls.

“Where is she?” he barked at the nearest maid, his voice sharp.

“The princess is in private chambers, my lord,” the girl stammered, bowing low as Jason brushed past her without another word.

He took the stairs two at a time, his chest heaving as he reached the door to chambers. Maester Ronnel and several midwives bustled in and out, their faces tense with concentration. The sound of hurried footsteps, the low murmurs of instruction—it was all too much, yet Jason pushed forward, forcing himself to stop at the threshold.

For just a moment, he paused to catch his breath, his hands bracing on the frame as he forced himself to calm. His world was behind that door, and he would not let his own fear follow him in.

Then, he stepped inside.

The chamber was warm, the hearth blazing and the sunlight softened by heavy curtains. You lay propped against a pile of cushions, your face damp and your silver hair clinging to your brow. Your eyes, tired but sharp as ever, found Jason immediately.

“You made it,” you said breathlessly, though there was a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Did you win your stag?”

Jason strode to your side and knelt beside the bed, his hand curling around yours as he searched your face for any sign of distress. “You are far more important than any stag,” he said gruffly, though his tone was soft.

You squeezed his hand tightly, letting out a slow breath as another pain seized you. Jason’s jaw tightened, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he murmured, “I’m here now. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I would hope not,” you retorted weakly, though there was a flicker of your usual spirit in your voice.

Jason pressed a kiss to your temple, his other hand brushing soothingly against your arm. “You’re stronger than any dragon,” he whispered, his voice low and certain. “We’ll see this through together, Y/N.”

The hours that followed passed in a haze of pain, sweat, and the constant hum of whispered instructions from the midwives. The chamber seemed both too loud and too still, the crackling fire and faint scrape of footsteps blending into a rhythm that matched the slow, unbearable pace of your labor.

Maester Ronnel arrived as the pains began to grow sharper, the old man bustling into the room with his robes flapping like a raven’s wings. His face, lined and solemn, betrayed nothing but calm as he inspected your progress. Jason, seated at your side with his hand still firmly grasping yours, glanced nervously between the maester and you.

“She is strong,” Ronnel said as though speaking to no one in particular, his voice even as he straightened. “But we are nearing the final stretch.”

Jason let out a breath, though his thumb continued to stroke your knuckles. “You hear that, wife? You’re nearly through it. The babe will be here before we know it.”

You gave him a look, sweat beading at your temple. “If only you were the one pushing a child into the world, my lord,” you managed between shallow breaths.

Jason smirked faintly, though there was worry in his green eyes as he leaned down to kiss your damp brow. “I’d do it if I could, my fierce dragon. But you’re far braver than I.”

The pains came stronger now, sharper, each one stealing the air from your lungs as you bit back your screams. You didn’t want to cry out—you wouldn’t. A princess of the blood, a dragon’s daughter, did not scream. But no amount of pride could still the meek, strangled yelps that escaped you when the contractions tore through your body.

Jason flinched every time you made a sound, his free hand tightening into a fist at his side as though he could fight the pain for you. “You’re doing well,” he murmured softly, his voice low and steady despite the tension lining his jaw. “You’re stronger than all of them, Y/N. I swear it.”

Maester Ronnel leaned closer, his hands moving gently to examine your progress as another contraction gripped you. You squeezed Jason’s hand so tightly that he let out a faint grunt, though he didn’t pull away.

“The head crowns, Princess,” Ronnel said, his voice calm but firm. “You must push now. When the pain comes, bear down as hard as you can.”

You nodded weakly, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you braced yourself. Jason’s hand was your anchor, his voice low and close to your ear. “Push, Y/N. You’ve fought harder battles than this. The babe’s almost here.”

With a scream—one you could no longer stifle—you bore down, every muscle in your body straining as pain wracked you. The world blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling to the faint, distant cries of the midwives urging you on. Jason’s voice rose above the noise, firm and insistent. “That’s it. You’ve got her. One more, love. Just one more.”

And then, suddenly, the pain broke. The tension snapped like a bowstring, leaving you trembling and gasping as the cries of a babe filled the chamber.

“It’s a girl!” one of the midwives cried out, holding the small, squirming child aloft as the others bustled to wrap her in clean linen. “A beautiful girl.”

Jason let out a shaky breath, his hand falling to your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “You did it,” he whispered, his voice rough with relief. “You did it, Y/N.”

You sagged back against the cushions, chest heaving, too spent to speak. Tears pricked at your eyes as one of the midwives brought the babe to you, swaddled and pink-faced, her cries soft but insistent. Jason stared at the small bundle as though he’d forgotten how to breathe, his face a mix of awe and something deeper, something you couldn’t name.

“A girl,” he murmured, reaching out with tentative fingers to brush them against the babe’s soft cheek. She squirmed at the touch, her cries quieting slightly as Jason’s expression softened into something like wonder. “She’s perfect.”

You smiled faintly, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids as you held the babe against your chest. “She’s ours,” you whispered, pressing your lips to her brow.

But the moment of peace was shattered when another sharp pain tore through you, sudden and unexpected. A cry burst from your lips, louder this time, and Jason jolted as though he’d been struck.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice rising in panic. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Maester Ronnel stepped closer, frowning as he inspected you. “The afterbirth, my lord. It is nothing to—”

Before he could finish, one of the midwives cried out, her hands trembling as she looked at the maester with wide eyes. “No! It’s—it’s another babe!”

Jason froze, his face going pale as he stared at her. “Another? What in the Seven Hells do you mean another?”

Ronnel’s calm demeanor slipped for the first time, his eyes sharp with surprise as he turned back to you. “Princess, you must push again. There is another child.”

You could barely comprehend his words, the shock and pain mingling into something unbearable as Jason stood there, panicked and helpless. He turned to the maester, his voice taut with disbelief. “You told us nothing of twins!”

Ronnel shook his head briskly, already moving to guide the midwives into action. “It happens, my lord. Rare, but not unheard of. Princess, you must push.”

Jason dropped to his knees beside you again, his hands cupping your face as he leaned close. “Y/N, can you hear me? Another child—another little lion. You can do this. You’re strong enough for this.”

Tears streaked your cheeks as another contraction ripped through you, stronger than the last. Jason’s words were a distant murmur as you braced yourself, summoning every ounce of strength left in you.

“Push, Y/N!” Jason urged, his voice fierce with desperate encouragement. “Push, for them. For us.”

And so you did, screaming through the pain as your body strained against the impossible once more. The sounds of the midwives’ shouts, Jason’s whispered pleas, and the blood pounding in your ears became a cacophony that only ceased when the cry of another babe—thin and sharp—pierced the air.

“It’s a boy!” the midwife shouted, holding up the small, wriggling babe, his face flushed red as his cries echoed through the chamber.

Jason sank back onto his heels, staring at the child with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Twins,” he muttered, almost to himself. “By the gods… twins.”

You could barely keep your eyes open as the midwives moved to clean the boy and wrap him in soft linen, his cries mingling with his sister’s as they brought him to you. Jason hovered close, his face a mix of awe, exhaustion, and something near reverence as he took both babes into his arms—one in each hand.

“A son and a daughter,” he whispered, turning to look at you with eyes that glistened faintly in the firelight. “You’ve given me a son and a daughter, Y/N.”

You managed a faint smile as Jason leaned close, his lips brushing your damp forehead. “You are a miracle, wife. A fierce, impossible miracle.”

The chamber had quieted, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint cries of the twins. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air, a mixture of awe and exhaustion. Jason sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the babes carefully in his arms, as though afraid they might shatter if he held them too tightly.

You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as the midwives tended to you—cleaning away the remnants of the ordeal and whispering soft words of comfort. You hardly heard them, too focused on the sight before you: your husband, the lion of the Westerlands, reduced to something soft and reverent by the two small lives in his arms.

Jason’s green eyes were fixed on the babes, his expression one of wonder as he studied them closely. “Gods,” he breathed, his voice low, almost as if speaking louder might disturb the fragile peace. “Look at them. They are…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, unable to find the words.

“Perfect,” you murmured hoarsely, watching as Jason turned his attention to the firstborn—your daughter.

The little girl was already calming, her cries softening into small, hiccupping breaths. Her tiny face was smooth and pink, her nose small and delicate. A dusting of pale silver hair crowned her head, unmistakably Targaryen, though Jason’s features were already beginning to show in her brow and the shape of her jaw. When she blinked open her eyes—still cloudy, as newborns’ often were—they seemed a deep blue, though you knew time might shift them to the famed violet of your lineage.

Jason tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek. “She has your silver hair,” he said softly, pride mingling with tenderness in his voice. “But look at her chin—that’s Lannister through and through. The best of us both.”

You smiled faintly, your exhaustion lifting slightly as you watched him. “She already has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

Jason didn’t deny it, his smirk barely there as he looked back down at the babe. “A lion’s daughter, a dragon’s blood,” he murmured. “A queen among women, I’ll wager.” He glanced over at you, his gaze softening. “She should have a name worthy of her.”

You nodded, shifting slightly as the midwife adjusted the pillows behind your back. “Have you one in mind?”

Jason paused, looking thoughtful as he studied his daughter again. After a moment, he smiled. “Leona,” he said firmly. “For the lion’s pride.” He glanced at you, his green eyes searching for approval. “Do you think it suits her?”

“Leona,” you repeated softly, tasting the name on your tongue. It was strong, but sweet—perfect for a girl who would bear the blood of both Targaryen fire and Lannister gold. You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It suits her well.”

Jason grinned, visibly pleased as he shifted his attention to the boy in his other arm. The secondborn was fussing more loudly than his sister, his tiny face scrunched into a scowl that made Jason chuckle under his breath. “A fierce one already,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across the boy’s cheek. “By the gods, look at him.”

Your son was nearly identical to his sister in his coloring—pale silver hair curled in soft wisps on his head—but there was something undeniably lion-like about him. His nose was straighter, his chin strong, and though his eyes were as clouded as his sister’s, Jason swore he could see a hint of green beneath them.

“This one’s going to give us trouble,” Jason said fondly, his voice quiet as though sharing a secret. “Look at the way he holds his fists—he’s ready to fight the world.”

You let out a soft laugh, wincing slightly as the midwife adjusted your blankets. “And what shall we name this little warrior?”

Jason thought for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the boy. “Loren,” he said at last, the name slipping from his lips with certainty. “A lion’s name. Strong, noble—like the last king of the Rock. He’ll carry it well.”

“Loren,” you repeated, the sound firm and proud. You smiled faintly as you looked at Jason, who now cradled both babes with a care and reverence you had never seen in him before. “Leona and Loren. Our children.”

Jason’s smile softened as he turned to you, his expression unguarded and filled with something far deeper than pride. “Our legacy,” he said quietly.

One of the midwives approached carefully, bowing her head as she gestured to the babes. “Shall we take them, my lord, to be cleaned and swaddled properly?”

Jason hesitated, as though reluctant to let them go, but he nodded after a moment. He stood, carefully passing each babe to the midwife’s waiting arms, his movements slow and deliberate. “Be gentle,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And bring them back to their mother when you’re done.”

“Yes, my lord,” the midwife replied softly before retreating with the twins.

Jason turned back to you, his expression still touched with awe as he sat carefully at your bedside once more. He reached for your hand, holding it gently in both of his as he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

“You were incredible,” he said softly, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic reverence. “You gave me two perfect children, Y/N.”

You exhaled slowly, exhaustion tugging at you even as warmth filled your chest at his words. “I could not have done it without you here,” you murmured, squeezing his hand weakly. “Though I think we both know they will inherit your stubbornness.”

Jason laughed softly, shaking his head. “Stubborn? My children? Never.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips gently against your temple. “Rest now, wife. You’ve done more than any dragon or lion could ever hope to.”

You let out a faint hum of agreement, your eyelids already growing heavier as the exhaustion pulled you deeper. Jason remained by your side, his hand still wrapped around yours, his presence steady and unwavering.

As your eyes fluttered closed, the faint cries of your babes still echoed softly in the distance, a reminder of what you had brought into the world—Leona and Loren, a perfect blend of fire and gold.

And as Jason watched over you, his gaze softened with pride and love, he knew the truth: no treasure in Casterly Rock, no gold forged from the mines of the Westerlands, would ever compare to what you had given him this day.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was a spectacle of splendor, every inch dripping with Lannister grandeur. Rich crimson banners adorned the walls, their lions roaring proudly beneath the soft glow of countless candles. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, glazed venison, spiced wines, and platters piled high with fruits and honeyed delicacies. The hall smelled of roasted meat and sweet pastries, mingling with the sharp tang of fine wine.

Jason Lannister had spared no expense for the feast to celebrate the birth of his children. A moon had passed since Leona and Loren came into the world, and the lord of Casterly Rock saw fit to remind his bannermen and kin of the legacy he now carried—twins, the pride of both lion and dragon.

The golden-haired lord presided at the head table with you at his side, seated on a raised dais that overlooked the hall. Between the two of you sat the stars of the evening, Leona and Loren, nestled in ornate cradles trimmed with crimson velvet and rich embroidery. The twins were quiet, their faces soft in the candlelight as they slept through the sounds of the feast—completely unfazed by the din of music, laughter, and conversation.

Jason, dressed in a fine crimson tunic trimmed with gold, raised his goblet high as yet another toast was called for. “To Leona and Loren!” shouted Lord Andric Lefford, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “May they bring glory to House Lannister and House Targaryen both!”

“To Leona and Loren!” the hall roared back, goblets raised and wine spilling as men and women cheered.

Jason grinned broadly, pride radiating from him like the sun as he drained his cup in one long pull. He set it down with a thud, leaning toward you with a glint of mischief in his green eyes. “You hear that? They’re already beloved.”

You arched an amused brow as you sipped your own cup—watered wine, at your insistence. “Or they’re beloved because you’ve filled every cup with your finest wine.”

Jason chuckled, unfazed. “It matters not how I buy their affection, only that it’s mine.” He glanced at the twins, his gaze softening despite the jest. “Look at them. It’s as if they know they’re the most important people in the hall.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair behind your ear as you looked down at your children. “They are,” you replied softly, though your tone carried a quiet pride of its own.

Jason’s grin widened before he turned his attention back to the hall, where more musicians had begun to play. Lords and ladies danced on the cleared stone floor, their laughter rising above the sound of fiddles and drums. Across the way, Andric Lefford raised his cup toward Jason with a knowing smirk.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Jason!” he called, his cheeks flushed with wine. “A fine feast to honor a finer family.”

Jason raised his goblet back in acknowledgment, his voice carrying easily. “Why should I not celebrate? I’ve given Westeros two lions worthy of a song!” He turned to you, nudging your shoulder playfully. “And in two moons, when we arrive in the capital, they’ll have to concede that I am still King Viserys’s favorite son-in-law.”

You gave him a skeptical look, though there was amusement behind it. “You truly believe that?”

Jason smirked, leaning closer. “Of course. Who else could claim that title? Certainly not Ser Laenor Velaryon. That match is as dull as driftwood.”

You sighed, shaking your head even as your lips quirked into a faint smile. “You’d do well to keep those thoughts to yourself when we reach King’s Landing.”

“Why?” Jason asked, his grin unfaltering. “The king loves me, and Rhaenyra… well, she’ll need someone to lighten the mood at her dull, dutiful wedding. And besides—” He swept a hand toward the hall, indicating the merriment and wealth on display. “Who can say their son-in-law throws finer feasts than this? Or gives him grandchildren as splendid as ours?”

Your laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You are the most arrogant man alive.”

Jason tilted his head smugly. “And yet, you love me.”

“Perhaps I’m mad,” you teased, though your gaze softened as you looked at him. He caught the look and grinned in triumph, lifting his cup for another drink.

The sounds of laughter and music swelled as the feast carried on into the evening. Lords congratulated Jason with boisterous back-slapping, ladies cooed over the sleeping babes, and the wine flowed like water. For all his bravado, you knew this was Jason’s way—lavish and loud, ensuring that all within his halls knew that House Lannister thrived and that his children were the beginning of a golden legacy.

As the hour grew later, Lord Andric Lefford joined your table, a cup of wine in one hand and a broad grin on his face. “My lord, my lady,” he greeted, bowing his head briefly before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “A wager, if I may?”

Jason raised an intrigued brow. “A wager? You’ve come to the right man, Andric. Name it.”

“Your son, Loren,” Andric said, pointing toward the cradle, “will grow to be a knight of renown—his Lannister blood demands it. But your daughter…” He smirked faintly. “I say she’ll prove fiercer than her brother. You can see it in her face already.”

Jason laughed loudly, clearly delighted. “You think so? The girl is barely a moon old, Andric. But I like your faith in her.” He turned to you with a grin. “What do you think, wife? Will our daughter outmatch our son?”

You smiled softly, glancing down at Leona and Loren, both still sleeping peacefully. “I think they’ll be whatever they choose to be,” you said simply. “Dragon and lion are a potent mix, after all.”

Jason lifted his cup in salute, his eyes warm as they met yours. “Aye, they are. And they’ll have you to thank for the fire and me for the gold.”

Lord Andric roared with laughter, clapping Jason on the shoulder before turning back to the wine. Jason leaned close to you again, his voice softer this time, meant only for you to hear.

“When we arrive in King’s Landing, let them look at our family and see what true strength is. Rhaenyra may wed her Velaryon prince, but no one—no one—will doubt our power.”

You watched him for a long moment, taking in the pride and fierce determination in his expression. For all his arrogance, there was no mistaking Jason’s love for you or his children.

“You’ll be careful with your words, though, won’t you?” you murmured, brushing your hand lightly against his. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is not our feast.”

Jason smirked but nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “For you, my fierce dragon, I’ll behave. At least until the wine flows.”

The night stretched on, the hall alight with laughter and song as Jason reveled in the joy of his growing family. And as you sat there, watching your husband bask in the attention of his bannermen while your children slept soundly at your side, you couldn’t help but think that Jason’s confidence—arrogant though it was—might not be entirely misplaced.

After all, who could deny the strength of a lion and a dragon united?

The day had dawned crisp and clear, the first light of the morning spilling in amber shafts over Casterly Rock. Jason Lannister stood in the courtyard, issuing last-minute orders to his men and overseeing the preparation of the procession to King’s Landing. Wagons were being loaded with trunks of clothing, banners, and provisions, while squires scrambled to ready the finest horses for the long journey ahead.

Jason, ever the lion of the West, was in his element—barking orders with an authority that brooked no argument, his crimson cloak rippling behind him like a flag. “See that the carriages are stocked with food for the princess,” he called to one of his stewards. “I’ll not have my wife or the twins suffering on the road because you forgot their comforts.”

“My lord,” the man stammered with a bow, “it will be done.”

Jason turned his attention to the stablemaster, who was busy preparing his stallion. “And what of my armor? I’ll not have it rattling like a butcher’s cart when we ride through the city gates.”

“It’s already secured, my lord,” the man replied nervously.

Jason gave a satisfied nod, adjusting the cuffs of his fine tunic, when a voice broke through the commotion.

“My lord Lannister!”

Jason turned sharply to see two Dragonkeepers approaching him, their robes of black and red marking them as servants of House Targaryen’s ancient tradition. One of them, an older man with a bald head and a sharp nose, bowed low. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but it is a matter that cannot wait.”

Jason frowned, already suspicious. “What is it?”

“It is about the princess’s dragon, Morrath,” the elder Dragonkeeper replied, his tone grave. “We’ve found something.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “What sort of something?”

“The dragon has laid a clutch of eggs, my lord,” the Dragonkeeper said carefully, as though the words themselves might be dangerous. “Deep in the old mines given to her, where she has made her lair.”

For a moment, Jason could only stare at the man, as though he’d spoken some foreign tongue. “Eggs?” he repeated slowly, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “You’re telling me there are dragon eggs in my mines?”

The younger Dragonkeeper, a wiry man with dark hair tied at the nape of his neck, stepped forward eagerly. “It’s true, my lord. Morrath has hollowed out a chamber deep below, where the stone is still warm from the earth’s heat. There are at least three eggs—large, intact, and promising.”

Jason let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he processed the news. He looked toward the towering cliffs of the Rock as though he might see Morrath herself perched somewhere in the distance, watching. “Gods,” he muttered. “And you’re certain?”

“We would not bring this to you otherwise, my lord,” the elder keeper said firmly. “The eggs are there, nestled in her lair. We must decide what is to be done.”

Jason’s mind raced as he considered the implications. He knew dragons were rare, their eggs rarer still. This was a blessing of sorts—or a curse, depending on who you asked. He didn’t know whether to be in awe or deeply unsettled that his mines now hid such power.

“And what do you propose?” Jason asked at last, his voice sharp as he looked at the keepers. “You’re dragon men. Tell me what should be done.”

The elder Dragonkeeper inclined his head, his expression grave. “We have two choices, my lord. The eggs can be left undisturbed to their fate—perhaps they will hatch naturally under Morrath’s care, or perhaps they will wither in the dark, as many eggs do.”

“And the other?” Jason asked, his green eyes narrowing.

The Dragonkeeper’s voice lowered slightly, almost conspiratorial. “We could take the eggs. With care, my lord, we can attempt to hatch them using methods known only to the keepers—fire, heat, and prayer. If we succeed, the eggs could provide dragons for your children, Lord Loren and Lady Leona.”

Jason stared at the man, the weight of the suggestion settling on his shoulders like a stone. Dragons for his children. His mind conjured the image of Loren astride a black beast like his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, and of Leona, her silver hair gleaming in the sun as she rode a dragon that could swallow armies whole.

Yet the thought unsettled him just as quickly as it intrigued him. Dragons were not horses or hounds to be tamed. They were fire made flesh, beautiful and deadly—and the Lannister mines were not meant to cradle such power.

“You’re suggesting I steal the eggs from her lair?” Jason asked, his voice tight. “Morrath is no dog to be trifled with. If she catches wind of this…”

The younger Dragonkeeper shifted nervously. “It is not stealing, my lord, but preservation. Dragons do not always tend their clutches. There is a chance she may abandon them entirely—many dragons do.”

Jason let out a sharp breath, glancing back at the flurry of preparations in the courtyard. The idea of dragons hatching beneath Casterly Rock was a vision to inspire both wonder and terror. He thought of his children, still only babes, and what it would mean for them to one day claim a dragon of their own. Power untold, yes—but at what cost?

“What if they fail to hatch?” Jason asked, his tone measured. “Or worse, what if Morrath decides to burn half the Rock to cinders in a rage?”

“It is a risk,” the elder keeper admitted. “But all dragon eggs carry such risks, my lord. It is a choice only you and the princess can make.”

Jason turned toward the Rock, his eyes narrowing as he considered the unseen depths beneath his home. Dragons, eggs, fire and blood—it all felt so foreign, so unnatural here. Casterly Rock was a fortress of stone and gold, not of dragons. But you, his wife, were a dragon’s daughter, and Morrath was your beast.

“I will speak to the princess,” Jason said at last, his voice firm. “She is the dragon’s rider—her judgment will decide this. Until then, no man is to disturb those eggs. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” the Dragonkeepers said in unison, bowing low.

Jason dismissed them with a wave of his hand, his mind still whirling as he turned to oversee the last preparations for departure. The news weighed heavy in his chest, and as he moved through the courtyard, the image of dragon eggs buried deep beneath the Rock refused to leave him.

When he finally returned to you later that morning, he found you seated in your chambers with Leona and Loren close at hand, their soft cries breaking the quiet. Jason paused at the door, watching you as you murmured softly to the babes, your silver hair catching the sunlight that poured in from the high windows.

“What troubles you?” you asked suddenly, not even looking up. You always knew when something was amiss with him.

Jason crossed the room slowly, sinking onto the chair opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply before speaking. “Morrath has laid a clutch of eggs.”

Your eyes widened slightly, your gaze snapping to him. “Eggs? Where?”

“In the mines,” he replied, leaning forward. “She’s made her lair deep beneath the Rock. The keepers found them—three, large and whole. They say they could try to hatch them for the twins.”

You sat back slowly, your expression thoughtful as your eyes flitted to Leona and Loren. “Dragons for our children,” you murmured, your voice soft.

Jason sighed, rubbing his jaw. “It sounds like a dream—but dragons aren’t dreams, Y/N. They’re fire. I don’t know if we should risk it. If Morrath—”

“She won’t abandon them,” you interrupted softly, your voice certain. “She wouldn’t leave them if she’s guarded them so far. But you’re right—we must tread carefully.”

Jason looked at you, searching your face for answers. “And what would you have us do, wife? Let the eggs lie, or take them?”

You were silent for a long moment, your gaze lingering on your sleeping children. Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes sharp with the fire of your blood. “We will not steal from my dragon,” you said firmly. “But we will not abandon the eggs either. Let the keepers watch, but let Morrath decide their fate.”

Jason nodded, relief flashing briefly across his face. “A fair compromise.” He stood, crossing to the cradles where the twins slept. “For now, let’s focus on our children and the journey ahead. Dragons or not, Loren and Leona will make their mark.”

“And so will we,” you added quietly, your eyes meeting his.

Jason smirked faintly, though his gaze was still shadowed with thought as he looked toward the window, where Casterly Rock loomed strong and proud. Beneath its stone depths, secrets stirred—and whether they brought fire or ash remained to be seen.

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated by Grand Maester Mellos in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

The arrival of House Lannister to the royal wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon was a spectacle unlike any other in the memory of King’s Landing. Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, brought with him the full power and grandeur of the Westerlands to the gates of the Red Keep, and his entrance remains the talk of both noble courts and lowly taverns alike to this very day.

The Lannister procession was seen days before its arrival. Word spread that Jason had brought nearly five hundred retainers, knights, banners, and wagons laden with gold, crimson silks, and gifts of fine artistry. Those who lined the streets claimed the sun itself seemed dimmer when the golden lions marched through the city gates.

The Lannister banners were legion—rich crimson fields adorned with lions roaring in gold—and they snapped boldly in the wind above their gleaming knights, each man armored and arrayed in fine formation. The knights’ capes rippled like a river of blood as they rode, their gilded helms and polished armor catching the sunlight, blinding all who dared look too closely.

Mushroom, hiding amongst the crowds and no doubt lurking for scraps or skirts to chase, described it as follows: “They came not as guests but conquerors. If Jason Lannister had set his mind to stealing King’s Landing, he’d have needed only a few thousand more men. As it was, he needed nothing but his gold to make us feel poorer for seeing it.”

At the head of the procession rode Jason himself, golden-haired and clad in a tunic of crimson velvet with gold-thread embroidery that made him seem a lion made flesh. Beside him rode his wife, Princess Y/N Targaryen, a vision of Valyrian beauty with her silver hair glistening like moonlight beneath the morning sun. She wore a gown of deep Lannister red, trimmed in black and adorned with dragons wrought in golden thread—her husband’s house and her own woven together in perfect harmony. The twins, Leona and Loren, were presented proudly, held aloft in a grand carriage lined with silk, the babe's cries all but drowned by the cheers of the crowd.

Mushroom wrote of this display with his usual crass wit: “One would think the princess had birthed dragons themselves, the way Jason Lannister puffed his chest. He may have ridden a horse, but he strutted like a rooster, crowing over the twins as if no other man had ever sired babes before him.”

Nonetheless, the crowds adored the sight. The people of King’s Landing, ever hungry for spectacle, cheered wildly as Jason lifted one gauntleted hand in greeting, his smirk unmistakable even at a distance. Coins were tossed from the wagons—Lannister gold, glinting in the sun as children scrambled for them on the cobblestones. Women threw flowers and silk ribbons into the path of the carriage, crying out blessings for the babes and praises for Princess Y/N, the dragon who had given the proud lion his heirs.

When the Lannisters reached the Red Keep, King Viserys I himself stood waiting at the gates. The king, though aged and worn from the cares of rule, looked resplendent in his black and gold finery, his crown gleaming atop his head. Beside him stood Princess Rhaenyra, radiant in white and silver, though her expression—if one believed Mushroom—was less than pleased at the scale of her sister’s arrival.

The moment Jason Lannister dismounted, he strode forward with all the confidence of a man who believed the kingdom belonged to him alone. Bowing with an exaggerated flourish, he greeted the king: “Your Grace, the lions of the Rock come bearing fire and gold for you and your house.”

Viserys, who had always held affection for Jason (and perhaps no small admiration for his wit), laughed heartily and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You never do things by halves, do you, Jason?”

“Not when it comes to matters of family, Your Grace,” Jason replied smoothly, turning and extending his arm to help Princess Y/N from to dismount from her horse.

When Y/N stepped forward, holding the swaddled babes in her arms, the king’s face changed entirely. Viserys, who had doted on his daughter since her birth, looked upon the twins with open joy.

“Grandchildren,” he said softly, his voice touched with awe as he approached. “My first grandchildren.”

He peered down at the babes, who squirmed quietly in their silk wrappings. Mushroom, ever the exaggerator, claimed, “The king wept openly. A soppy sight it was, a dragon king humbled by two squalling babes. I half-expected him to crown them both on the spot.”

Grand Maester Mellos, in a far more measured account, recorded that Viserys took each child in turn, cradling them with surprising tenderness for a man of his years. He marveled at Leona’s silver hair—so like her mother’s—and Loren’s fierce scowl, which Jason swore was proof of his Lannister blood.

“They are beautiful,” Viserys declared, his voice carrying so all in attendance could hear. “A blessing to both your houses.”

“Fire and gold,” Jason added, his hand resting lightly at his wife’s back as he grinned, clearly pleased. “A match as strong as the Rock itself, Your Grace.”

Viserys chuckled, handing Loren back to a waiting maid. “You’ve done well, Jason. I trust you’ll not let them be spoiled.”

“Only as much as their mother allows, Your Grace,” Jason replied with an easy laugh.

It was then, Mushroom claimed, that Princess Rhaenyra stepped forward, her expression polite but cool as she regarded her sister. “You’ve brought quite the spectacle with you,” she said softly, her words carefully measured.

Princess Y/N, ever the dragon, replied with a faint smile. “Did you expect anything less, sister? My husband believes a lion should always make an entrance.”

Jason’s booming laugh echoed across the courtyard at that, though some claimed Rhaenyra’s smile thinned ever so slightly. If there was tension between the sisters, it remained unspoken—at least for now.

As the feast for Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding preparations began, the arrival of the Lannisters was on everyone’s lips. Grand Maester Mellos wrote: “It was a day that belonged to Lannisters, a day when lions and dragons shared the stage, and for a moment, the kingdom seemed full of promise.”

Mushroom, of course, had a less charitable view: “Jason Lannister preened like a cat in cream, and the princess gave him cause to. They came, they roared, they conquered the city with smiles and silks. And in that moment, the king’s court forgot all else but the twins—the babes of the West, whose cries were already louder than most men’s swords.”

Thus, Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N entered King’s Landing as a family united by blood, their children heralded as a symbol of strength between the two most powerful houses in the realm. Yet even then, whispers began to swirl like shadows beneath the splendor, for where dragons and lions walked together, peace was rarely known to last.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #fire and blood #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #house targaryen #house lannister #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n #between pride and fire

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eveomo · 15 days ago

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bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 3 (SFW)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ synopsis : after meeting a seemingly dangerous yet kind outlaw during a bounty, your world seems to get turned upside down after you can't seem to stop running into each other. could this be the beginning of something you've both been longing for?

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ warnings/tags : MINORS MAY INTERACT WITH SFW CHAPTERS (NSFW WILL BE TAGGED), depictions of violence, arguments, angst, eventual smut, unprotected piv sex, guns, gun violence, swearing, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, soft arthur, animal death, PTSD, mentions/depictions of abuse, attempted SA (very brief and non descriptive and for plot purposes only), NO PREGNANCY, NO BABIES, MC isnt a frail weak girl who constantly needs saving, often grammatically incorrect (probably)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ contains : arthur morgan x f!reader, no use of y/n, reader changes the plot for the better

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 3.8k

You awoke to the sound of rain hitting the window panes of the hotel room you had gotten for the night. The clouds hung low, clinging to the mountains like a nervous child clings to their mother. Whatever light shone through the clouds was directly in your eyes, and you let out a groan of irritation at the intrusion. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, placing your sore feet on the ground before running your hand through your tangled hair and deciding you needed a bath—badly.

After putting your boots back on, you headed for the front desk and placed some coins on the counter. The clerk directed you to the bathing room, and you gladly entered, appreciating the dim lighting. After undressing, you folded your clothing and placed them on the stool next to the bathtub before stepping into the hot water and sighing with relief. Grabbing the bar of soap, you rubbed it between your hands and started with your hair, scrubbing your scalp, then your shoulders, working your way down all the way to your feet. You remained in the tub for quite some time, appreciating the way the warm water released any tension held in your body.

Now freshly clean, you left the hotel and unhitched Lenora, climbing on her back and lightly tapping her sides with your feet before trotting out of Valentine. You were low on food and money, which left you with one option to fill your empty stomach: Hunting. Were you bad at it? Not necessarily, however you had long run out of arrows and hadn’t had the time to make more, forcing you to use your revolver or rifle to hunt which was less than ideal for killing small animals such as rabbits and turkeys. Crossing over the hills, you kept your eyes out for herds of deer, or anything that would keep you fed for the next few days.

After riding for about 20 minutes, you saw a herd just down the hill and you quickly dismounted, removing your rifle from your saddle. Taking light steps down the hillside, you crouched behind a bush and waited for the grazing deer to lift their heads up, giving you the perfect shot. You held your rifle up, closing one eye and taking a deep breath to steady yourself, finger ghosting over the trigger. You locked in on a movement, and as soon as the doe had looked up, you exhaled and fired, sending the rest of the herd running in a panic.

Letting out a sharp whistle, you approached the deer’s body while the sound of Lenora’s beating hooves got closer. You hoisted the deer onto your horse’s back, grunting at the exertion. A loud grumble erupted from your stomach, and you mounted Lenora, setting off to find a campsite so you could cook what you had hunted.

The sun was beating down on you now, a sharp contrast to the previous rain and clouds just that morning. It painted your face a slight pink despite the shade your hat provided, and you found yourself longing for your blouse despite the rolled-up sleeves of your button up you had stolen from a bounties dead body. Spotting a cloud of smoke coming from a clearing in the trees, you quickly pulled the reins and directed Lenora, hoping to find an empty camp with a forgotten fire. Unfortunately for you, gunshots began to erupt from the area. Hesitating for a moment, you urged your horse faster, quickly approaching the camp as part of you hoped you would be left with dead bodies to move, and an empty camp. Despite your speed, the gunfire had stopped as you had arrived, no more than 20 feet back.

“Dirty O’Driscolls.” A familiar voice spat out, and you sighed at the realization that it was Arthur before dismounting and walking towards the now empty camp.

Just as you were about to enter the clearing, you spotted a man in a green vest sneaking up on him, knife in hand before lunging and tackling Arthur to the ground and you froze. A struggle ensued, the knife getting far too close to Arthurs neck. You quickly drew your revolver and pulled the trigger, shooting the man point blank in the head.

“We gotta stop meeting like this. You alright?” you said, finally emerging from the bushes as Arthur pushed off the dead body slumped over his.

“Sure, thank you, ma’am.” He replied with a huff, rolling his shoulders in pain. Arthur quickly looted the body, putting a watch and some tonic in his satchel before approaching you and dropping some coins in your hand.

“Ma’am? Just how old do you think I am, Mister?” Looking down at your hand, you quickly counted the small amount of coins sitting in your palm. “‘nd hold on now, me savin’ yer life is worth $3?” You exclaimed in disbelief, cocking an eyebrow as you shoved the coins into the back pocket of your trousers.

“What? An outlaw can’t have any manners now? I already thanked you,” He scoffed, clicking his tongue as his horse returned to him. He grabbed the reins and mounted his American Standardbred, looking down at you. His gaze was strong and unnerving, a distant look in his blue eyes that chilled you to your core.

“Well, I oughta head back-“

“Wait!” You spoke before you realized the words had even exited your mouth, and you felt the blood rush to your face in embarrassment. Thankfully, your minor sunburn concealed your blush.

Arthur cocked a brow before replying, “Yes?”

You threw your thumb back, gesturing to the deer resting on the rear of Lenora.

“Err… Could you help me skin this? I ain’t all that great at it.” He shook his head in amusement and dismounted.

“Sure, I’m not expected back for another day or so anyway.” Arthur approached your horse before picking up the deer and resting its body on the ground. He squatted next to the animal, his eyes scanning its lifeless body. He let out a low whistle as he noticed the bullet hole straight through the skull.

“You got a good shot there.” You smiled softly before replying,

“No point in havin’ a good shot if I can’t skin it myself.” Shrugging, you squatted next to him and removed your hat, wiping the back of your hand along where sweat had collected at the brim. You glanced down at Arthurs hands, knuckles scabbed over from the bar fight, and various scars covering both worn hands.

“You been livin’ alone out here and you can hunt, but you don't know how to skin what you’ve caught?” Arthur teased, a glint in his blue eyes that made your breath get caught in your throat.

“I-I know how… I just ain’t good at it.” You mumbled. You were still somewhat new to this. Hunting was usually a success for you, but the skinning? That’s a different beast altogether.

Arthur chuckled softly, voice low and gravelly. “It ain’t about knowin’ how. It’s about knowin’ when to make the right cuts. You gotta let the blade do all the work for you, not your hands.”

You shot him a skeptical glance, but his posture and the confidence in his voice made you reconsider any doubts you had. With a long sigh, you dropped your head. “Alright, teach me then.”

A small smirk worked its way onto Arthurs face, but he didn’t say anything more. He removed a knife from his satchel and it sliced through the hide without any hassle, a clean line following the curve of the ribcage. The first cut was always the hardest, and despite his years of practice he had yet to perfect it.

He glanced over at you, admiring the furrow in your brow and the way you tugged your lip between your teeth in concentration. “You ever skin a deer before?” Arthur asked, further separating the hide from the meat and muscle.

“Once or twice,” you murmured, though it was painfully obvious from the way you shifted uncomfortably that you weren’t confident in the slightest. You gestured towards the hide as he worked. “Never as cleanly as this, though.”

Arthur paused for only a moment before continuing on. “Yeah, well that’s the trick. Slow and steady. Take your time, there’s no need to rush.” He slid the knife down the flank of the deer and handed it to you, hilt-first. “Take it from here. Just follow the line.”

“What, you think I don’t got my own knife?” Arthur rolled his eyes in response while you drew a slow, controlled cut through the hide, following the line he had made. It was much harder than Arthur had made it look, your hands were shaking and it felt as though the knife was fighting you.

“You’re gripping too tight,” Arthur said, his voice lined with a soft tenderness that disappeared as soon as it had bubbled up. “Loosen up, let the blade do all the work.”

You relaxed your grip slightly, and the knife slid more easily through the meat and hide. The scent of the deer wafted through the air, sharp and pungent. As you worked, you fell into a rhythm, the initial discomfort dissolving as your movements became more fluid.

Arthur nodded in approval. “That’s it, girl. Just like that.” Your face flushed as he spoke, a simple praise making you feel giddy inside. He helped you peel back the hide and roll it up, placing it right behind the bedroll sitting behind your saddle.

“Make sure you keep some fat on the meat, just not too much. You need that bit for cookin’.” He finished, and you glared at him.

“I know how to cook, thank you.” It came out sharper than intended, but Arthur just laughed.

“You sure? Even a lone wolf has more meat on its bones than you.” He joked, gesturing to your small frame.

“It ain’t polite to comment on a ladies body, Mister.” You chided him, beginning to cut the meat away from the bones.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a lady.” Arthur teased, removing his hat so he could wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

You glared at him. “Shut up.” Eyes narrowed, you continued to work while a pleasant silence settled between the two of you. The only noise being the chatter of the wildlife and the occasional grunt from you and Arthur as you worked on the deer. You worked delicately, cutting away at the tender joints and muscle.

“Why’re you helping me, Arthur?” You asked, absent-minded as you made another cut. “Ain’t like you owe me nothin’—except your life.” He chuckled at the last comment, but stayed silent a beat before setting down the other knife he had retrieved from his satchel and studying your face for a moment.

“You’re better off with help than on your own, and I guess because you saved my life.” He drawled.

You didn’t ask for more, that was enough.

You both worked together in a comfortable silence, the deer slowly being separated into usable parts. As you freed the meat from the bones, Arthur wrapped the meat, then used discarded sinew to tie it together. It was taking a lot longer than you had expected it to, and the sun was beginning to creep behind the mountaintops. You lit a cigarette, nursing it between your lips as you continued to cut away, before finally finishing and cutting some of the meat into smaller chunks. Standing up, you grabbed a couple of logs that the O’Driscolls had so kindly left, and you nursed the fire until you could feel the heat on your face.

“Well, I’d best be on my way.” Arthur grunted as he stood, wiping his hands on his jeans before turning on his heel and approaching his horse.

“Hey,” you started, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly “you want to stay and eat? It’s the least I could do since you helped me,” Arthur turned back around and nodded, not saying much else.

The two of you sat around the fire, chunks of venison sitting on the blade of your knives as you cooked it and ate silently. It was a little more awkward now, the sun had set completely, the only light being the now warm glow of the fire which illuminated Arthurs sharp features. You studied his face for only a moment before his eyes met yours, and you quickly diverted your gaze towards the flames.

Suddenly, the night was thick with smoke, the air heavy and burning your throat with each stuttering inhale. The once sturdy frame of your home enveloped in flames, now nothing more than splintered wood and blackened timber. It groaned as the flame further consumed it, shooting sparks up into the air like dying stars.

You knelt in the snow, your hands trembling as you held the body of your now lifeless husband. His blood, warm and sticky on your palms now coated the front of your nightgown, but you didn’t notice, nor did you care. You were too focused on committing his features to memory, his pale face illuminated by the growing fire, his green eyes the same as the day when your parents had introduced the two of you, his muddy hand held out with a gap-toothed smile as you hid behind your mothers legs. You placed your hand over his now glazed over eyes, closing them forever. A warm kiss against cold, dry lips made your body wrack with sobs as you held him closer, kissing him for the final time.

His chest, once broad and full of life, was now still. There was a gaping wound where the shotgun had torn through his torso, his blood staining the white snow. He’d fallen just outside the door, trying to make it to the horses, trying to get you to safety before the debt collectors came. But they were too fast, too brutal. The gunshots rang through your ears, reminding you-

“Hey,” You were snapped out of your flashback, staring back at Arthur with wide eyes.

“You alright?” He finished, putting out his cigarette. You sat upright, releasing yourself from the nervous posture you held. Bringing a cigarette to your lips, you struck the match and lit it, inhaling.

“Yeah, just thinking ‘s all.” Wiping a stray tear from your face, you put your blade back over the flames since the piece you had cooked had now gone cold. Arthur let out a hum, clearly not wanting to dig any deeper, and he shifted uncomfortably where he sat. He scratched his head and sighed before standing.

“I really should be going now, Miss…” He trailed off, clearly expecting your name. You spoke it softly and he repeated it, before mounting his horse and riding away. Left alone, you allowed the pit in your stomach to consume you, and your body wracked with sobs as you held your head in your hands. It felt like you could barely breathe, your chest constricting and compressing; breaths coming short and stuttered as if you were swinging on the end of a rope.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?”

You froze as the click of a rifle cocking resounded through the clearing. Your hand slid instinctively to the grip of your revolver. There were 5 of them. You could hear their murmurs and the muffled shuffle of feet creeping closer from every direction.

“Look at this, boys,” came a low voice from behind you. “A pretty lady waitin’ here just for us. Ain’t that a sight?”

He was closer now, just to your left. You didn't turn, but your fingers wrapped around the cold steel of your revolver, your eyes flicked quickly to the nearest cover—a barrel just ahead of you. You had seconds, maybe less.

“Get the rope,” another voice sneered, this one rougher and deeper, laced with authority. “Tie her up nice and tight. We got ourselves a real prize this time.”

Your heart pounded, but your movements were fluid, second nature at this point. You quickly swiveled, pulling your revolver from its holster in one quick motion. The first a scrappy man with a scar running down his face stepped into view just as you fired a round. The bullet ripped through his chest with a sickening thud, his body jerking back and collapsing into the dirt with a gurgled scream, his green vest stained with blood.

The other O’Driscolls reacted insantly, guns drawn. But you were already darting to the side, tucking low behind the barrel as bullets whizzed past you, striking the dry earth with sharp cracks.

“She’s fast,” one of them cursed, his voice filled with frustration. “Get her!”

You breathed deeply, mind sharp and calculating. You needed to thin their numbers, fast. You knew they wouldn’t just back off—these bastards would press until they had you cornered.

A younger man, no older than twenty, emerged from the trees ahead of you, eyes wide with panic as he aimed his rifle. You ducked and popped out the side of the barrel and fired, sending a bullet straight through his knee. He collapsed with a scream, his rifle falling uselessly beside him.

“Goddamn it!” The leaders voice rang out. “You ain't getting away from this, girl!”

You didn’t respond, you couldnt afford to. From behind the barrel, you pulled a second revolver from your belt, your finger sliding across the trigger as you darted toward a wagon, firing off two quick shots. The third O'Driscoll went down with a hit to his shoulder, his rifle flying from his hands, the second bullet catching him in the side. He didn’t make a sound as he hit the ground, twitching for a moment before stilling.

Two down. Three left.

The leader, a burly man with a thick beard, shouted for the others to fan out. You could hear their feet scrambling in the underbrush, closing in from all sides.

"Come on, girl!" the leader yelled. "We ain’t playin’ fair anymore!"

You gritted your teeth, slamming the revolver back into its holster, and grabbed the rifle you’d left propped up against a nearby tree. You rose up above the wagon and pulled the trigger, catching the next O'Driscoll—a tall man with a wild-eyed stare—right between the eyes.

The remaining two O'Driscolls exchanged panicked glances. One was the young boy you’d already injured, clutching his bleeding leg with a grimace. The other, a grizzled man with a long scar across his throat, charged forward with his rifle raised, desperation in his eyes.

You could hear him coming, his boots crashing through the underbrush. You didn’t wait. As he broke through the tree line, you were already aiming. The rifle bucked in your hands, two shots ringing out like thunder. The O'Driscoll staggered back, his rifle spinning from his hands as he crumpled into the dirt.

You felt a burning pain in your thigh, and you looked down as you watched blood begin to stain your trousers.

Shit.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and you were brought back down to earth as you remembered the boy. His face was pale, his leg a mess of blood. He was fumbling with his own gun, terror written all over his face. You took a breath, steadying yourself. you moved quickly now, ignoring the searing pain in your right leg as your boots thudded softly against the earth as you closed the distance between the two of you.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice shaking as he leveled his gun at your chest. "Please don’t—"

He didn’t get to finish. A shot that wasn’t yours rang through the air with deadly precision. The boy dropped his gun, body slumped in the dirt in a heap. You shot your arm back up, aiming for wherever that bullet had come from.

“‘S just me,” Arthur spoke, and you sighed in relief as you placed your gun back in its holster. You sucked air in through your teeth as the adrenaline left your body and you were reminded of the gunshot wound in your thigh. Looking down, a choked gasp left your throat as your pant leg was almost entirely soaked.

“Shit.” He dismounted quickly and tugged his bandana off his neck. Guiding you with a hand on your shoulder, he sat you down and instructed you to put your leg out straight as he began applying a tourniquet. You hissed in pain as he tied it.

“I know, I know.” Arthur comforted you, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled your arm over his shoulder, walking you towards his horse.

“I can ride, Arthur.” You murmured, attempting to free your arm from the grip he had on your wrist as he helped you walk.

“Not with an injury like that, you can’t.” Arthur said with a raised brow.

Huffing, you reserved yourself to your fate, allowing him to guide you to his horse. You looked away in embarrassment as he placed his arms underneath your shoulders, hoisting you up onto the back. Arthur approached Lenora, a series of ‘You’re alright, girl’s and ‘It’s okay’s left his mouth as he grabbed onto her reins and led her back over. He mounted and clicked twice, his horse jolting forward.

“Wait—Where are you taking me?” The realization dawned upon you that you had nowhere to go, and you clearly couldn’t stay at the empty O’Driscoll camp. Anxiety clawed its way into your stomach for no good reason, nausea twisting your gut as the pain in your leg grew with every stride

“Back to camp. My camp, I mean. That leg needs tending to, Miss Grimshaw and the other ladies can help you with that.” Miss Grimshaw? The other ladies? Confusion settled between your brows as you held a little tighter onto Arthurs waist. Very few gangs ran with women, and if they did, it was for the men’s stress relief.

“No! I can’t ask that of you. Just leave me somewhere with cover and I’ll figure it out.” You pleaded with Arthur, the last thing you wanted to do was invite yourself into their camp and use their resources. You hadn’t had many run-ins with gangs, sure you cleared an O’Driscoll camp here and there when you had to, but you preferred avoiding them at all costs

“You won’t last a week out here with your leg in that kinda condition. You’re coming back to camp with me and that's final.” The commanding tone of his voice shut you up instantly, and you reserved yourself to your fate with a sigh as Arthur passed you a bottle of whiskey from his satchel.

“Drink this, it’ll be a long ride without it.”

yaaay chapter 3!!! enjoy some action (just not the sexy kind)

i gave up on arthur pov at the end of the chapters bc it felt corny. hopefully the dialogue felt accurate and flowed well but if it didnt please lmk! i am always open to constructive criticism <3<3

hope u liked it! pls like + reblog <3

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