#smith oc

[beeapocalypse]

lungfish

[jingle-jangle-spurs]

Robert House watching The Courier rip all the copper wiring out the walls of the Lucky 38

[happilyhertale]

Fire and blood - Daemon Targaryen x wife!reader

Author’s note: Before I got into my usual summary, this fic is part of a collab with a bunch of my lovely moots! @lady-phasma came to us with an ask about period sex and Daemon and being as lovely as she is, she offered us all the chance to collab on it. Choosing our own characters and how to play the story.

Please find the masterlist of everyone's fics here.

English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Summary: You haven't been married to your husband Daemon Targaryen for very long - but you've learnt to enjoy your marriage to the Rogue Prince. But unlike normality, you haven't sought out Daemon for a few affectionate visits throughout the day, and that makes him suspicious…

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Period smut; fingering (f in v), p in v sex - implied

Word count: 2.2 k

Other stories of mine

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Daemon opens the door, but only darkness reveals itself to him. He raises his eyebrows slightly, but steps into your shared chambers. He is looking for his wife, who has been by his side for several moons now.

During this time, he has already become accustomed to you seeking him out throughout the day, sometimes just to get a little peck and sometimes because you want to tell him something - but today you have not sought him out.

His heavy footsteps sound in your chambers as he walks further inside.

"Are you hiding from me, woman?" he murmurs.

He walks over to a small table with fruit and sweet dishes on it. He takes a bunch of grapes between his fingers before letting them disappear into his mouth.

"Has another moon gone by?" he asks into the room and turns to your bed, where he recognises the outline of a figure under the covers. A slight grin plays around his lips before he walks towards the bed.

But as he gets closer, he picks up an unusual scent.

"What's that smell?" he asks.

And suddenly your voice rings out, "It's oak bark tea... My abdomen is a cramp," you mumble from under the covers.

He's still smiling and comes closer to the bed.

"What have we got here? I wonder what trouble could be brewing under here," he says, reaching lightly for the blanket.

"No... Go away," you say quietly and try to hold the blanket tight.

But Daemon pulls the blanket down further and kneels on the bed with one knee.

"Ah... there you are... what a view," he says sarcastically as the blanket reveals your face. Your hair lies dishevelled on the pillow, your face a little sleepily puffy as your annoyed gaze meets his. "Yes....my beautiful wife," he says and smiles. He pulls the blanket down further and a "Go away," sounds from you again.

He smiles at your words, "Why would I do that when I have such a sight in front of me?" he says, a hint of sarcasm still in his voice again.

You sigh and try to turn away, but you feel Daemon kneel down further on the bed and his hand grips you gently.

"Ah, ah, ah," he says and lies down next to you, his arm wrapped around your middle.

His warm breath brushes the back of your neck as he presses his face into yours, "What's wrong," he whispers.

You sigh again and already feel his large, surprisingly warm hand on your abdomen... a warm touch of your dragon.

"I'm bleeding..." you say almost inaudibly, but Daemon hears your words and smiles slightly. He knows how you feel during your period. You're vulnerable and sleepy. The cramps force you to lie down and only warmth and strange teas from the maesters give you some relief... well, and other things.

But you're his wife and according to him, you should always feel carefree - but he can't refrain from teasing you a little.

"Pardon?" he whispers, smiling slightly, while you sigh lightly again.

"I'm bleeding..." you repeat your words and mumble into your pillow.

"Love..." he whispers again.

You close your eyes and feel this inner tension that tickles your fingertips.

"I'm on my period," you say a little louder into the pillow.

"Love... Sorry, I don't understand," Daemon replies and his lips graze your neck.

His behaviour makes you seethe, why can't he leave you alone?

"Daemon! Seven hells! I'm on my period! I'm in pain and I'm bleeding!", you call out and raise your head slightly.

He chuckles, "It's fine... no need to shout like that..."

You shake your head slightly, wanting to push his arm away, but he has a firm grip on you. His hand slides slowly downwards, his fingers make light, circular movements and you stiffen slightly.

"Daemon, what are you doing," you suddenly whisper.

"I want you to feel good, love... It'll help you relax..." he murmurs into your ear, nibbling lightly.

You gasp and hold his hand back, "Daemon... there's blood... a lot... it's the first day..." you say hesitantly.

He continues to nibble on your earlobe, his fingers sliding along your thigh, not in the least impressed by your words.

"You know there's nothing to be ashamed of. A woman's body is a natural, beautiful thing.... It's beautiful because it's you," he kisses your cheek and lets his nose glide gently along it. His hand strokes along your thigh and you feel a slight throbbing between your thighs alongside the numbing pain in your abdomen.

"Do you want me to take care of you?" he whispers, kissing the soft skin behind your ear.

You bite your lip lightly, but you shake your head slightly.

"Daemon... There really is a lot of blood..." you repeat your words quietly.

He chuckles softly again, another kiss landing on your neck, "Love... a true warrior isn't afraid of a little blood..." he murmurs.

His hand slides further, "Just relax..." he whispers and you try. Slowly, you close your eyes and try to concentrate on his touch as a heavy breath leaves your lips.

Gently, he kisses your neck and shoulder as he holds you close."It's nothing to be ashamed of either. Especially not my wife. It's natural," he whispers in your ear.

His fingers pull your nightgown up, very slowly. His fingers leave a fiery trail on your thigh and you try to ignore the dull ache that runs through your abdomen.

You can't suppress it, your hips begin to move in slight circular motions as his fingers glide through your pubic hair, caressing you. You gasp as you can already feel his arousal from behind as he presses himself lightly against you.

His fingers reach their destination, slowly running along your folds, and you gasp again – your legs spread slightly.

"That's it... I'll take care of you..." he whispers in your ear and you nod slightly.

The sweetest moan escapes your lips as his fingers find your pearl and apply light pressure. Your legs spread wider and a smile graces his lips.

"Daemon..." you gasp.

"I know..." he whispers, nibbling on your earlobe again as his fingers rub gently over your clit.

"Your body is natural and beautiful. Even in all its bloody glory," he whispers and you nod, your breathing quickening.

He kisses you on the cheek again as his fingers tease over your glistening entrance, gently spreading your folds.

You feel the familiar stretch as his fingers slide inside you. But not all the way in, he teases you a little and you exhale heavily, your hips moving towards his fingers, longing for his touch. And then he fulfils your craving – his fingers stretch your walls, trying to find a good angle, pushing deeper. He revels in the slickness that coats his fingers, the evidence of your arousal mingling with the blood that flows.

"Feel how wet you are for me," he whispers teasingly, his smile pressing against the back of your neck.

"Daemon!" you gasp, but also a small moan leaves your lips.

He chuckles briefly, but your concentration is once again fully on his movements as his fingers penetrate deeper.

"Gods..." you gasp and he grins. Slowly, but firmly, his fingers push forward. He can feel your walls clench, longing for release.

"You know I love all the sounds you make, but I love your moans the most. I can feel your walls tighten around my fingers as if your body wants to hold me inside you while I make you tremble..." he whispers in your ear.

You moan again as his thumb grazes your pearl. He continues his expert ministrations, he is determined to make you forget the discomfort, to lose yourself in a wave of pleasure that only he can provide.

His fingers curl inside you, beckoning you as his thumb presses against your clit again.  You press your arse against his hardness and he moans into your neck. As he feels your hips moving towards his fingers, urging for more, he complies, increasing the intensity of his movements. He curls his fingers, angling them to hit that sweet spot within you, knowing exactly how to drive you wild with desire.

"Moan for me…" he commands, his voice laced with dominance, "Let me hear your pleasure, let it echo through these chambers."

And you obey as his fingers thrust deeper. He bites into your neck as his fingers tease your walls. His fingers continue their exploration, delving deeper inside you, seeking out the spots that make you writhe with pleasure. He maintains a steady rhythm, his touch skilled and attentive to your body's responses.

Smacking noises echo in your chambers as his fingers pump in and out faster. His fingers sliding in and out of your wetness with ease. With each thrust of his fingers, he can feel the slickness and warmth of your arousal, heightening his own desire.

He starts to apply more pressure and lets a third finger slide in. He knows what you like and he gives it to you the way you need it. He stretches your walls while they continue to clench around his fingers. Daemon's eyes gleam with a mixture of desire and possessiveness as he feels your response to his touch. He revels in the power he holds over your pleasure, his fingers moving with a practiced precision.

"Oh, my sweet wife," he murmurs, the words laced with a mixture of possessiveness and anticipation. "You are so responsive, so eager for my touch."

His body presses against yours, his hard length grinding against your backside as he continues to pleasure you with his fingers. His lips find your ear, his breath hot against your skin. Your fear of smearing him with your blood is forgotten, you need more.

"Daemon... Daemon," you whimper again and again, your arm reaching back, to the back of his head. Your fingers reach into his silky hair and he grunts. As he continues to drive you towards the peak of pleasure, Daemon's own desire grows, his need for release becoming undeniable. But at this moment, he's focused solely on your pleasure, on taking you to the edge and beyond, on helping you forget your discomfort.

"Yes... my love... Come on, come on my fingers, milk them like you always milk my cock when I fuck that delicious cunt," he growls into your neck.

And that pushes you over the edge. You cry out, your walls tightening around his fingers and Daemon grunts out.

You whimper, your hand gripping his hair tighter as he kisses your neck. Your eyes are closed, your breathing rapid as he pulls his fingers out when your walls stop clenching. A pleasant warmth flows through your abdomen, soothing away the pain more effectively than every maester's tea could.

As you catch your breath, you glance slightly over your shoulder and look at Daemon. He chuckles as he looks at his fingers, they're covered in blood.

"This is a sight I couldn't have imagined at the beginning of the day..", he kisses your neck again, "But I'm going to enjoy it“, he whispers into your ear.

"Daemon, no!" you say with wide eyes.

He just grins as you avert your eyes and blush. You hear the smacking sound as he licks his fingers.

But now you have to laugh as you stare at him again – his eyes are closed and he seems to be enjoying it.

"You're impossible..." you say softly as he still licks his fingers.

"Daemon, stop it!" you say and giggle, but he just grins and pulls you closer to him again.

"Delicious," he murmurs.

He starts stroking and caressing your belly again.

His breathing slows down as he holds you close. The sounds and smell of you, your little body in his embrace, it's almost more than he can bear at this moment.

He gently grabs your chin, as if he were holding something fragile and precious, and gently pulls your head upwards. When you return his gaze, it is gentle and tender.

"And you are my wife. You may feel sick, you may bleed, sometimes I may even be the cause of your anger. But that's all part of your body's natural rhythm. So please, my sweet girl, never hide from the pain, never keep your misery a secret. Otherwise, I promise you, it will cause me more grief than your blood..." he says gently. These moments with him are rare, but you savour them – your lovely husband. You lean towards him and let your lips slide onto his. He growls slightly and you feel his hand on your arse. You giggle slightly and feel his smile on your lips.

But the grip on your arse tightens and he pulls you towards him, positioning you perfectly against his crotch. He still can't hide his excitement and you gasp slightly. Your lips are still dancing around each other, you can feel the coppery taste on his tongue as he starts to undo his trousers. He growls again as his hand spreads your cheeks slightly and presses his hardness between your thighs from behind. You whimper as his cock slides along your folds.

"Let's see if we can give you a little more relief, shall we?" he growls against your lips and you moan as the tip of his cock presses against your slick entrance.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[lanadelnegan]

Cherry 🍒

S7 Negan x Virgin Female Reader

Summary: You sneak into Negan’s bed in the middle of the night and seduce him into ‘popping your cherry.’

Warnings: 18+, smut, age-gap (reader is 18, Negan is mid 40's), unprotected sex, Negan taking your virginity & being sweet with you, mentions of family death, bleeding during sex, oral (both receiving), sitting on Negan’s face, breeding

Note: this is pure filth. If you’re uncomfortable with extreme age-gaps, please don’t read.

You shivered as your bare feet quietly shuffled down the cold hallway, stopping right outside the leader's bedroom door. The sounds of Negan's light snoring filtered through the cracks as you softly pushed the door open, pleased to find it unlocked. You tiptoed your way over to the empty side of his bed before sliding underneath his soft white sheets and inhaling the unique scent of him - leather and fresh linen.

You've always felt comfortable with him. Negan welcomed you to the sanctuary with open arms about a year ago when you were seventeen, after your father passed away. His men found you walking along the road one day and brought you back to Negan, who immediately took you under his wing and made you feel safe for the first time since your father died.

You're not like his wives. More like the daughter he never had and he's made that boundary crystal clear on more than one occasion. You've made several subtle advances towards Negan in the past.. All of which he has politely rejected by changing the subject or blatantly ignoring you.

Still, this doesn't stop you from quietly moaning his name when you touch yourself at night.

"Negan.." You whispered cautiously as you snuggled into the sheets. This wasn't the first time you crawled into his bed at night, feeding him lies about nightmares you never even had. However, this time.. you were determined to get what you wanted.

During your recent previous attempts, you'd remain on your side of the bed and Negan wouldn't even know you were there usually until the next morning - lecturing you when you woke up about how sneaking into his bed is inappropriate. You hated when he used that word. Like a strict school teacher.

A few moments of silence passed until you boldly shuffled closer to him, wrapping your hand around his arm and snuggling your face into his bicep. You breathed in the intoxicating aroma of his soft skin as your legs delicately pressed into his underneath the blanket.

"The hell are you doin' y/n?" He asked, his sleepy voice deeper and raspier than usual and it made your heart flutter.

"Can't sleep."

"I think we both know you're lyin', doll. You know you can't stay in here. We've had this discussion. It's ina-"

"Yeah yeah I know. Inappropriate, geez." You interrupted him, rolling your eyes in the dark.

"Exactly, so why are you in my bed?"

"My.. dreams. They keep waking me up."

"Nightmares again?" He asked, using a softer tone this time.

"No.. no nightmares this time. Just.. dreams."

Negan shifted uncomfortably next to you, scooting up a little in the bed and wrapping his arm around you in the process. "What kinda dreams, doll?"

You snuggled into the nook of his armpit, getting practically drunk off his manly smell as your hand carelessly glided over his shirtless, hairy torso until settling on his lower abdomen.

Without missing a beat, Negan placed his hand over yours, moving it higher on his torso. "Y/n.." He said like a warning, sternness dripping from his tone.

You ignored him, refocusing your attention back to his previous question. "I dunno.. they're just.. like.. sexual dreams, and then I wake up and I'm all frustrated because I don't know what I'm doing-"

"Stop." He sighed with frustration, running a hand down his face. "Fucking christ, y/n. You cannot say shit like that in front of me."

"Why not? It's not like you're my daddy or anything." You teased him, sliding your hand to his lower stomach once again. You almost whimpered when your fingertips brushed over the soft curls peaking out of the waistband of his boxers and your stomach fluttered when he didn't stop you this time.

He let out a long sigh, glancing down to your hand that teased the sensitive skin under his waistband. "Baby...fuck. We can't." He said almost painfully.

"Okay.. I get it." You said defeatedly, removing your hand and shifting to turn over before he stopped you, pulling you back in.

He sighed, like he was about to regret asking you this. "What happens.. in your dreams?"

With the moonlight beaming through the window, you managed to catch a glimpse of the lust that flickered in his gaze before his hazel eyes dropped to your lips.

"You treat me different.. like.. one of your wives."

"Yeah? And how's that, baby?" He asked curiously as his lips hovered next to yours.

"You.. kiss them." You stated hesitantly, hoping it was dark enough in the room that he couldn't see your cheeks burning red.

"Oh? Are you jealous, doll?"

"...a little." You admitted, making him chuckle.

He tilted your chin up, lightly gripping your jawline as his eyes dropped to your lips. He stared at them as if he was contemplating if he should give you what you want.

"One kiss, y/n." He said, closing the gap between you and pressing his soft lips to yours. You whimpered into his mouth, earning a slight smirk from him as he pushed his talented tongue past your lips. You couldn't believe you were finally tasting him and you savored every second of it.

He kissed you until your lips were sore, tangling his fingers through your hair and groaning every now and then, making your panties soaked.

You slid your leg over his until his muscular thigh was pressed right up against your aching center and you couldn't help but grind against it, desperate for some friction.

"Y/n." He warned, knowing what you were doing beneath the covers.

"Please, Negan."

His solid erection pressed into your stomach each time you moved your body against his and you imagined the way it would feel inside of you.

“Please what?” He said in between kisses, allowing you to use his thigh to get yourself off.

“Please let me come."

"I'm not touching you, y/n. But I can't stop you from coming."

And that was all the permission you needed to grind against him harder and bring yourself to an orgasm just from humping his thigh.

You buried your face against his neck and rode out your high, whining and whimpering as you soaked through your panties. "Oh my god, oh my god, Negannnn."

"Satisfied now, doll?" He chuckled.

"No.. I need this." You said, pressing your palm against the hard bulge in his boxers. "Please."

"You don't know what you're asking for, sweetheart."

"I do, Negan. I know exactly what I want.. And I've wanted you for so long." You kissed his neck as you rubbed his cock through the material. "I see the way you look at me. I know you want me too."

He sighed, accepting that you were right. "Maybe. But we can't always get what we want, doll."

You grinned, taking that as a challenge as you slid lower beneath the blanket, kissing his chest. "Why not?"

"Baby.."

"If you tell me to stop, I'll stop." You said, wanting to earn his consent before climbing over his legs and settling in between them. He sighed again, turning all the way over on his back to allow you better access.

You licked a line from the bottom of the trail of hair that led up to his belly button, earning a moan from him as he slightly lifted his hips in response. "Baby, you don't have to-"

"You said you wouldn't touch me, but you didn't say I couldn't touch you." You explained, pulling his boxers down slowly. You watched closely as his cock sprung free, and your mouth practically watered at the sight of it. You wondered how you'd fit it in your mouth, much less your pussy.

"It's so.. big.." You said, wrapping your hand around it. Your mouth fell slightly open at the velvety feeling of it as you stroked it up and down in your palm.

Negan was propped up on his elbows as he watched you through heavy, lust-filled eyelids. For once, he was speechless, waiting for your next move.

You lowered your head, taking the tip of him into your mouth and wrapping your lips around it softly. You sucked on just the tip as you looked up at him through your brows and watched his head fall back while the prominent vein in his neck bulged against his skin. Lowering yourself deeper, he let out a long groan when he felt himself in the back of your throat.

"Fuuuuuck, baby. Feels so fuckin' good."

You bobbed your head up and down on him until your jaw ached, wanting to make him proud. Finally, he pulled your head off of his length, and you watched as the precum leaked from his red, swollen tip. His breaths were heavy as he looked down at you. "Fuck, that's enough. You're gonna make me come, sweetheart.

"I want to taste you, Negan.. please?" You begged, looking up at him innocently.

"Yeah? You want me to come in your mouth?"

You nodded as wrapped your lips around his thick length again, tasting the bead of salty precum. You moaned at the new taste, sucking firmly over and over until you felt more of his warm liquid spurt out, coating the back of your throat. You moaned around him again, not taking your mouth off of his cock until you swallowed every drop.

Sweat ran down the side of his face and his chest rose and fell heavily as he watched you. "Goddamn. What happened to my sweet, innocent girl, huh? When did you learn to suck cock like that?"

"Just now. That was my first time." You shrugged, shuffling up his body until your legs straddled his waist and you pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the floor and exposing your perky, bare breasts to him.

You pinched your own nipples teasingly as you bit you lip and stared down at him.

"Fuck, you are so beautiful.” He said, watching you play with your nipples.

"You don't wanna touch?" You pouted, sticking out your bottom lip.

"Of course I wanna fuckin' touch you, y/n. You have no idea. I wanna touch every inch of you." He sighed, leaning up on his elbows again until his face was inches away from your chest. "But, I can't."

"Then don't use your hands.. lick me instead." You insisted.

He looked up at you through his brows before his gaze returned to your breasts. You leaned forward, brushing your nipple against his beard until it hardened even more. When it brushed his lips, he instantly took it into his mouth and groaned, sucking it gently. After a few moments, he switched to the other one, flicking his tongue against it. Your head fell back while your fingers intertwined in his slick, black hair.

"Negannn." You breathed out, and he finally pulled away.

"Take those panties off and sit on my fucking face. Now." He demanded, laying flat on his back.

You eagerly obeyed him, quickly removing your panties and climbing over his face before lowering yourself down slowly. You hovered over him lightly, not wanting to press all the way down until his hands roughly pulled you closer.

"I said, sit." He said before burying his face in your cunt. The tip of his nose pressed against your clit as his tongue devoured your dripping hole and he moaned with approval.

You lifted slightly, being too sensitive too his touch, but he leaned forward, taking your clit between his lips and sucking. You cried out as your orgasm instantly rushed through you and you soaked his face. You came hard and fast, but he didn't mind as he moaned loudly, lapping up your juices. You tried to climb off of him, but he held you in place, still licking you like his life depended on it.

"Negan.." You blushed.

"Hm?"

"That's enough." You giggled.

"I'll never get enough of this sweet pussy, doll. You wanted me, now you've fuckin' got me."

His words made the butterflies somersault in your chest. You hoped he meant it. You hoped he loved you the way you loved him.

"Lay down for me." He said, finally letting you climb off of him.

You did as he said, getting comfortable on your back as he crawled over you and settled between your legs. Looking down, you noticed he was rock hard again and he rubbed the tip of his cock teasingly in between your wet folds.

"Negan.. I need to tell you something."

"Hm? What is it, doll?" He asked, leaning over you and holding himself up with his palms on either side of your head on the mattress.

"I-I've never done this before."

He smirked, looking into your eyes. "I know."

"What do you mean you know?"

"I hear everything in this place, y/n. I've heard you talking about me to your friends." He pressed his lips to yours before looking at you again. "I've heard you moaning my name at night in your bed while you touch that pretty pussy. I know everything about you, doll. I pay attention, even when you think I'm not."

You blushed at his words as you stared up at him speechless, making his smile widen. "So adorable when you're embarrassed."

He kissed you again, so hard that it took your breath away and in that moment, you knew you were head over heels in love with this man. You just wondered if he felt the same.

“What else happens in your dreams, baby? Do you let me fuck this little pussy?” He whispered in your ear, causing a chill to run down your spine.

“Y-yes.” You managed to choke out, making him chuckle.

He leaned back up, placing one of your legs over his shoulder as the other fell open for him.

“You ready for me to break you in, sweetheart? Pop that sweet little cherry?”

"Fuck, yes. Please." You whined, scooting closer to him until the tip of his cock brushed against your sex.

Negan chuckled lowly, pressing the head of his cock right against your hole. He watched you intensely as he pushed just the tip in, stopping before he went any further.

“You good, baby?” He asked, making sure you were good to continue. Once you nodded, he slid slightly deeper, feeling resistance before pushing through with a force.

You cried out at the sudden ripping sensation, making him stop again.

“No.. keep going.” You urged him, already aching from how he was stretching you, but you needed him to fill you completely. So he did, pushing himself all the way in with one swift thrust.

Your mouth fell open silently as he pressed against your cervix and let out a growl.

He fell over you again, kissing your lips as he thrusted into you at a steady pace. “You did it, baby.” He praised you softly. “I am so fuckin proud of you.”

He moved slowly, making you deliberately feel every inch of him. He repeated this motion until your face was on fire and your lower abdomen tingled.

"Fuck, y/n. You are so fucking tight." He said through gritted teeth, looking down between the two of you as he leaned back up on his knees.

"Oh fuuck, look. at. that, doll."

You leaned up on your elbows, looking down and widening your eyes when Negan pulled out of you, revealing his blood covered cock.

His thumb reached down to swipe a trail of your blood off his dick before bringing it to this mouth. You watched him enamored as his eyes rolled to the back of his head at the taste of you and he moaned with satisfaction. You blushed hard at the sight of Negan tasting your blood.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Negan.” You answered without question, following it with a moan as he pushed back into you without warning.

“That’s right, doll. This pussy? Is mine now. Understood?”

“Y-yes sir.” You cried, as he pumped into you faster.

"Ow. Ow, fuck. It hurts."

“I know baby. I know. You want me to stop?”

“No.” You said quickly. “Please don’t stop. I want it harder.”

He smiled down at you proudly as his hips bucked into you harder and your eyes clenched shut as your fingers gripped the sheets.

Looking down between the two of you again, he groaned at the sight of your blood completely coating his cock and leaking out of you with each thrust.

You whined and whimpered, desperately wanting to come again. He grinned knowingly, pressing his thumb to your clit and making your body shutter. "You gonna come on my cock, sweetheart?"

You nodded as tears flooded your eyes and his finger started working over your clit more intensely.

"Yes, yes. Please make me come."

He fucked you fast and rubbed your clit in perfect circles, watching you come undone around him. Once your walls were done convulsing around him, he fell over you again, kissing your neck and groaning in your ear. "That's it. That's my good girl."

Wet noises filled the air as he fucked you unforgivably hard. "You gonna let me cum in this pussy, baby?" He asked, biting your earlobe.

You couldn't speak, so you nodded as your vision went cloudy and his thrusts became more erratic until he stopped suddenly, pushing himself balls deep inside of you as his dick pumped you full of cum and he growled in your ear.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck, baby." His thrusts started again, soft and light this time as he pushed his seed deeper inside of you. He kissed your jawline, then your lips, before pulling back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Y/n... I love you. I love you so much, sweetheart. And goddamn I love this pussy."

[yandereworlds]

Yandere dad Negan teaching Y/N how to use a gun.

Of course, as long as you don't mind living dummies!!

If this concept interests ya'll, I'll try drawing more yandere walking dead content 😇

[elesketchii]

angie and papà charles ☺️☺️

[therealslimshakespeare]

|| Radio ||

Requested plot points? ☑️

Circa: early February 1944

Immediate previous fic: Favorite Escape

Summary: when your hodge podge radio won’t work, who should ya call? Probably the flight engineer

Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ but nothing very alarming really happens in this one, references to others are made, some potential slut shaming in the beginning if ya squint? perhaps some queer baiting but it’s the Buckies rolling around on the flooor, they’re one massive queer bait lbr, it’s not me. Also. My shit Crystal Radio making descriptions- don’t come for me I haven’t made one and I spent five hours falling down a rabbit hole as to how the guys made them in the camps and at the end of the day I said: screw it! And went with one of the Brit’s scenarios 🍻

Edited only by my tired little eyes, full warning and have mercy 💋

Also, just a note I feel compelled to make- this fic centers around women in the army, in a war, which they’re spending under dire conditions in a POW camp. Yes there is love here, there is also hierarchy and discipline and the enforcement of that does not make one character or another necessarily callous or less loving. They are their ranks first and foremost as all signed up for.

“They’re forging papers, you know.” Maureen broached the topic to Egan one day, late February and when her cheeks were still bruised from Ida’s book.

Bucky paused his tracing of a map, sooty finger trailing along a river with the same incomprehensible name as its twin running parallel, he didn’t know anything about papers or anyone making them and she knew that. “Who?”

“Good ones. Identification, passports.” She enumerated.

“Who?”

“The Poles. The ones with the-“

“-the liquor.” he finished for her, remembrance and condemnation heavy in his wry tone. “The ones you stayed out all night with.”

“Stayed long enough for them to get drunk enough to show me.”she replied, without heat, which was surprising.

“Some grand plan of yours, huh?” He bit back a laugh, it was a fine way to cover her ass for being insubordinate. It was a way he’d likely try if he was in her place.

“No.” she swore instead. “Just luck, I happened to see them. They got careless. Maybe an answer to all Jack’s prayers.”

“Yeah. Anything to give that rosary a break.”

“Yeah.”

“You asked them?”

“What for?”

Bucky regarded her with thinning patience but something kept him from snapping, the feeling of a riddle still to be solved. “For some papers.” he clarified, measured and intent, she knew how much easier that would make their plans for Ida.

Maureen shook her head, glancing down at her twisting hands, “I didn’t want to-“ her mouth twisted too, “-I wanted to ask a superior first.”

Bucky considered that for a moment, slightly touched at her newfound wisdom, “Why not ask Buck?”

She shook her head again, auburn hair curling under her chin just so, even here in the stalag she had some traces of the old charm. “He’s got too much to worry about for me to be bringing in hypotheticals.” she was so upset by something she would not even meet John’s eye and he felt a slice of remorse for how he hadn’t even noticed the ground down change in her since she got here, his drinking buddy and the soft fleshed rival of merry old English days was a gruff and battered and sullen woman; being a red blooded American male, he regretted that dismal change. “And I'm worried about what to bargain with. What can I promise? We haven’t got much and I don’t have— there’s not much anyway, but what we’ve got I didn’t wanna promise. Not without-“ she still hadn’t met his eye, he tracked hers; a furious roving of pale blue back and forth across the floorboards and it made Bucky itch.

“Who signs these papers?” Bucky asked, thinking the logistics through, knowing she’d perk up if he brought them up.

“Haven’t a clue. Maybe they haven’t figured that part out yet. I don’t know. I just know they’ve got papers.”

“Good ones.”

“Yeah.”

“We haven’t got much.” he agreed, clicking his teeth in thought, “What’d you give them for the liquor?”

“They just invited me.”

“Didn’t have to lend a hand or nothin’?” he balked and Maureen threw him a glare that seemed more hurt than rage, and chastened by a voice inside that sounded much like his mama’s, he amended with sheepish humor, “Hell, feel like lending a hand myself these days, if it’d get me a whisky.”

Her gnarled fist curled white in her lap, she managed hoarsely, “They just wanted to talk about home. To someone who hadn’t heard about it a million times before.”

“They got cigarettes?” he asked.

“As most common payment for their booze -they’ve got enough to insulate their shack three deep.”

“Cigarettes won’t cut it then.”

“I’ve been thinking.”-

“Yeah?”

“The radio. I’m the only one who doesn’t think it’s worth the risk but, I know, it doesn’t matter, it’s happening. Gale’s going to keep trying. And if it works-“ she rubbed at her eyes, tired and unsure, “-that’s quite the bargaining chip.”

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as his smile grew a touch broader, “News of the outside world.” he was half in agreement, “Buck asked for a week. Been four days.”

“He’s stumped.” Maureen retorted instantly. “And he’ll stay that way and he’ll go nuts and you’ll go die going over the fence and then he’ll have no reason left not to die too.”

Bucky whistled, low and chiding, “You’re full of rainbows today, Candy.”

“You know who he oughta ask.” she shook off the barb. “But he won’t. And I don’t want him risking it for this thing anymore than anyone else, but you all want it so bad, and they’ll shoot us for it if it works or not. I’m not asking her. But you would. Might as well get shot for it working, right? Isn't that what you said yesterday? You know who he should ask.”

Bucky’s keen eyes showed the moment it dawned on him, his eyebrows shot up and his mouth sagged and he ran a weathered hand over his face, “Awww shit, Candy.” came garbled behind his palm. “Ah shit.” he said again with conviction as he shoved the hand into his pocket, wretched acknowledgment of her point clear on his face.

“I didn’t want to suggest it, told Ida it’s a fucking dangerous thing and I’ll never forgive if— but you all—“

Bucky grounded aloud, “Nah, nah she’s -Lu would solve it.” he muttered, shushing her. “Demarco really pummeled you the other day, huh?” he added, and that got her to meet his eye, she looked spooked and a little incensed, “Saw him fuckin’ you up behind B compound but sheesh, s’like he hollowed you out worse than a jacolantern; yer shifty as hell.”

“He-“ Maureen still felt like blanching at the memory of Benny’s terribly correct opinions, his disappointed eyes and his fist full of her flight jacket asking her what in the living fuck was wrong with her besides a concussion, a sick childhood and an ever nauseating jealousy of Buck Cleven’s paternal time and effort, “-he had some admonitions. After…after the other night.”

Bucky hummed, shitty smirk taking up residence on his face, “How ‘bout that.”

“I’m gonna be better.” she muttered and Bucky felt for her, could almost taste the echo of his identical and hollow determination to climb the mountain of bad habits when weak from spuds and pneumonia. He told himself the same every morning and fell into bed condoning his failure every night, like a ritual.

“You’re gonna get us those papers.” he corrected, shoving off the wall to come near her, give her the full Major treatment and maybe a friendly hand, “And you can promise your drinkin’ buddies news from the radio.”

Maureen nodded in understanding, no joy or animation left in her green eyes. She used to enjoy a bit of subterfuge, now she only felt hollow misery at the thought that she'd dragged Lu into this, too. This risk she hated so much and yet no one cared. Lu would be glad to be dragged in, it’s true, she was itching at the chance to be useful and to make Gale proud, it’s how the girl was wired. It’s how most girls were wired, Maureen supposed, desperate to make Gale Cleven approve. Lu’s enthusiasm wouldn’t make the sight of her being made to kneel in the mud and have a bullet put in her head any easier, wouldn’t make Maureen feel any less responsible for it when her lifeless body thudded to the earth.

All that lovely goodness stamped out.

Over a radio.

Bucky’s hand felt too hard and too big on her shoulder. He had gone before the vision cleared, mud and wire and the freezing main square at Ravensbruck fading back to the musty bunk room. Maureen shook herself and stood up to make herself somehow appealing, reamniante some semblance of the cheerful rashness that had led her to the Polish combine in the first place: she found it hard to inspire. She’d like to count that a victory but she knew better, she wasn’t reformed she was just tired.

A washed face and a fake smile and the promise of news from outside would have to be enough to bank all their risks on, it would have to be.

“Crank,” she greeted the man in the hall, flashing him clean, water brushed teeth and her gentlest, freshly soot lined eyes, “I’ve been tasked by Major Egan with an errand, spare a minute to babysit me?”

__________________________________

Bucky finds Buck Cleven in his own bunkroom, Demarco outside on watch and that’s all Bucky needs to know to guess the radio is out and Buck’s working like a fiend yet again to make it work. Sure enough, he’s hunched over the table with it, mittened hands shaking from cold and exhaustion and a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the paltry sweater he wears.

Bucky walks in and Gale gives him a soft, acknowledging glance before continuing to his work. Bucky takes up his usual place behind Buck’s left shoulder to watch and Buck, being used to it, goes on.

“My little Kriegie Marconi, huh?” Bucky allows the nagging impulse he has felt for weeks while standing in this position to finally exert itself, and his forefinger lifts and swirls in the curling gold strands of hair at the nape of Gale’s neck, his friend almost bolts away but then seems to choose a prey’s tactic and just stills, goes very still and Bucky scritches the scalp beneath his grab in assurance he don’t meant anything by it. He doesn’t think he does, at least.

Gale, wary and with a voice close to mechanized it’s so stilted, inquires with ever-present politeness, “You alright Bucky?”

It’s better than that whole ‘major’ business; getting called Major as if that meant shit anymore. “Yeah, ‘course I am.” Bucky rakes his fingers through the hairs there at the nape of that dainty neck, scritches the scalp with all four of his main ones, and uncovers a white long scar sliding round once he lifts the hairs there. “Why wouldn’t I be? Gonna be a father soon.”

Buck does jerk then, away from his touch and wheeling his chair around to glare at Bucky; it’s an impressively executed little pirouette and John misses the feel of his warm neck and oil soft hair. “Jesus John.” he reprimands.

“We’re gonna get outta here Buck.” John swears, he’s so sure of it because he cannot in all his thinking and predicting ever imagine a scenario where they don’t, and he chooses to think it’s not delusion but a good omen. “Ida’s gonna have that baby and when it’s safe we’ll all meet up.”

Gale is looking at him like he’s his own father again, Bucky knows that look, it always makes him equal parts ashamed and desperate, “Jus’ like that.” Gale mocks in a husky gust.

It’s devastating, and it’s intended to be, and Bucky could bear that with better humor if he could still touch Gale and his hair. “Just like that.”

Gale hums and it’s a mean sorta vocalization that makes Bucky’s heart thud and his skin prickle hot, it’s the kinda noise you kiss off a person, he thinks, but it’s Buck and so he doesn’t know what to do with it. “It’s gonna get you killed.” Buck is saying instead and Bucky lets him, “I know you all think she’s cracked up and maybe she has but it wouldn’t hurt to listen to Kendeigh sometimes when she’s tellin’ ya shit that a five year old could accurately guess, -goddamn it.”

His voice rose to a strong rage by the end and Bucky takes a chair opposite him, sick of standing there like a dumb dog waiting for his scolding to be over. “So what.” Bucky challenges him, “We just wait around and Brady pops out a child and the krauts let us keep it and it’s our new mascot and we all sing zippidy doo da, huh? Huh, Buck?”

Gale’s hands fell away from his face with a slam to the table, a shocking degree of anger showing for a split second and it gave Bucky an odd degree of gratification. “I jus’ want you to find a plan with better odds.”

Bucky sniffed and leaned forward, went in for the kill and Gale was looking at him like he expected it, like it was his turn to play daddy to everyone here and Gale for once was so beaten down he wouldn’t just allow the changing of the guard, he was close to angry at its lateness. It made Bucky’s heart thud.

“I’ve been listening to Kendeigh.” Bucky refuted briefly, “And we’ve got a plan.” Gale gave him a tired look of encouragement to go on, “How long’s it been since you slept? Huh, well, we got a plan. Practically perfect, or it will be, just need the radio.”

“Ain’t giving this away.” Gale said, “Not for anythin’, even useless.”

Bucky patted the table top in easy assurance, if he could have reached Buck’s thigh, he’d have patted that instead, “No, no, don’t need to give it away, just need it to work. So,” he softened his voice and his eyes tightened, “I’m callin’ Lu in.”

Oddly, Gale does not fight it. Not aloud, at least. There’s an anguished look of hate on his face and Bucky mirrors it. It’s for this place and the fucking awful choices they have to choose from every goddamn day.

“You run this by Ida?” is all he asks.

Bucky pops his flaking lips audibly, “What, need us both gangin’ up on you to agree? She’ll sign off. Smith’s an officer. Gotta remember that sometimes, Buck.”

The way his Buck swallows hard and dry contradicts his words, “I do remember that.”

“Really?” Bucky’s mouth gives a soft smile of doubtful incredulity and Gale’s mimics it, mournful but a smirk all the same, “Feel like she should answer to ‘Gale’s Baby’ these days. Lieutenant Smith who?”

Gale scoffs, “Careful now.”

“No really, she’s an officer and she wants to be treated like one. It’ll do her good to have work. Her kinda work.”

“Could get her killed.”

“Layin’ in her bunk could do that.”

Gale grunts, its sounds like an agreement.

“So I say Lieutenant Smith gets put on radio detail. Like her goddamn job description suggests. Huh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Gale lets out a shaky agreement.

“Aaaaand,” Bucky draws it out as he rises again and saunters over to Buck who is ready for him and loose this time, “how bout I go back to bein’ the one you’re frettin’ ‘bout all the time. Got me almost jealous of the girl. How ‘bout I do. Huh?”

Gale’s scoff is fond as anything as he looks up at John with cheerful derision, “And you ‘bout to be a father? Make me an old man? Fuck no, ya looney.”

“Alright.” Bucky concedes with hands up in surrender before lurching forward and grasping Gale’s rickety chair back by its wobbly spokes and hefting it partially off the ground, beautiful and outraged prude of an occupant still seated in it, “Then I’ll play daddy and put you to bed, how ‘bout that.”

“John Egan for fucks sake-“ Gale’s fists pounded on the meat of his shoulders and his outraged protests wafted against Bucky’s neck and his jabbing knees collided with the meat of his thighs and Bucky hadn’t felt so close to him or so happy to be alive since England.

“Major sir, the hell is goin’ on?” Demarco’s tame inquiry from the safety of the doorway made them both lose their grapple and they collided together onto the floor, bunk bed barely missed by their heads and the hapless chair mixed up between their limbs.

Bucky grinned, hip sore from his fall and kidneys suffering from Buck’s trapped elbow there, “Puttin’ Goldilocks to bed.” he replied.

DeMarco processed that and the scene before him with grave sobriety before saluting lazily and turning to go, “Right on, sir.”

John did his best to rise up without further pinching Gale who was indeed trapped beside him and beneath him, chair legs wound between a lanky human leg in a puzzle that Bucky realized might take some caution to untangle without harm. Strangely, Buck wasn’t moving, he was just looking up at him like a cat would their clumsy master who has done somethin’ stupid which was a surprise to neither. It was so innocuous a look and so nostalgic, it winded Bucky with the realization he hadn’t seen it in ages, just as he hadn’t felt his boney ribs against his own and the feel of his elegant hands yanking him around in a fight. This miserable place really was stomping out the glow in the best people.

“Ya know Buck,” he ventured, clearing his throat for extra casualness, “I’ve missed you.” When Gale only kept looking up at him, perfect porcelain face with its unsettling scars and wary eyes without a lick of storm in them, John Egan grabbed his shovel and dug his own grave a little deeper, drug a finger down his cheek. “Missed all this.”

Bucky didn’t know what he meant by “this” but it felt safer and worse all at once, since he did miss Buck but he and Buck never used to hang out on floors with a chair as chaperone. Mercifully, Buck neither points that out nor moves away, acting very much like he needed to heaped on the floor with Bucky and a stray chair every bit as much as John did. Like it’s doing him good.

“And you couldn’t’ve jus’ said.” Gale murmurs with the softest eye roll of the century and Bucky feels like beaming and it must show in his face so strong and bright after a sunless winter that after a flash Gale’s cheeks flame from it and he averts his eyes.

“I dunno Buck, could I?” Egan asks one blushing cheek and Gale hasn’t got a good reply for that, so they just lay there on the floor.

“Go on now, get off me.” Gale doesn’t shove at him, he presses his hand to John’s forehead like he would a dog and John goes, obedient as one.

———————————————————————-

They found Lu with Murph and Benny and Brady, measuring out what seemed to be lot lines between Love Shack #9 and the next combine, boot scuffed perimeters already visible in the light snow and drawn in a decently tidy rectangle. There were guards loitering nearby, nosey as always with their cigarettes and their antsy dogs anytime someone did something out there besides piss or pace or stare at the fence.

“What’s all this?” Bucky inquired cheerfully, coming up to them with Gale, bundled and shivering behind him.

Benny looked up from tilling a furrow with his boot, right where Lu’s mittened finger pointed out. “It’s for the garden. S’posed to be spring before long.”

“A Chicago man oughta know better, Benny.” Egan snarked.

“Need us?”

Bucky sniffed, a casual set to his body that belied his quest, “Just the little one.”

Smith promptly looked startled, then eager. “All well Majors?”

“Need your advice on the color of my cufflinks with this suit.” Bucky extended his arm and beckoned her, “C’mon back in for a minute. One of you too, need a watch to go with the cufflinks.”

———————————————————————

With Benny on guard, Brady and Kendeigh having excavated the radio’s shell from the floorboard and table leg in which it resided, the Buckies stood over Smith’s small frame as she sat at the table and inspected the simplistic device with keen eyed appreciation for the construct.

“It’s really marvelous.” she assured Cleven, running her fingers over the carefully coiled wire and precarious pin.

Gale didn’t even crack a smile. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked instead.

She shook her head, a frown gathering. “Never made one-“ she cautioned.

“-but you get the idea.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“So what’s wrong.”

Lu ran her fingers over the wire, again and again, the dusty metal not insulated, just bare copper, likely stripped from somewhere. It reminded her of early days as a cadet when they threw chicken wire mixed with hydraulic lines at herself and her fellow rookie engineers and told them to sort it, testing to see if they knew which was which. It had been so rudimentary she had wanted to laugh until she realized others were being flunked.

This was so basic she was stumped.

“Take your time, Lu.” Bucky spoke up after a burdened pause during which she could almost feel Major Cleven breathing down her neck.

“Candy, can I try with the headphone?” she asked at last, frustrated and out of her element, just a few months out of a plane and she had already lost her touch.

Maureen passed it over and Lu pressed it to her ear, not to discern what was quite obviously radio silence, but to imagine the whole process in reverse, track it down the cord all the way to the base, each possible breakdown of the conduction.

She fingered the ramshackle diode with burgeoning suspicion. “What’s your crystal?”

“That’s just…lead.” Cleven muttered.

“From?”

“Ground pencils.” Bucky supplied cheerfully.

Smith bit her lip, “We need sulfur added. Lead won’t conduct on its own.” She figured Cleven knew that, the grim and unmoving set of his mouth suggested so.

“Just- sulfur?” Maureen asked.

“If I had sulfur we could add it to the lead dust, ignite it and-“ Smith grinned at Kendeigh, knowing that she alone may have shared her enjoyment of a small conflagration from time to time, “burn it down and you’ve got something close enough to Galena. Just need a pinch of it should work.”

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets and surveyed the mostly morose room. All except for the two girls grinning at each other over the hypothetical of a little chemistry experiment in a highly flammable wooden combine.

“We’ve got sandy soil.” Buck’s contemplative drawl spoke up, “Dunno if we could extract enough pure sulfur.”

Maureen stared back at Egan instead, “Other sectors have gotten portions of kits, chemistry kits, radio kits, they’ve been smuggled in with all sorts of stuff. Inside of a violin, oat bags. Nothing to fully build something. They might have sulfur. I could make inquiries and- well, Jack could pick it up next time the band goes over C compound to entertain the poor Aussie bastards.”

“How do you kno- nevermind, actually. Nevermind.” Bucky broke off, “Alright. Sure, why not. Ya sure that’s it?” he asked Lu once more.

She gave a helpless little shrug. “Gotta be. Or the wire’s dirty. Where’d it come from anyway?”

Gale gave Bucky a long suffering look as Bucky seemed to swell a couple inches and bounce back on his heels at the mention of his scrounging prowess. “The lamp.” he nodded above them all.

Jack Brady scoffed, short, clipped, betrayed, “That why it cuts out all the time? Strobed us so bad last night -thought the room was possessed.”

“Sacrifices Jack, sacrifices.”

———————————————————

Benny had hauled in enough water buckets to elicit some negative attention from the guards, and when the inspection came the inmates of the Love Shack insisted the drenched floors and table of the Majors’ barracks were due to sanitation post regurgitation. At night, with only one stolen torch light from Combine 15 to illuminate the endeavor, a basin of water beneath a smaller bowl in which lay their precious and recently procured ingredients, a science experiment began. The Majors and Ida gathered round, all looking as ghastly and spectral in the light of the flashlight as Brady’s fake ghost. It held the thrill of a bonfire night except for the stakes, which all in the room did their best not to dwell on.

“Zippo, Candy.” Lu gave the word and Maureen, with only the protection of Ida’s bent aviators to keep from a scorched cornea, flicked on her lighter and set the mixed powders ablaze.

It flamed up high and smelly, making Benny gag and mutter something about Meatball’s gas to a tittering Brady, and then died down to a yellow smoking ember.

“We should let it sit.” Lu surmised with a squeeze to Maureen’s only somewhat singed hand, her big dark eyes surveying the burnt bowl and their smoking experiment with glittery excitement at the possibility of success, “Let it cool, settle, maybe strain it. Can you get me a net? Oh Candy come now, get me a strainer?” she begged with a laugh as Maureen rolled her eyes at the idea of yet another trip to the Stalag Market for the most random items imaginable. If they hoped to not be suspicious, they’d need better lies or more money.

“How about cheesecloth?” Kendeigh tried not to grin indulgently- and failed- in the face of Lu and having recently been allowed to set something on fire

Lu kissed her cheek. “Cheesecloth would be perfect.”

In the end, cheesecloth did indeed prove perfect, and amongst the burnt dust of the combined minerals was a gritty little pinch full of the needed crystals. Or so Lu said, Gale agreed but the crease between his brows hadn’t lifted for two days; Bucky’s fingers had begun to twitch in antsy need to manually smooth them out. He imagined Maureen felt the same but she hadn’t said, uncharacteristically forbearant now she had some job to keep her sane. Even if it was playing fetch for Lu.

—————————————————————

“Well, this is it.” Gale muttered when the watch had been set once more, Murph and Hambone on the steps, Crank inside, Brady at the door, Benny at the window. Even Major Clark had joined them in the barracks for this final try and Lu’s cheeks were maroon from the attention even as her deft hands steadily pressed her concoction beneath its intended rod.

“Pass me the pliers, sir?” She asked and for a moment, the teacher became the apprentice and Gale fetched her the stalag forged tool, rudimentary like everything here yet the gripped and pulled and lifted same as the pliers back home. “You could check your look in this wire’s reflection.” She complimented Gale’s buffing of the copper wire.

He shrugged in turn. “Didn't wanna leave anythin’ to chance. That it?” he asked as her hands stalled and she surveyed her work.

Lu nodded solemnly. “Yes sir.”

Gale picked up the headphone from in front of him on the table like it was a gun he was about to bring to his head. “Here.” He extended it to her instead, “S’right, it was your job, you should be the first. Cmon.”

Despite her voiceless protest he pressed the headphones into her hands and Lu, never knowing how to disobey an officer, folded immediately.

For a good ten seconds everyone in the room held their breath as Smith pressed the headphone to her ear and gently wiggled the clothespin along the wire, searching and tuning, her face holding that old peaceful concentration they hadn’t seen since the last mission. She was at home with her mind tuned to another dimension. The pilots in the room knew that look, that was the look of someone at home with something that terrified them all the same, the gut swooping feeling of clearing the take off and sledding along the tops of the clouds. Wrong and strange and utterly incomparable to others, it was the closest to home one’s mind could be. Lu belonged somewhere on those electric currents and searching them out was like finding oneself again.

Then at last, Lu’s eyes sharpened out of their dreamy haze of concentration and she said, gentle as always, “It’s the BBC sir.”

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[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.���

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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[two-white-butterflies]

a lemon cake | daemon targaryen

Description: The Hendriks have always kept to their own. What happens when a betrothal happens between the only Hendrik daughter and the Rogue Prince? A story where, you go through lengths in order to ensure your lord husband's loyalty.

W.C: a lotta words super mega ultra

A/N: After re-watching Descendants. I figured that this would be a good plot. Reader basically gives Daemon a love potion. It wears off. He's still in love. No beta we die like men. OC Daemon because of the love potion, but otherwise still him.

House Hendrik. In silence we persevere.

When the first lord of your house settled from Old Valyria, they did not bring dragons or swords - but they did bring magic. Magic that allowed the members of the house to hear the whispers of nature. But lately, nature has only answered with silence.

The lands were barren, and the sheep were dying of illness.

The gold in your coffers were nearing extinction. Correction, there wasn't anything left - your father has to work in the King's council to ensure that you and your children would live a comfortable life.

A prolonged sigh escapes your mouth. You stared at yourself through the reflection on the mirror. In silence we persevere.

You remind yourself of the words your father uttered before he left.

"My lady," the maid clears her throat. She was holding a sealed letter. "Thank you," you mumble while taking the paper from her hands.

You force a smile on your face.

My dearest daughter,

I am pleased announce that the King has agreed to an engagement, and your presence in the Red Keep is of utmost importance. It seems like the Seven Gods have answered our prayers. Do not think about the gold that we'll use to bring you here, your Aunt Jayne has agreed to sponsor the trip, with the promise that you won't forget her once you are a nobleman's wife. Take care.

All my love,

your father.

You finished reading the letter, inhaling the scent of vanilla. It was sadly a short letter, not detailing anything about your father's stay. He made sure that the letter was short and concise. He did not even have money for ink.

"My lady?" the maid inquires, curious about the contents of the letter.

"Lord Hendrik has invited me to join him in the Red Keep." you inform, watching as she poured you a glass of tea. "- will you promise to take care of the household in my absence?" you asked, and she presses a kiss to your forehead.

She stood as your mother, after Lady Hendrik died.

"I promise." she swore. "- have fun in the Capital." she smiled.

You could only nod.

"You told me that he agreed on a betrothal!" your eyebrows merged together. "You wouldn't have come here if the only purpose was finding a suitable match." your father insists.

"Our house has stood proud, looked down on others with lesser breeding. If word ever comes out that I am here to save a sinking ship, our reputation will be ruined." you argued.

"If there was another choice, I wouldn't ask." he says regretfully, his eyes cloudy with tears threatening to spill out. "- my position in the King's council is under threat. My health has fallen drastically, and only a husband can save you and our house." he breathes.

He knows that it shouldn't be that way, but it is.

"What you mean to say is..." you could not stomach to say the word.

"- this is my last gamble, child. If you do not wish to do it for our family, at least do it for yourself." he pleads.

Stupid family with their idiotic gambles. You cursed while continuing to concoct the potion. There was a hundred other ladies in this court, some more beautiful - some having bigger breasts - some having more melodious voices. And what were you stuck with?

This old gown that you inherited from your mother.

You weren't dealt the winning hand, so you must play with the cards that you were dealt with.

"Kesā sagon ñuhon." you whispered into the powder, feeling chills run up your spine as the magic takes effect. You will be mine.

You press a finger to your lips. Who will be mine?

Of course, they needed to be rich. You were in poverty and eating love for breakfast wasn't something you're looking forward to.

And of course, they needed to be handsome - because it will be a curse to stare at an ugly face everyday.

"Prince Daemon," you say out loud.

You fancied him when you were younger.

He had flowing silver-gold hair, and entrancing deep purple eyes. He was every maiden's dream. All everyone saw was a dangerous man - a shifting tide. He was quick to anger and slow to forgive.

But that wasn't going to be a problem.

If your love potion was going to take its full effect, he'd be a tamed dragon, and you'd be the most beautiful maiden in his eyes. He'd be loyal to you no matter what you did.

The thought of taming an untamable man was...alluring.

"Prince Daemon it is, then." you decide. Carefully storing the powder in the empty space of your locket.

The plan needed to work.

Daemon's eyes narrowed, seeing Lord Hendrik's daughter walk across the garden. His eyes were drawn towards her figure. He's heard stories about your great beauty - and now he's finally had the luxury of meeting you. "Lady Hendrik," he calls your name.

"My prince," you bowed, surprised that he knows you. "- it is a pleasure to be be in your presence." your gaze remained on the floor.

"I believe that I am the one who should be saying that," he tilted his head with a pensive smile. His eyes alternated between your eyes and your lips, engrossing himself in your features. "- it is not everyday that a maiden from Quid Isle visits the Red Keep." he added, offering his arm for you to take.

"It is a long journey." you were quick to answer, holding his arm as you both strolled down the gardens. Your father's castle used to have a garden exactly like this - but all the flowers have wilted now. Its beauty was forced to remain in your memory.

"I can only imagine," he hummed - still staring at your face.

There was a look in his eyes, telling you that he was interested.

He kept staring at you and you found yourself staring at him in return, waiting until he opened his mouth again. "You're very beautiful." he observed, moving a strand of hair away from your face.

"T-thank you." you surprise yourself by stuttering.

Gods, you've always been eloquent but what you were about to do was making you nervous.

You turned to look at the table behind you, sprinkling the secret powder on one of the lemon cakes.

"Lemon cake?" you offered, holding the pastry up with a smile.

"Sure," he agreed, not bothering to take the pastry from your hands - instead taking a small bite while you were still holding it.

The way he licked his lips made shivers run down your spine. You were indeed making the right choice. "Is it good?" you raised an eyebrow, waiting for that grumble on your stomach that told you that the spell was working.

"They taste different today." he admits, chewing at the sweet treat - surprised at the slight specks of saltiness. It brought the sweet flavor out, but it was the first time he's tasted lemon cakes like this.

"Good or bad?" you inquired.

Your stomach grumbles. His pupils dilate.

"Good," he says.

The love potion has indeed worked. He's looking at you the same way that the moon looks at the sun. There was a smile on his face, a soft and gentle smile only given to those feeling pure love. "You should try one, my lady." he offers, and you nod - doing exactly that.

"Is the court to your satisfaction?" he asked, unable to stare at anything other than you. "It is beautiful, my lord, especially the gardens. I've never seen anything quite like it." you smiled.

He admires the innocence in your eyes.

Your smile makes him want to smile too.

"Our gardens pale in comparison to Highgarden. Mayhaps, one day I shall take you there." he made a promise. You are slightly taken aback by the potency of your love potion.

"Take me there?" you repeated his last words.

"If it is your will, my lady." his hands rubbed circles on the back of your waist. "It is unbecoming, especially from an unmarried maiden. I wish not to impose, my prince." your mind returned to marriage.

Our last gamble.

"Oh yes, unmarried." he reminded himself. He takes a step backwards, a wave of clarity crashing through his features. You worried for a second that the love potion lost its effect, if it weren't for the look in his eyes - utterly dedicated and in love.

"I must leave to attend my business with the Gold Cloaks. Do not stray too far in the gardens, I shall talk to you later." he vows.

"Yes, my prince." was the only thing that you could say.

Daemon was fascinated but now he was sure that he was in love. Ever since he spoke to you in the gardens - you're the only thing that he thinks about. When he drinks wine, he wonders about the types of wine that you like. When he reads a book, he thinks about what your favorite books are.

Even a chore a simple as breathing makes him think about you.

As the months occurred, he's spent every living second beside you. Braiding your hair, reading books about his ancestry. He's even taught you a few things about sword-fighting.

He's defenseless against your love.

There was no escape.

"I intend to marry the Lady Hendrik." Daemon boldly announces in front of his brother. He was a million times sure that you were the woman he wanted to spend his eternity with. "I beg your pardon?" Viserys gazes up from his miniature version of Old Valyria.

"You've been pestering me about marriage ever since that Bronze Bitch died. I've finally made my choice. Lady Hendrik, the Master of Coin's daughter." Daemon emphasized.

Viserys' eyebrows merged together.

"Have you spoken to her?" Viserys inquired, surprised at his brother's sudden enthusiasm towards you. "I have." Daemon responds.

"How many conversations have you had with her?" Viserys follows up, a little skeptical but otherwise relieved that his brother has found love. "It matters not, she is the best choice. She is set to inherit her father's island. It shall keep me out of your way." Daemon argues.

"Lady Royce inherited the Runestone. What makes you think that this lady of yours is going to be different than the last?" Viserys queries, poking through his brother's resolve - trying to look for holes. He does not wish to grant annulment or mend Daemon's losses when the time comes that he falls out of love.

"I will wed the Lady Hendrik. We will live in Quid Isle." Daemon ignores his brother's question. His destiny already written in stone.

"There isn't anything that could stop you anyways." Viserys agrees, finding no other reason to disagree.

"Speak to her father. Make sure that he agrees." Viserys adds, returning his attention to his little Old Valyria.

"Your father has agreed to an engagement between us." Daemon announced from behind you, and suddenly your eyes light up. "Really?" happiness was leaking from your voice.

Your happiness, gives him happiness.

"I thought that what we had was merely friendship. You've really proved yourself, my prince." you smiled, as he presses your foreheads together. Your smile sinks to the floor, that feeling of guilt threatening to make your heart explode.

He doesn't actually love you. It's the potion.

"Is everything alright?" he inquired, his eyes flooding with worry.

I'm a horrible person for making him something that he is not.

All the nobles and maesters have fawned over his loyalty to me. The way he stares at me with love and adoration. He's not spoken to any other maiden except me. He refuses to dance with anyone but me.

When he realizes that this is all an enchantment, will he hate me?

"Darling," he repeats that term of endearment.

You snap out of the trance.

"I need a moment." you break free from the embrace. Sprinting towards the direction of your room. "Sure," you hear him mumble.

Once the doors to your chambers were shut - the tears flowed. "I'm sorry," you mumbled while laying on your bed, covering your body with the layers of blanket and furs. "I'm sorry," you kept repeating.

I'm a horrible person.

You've toyed with the very will of the gods, made Prince Daemon fall in love with you and act uncharacteristically - all for what? So you wouldn't starve when all the gold in your father's coffers runs out? There were thousands of small-folks starving everyday, their lives are lost to famine - all the while you worry about not living in luxury.

It was another day for you in paradise.

Even if your father died, you'd still live a comfortable life - as long as you didn't live above your means.

You shouldn't have done that to Daemon.

And the worst part was, you loved him - loved him with your entire heart. He was a constellation to you. You've never loved anyone as deeply as you've loved him.

But you betrayed him!

Betrayed the man that offered you jewelry and pretty dresses. Betrayed the man that looks at you with warmth.

You sniffle, slowly rising above the pile of blankets on your bed.

You march to your vanity, beginning to concoct a potion that will reverse your love spell.

You needed to make things right.

Daemon stares at the small hidden lake. It was something that his ancestors consecrated to have a piece of Old Valyria. The lake had magical powers, some say that it cures disease, but to him - it was the only thing that could convince him that gods were real.

"Ever since I was a little boy, I'd stare at this pond and feel peace." he explains, placing his hands inside of the lake - allowing that mystical feeling to wash over him. "They say that it is a piece of Valyria." he continues telling you the story.

These past few days, you've been avoiding him like a plague. When he meets your eyes - he sees nothing but sadness. He wishes that taking a bath in this lake would bring peace to you, or mayhaps cure the sadness that you've been feelings - you refuse to tell him what.

"Thank you for bringing me here. Dragonstone is beautiful." you were quick to thank, but your eyes were focused on the ground.

"Why do you evade my gaze?" he inquires, holding your chin with a finger - and lifting it so you'd meet his eyes. "We are going to be husband and wife soon." he announces, and that makes you flinch.

"I know," you hum.

"If you're scared of living Quid Isle - I promise you that we'll live there after the wedding." he points out one of the possible reasons as to why you were sad. "- I am much prepared to eat fish and chickens until I die." he smiles, and that sparkle returns to your eyes.

"Get in the water." he commands with a chuckle. "No," you shake your head - feeling his hand on your shoulder - threatening to pull you down. "Daemon," you warned, holding onto his forearm.

An involuntary giggle escapes your mouth, and you both plunge into the cold lake. That grumble in your stomach returns. Magic?

You hold onto him, unable to reach the bottom of the lake floor. "You are a cruel lord," you teased wrapping your arms around him.

He takes a second longer - still staring at your face. With that same lovestruck impression as the day you first met.

"Daemon," you say his name.

"I love you." he says out of the blue, burying his face on your nape.

For a second, his voice sounds deeper - his words more meaningful than usual. It almost made you doubt yourself.

You were about to lose everything.

Today is the day that you give him the reverse potion.

"Lemon cake?" you offer, holding the pastry with a forced smile. Daemon's hands found the small of your waist. "I don't want one." he shakes his head, instead choosing to take a sip of his wine.

"Are you sure?" your eyebrows merged together.

Why was he refusing your effort?

"I don't really like eating pastries, my love." he covers his smile with another sip of wine. He's been looking at you with more adoration, lately. He's been more dutiful than before. Always opening the door for you, always carrying your books, and of course, helping with the planning of your wedding.

"But I seem to remember that our love story began with a lemon cake?" you try to persuade him. A lemon cake is also how it ends.

"I've not had the stomach for anything as of the late. I'm sorry, dearest." he tries to say no as politely as he could. "But you have to eat it, please, for me?" you resorted to begging.

"No," he responds as petulantly as he could muster.

"Daemon," you say firmly this time.

Don't make it harder than it has to be. Eat it and hate me forever.

"Give me one good reason?" he says. His voice telling you that he knew something that you didn't. "Because your future wife wills it." you insist, and he sighs - taking a bite of the lemon cake.

He eats it with a smile, watching your features carefully.

"Does it taste good?" you found yourself asking the same questions as before. "Yes," he responds - chewing softly. "How do you feel?" you inquired, worried about his wellbeing.

"Why are you asking, little flower?" his grip is firm on your waist, ignoring the looks that you were both getting. It was a behavior unbecoming of unmarried people, even if you were engaged.

"Nothing," you shake your head. "Do you still love me?" you found yourself carefully asking, masking it with sweetness just in case the potion wasn't in full effect yet. "I think that the potion takes a while to settle, my lady." he smiles, saying those string of words in a whisper.

You nod your head involuntarily until his words sink in.

The potion takes a while to settle.

"What?" your voice suddenly turns an octave higher.

"You are adorable." he muses, laughing.

"How long have you known?" the words spill out of your mouth. "It wore off when we swam in the lake of Dragonstone." he explains.

"So you've been pretending to love me these past few days?" you ask, guilt eating you whole. "I've not been pretending." he confirms.

"I'm sorry, I didn't have a choice. Our family isn't as rich as we appear to be, I-my father... I mean I thought that marrying you was the only way my family would be secure. But I love you and my conscience will not allow you to live in lie." you apologized, the tears pooling.

"Hate me if you want to. Have me executed for treason if you must..." you rambled but he silences you with a finger to your lips.

"You didn't need that spell." he says tenderly. His eyes still held that warmth, the promise to love you for more than a lifetime.

"I was enamored with you even without it." he chuckles, wiping the tears away from your eyes. "What?" you were confused. "- you need not to go through with the wedding." you add.

"But I wish to marry you, my lady." he takes the upper hand.

Oh, he's been long aware of your house's financial problems - it was one of the few reasons that Viserys chose your father as Master of Coin. He couldn't bare to see a friend of his suffering. And Daemon, well he's been drawn to you since you first stepped inside the castle.

You were magnetic and you made good company.

"Adorable," he hummed - pulling your face closer to his and silencing you with a deep and long kiss.

[beeapocalypse]

forever unsure on how to draw these guys

[drinkinggblood]

You're a ghost You pass through me You're here, then you're gone I can see you from the corner of my eye.

based on this post

[jtl-fics]

A hypothetical scene in TBD that happens away from Andrew's POV

Read: HERE

Thank you @emry-stars-art for drawing this joke for meeeee I love you and you are the best <3

[absolutelynotsanebaby]

My Villain is NOT comsuming my entire brain 👍

[kaishandonmyass]

KAI COME BACK🙁 KAI COME BACK😞 KAI COME BACK😿

[the-ninja-legacy-whip]

Thanks for 400 followers guys!!! 💖💖💖

[daemontargaryenwhore]

I showed this to my friend and he asked “is he dead or just tall?” and i didn’t know how to tell him it was both.

Ctto. @h.dante on TikTok 🫶🏻