#the flames of war thread

[acourtofquestions]

Boots crunched in hay, and then he was knee to knee before her.

Aedion.

There was nothing kind on his face. No pity or warmth.

For a long minute, they only stared at each other.

Then the prince growled softly, "Your plan was bullshit."

She said nothing, and couldn't stop her shoulders from curving inward.

"Your plan was bullshit," he breathed, his eyes sparking. "How could you ever be her, wear her skin, and think to get away with it? How could you ever think you'd get around the fact that our armies are counting on you to burn the enemy to ashes, and all you can do is run away and emerge as some beast instead?"

"You don't get to pin this retreat on me," she rasped. The first words she'd spoken in days and days.

"You agreed to let Aelin go to her death, and leave us here to be slashed to bloody ribbons. You two told no one of this plan, told none of us who might have explained the realities of this war, and that we would need a gods-damned Fire-Bringer and not an untrained, useless shape-shifter against Morath."

Blow after blow, the words landed upon her weary heart. "We—"

"If you were so willing to let Aelin die, then you should have let her do it after she incinerated Erawan's hordes!"

"It would not have stopped Maeve from capturing her."

"If you'd told us, we might have planned differently, acted differently, and we would not be here, damn you!"

She stared at the muddy hay. "Throw me out of your army, then."

"You ruined everything." His words were colder than the wind outside. "You, and her."

Lysandra closed her eyes.

Hay rustled, and she knew he'd risen to his feet, knew it as his words speared from above her bowed head. "Get out of my tent."

She wasn't certain she could move enough to obey, though she wished to. Needed to. Fight back. She should fight back. Rage at him as he lashed at her, needing an outlet for his fear and despair.

Lysandra opened her eyes, peering up at him. At the rage on his face, the hatred She managed to stand, her body bleating in pain. Managed to look him in the eye, even as Aedion said again with quiet cold, "Get out."

Barefoot in the snow, naked beneath her cloak. Aedion glanced at her bare legs, as if realizing it. And not caring.

So Lysandra nodded, clutching Ansel's cloak tighter, and strode into the frigid night.

"Where is she?" Ren asked, a mug of what smelled like watery soup in one hand, a chunk of bread in the other. The lord scanned the tent as if he would find her under the cot, the hay.

Aedion stared at the precious few logs burning in the brazier, and said nothing.

"What have you done?" Ren breathed.

Everything was about to end. Had been doomed since Maeve had stolen Aelin. Since his queen and the shifter had struck their agreement.

So it didn't matter, what he'd said. He hadn't cared if it wasn't fair, wasn't true.

Didn't care if he was so tired he couldn't muster shame at his pinning on her the blame for the sure defeat they'd face in a matter of days before Perranth's walls.

He wished she'd smacked him, had screamed at him. But she had let him rage. And had walked out into the snow, barefoot.

He'd promised to save Terrasen, to hold the lines. Had done so for years. And yet this test against Morath, when it had counted ... he had failed.

He’d muster the strength to fight again. To rally his men. He just ... he needed to sleep.

Aedion didn't notice when Ren left, undoubtedly in search of the shifter with who he was so damned enamored.

He should summon his Bane commanders. See how they thought to manage this disaster.

But he couldn't. Could do nothing but stare into that fire as the long night passed.

[pellucid-constellations]

Reversal

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: When protecting your mate brings out a side you swore to keep hidden, you have to deal with the consequences.

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: Violence, injury, angst, some self-deprecation

a/n: This is loosely based off of this request <3 thank you for sending it!! I hope you enjoy and I also love comments!! ♡

Masterlist ♡

~~

In the heat of battle, there was kindness. 

That was a ludicrous sentiment, and Azriel had reminded you of that many times, but it was something you believed in. 

War was hot flames and blood and the clashing of metal, but it was also reassurance and soft hands and wisps of healing light. If war was cruel and it stole, you were kind and you gave. 

The first war had been a teacher, guiding you to your role. The second war had been reinforcement, showing you what it meant to be the Night Court’s healer. And then you thought you were done—done with attempting the impossible. 

But then Beron took a stance that no one could foresee, and you were not done. 

With the soldiers of Autumn Court came an impenetrable heat, and it was your job to quell the scars that plagued Rhysand’s frontlines. You were the one set to heal the broken and save the damned, and you were the one set to protect the court with kindness. 

It was awful work. 

Azriel was always quick to agree. 

Your mate hated these wars more than you did, and that was an almost impossible feat. Azriel was never close to you in the throes of battle. There was always a cluster of shadows on your trail, but he could never be there himself. You knew it ate away at him, distracting him when he was supposed to be zeroed in on the enemies. 

But, you had reminded him as he held you close in the tent the night before, you hadn’t died yet, and maybe you’d never die from a war. Maybe you weren’t destined to. 

He had only pulled you closer at that, pressed his lips to your head as his wings hid you from the camp that made far too much noise. He held you so tightly you felt his pulse on the skin of your cheek and you pretended you were back at home. 

Because although you were the kindness within the war, you wanted to go home. 

Gods, did you want to go home. 

Flames raced along the outskirts of the blue shield that had enveloped you the moment your knees hit the ground beside the unconscious Illyrian soldier. They pushed and pried, trying to force their way past your mate’s protection as you trained your attention on the wound marring the soldier’s skin. 

Azriel would protect you. 

He always did, even when he couldn’t be beside you. 

“I’m… going to die,” the male beneath your hands huffed out, a line of sweat at his brow. 

“No,” you assured. “No, you’re going to be okay. I just need a few more moments.” 

You couldn’t see what was making him so assuredly pessimistic—couldn’t see the way the flames were creating cracks in the shimmering blue light. They were covering every inch of the shield, making the air in the circle red with heat and promised death. 

You noticed a moment too late. 

It was unbearable, the suffocating fire. You threw your body over the soldier as if that would make a difference, arms and shoulders wrapping over his head as your leathers scorched and your lungs burned. The male screamed, his legs thrashing. You wanted to replicate the sound, but you were kindness. Kindness did not scream. 

It ended as abruptly as it began, flames dissipating into blackened embers. You felt a crack in the bond during the disappearance, Azriel’s fear and rage embedding itself into the golden thread connecting you. That, too, ended as abruptly as it began; Azriel shut his side down, saving you from the ravaging emotions. 

You whipped around to search for him, eyes up towards the sky. You found him quickly, with a practiced eye. You’d looked for him in every room you’d entered for almost your entire life. It was easy to find Azriel. As easy as breathing. 

That breath was stolen from you the moment your gaze locked on his form.

He was falling. 

He had charged—alone—into the group that was to blame for your injuries, for the flames that had almost consumed you, and now he was falling. 

He was falling and he wasn’t conscious. 

You think you screamed, but that couldn’t be right. Screaming led to panicked patients, and panicked patients led to worse outcomes. Your screams were not welcomed in war. 

You tugged at the bond, desperate to rouse him into saving himself. But it was no use; he was plummeting to the ground and there was nothing you could do. 

When you looked back on it later—when it fizzled as dim memories within your dreams—your actions would become more clear. You’d remember that you stood up, and then the ground shook. That the years of training required to be a field healer included so much more than twisting bursts of soothing light. 

And something within you had awoken that day, the moment you saw wakefulness leave Azriel’s being… something that was not kindness or giving or calm. 

It was rage. 

A piece of you recognized that Azriel had been caught. Cassian’s wings had most likely ached from the speed with which he dove to catch his brother, but both members of your family were safe. Harmed, but safe. Not dead.  

Your rage didn’t care. 

Something deep within you snapped, and light was pouring from the tips of your fingers. It wasn’t the same hue that healed. It was darker; a hungry red. 

The enemies from the sky fell. 

When those on the ground saw the damage you had inflicted, you became their target. And fine, let them, because this power coursing through you had no sense of who was to blame for your mate’s injuries. To you, everyone was a threat. Everyone was to blame. 

With a practiced grace, tainted by years of disuse, you attacked. The scene was cloaked in a red hue. Fae after fae charged at you, but it was all fruitless. You felt pain, injuries covering your skin, but it was all muted by the overwhelming desire to end this. To somehow soothe the ache you felt from watching your mate fall.

Time became obsolete. 

Morals became blurred. 

You were a machine, a complete reversal from the position you had assumed all those years ago.  

“Y/n!” 

Through the fog, a scream.

“Y/n, stop!” 

Another far away call. 

“It’s done. It’s over. Stop. Look at me and stop.” 

Something was pressing against your cheeks. It was firm and grounding and the focus returned to your gaze. 

“That’s it. Look at me, y/n.” 

Cassian. When all was righted, Cassian stood in front of you, his posture hunched as he leaned down to catch your eyes. He was dirty and his leathers were torn, but all you could focus on was the panicked frenzy marring his face. 

When he spoke next, the words were no longer accompanied by the incessant buzzing that had invaded your ears. “You with me, sweetheart?” 

Your lips felt numb. 

“Give me a nod or something. Az will kill me if you go catatonic on us.” 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, voice rough. “Azriel, he—” 

“He’s here.” Cassian turned your head in his hands, showing you the shadowsinger propped up against a dirt bank. “That self-sacrificing idiot is fine.” 

He wasn't fine, not really. His breaths were labored and his hand clutched at his side with a shaky grip. You wanted to move towards him, to try and take away some of his pain, but your legs were stuck. Everything was stuck and you couldn't move. 

It didn’t matter, anyway. When your eyes trailed up from his body, the look on his face would have deterred you from even speaking to him. He looked… horrified. Hazy eyes blinked across the battlefield—the one you decimated—and they shut just as fast. They squeezed shut, clamping down so tightly it looked like it hurt. Azriel seemed to shiver at the carnage. 

When your chest heaved at the realization, your body seemed to shut down. You felt your legs give out first, heard the curse shot out by Cassian, and felt the hands pressing to your back as your mind gave way to unconsciousness. 

~~

When you woke, the heaviness in your body was not entirely physical. 

There were, of course, a few broken bones. You could feel the aches and pains from battle and knew that you hadn’t gotten away unscathed, but that was all manageable. Fae healing was fast-acting and you would be fine within a few days. 

But it wasn’t the physical pain keeping you from opening your eyes.

It was the reminder of Azriel’s face. 

The disgust written into his features. 

You were supposed to be his antithesis.

When Azriel came home at the end of a day, he was supposed to be comforted by your warmth and softness. You were kindness and light and graceful silence. You were a healer, granting life, and he was an angel of death. 

Before you had met him, that had not been the truth. You were a healer, yes, but you were a field healer. The continent you hailed from prided themselves in being both the saviors of life and the bringers of death. You were to be the judgment—deciding who received which fate. 

But then you met Azriel, and with him came balance. With him came the need to be only one part of you. 

So you hid away the side of you meant to be cruel. You trained softly in self-defense only and you shied away from the instinct to protect with fists and power. 

And you loved the way he looked at you because of it. 

You loved the soft eyes and silent laughs; the tender way he held you and the sweet way he brushed his lips to your innocent skin. He coveted you, protected you, and you were the one he sought comfort in. 

You were his mate, his equal, his mirror. 

You wished your eyes could remain shut forever. 

“Will she wake up soon?”

Mor, you could deduce. 

“The healers said there was no way to know. She… Gods, Mor, you should have seen her out there. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Cassian. 

“I wish I had been there. It sounds like she kicked some ass,” Mor smugly replied. 

Cassian huffed out a laugh. “That’s an understatement.” A pause. “It was more than just that though. It was like she was using her healing in a different way. She cleared the field in front of her. There’s no way that just… came out of her.” 

“You know what the mating bond does to people. What it can unleash.” 

“I get that. But it looked natural for her. It looked practiced.” 

You heard Mor sigh. A hand brushed against the top of yours, taking it into a soft grip. 

“I just hope she's alright,” Mor murmured. 

“She has to be.” 

~~

When you awoke next, it was alone. You had been fighting sleep for what you assumed to be the better part of a day and decided that was enough. Eventually, you had to face the consequences of your actions.

You swung your feet over the side of the cot, feeling surprisingly rested and well despite the few pains shooting along your limbs. You took hesitant steps towards the mouth of the tent, propping open the canvas billowing in the wind before taking a more confident step onto dirt and rocks. 

“Good, you’re up.” It was Rhysand who spotted you first. “Just in time for our debrief.” 

The casualness with which he spoke left you disoriented. The High Lord only blinked at you, a small, impassive smile on his face as he waited for you to take the arm he had outstretched. Your mouth parted as if to speak, but nothing was coming out. 

“I know you’re recovering, y/n, but I need my best at this meeting,” he encouraged, elbow jutting towards you. “Come. We’ll speak and then we’ll return to Velaris. We will go home.” 

Your reservations were odd when you compared them to the understanding on Rhys’s face. He wasn’t upset or disgusted or angry; the High Lord’s smile turned up at the corner of his mouth and his expression spoke of sympathy, as if he already knew about the turmoil raging within you. 

“Azriel—” 

“Is there already. Unhappy, but there.” 

Unhappy. 

Of course. 

Who would want a mate that ravaged battlefields? 

Your lip quivered, but you bit it to stop the emotion from showing. “Right,” you nodded, and you let Rhys guide you to the large tent in the middle of the camp. 

It was full; you had to push your way in to meet the rest of your court. Azriel was the only one seated amongst them, and you could tell by the twitch of his wings that he had been placed in that chair begrudgingly. 

Your eyes skated across his for a fleeting moment. You were quick to turn away, focusing on the material of Rhys’s jacket as he stopped in the corner of the tent. 

There was a faint tug on the bond, muted by the wall you had erected. You thought about letting it down, but you were scared of what you’d feel. Azriel was a good male; good enough to attempt to hide the revulsion he was feeling. 

But you’d be able to parse it out the second you dropped your mental shield. 

You kept your eyes forward as the high lords spoke around the tent. The large table in the center was covered in maps and wooden pegs and you flowed in and out of focus as treaties and strategies and plans all mingled in the space. 

Another tug at the bond. 

Another shield placed around your mind. 

“And what of her?” 

Rhys took a step in front of you, covering half of your body from view. “What of her?” he countered, a calmness in his tone as he replied to the High Lord of Spring. 

Tamlin raised a brow. “Are we just supposed to ignore that your ‘healer’ is a danger to all of our courts?” 

“You are a fool,” Feyre spat out, hands splayed on the table. 

“She is a weapon,” Tamlin seethed, finger jutting out towards you. 

You flinched, and the room exploded in shadows. 

You heard several gasps, a few weapons being unsheathed, but over everything was the low rumble of Azriel’s voice. 

“Don’t speak of her as if she is an object,” he threatened. “Don’t speak of my mate at all.” 

“Reign in your dog,” Tamlin spat, but that only spurred on the hostility in the room. 

A chair screeched back, crashing against wood as loud, reverberating footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent tent. No one made a sound. Some of the shadows gave way, retreating to wind around your body, and you were met with the scene across the table. 

“I will show you a weapon, High Lord,” Azriel promised, chest-to-chest with Tamlin. 

The sight made you sick. 

Azriel was a protector. You were used to that truth. But before, things were different. Before, he was protecting you while you were still pure, still innocent in his eyes. 

Now, it was after. After you had killed and killed for him. After he had hurtled to the ground and awoken to find the death his mate had caused. And he was still protecting you, defending you, despite it all. 

Were you really worth this? 

You were worth it before. 

Now, you weren’t so sure. 

On shaking legs, you shouldered your way out of the tent, breath caught in your lungs. The ringing from the battlefield returned to your ears, blocking out the conversations starting in your absence. The shadows stayed with you, twirling with alarm and flowing through your hair in an attempt to gain your attention. 

A weapon. That explained you well—the ability to save lives and take them away. If they all considered you a weapon, where would you go? By Tamlin’s logic, being locked away would be best. 

Maybe that was best. 

You wondered what Azriel would think was best—where his weapon of a mate belonged. Because it was certainly no longer in the calmness of the home you shared. 

Your shaking continued as you brought your hand up to your forehead. Azriel did that sometimes, when you were panicked or anxious or scared. He’d place his scarred touch on your forehead and lean your head up to grant you more air. He’d follow with his lips and then pull you into his arms, but you knew none of that was coming. 

So you leaned forward and felt the sobs creeping up your chest to take the place of air. Your knees fell to the dirt and you collapsed into the feeling of your family, love, life changing forever. 

Until the shadows retreated. 

You glanced up when their swishing stopped and found another pair of knees pressing to yours in the dirt. The leathers covering them were fresher than yours, cleaner, but they were also wrapped in bandages and stabilizers that matched the ones along their ribs and stomach. 

Another crane of your neck and Azriel was leaning down to catch your gaze, mouth parted. Maybe he’d been speaking for a while; the buzzing made it impossible to know. 

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked, low and so, so concerned. Much more concerned than you deserved. Much more gentle than he had spoken in the tent. 

And all you could think to say was, “I’m sorry,” and you sobbed out the words with gut-wrenching sincerity. 

“I’m sorry, Azriel. I’m so sorry. I never meant—I never wanted this—“

Azriel shushed you, his fingers working to guide your hair away from your face. You felt selfish for needing that from him as his body was bandaged and his wings were wrapped. 

“I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was. That I’m a monster. You were just falling so fast and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn't stop it,” you gasped out, giving in to your instincts as you grappled at the material of Azriel’s shirt. “I wanted to protect you and there was nothing I could do. You’re supposed to feel safe with me and I’ve ruined everything.” 

With each word came more tears and more heaving breaths. Azriel held you through each of them, his hands firm at your elbows, his head shaking as you laid everything before him. Occasionally, your name fell from his lips in a soft whisper, but he never interrupted you. 

“I’m not supposed to be this person to you. I’m supposed to be all of the good parts, and now I’m—now I’m someone else and you can’t—you’re not going to love all of the parts and—”

“Look at me, angel,” Azriel softly interrupted, sliding his fingers along your hairline, his eyes searching every inch of your face. When your gaze snapped to his, a bittersweet smile graced his pretty features. “There she is.” 

A hysterical laugh left you, your emotions mingling with his as the bond flowed freely between you. You didn’t have the energy or willpower to block him out anymore. A rush of relief was sent through you as Azriel realized the opening. 

“You are not a monster.” Azriel’s whisper was so clear, so close. “And I love every part of you, y/n. Especially the part I saw on that field. You saved me—protected our court and family. How could I not love that?” 

“I saw your face,” you whispered back, the words brushing Azriel’s lips as your foreheads met. “You looked—”

“I looked disappointed in myself.” 

“In yourself?” 

Azriel brought both hands to your cheeks. “I lead you to that carnage. Y/n, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to take that load for you… to shoulder that burden.” 

“You aren’t… disgusted by me?” 

“My love, I love you more. What you did for me… you’re so strong. Cassian told me how amazing you were. Why have you never told me?” 

You shifted back on your knees, blinking under Azriel’s adoring, forgiving gaze. The shadowsinger didn’t let you get far, however, sliding his hands down your jaw, your shoulders, and settling on the tops of your thighs. 

Touching you, it seemed, was imperative. 

“When we were mated,” you began, tears still lingering in your throat. “I was new to Prythian—new to having a family. Everyone kept telling me that we were equals in opposite. They said I was a blessing from the cauldron to be so different from you but so in love. And then you… you called me things like peace and safety and calm. I saw the work you did and I knew I couldn’t tell you what I was trained for. Being a healer was enough.” 

The hands on your thighs tense. Azriel’s shadows pooled beneath you, swirling like a puddle of darkness. 

“I never meant for you to hide,” he murmured. 

“Azriel—”

“Never, angel. You could burn down the world and you’d still be my peace. You could be a weapon and I’d find my safety in you.” 

He sighed out a disbelieving laugh. 

“I love you,” he affirmed, eyes so sure. “I love you when you heal the broken and I love you when you decimate battlefields.” A small smirk. “I wish I had known about the second half a little sooner. I might not have teased you about your book choices as often.” 

You scoffed, a watery smile finally lighting up your face. “Don’t start.” 

“Should I tell you all the other times I should have been wary? Or maybe all of the reasons Cassian should be afraid now? It seems that’s the only way to get you to smile, and seeing as you are the reason we won the war, you should be doing far more of it.” 

The bond shone within you, bursting with joy as a laugh escaped your lips—a real laugh. The sound was soon smothered by Azriel’s kiss, and you knew things were changing. 

And that was okay. 

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅 .

# with portgas d. ace.

the mera mera no mi had a dozen benefits — setting your walls alight was but one of them.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, (late) day five. smut (mdni!). temperature play. devil-fruit usage. oral (reader!receiving). fingering. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.4k.

portgas d. ace had fed himself with a fruit that granted him particularities similar to those of a furnace. fire coursed through his veins — oftentimes he mused the thought that it had burned whichever cells connected him to his father still. heat gave him a reputation; an untouchable anatomical state. fire fist ace, the fearsome second-in-command. flames and warmth were but a weapon and he never thought of it beyond that. until he found that the feelings labored for you burned brighter than whatever spark his fingers conjured.

lust first settled during the search for akagami no shanks — the man who had saved his younger brother’s life. amidst ice and torrid snow, you stood: a single thread of life with a clear distaste for the cold. hunched, trembling figure whose knees were pressed to one’s chest, cursing through parted lips, at the corner in an attempt to disappear from sight. when ace sat by your side, heat emanating from his flesh, you immediately pressed yourself against him, hiding your face as you clung to his arm. he had laughed then, hugging you until the trembling ceased, growing hotter at the sound of your relieved sigh.

the second time had been during a sudden — yet common — change in the weather at the approach of a winter island. ace had no intentions of lingering there whatsoever, and briefly instructed his crew to be swift in their business. you opted to remain on the ship, covered in tides of blankets with a lukewarm cup of untouched coffee in hand. ace wordlessly set a place behind you, nervous, yet smooth, as he pressed his palms over your shoulders and began an amateurish massage. he feared the prospect of his physical strength causing you pain, yet you merely leaned into his touch, moaning with your eyes closed as the shared warmth coursed through your body. ace thought himself vicious; disgusting; for he had felt a sudden twitch in his cock at the sounds.

at last, the snap came once he mingled with the whitebeard pirates, his past crewmates choosing to linger; accepting the shift in captains. you were bedridden, and marco had commented that heat could increase the comfort during menstrual cramps. ace caught on the words left unsaid, and offered, once again, to be your soothing warmth; your healing flame. you sounded grateful altogether, and had no problems falling asleep in his arms whatsoever, allowing his hands to be placed on the external root of your pain. sharing the bed had been enough for you to claim one another; to officiate the clear-as-day relationship born from reciprocal love.

although things had changed ever-since — from endless travels to foreign lands, to the survival of a terrible war —, ace’s hidden desire regarding his devil-fruit persevered. it was shown regardless of the weather, twitching erection even in alabasta, when sweat pooled on your cleavage; when he’d see you swimming, sea-salt clinging to your flesh; or the particular instances of quietness, when his fingers would travel through your body until they found your clit. oftentimes, when his cock was lost amidst your warm walls, perhaps out of sheer instinct, he’d find himself increasing the temperature of it, if only to access your reaction. a complicated gamble; the fear of maiming, alight fire born from his excitement. yet, you remained restless, as though understanding that he had a fair share of thoughts unshared. ace feared the moment in which you’d corner him, for he’d cave to your every desire.

he sighed, clicking his tongue in deep thought. the second thereafter, ace all but choked on his food, punching his chest with certain strength. he half-noted the glass of water placed on the table, and spat a final chunk of meat at a particularly harsh slap on his back. ace’s hand gripped the cup and he chugged the liquid, tear-filled eyes observing your figure — sitting on the other side of the small table, an interested expression on your face.

“careful now, hotstuff,” you scolded, and he flushed at the name. “where have you gone this time?”

the question had increased in frequency since the death of whitebeard — his chosen father. ace was unused to the idea of sharing his pain, rather preferring to bottle it up. you respected said decision, yet, more often than not, his prolonged quietness proved itself to be obnoxious. you stated that his thoughts traveled to a place you could not reach, and in said instants, you were forced to scratch the surface of his mind and tether it to the present at hand.

“nowhere important,” ace answered, clearing his throat. you merely raised an eyebrow, well aware of the poor-crafted lie. he gave in, unable to withstand the expectating — borderline disappointed — look on your face. “promise not to be creeped out?”

“by you?” the question posed itself as though a joke; incredulous. “ace—”

“i know,” he interrupted through a sigh. “still, i would hate to leave you uncomfortable.”

“try me,” you encouraged, nothing but love explicit through your features.

ace stretched his hand, palm facing you. he coaxed your approach with a movement of his index, tensing once your wrist was pressed against his skin. he was hesitant — fearful, even — when he activated his devil-fruit, a tempting and gradual increase in his temperature. you hummed, circling your wrist on his palm, testing the waters.

“warm,” you stated matter-of-factly, tapping your fingers on his arm. ace repeated the previous action, multiplying the valor of warmth; recoiling the flames that threatened to lick your flesh. “warmer.”

ace closed his fingers around your wrist, caressing the tender inches of skin. “is it distressing? painful?”

you chuckled, moving your head in denial. “it’s soothing, ace. it’s you.”

he smiled softly, breathing in order to gather further courage. “would you mind if i tried it elsewhere?”

you blinked, growing quiet for the briefest instance, although that had been enough to bloom certain insecurities within him. ace’s lips parted, tongue prepared to spill a dozen apologies — until your hand pushed the plates and cups aside and you sat on the table, sliding towards him. ace was aghast at your willingness; your excitement.

“now?” you inquired softly, gripping the hem of your dress, legs already crossed.

“you want it now?” a stupid question, truly, when one considered the blown state of your pupils.

“please,” you pleaded, already tugging at the edges of your clothing, raising it over your head.

ace’s hands groped your breasts, cock twitching at the sight and perspective of what could be done with them. his tongue lurked out, swiping a streak of saliva up your chest. you shuddered, to which ace smirked, twitching one of your hardening nipples. his digits grew brighter as a consequence of the shift in his temperature, offering a direct source of warmth to your flesh. he tested the length of his devil-fruit, internal fire reaching the tip of his tongue. ace latched his mouth around the bud, a pathetic rut of his hips following-in-suit as a consequence of your moaning.

he grew hotter, the gradual warmthness of your own skin teasing his nose. when your fingers tugged at his hair, ace’s tongue flicked; mouth applying pressure as he sucked on the flesh of your breast, well-aware of the consecutive loss of control on his powers. it felt as though entering a forest-fire to meet its god in the center, an ever-growing heat embracing your every nerve.

your nipple grew swollen at the attention — heated and pained —, whereas his saliva was a river of liquid flames, setting you alight. his unused hand traveled down your stomach, emerging goosebumps at its temperature. he pushed your back against the table, adoration poured into each featherlight touch. you heard the sound of his knees meeting the ground; felt his palm settling on your hip-bone. a pair of heated fingers traveled through your folds, spreading your essence through the extension of it. you whimpered, for your own pre-cum had its temperature shifted; fire reaching your very core.

ace sucked on your thigh, experienced thumb drawing fast-paced circles on your once neglected clit; bright digit behaving as though the teasing of a lighter. you squirmed, and he needed but a single hand to cage your figure. his lips left a trail of sensitive bruises, before they replaced his thumb, wrapping them around the swollen bud. the tip of his burning index teased your entrance, before he shoved three fingers inside — knuckle-deep — invading your walls with unthought suddenness. you mewled, unused — however excited — with the heat; dripping cunt close to boiling.

he moaned, sending vibrations through your body. his fingers curled inside you, teasing the gummy walls; igniting your g-spot. ace rutted against the air, erection caged in between the fabric of his clothes. regardless, he neglected his own needs for the sake of your own, observing, through his eyelashes, your face contorting in pleasure. ace gripped a fistful of your thighs, the warmth of it enough to burn lonesome inches of hair. when he made a sudden worried move, intending to retreat altogether, you gripped his hair yet again, shoving his face deeper into your cunt.

“d-don’t stop,” you pleaded, trembling legs threatening to close themselves around his head.

he moaned, setting a vigorous pace. his tongue ventured through your folds, nose buried deep; teasing your clit. ace moved his head to the sides, dragging your warm essence through his chin and mouth. his tongue drew a luscious, famished stripe before he sucked on the swollen, burning clit, nearly tearing up at the saltiness coating his palate.

“fuck, babe, you taste so good,” he groaned, voice coming out muffled, for the ministrations of his mouth remained. you moaned at the compliment, arching your back at the retreat of his fingers — nails at your entrance — before he shoved them inside yet again, a relentless pace that had your cunt squeezing the digits, dripping down his palm.

your entire figure trembled, thighs caging him, feet sliding down his muscular back. ace’s tongue was molten-fire against your clit, zigzagging around it, his face covered in specks of burning pre-cum — growing reddish at the prolonged contact. curling toes; ruthless tug at his hair. he drowned on your cunt, mouth claiming every drop of your essence while his fingers abused your g-spot.

your voice was a broken choir whose words were all but variations of his name. it flared up his ego, had him switching to shove a burning tongue inside your clenching cunt; fingers parting your folds open as a set of two circled around your clit. he all but slurped; humped the air. a wet patch stained his pants, and one could smell the stench of burning fabric as he pre-cum escaped past his tip, a tide of wild flames.

“ace, ‘m close,” you mewled, breathing out heavily, eyes tethered to the sight of his soaked face.

he retreated his lips for the briefest second to press a searing, burning kiss on your entrance, smirking at your drawn-out moan. the pace of his fingers on your clit increased, and ace bit on your outer labia, his other hand pinching on your trembling thigh.

“cum for me, love,” he encouraged, yet again shoving a warm tongue inside, his chin and nose buried in your cunt.

the knot unraveled itself, and your orgasm tore you from inside-out, drowning his face. ace chased it, famished mouth claiming every droplet of cum that fell on his awaiting tongue, his fingers working still as he stimulated the tides of your high. with a final stripe of the warm muscle, ace leaned his face backwards, licking his lips and tracing the cum that lingered on his chin. he shoved a thumb inside his mouth, sucking the rest of it; removing the finger with a pop. his flesh had a shade pale pink where your essence had touched.

ace spread your legs and got on his feet, eyes tethered to the sight of your bare body on the table, sweat-etched skin glistening under the natural light. “it was a delicious appetizer.”

you laughed then, opening your arms — a solace, whose walls he could rest within. ace’s glance softened ever-so-slightly at the sound, and his chest leaned forward, drawn by your sentence. “come and get the main course, hotstuff.”

his fingers fidgeted with buttons, zippers and straps, a loud groan following-in-suit when his erection slapped against his stomach. swollen, leaking tip sensitive enough to make him hiss due to the merest brush of the wind. ace buried his face on your neck, licking the sweat off your flesh as his hand blindly aligned his shaft with your entrance. the girth slid in with fair easiness, the reminiscing drops of your previous orgasm mingling; enveloping the neglected head.

when ace bottomed out, the pair of you moaned in unison. your nails dug on his back as his hips set a languid pace, flushed tip reaching deep into your g-spot. his cock was a conflagration, forcing your walls to match the absurd temperature, shared heat enhancing both of your senses; increasing the sensitivity. the legs of the table complained at every harsh, wild thrust, balls slapping your ass as he hammered himself inside — sudden retreat of the tip; aggressive shove of the base until he had you filled with his girth. you babbled a sequence of compliments that had him twitching; drooling inside.

your legs wrapped around his waist, and both his hands settled themselves on the back of your thighs. his mouth sang luscious moans as his tongue and teeth bruised the skin of your neck — visible marks; explicit claim of what was his. ace’s pace grew erratic at the approach of his orgasm, the warmth leaving him sensitive to the point of embarrassment. your walls sucked him in, a famished, selfish lover that wished for nothing but to milk him dry.

when he pressed his forehead against yours, the act itself held an intimacy he once could ever dream of having with another, and the act itself soothed the once miserable soul of a child unwanted. ace breathed out into your mouth, words failing him as you nodded, increasing the strength of your legs around him.

“cum inside,” you cried out, raking your nails down his tattooed back. “want it—want you, all of you.”

ace struggled to keep his eyes open as he shot his load into you. it was of an alarming heat, leaving a lingering burning sensation on his tip. you mewled, sobbing as fire incarnated smeared your sensitive walls, leaving but a trail of metaphorical ashes in its wake. ace pressed butterfly-kisses on your face, lips claiming dried tears and accumulated sweat. his thrusts assumed a slower pace, a final chase of his high until the both of you were left a frail, exhausted mingle of bodies. his hands left your thighs; your legs fell, limp, dangling from the table.

the merest glance at your lover’s face had your eyes widening, hands pushing his chest. “don’t you dare, ace! the table will break—”

he collapsed into you, shifting your bodies at the last second. wood gave in to his weight, and his back all but met the ground, arms encircling your figure as your side was pressed to his chest. ace caressed your ass, mumbling about how he needed to clean you properly — and snoring thereafter.

you snorted, caressing his cheek. “sleep well, hotstuff.”

— 🐈‍⬛ : happy late kinktober, time is a concept!

[wholoveseggs]

Scars

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader} Your husband had just returned from battle, injured and needing to be cared for. He is a brat, and needs lots of love. So you take care of him, and then some...

3.5k words - Warnings: smut, blood and injury, wound care, soft!dom Daemon, fingering, riding, slow sex, Daemon pretending to not be in pain, lots of hurt and comfort...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight

The soft sounds of your feet scurrying against the stone floor of the keep echoed through the empty halls. Soft rustling sounds of the nightdress and robe you hastily threw over your bare body could be heard, but the only thing you could focus on was getting to him. The news of the battle that raged along the shores of Dragonstone had reached your ears only moments ago, but all you could think about was Daemon.

"My lady!" A startled servant gasped as she saw you rushing through the halls, her eyes wide as you came to a sudden stop, nearly running into her.

"Where is he?" You demanded, your chest heaving slightly.

"In his chambers. The maester is seeing to him now.” She answered and you didn't waste any more time. You rushed off in the direction of his rooms, your mind racing.

The door to the royal bedchambers flew open as you rushed in, startling the maester who had been cleaning the prince's wounds. Your husband was laid out on a lounge chair, his chest bare, revealing the deep wounds that covered him. You could feel your heart ache at the sight of the man you loved, but you didn't let yourself dwell on it, not right now.

There were a number of maesters and other assistants tending to Daemon, but the moment you entered, they all froze. "My lady-" the maester began, but you held up a hand.

"Leave us." You ordered, and the maesters and servants all began to clear out, they knew better than to go against your orders.

You watched them leave before turning to look at Daemon. His violet eyes stared back at you, a smirk forming on his lips as you walked over. He winced as he tried to sit up, but you pushed him back down, shaking your head.

"What were you thinking?" You asked, kneeling next to the chair, your hands gently pressing on his skin. He hissed softly, and you looked down, seeing a large wound in his side. It had already been cleaned, but it was deep. "Tsk, I told you to be careful." You sighed, looking around the room for supplies.

"Don't fuss, you know I can't stand it," Daemon spoke up, watching as you grabbed a needle and thread, holding the needle over a candle flame.

"I wouldn't fuss if you weren't such a fool." You scoffed, returning to his side with bandages and the thread.

"You don't mean that." He smirked and you rolled your eyes, threading the needle.

"Hold still." You ordered and began to sew his skin closed. He winced at first, but quickly got used to it, watching you as you worked.

You looked at the wounds that were already sewed up by the maesters, at the old and new scars that littered his body. He had seen many battles and many wars. This was one of the worst injuries he had suffered since his youth, and the sight of it made you uneasy.

"I'll be fine." He murmured, watching as your face contorted.

"What happened?" You asked, ignoring his hiss of pain as you continued to sew the wound closed.

"Pirates, probably from the iron islands." He explained, trying to shift in his seat, but hissing when you tugged at the thread.

"Stop moving." You snapped, giving him a pointed look. He sighed and did as you told him, watching as you returned to the task at hand.

You finished the deep gash on his side, tying the end of the thread before cutting it. You set the tools aside and took the bandages, gently wrapping the wound, making sure it was secure. There was another wound on his chest that was still bleeding, so you grabbed some clean cloth, pressing it against his skin, and putting pressure on it.

"What of Caraxes? Did you not bring your dragon to battle?" You asked, keeping the pressure steady.

"He's fine." He assured you, reaching up and cupping your cheek. You frowned and he chuckled, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. "It's just a couple of arrow wounds."

"You could've died." You whispered, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

"But I didn't." He assured you, giving you a soft smile.

You nodded and took a shaky breath, taking the cloth away and seeing the bleeding had stopped. You grabbed a washcloth, dampening it with some water and wiping away the blood. You could see the dark bruises forming across his torso, the sight of them making your heart clench. But you quickly pushed the feeling aside, knowing now wasn't the time to fuss over him.

As soon as the wound was clean, you took the needle once more and began to sew it closed, going as fast as you could. He stayed quiet the whole time, watching as you worked on patching him up. Your robe and nightdress both fell off your shoulder, but you paid no mind to them as you reached over to grab a new bandage.

"You are far more skilled than the maesters." He stated, sitting up slightly to allow you to wind the bandage around his torso.

"I've just had more practice than they have." You hummed, tightening the bandages and tying it off. You took a moment to examine your work, tracing your fingers over one of his old scars, one that you stitched up not long after your wedding day. His large hand covered yours, his rough fingers entwining with your own, pulling you from your thoughts.

"This one will leave a nasty scar," he remarked, motioning to the gash on his side. "I fear I've run out of unmarred skin to stitch."

"You already have plenty of those." You shot back, drawing his attention to the old burn scars along his neck and shoulder.

"I thought you liked my scars," he teased, watching as you got to your feet and went to the basin to wash your hands. "You always seem to touch them so lovingly in bed."

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, your eyes refusing to meet his. He chuckled lowly, shifting in the seat once more, hissing slightly. Your eyes flicked over to him, concern filling them as you dried off your hands and walked back over to him.

"Let me see your arms." You commanded, gesturing to where an arrow had grazed him. He sighed and held out his arms, grimacing slightly as you unwound the bandage around his bicep. You examined the small wound on his right arm, the stitching was shoddy, but it seemed to be holding up for the moment. "Stay here. I need to speak with the maesters about these new sutures. They're horrible, any more stress, and they could tear."

"Enough," he grumbled, frowning at your fretting. "Come to me." He demanded, tugging at your wrist. You paused, looking at him with a slight frown, but you let him pull you into his lap.

"Daemon, this isn't the time. You're wounded, you should be resting," you sighed, wiggling slightly in his grip, though his arms caged you in, keeping you on his lap.

"I'm not an invalid." He scoffed, running his hands up your sides, pushing your robe and nightdress up.

"I'm serious. You need to rest." You sighed, trying to ignore the lovely way his calloused hands felt against your skin.

"I am resting." He purred, nipping at the skin of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your jaw.

You rolled your eyes, feigning disinterest, but your eyes fluttered shut as he continued to press gentle kisses along your skin.

"You have a couple scars of your own, don't you my dear wife?" He murmured, as his hands began to wander, moving over your stomach and down your hips.

"Yes, but I didn't get them the same way you did," you retorted, unable to hold back the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

"The birthing bed is just as violent as the battlefield." He replied, gripping at your thighs, using the other hand to tug at your garments.

"Daemon." You sighed, shaking your head.

He looked at you, taking in your appearance as his hand continued to roam your body. You sat on his lap, the thin fabric of your gown and robe slipping down to reveal your soft skin and smooth shoulders. Your bare legs were curled beneath you, nestled between his, and his hand moved further north, reaching underneath your dress to stroke the curve of your ass.

"Daemon, what are you doing?" You breathed, struggling to keep your composure as his rough hands slipped past your undergarments to squeeze your ass.

"Touching you, my darling. It's very healing," he whispered, his lips ghosting across your collarbone, leaving kisses along the skin.

"You'll make your wounds worse," you protested, but made no move to stop him. In fact, the last thing you wanted was for him to stop.

"Hush," he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.

You huffed, trying to resist the urge to lean in and kiss him, but in the end, you caved. The hand on your ass pushed you closer, forcing you to straddle his thigh. A gasp slipped from your lips and he grinned, enjoying the expression on your face.

His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing you lightly as he rocked your hips against his thigh. He watched with lust-filled eyes as your head tilted back, exposing your neck, a quiet moan leaving you.

"You always do this." He tutted, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "You always make sure to take care of me, but when is someone going to take care of you?"

"I-I'm fine." You assured him, your hips bucking slightly against him. He hummed, his other hand grabbing at the fabric of your robe, pushing the heavy material off your shoulder. It fell easily, bunched up around your waist, revealing your nightdress underneath.

His hand dipped between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers ghosted over your slit, his eyes darkening at the way your lips parted and your eyes fluttered shut.

Your hands gripped at his shoulders, digging into his flesh, your nails clawing down his arms, causing him to hiss. Your skin was glistening with sweat, the light of the candles bathing the two of you in a soft glow.

Your breath was ragged, a blush spread across your face, reaching down your neck and chest, visible through the low cut of your nightgown. You looked perfect, and he found himself pulling you into a deep kiss, his fingers easing inside you as your lips collided.

You moaned softly, a breathy little sound that had his cock aching. The softness of your skin was like velvet, so different from his. He couldn't stop himself from burying his face in your chest, taking in the smell of you. Everything about you was so warm and inviting, and he couldn't wait to finally be inside you again.

Your legs spread further apart, allowing him more access, and he cursed under his breath, burying his face further into your soft breasts.

You were like a goddess, kneeling in his lap, taking care of him and more. And you deserved no less than to be worshiped. He looked up, catching your eye. Your gaze was filled with heat and passion, and something else, something soft, a look reserved only for him.

"My job is to protect you, and our young ones," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Every one of these scars is a testament to that."

"I know, my love." You breathed, your eyes falling shut as you grew closer to your peak.

Your thighs shook, and he watched as your head tilted back, exposing your throat. He took the opportunity to attack your neck, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin, leaving small marks in his wake.

"But, I will always come back to you, no matter what." He promised, his eyes meeting yours, the love shining through. "Now, cum for me."

He curled his fingers and pressed his thumb against your sensitive nub, and you couldn't hold back anymore. Your mouth fell open, a silent cry leaving your lips, and your body shook. Daemon groaned, feeling you tightening around his fingers, his cock twitching, wanting to feel your warmth.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, and brought them to his lips, licking your arousal off of his fingers, and letting out a pleased hum. You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned his fingers, enjoying the way he was watching you.

"You certainly do heal quickly." You teased, moving to stand up, only to have him pull you back down on top of him.

"And you always know exactly how to care for me." He grinned, keeping a tight grip on your hips. "Now, why don't you let me return the favor?"

You sighed, leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "your wounds.. we can't-"

"Oh, they're nothing." He chuckled, his hands moving up and gripping the hem of your nightgown.

"You're so reckless." You chided, lifting your arms, letting him pull the nightgown off, leaving you bare before him.

His eyes wandered over your body, taking in the curves and marks, all the places that had changed. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the softness of your belly, and the heat of your core. He loved it all, every inch, and every curve, because it was you, and you were his.

He ran his hands over your skin, a soft moan leaving his lips, a needy whine coming from yours. He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply. You reached down and untied his breeches, pushing them down, and letting his cock spring free. He groaned as your hand wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

"You are so much better than any maester," He breathed, leaning back in the chair, enjoying the way you played with his hard cock.

You stifled a giggle at his words, releasing him and positioning yourself, hovering above him, resting your hands on his shoulders for support and avoiding his wounds. He kissed you sweetly, a sigh escaping him as he felt your heat against his tip.

He ran his hands over your hips as you sank down on his length, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips.

"There, now I'm all put back together again." He sighed, rocking his hips into you, making you groan.

You raised your hips slowly, then sunk down again, setting a steady pace and feeling pleasure race through your body. Daemon helped you ride him, his hands on your hips, his moans mixing with yours. You moved one hand from his shoulder, gripping the back of the chair, and the other moved to tangle in his hair, pulling lightly, drawing a deep growl from him.

You made soft sounds as you moved, your moans and sighs filling the room, as well as his grunts and groans, and the obscene sounds of your hips moving together. A dance that the two of you had perfected over the years, where both of you sought the pleasure you knew so well.

You could feel yourself growing closer to your peak, and by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't too far behind. You reached down and pulled his lips to yours, kissing him hard, and panting against his lips.

"Faster," he breathed, gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'll hurt you," you murmured, but he shook his head.

"Like I said before, I'm not some fucking invalid," he grinned, thrusting into you hard.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck, he hissed as you accidentally grazed one of his wounds, but he didn't care, focusing instead on the feeling of you clenching around his cock.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, peppering gentle kisses over the scars on his skin there, his hold on your hips tightening as you bounced in his lap. His eyes were half lidded, enjoying the way you felt around him. Your skin was slick with sweat, your scent filling his nose, making him dizzy with lust.

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, feeling your whole body growing hot. Your fingers were digging into his skin, trying not to hurt him, but getting harder every second.

You could see blood seeping through the bandages on his chest, and a moment later, Daemon hissed in pain. You stopped moving, opening your eyes, and looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay?" You asked, moving to climb off his lap, only to have him hold you tighter.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes. "Please."

You paused for a moment, and nodded, picking up your pace, feeling him thrusting up into you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans and grunts, the chair creaking beneath you, and the slap of skin on skin.

Daemon gripped your ass tightly, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper inside you. You could feel your climax creeping up on you, and it seemed that he could too. His eyes were fixed on you, watching the pleasure take over.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice strained, and you obeyed, locking eyes with him.

The room was spinning, everything fading away except for the feeling of him inside you, the look in his eyes, and the heat coursing through you. You held each other tightly, and the pleasure exploded within you, his name a desperate cry on your lips.

He followed a moment later, spilling his seed inside you, his cock pulsing. The two of you stayed like that, holding each other, your foreheads resting together, the room filling with the sounds of your heavy breathing.

You slowly lifted your hips, careful as you separated from him, wincing slightly as his softening cock slipped out of you. Daemon groaned as the head of his cock popped out of your wet cunt, a string of his seed and your arousal still connecting the two of you. You reached down and wiped his seed from your thighs, the mixture coating your fingers.

"Now, I really have to clean you up." You giggled, standing up, your legs wobbly, and walking over to the washbasin, cleaning your hands, then bringing a clean cloth back to him.

"If I knew I would have such a dedicated nursemaid, I would have gotten wounded sooner." He joked, a grin spreading across his face.

You gently pushed his hands away, shaking your head and wiping his cock, and cleaning up the mess the two of you had made, a soft chuckle leaving you, "Now I have to sew you up again."

"Worth it." He shrugged, wincing slightly.

You sighed and shook your head, going back over to the washbasin and wetting the cloth, walking back to him, and dabbing at his chest and arms, trying to get the blood from the torn wounds.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea." You teased, gently running the cloth over the cuts and scrapes on his chest and shoulders, making sure the wounds were clean.

"It was a good idea," he retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, "I would gladly go through the pain and torment if it meant I could have my way with you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, replacing the bandages and checking the stitching on his wounds. He was right, it was nothing serious, just a few torn sutures.

"There," you murmured, stepping back and admiring your work. "Much better."

Daemon grinned and pulled you into his arms and you gently rested your head on his chest. You traced your fingers over his old scars, and the bandages that covered the newer ones, your eyelids growing heavy. He stroked your hair, a soft hum leaving him, reaching for your discarded robe to cover the two of you.

"We'll have to do this more often," he mused, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, as you shifted your head, placing a gentle kiss over the wound on his chest.

"Absolutely not," you replied, a teasing tone in your voice, "you're not allowed to get hurt anymore."

He scoffed, and held you tighter, kissing the top of your head, "I make no promises."

"I thought as much." You smiled, curling up closer to him. "Just promise you'll come back."

"Always." He murmured, closing his eyes and resting his head on yours.

You sighed, letting sleep take you, not wanting to move just yet. It wasn't long before the soft sounds of you and Daemon snoring filled the chambers, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you safe. Like he always did, like he always would.

[sanswstrk]

TO SANSA/JON FANDOM!

Hey everyone! I’m not sure how many of you remember this user, but lostlittlesatellites or batterydeaddotdot was a well-known Jonsa meta-writer in our fandom. Sadly, they deactivated, and as far as I know, we don’t really know why. A big chunk of their amazing work seems to have been lost, which was so sad for so many of us.

But here’s the good news: I recently discovered that some of their metas were saved on the "Way Back Machine" site! So, I put together a list of some of their pieces to share with all of you. My aim is to help preserve their contributions, spread the love within our fandom, and celebrate the incredible mind that has helped to shaped our fandom.

Quick disclaimer: I haven’t read every single meta, so I don’t necessarily agree with everything that’s written. My main goal is just to share this with you all. And I skiped GOT-related metas for this list. Enjoy diving into lostlittlesatellites/batterydeaddotdot’s work!

Some of their writings is already saved through some of those accounts: @/jonsameta & @/bookjonsa & @/esther-dot. Y’all can check! Here are the others:

BOOKS:

Sansa Stark: The Princess in the Tower

RLJ & Jonsa Payoff

Dragons, Snow and Armchairs

Can there be ONE ideal ruler?

Trojan War Literature influence on GRRM

The Red Comet: A Closer Look

Grey Dawn: Hour of the Wolf + Nightingale

To go forward you must look back: Dany’s tragic fall

Jon Snow as an Anti Hero

Val: A Subversion of BATB in Jon’s arc? + “something off about Val”

The Resurrection Problem

The Cost of Weaponizing Dragons For a Cause: Doran + Jon

There is Power in Living Wood: Bran’s role in the War

Valar Morghulis: Could Arya kill Dany?: Part 1 & Part 2

Stark Girls’ connections: To go forward you must go back

Fathers and Daughters

Sansa Stark: A Winter Rose?

Sansa Stark: A Girl in Glass

Sansa’s Fairytale and Myth allusions

The Blindspot of FPTP thread: Oversexualisation and overlooking age

Ask: Does “begging for a stranger’s kiss” foreshadow Sansa/Hound?

Deconstruction of BATB figures: He’s even uglier than the Hound

The Unkiss: The War Spilling Inside

Sansa’s repression of Jeyne

Alysanne: Paralleling Sansa + Contrasting Dany foreshadowing

A Song to Dodge A Kiss With a Blade (Part 1): Sansa/Hound and Jon/Ygritte ACOK comparisons

The Innocuous Nature of Jon/Sansa Foreshadowing

Snow: Lover’s Kisses

A Son by Marriage

1. Like a Lover; 2. Like a Kiss; 3. Kissed by Fire; 4. Burning Light and Dark Woods; 5. Intruders in Winterfell; 6. The Heart of Winterfell; 7. Fire: Hearth vs. Weapons

Dance of Dragons + Pact of Ice and Fire

Jonquils and Blue Roses

Horses and Flowers

Some Willowy Creature Who Sits Up in a Tower

A Union of the Old Gods and the New: Importance of understanding the Seven

Ask: Thoughts on Bridge4’s Video “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell”

Theories:

Bran as the Valonqar

History is a Wheel: Jon’s Rebellion

Jon’s Resurrection Repercussions

Dead Man with the Head of a Wolf: A Re-look

The Heart Tree of Winterfell: Tolkien influence

Complicating the Fantasy Battle: War Factions in the War for Dawn

Trail of Scrolls

Lady and the Ghost: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice

Sansa, the Vale and Mountain Clans: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4

Seasons of My Love

Jon’s Survival: Beginning of Subverting Westerosi Classism

Child of Flame and Shadow: Not a living child but a shadow child?

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice: Dany with Mirri and Melisandre

A Potential Wildcard Advisor: Bronze Yohn Royce and the Importance of the Vale

Why Ghost is unlikely to like Dany: Melisandre and Val in ADWD

Others:

Jonsa: Tolkien influences

Jonsa: A Good Endgame

Jonsa is happening because it's how GRRM's mind works

Jonsa’s Hints: On how antis ignore Jonsa foreshadowing

POV’S: Heros or not

House of the Undying and Quaithe for Dany & Mythology

Dany criticism 

Other links: about asoiaf; asoiaf metas; asoiaf theories + part 2

Anyone who has some of their writing saved can feel free to share! I would be thankful.

[happilyhertale]

The Quiet by the Fire – Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Summary: The last few weeks have been very stressful for your husband Daemon. Lots of council meetings and little one-on-one time took away the opportunity to relax. But you know how to help him unwind.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Blowjob

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

Word count: 1.9 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The corridors of the Red Keep are as still as the air outside, a biting cold that crept through the halls, settling into the bones. The torches lining the stone walls flicker and dance in the icy gusts that seem to seep from every crack. The warmth of the hearths in the chambers provides little comfort as winter claws at the edges of the castle.

You have been walking through the Keep for what feels like hours, searching. The echoes of your footsteps have been your only company, until at last, you find him. Daemon.

As you enter your shared chambers, the first thing you notice was the soft glow of firelight flickering against the walls, casting long shadows. The room is quiet, too quiet—nothing like the usual chaotic bustle of court life or the hurried, harried days Daemon has been enduring recently.

There, seated in a large chair by the fire, is Daemon. His black leathers, the ones he usually wears in moments of war and conflict, are replaced by a simpler tunic, his sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. He isn‘t usually one to sit idly by a fire, yet here he is, his back relaxed, eyes focused on the pages of a book. The glow from the fire catches the sharp angles of his face, his silver hair catching the light. The usual sharp edge of his gaze is soft, more serene, as though the world outside this chamber no longer exists.

For a moment, you simply watch him. He seems... tranquil. At peace.

You move closer, the chill of the hall still lingering on your skin.

Daemon’s head turns as you walk further into the room, and his lips curl into that signature smirk of his. The one you have come to know so well, one that speaks volumes without a word.

You can't help but smile back. "I’ve searched every corner of the Keep," you tease, taking a step forward. "You’re not easy to find these days."

“Ah, I have my hiding spots,” he replies, his grin widening as he sets down the book on the table.

"I’m surprised you’re not out there, causing chaos," you say, as you settle into a seat beside him, your knees brushing his.

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich and full, warming the room even more than the fire could. “The chaos has been… persistent enough without my help.” His tone shifts slightly, darker, as his hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers gently threading through your hair. “And besides, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you know the answer. Daemon has always been full of surprises.

“Hmm,” Daemon grins again, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Yes. I’ve had enough of the world for the moment. Enough of the courts and the politics. Enough of everything, except for you.” His fingers slide to your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. “You know, there are few things in this world that can still my restless nature. But you, my love… You have a way of doing it.”

His words are gentle, but laced with that familiar heat, the one that could turn a tender moment into something much more.

You lean into his touch, the quiet that surrounded you both seeming like a strange luxury.

The fire crackles softly, and you let the warmth seep into your bones as you watche him—his face lit by the flickering flames, his silver hair shining even brighter in the dim light.

"You’ve been stressed," you observe, your voice soft. It isn‘t a question; it is a truth you both knew. “You don’t look it now, but I can see it in your eyes when you think I’m not watching.”

“Thats true,” he agrees. “But you know, sometimes… I long for something simpler.” His thumb gently traces the line of your jaw, and for a brief, quiet moment, the weight of his words settles in the space between you. “Something… like this.”

The calm of the room settles over you both, and you can feel the tension of his usual restlessness slowly melts away in your presence.

“So,” Daemon begins again, his voice returning to that cheeky tone you know so well, “now that you’ve found me, what will you do?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the day lift. “Maybe I’ll stay here,” you whisper, leaning closer to him. “And keep you company”

Daemon's grin widenes, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer, the warmth of his embrace stronger than the fire that burned beside you.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

For a moment, Daemon remains silent, his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, though you could sense his awareness of you in every breath he takes. His other hand, the one not holding you, idly traces the fabric of your gown, the tips of his fingers brushing over your shoulder and down your arm, as if exploring you in a way that is both familiar and new.

The room is warm now, not just from the fire, but from the shared closeness that has begin to envelope you both.

Daemon pulls you closer into his chest, an action so characteristically possessive that it makes you smile.

You can feel his breath against your ear, warm and steady, and you shiver slightly, from the intimacy of the moment. His touch is different now—gentler, more insistent in a way that makes your pulse quicken, even as his demeanor remains calm, almost contemplative. The stress, the frustrations that have hardened him in recent weeks seem to melt away in the simple act of holding you close.

His hand, which has been tracing idle patterns on your arm, slowly moves to your side, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist. The touch, light at first, soon becomes more deliberate, as if coaxing something from you—something that you know he needs but would never outright ask for.

"You’ve been a comfort to me," Daemon murmurs, "But you know, sometimes... I need more than just your presence."

You lift your gaze, meeting his eyes, and see the flicker of something familiar: that mischievous gleam, the same one he wears when he is being naughty. It is no surprise that Daemon’s playful nature can’t stay dormant for long.

You lean back slightly, enough to see his face fully. “What are you saying, Daemon?”

He shifts, pulling you closer again, so that his face is hovering near yours, his lips barely an inch from your ear. His breath is warm, his presence overwhelming. "I’m saying," he purrs, "that I need you to take my mind off things. The stress. The politics. Everything." His fingers, now trailing down to the small of your back, hold you tighter, as if marking you as his. "You have a way of doing that, don’t you?"

"You want me to take it away?" you ask, your voice teasing, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Daemon’s grin is unmistakable, "That’s what I said."

You feel his body shift as he sits up slightly, his hands roaming with purpose, but his touch still tender enough to draw out that soft side of him that so few got to see. His lips graze your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and then hover just below your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

His words laced with both frustration and desire. "I have too much to think about. But when I’m with you…" He pauses, his voice darkening. "It’s different. I don’t need to think. I just need to feel."

The warmth of his body, the way his fingers lingers over your skin, is intoxicating. It isn’t just about the touch anymore—it is the quiet urgency in his actions, the way he can’t seem to help himself as he pulls you even closer, his body pressing against yours with that same undeniable hunger that is both possessive and desperate. You smile at him before sliding off the sofa. He watches you, seeming confused for a second. But then he feels you unbuttoning his trousers. A smile plays around his lips, “It seems to me you already have an idea how you could help me relax.”

You just smile and Daemon lifts his hips so you can pull his pants down. You bite your lip lightly as you release his semi-hard length from his pants.

His hand slides into your hair, gently gripping it while your hand glides along his length. You lean forward and your lips glide along his length. Daemon sighs lightly, leaning back slightly as you work your way up to his tip. You feel him get harder, his cock twitching slightly.

Your lips wrap around his tip and he growls as you suck lightly. “Oh Love... I think this helps me relax,” he murmurs and his hand slides further into your hair, gripping lightly. Inch by inch you take his length deeper into your mouth. A salty taste spreads across your tongue and Daemon growls. You swirl your tongue around the flesh, dipping into the slit every now and then to get him to moan.

You take his cock out of your mouth, your hand slides up and down while your tongue continues to play with his head. Daemon growls again and his hips push up slightly, you know that he is getting impatient. But you want to tease him. You continue to gently suck on his tip, denying him full pleasure.

“Don't tease me,” he murmurs, and you try to suppress a smile. But you take his length back into your mouth, take him deeper. Slowly you drag your lips down his shaft until you are tearing up and close to choking before pulling up and repeating this motion.

Daemon grunts with relief, but his hand tightens. But then you choke slightly as he suddenly thrusts up. You want to protest, but he thrusts again. His hand holds your head while he fucks you in the mouth. You try to breathe calmly, but you moan. Your throat clenches around the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, yes!” Daemon growls as you choke again. Your hands slide onto his thighs, supporting you as he fucks your mouth. Daemon grunts and you feel more and more precum filling your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes and you feel his cock twitch. You suck and try to take control again, but Daemon has you firmly in his grasp.

Your one hand lightly grabs his balls, massaging them while you suck. Daemon growls and thrusts violently into your throat. You gag and at that moment Daemon comes, spilling his cum deep into your throat.

He growls and grunts, thrusting his hips forward until the last drop of his seed has left his length. You try to swallow everything, but you can't prevent some of the cum from leaking out of your mouth. You are breathing heavily, but like a good wife, you lick along his cock until you have captured all the remains of his juice. Slowly you release his still slightly twitching length from your mouth.

You wipe your mouth and look at him. He's breathing heavily, his eyes are closed. His hand is still in your hair, but slowly your grip loosens, sliding down to your cheek. His eyes are still closed until you turn your head and kiss the palm of his hand. His eyes open slightly and he smiles.

Slowly he pulls you back up onto the sofa and you follow his movement. As soon as you are sitting on the sofa, he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your hair while he still tries to catch his breath.

[ms-snape]

young!sevrus snape w/ a reader who is a very affectionate person? gives him hugs, peppers his face with kisses, holds his hand, plays with his hair whenever his head is in her lap…

Title: Affection

Warning: none, just pure fluff

Words Count: 1500+

Masterlist

---

The dungeons of Hogwarts were always cold, but tonight, the chill of the stone walls seemed to seep into the bones of the students gathered in the Slytherin common room. It was a typical Friday evening, the flickering flames of the fire casting long shadows across the room as most of the house’s occupants gathered in their usual places. But for once, Severus Snape wasn’t by himself.

He had, against every instinct, allowed himself to settle into a corner of the common room with Y/N, another member of Slytherin. At first, she had been nothing more than an occasional study partner—sharp, clever, and slightly aloof in her own right. But over the course of months, something had changed between them. The terse exchanges had turned into quieter moments, and the shared glances had deepened into something far more meaningful, something that neither of them had been prepared for.

Severus’s head rested in Y/N’s lap, her fingers idly threading through his messy, dark hair as she absently read a book about potion theory. He was still tense under her touch, as he always had been, but tonight there was a subtle difference—a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before.

Y/N had never been shy about her affections. She was a Slytherin, after all. She understood the value of power, of control. But she also knew that there were moments when something more than ambition was required: moments where the heart could soften, where people needed warmth to survive the cold of the world around them. And Severus—Severus was someone who needed warmth. A warmth that, at first, had been too much for him to accept.

At first, she had hesitated. She wasn’t used to being tender with anyone, especially not someone like Severus. He had always been the quiet, brooding Slytherin who sat at the back of the classroom, his black robes swirling as he walked, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He wasn’t like the other boys she had dated. He was different. But there was something in his eyes—something broken and raw—that drew her to him in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

It had started with small gestures: a nudge of his shoulder in the library, a casual touch on his arm when she helped him with a potion assignment, the accidental brush of her hand against his as they passed in the hallway. Each time, Severus had stiffened, and his eyes had darted around to make sure no one else was watching. He was not the kind of person who let others in, and he certainly wasn’t used to the soft touches she gave him. But she had been patient, slowly making him realize that maybe, just maybe, he deserved tenderness too.

Tonight, however, was a new step in their relationship. As Y/N’s fingers worked through the dark strands of his hair, she could feel his body gradually relaxing beneath her. His breath had slowed, the hard line of his jaw softening, though his eyes were still closed, his face unreadable. She smiled softly to herself, savoring the quiet moment.

"Sev," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "You’re so tense."

He let out a low grunt, a barely audible sound that she had learned to recognize as an attempt to deflect. But this time, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his head tilted slightly, pressing a bit more into her lap.

Y/N’s fingers danced across the back of his neck, smoothing out the tension she found there. She could tell it wasn’t just his body that was tense—there was a quiet war inside of him, one that never seemed to let up. She had learned over time that Severus wasn’t used to kindness, especially not the kind she was offering. He had always expected the worst from people, and she suspected that the idea of someone being affectionate with him, expecting nothing in return, was as foreign to him as sunlight in the dungeons.

"I don’t know how you do it," Severus muttered, his voice muffled against her lap. "How you’re so... patient with me. People like me don’t deserve that."

Y/N stopped, her fingers stilling in his hair as she gazed down at him. Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, at the way he saw himself. She bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, just above his dark hair, before looking back at him.

"You do deserve it, Severus," she said softly, her thumb brushing across his cheek, her gaze sincere. "You deserve kindness. You deserve everything."

Severus’s eyes flickered open, a rare crack in his stoic demeanor, and Y/N felt her chest tighten at the rawness she saw in his gaze. For the briefest moment, it almost felt as though he was going to argue, to pull away and retreat behind his familiar armor of sarcasm and bitterness. But instead, his lips parted in a half-hearted sigh, and he allowed himself to relax once again, his hand reaching out and briefly touching hers.

Days turned into weeks, and the relationship between Severus and Y/N deepened, though not without its complications. They were both Slytherins, and in many ways, that made them more alike than different. Ambition, power, and cunning ran through their veins like blood, and neither of them had ever been the type to show vulnerability in front of others. But in the quiet moments, when the rest of the world was out of view, their bond became something entirely different.

They were never overt in public, never flaunting their affection like some of the couples who seemed to crave attention. They were more subtle, quieter. Y/N’s fingers would graze his during class, or she would pass him a quiet smile from across the room. They spoke in private whispers in dark corners of the library or in the shadows of the dungeons, where no one could overhear their conversations.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal double Potions class with the Gryffindors, Y/N had found Severus sitting alone on a bench near the black lake, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared out at the rippling water. She had approached him slowly, her footsteps light on the damp grass, and when she sat beside him, he had glanced at her but didn’t say anything.

She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment. His posture was stiff, his eyes narrowed, as if he were deep in thought—or perhaps deep in frustration.

"Sev," she said, her voice breaking the silence, "you’re brooding again."

Severus snorted quietly, though his lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. "You’re one to talk," he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth curling upward. "I’m not the one staring into the abyss of my soul, am I?"

Severus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but this time, there was no bitterness in his expression—just something soft, something almost amused.

For a brief moment, they sat there in silence, the cool breeze sweeping through the air, ruffling the trees and the edges of their robes. Y/N reached out, gently taking his hand in hers, her thumb tracing the lines of his palm. It was an intimate gesture, but it was something they had done often over the past few weeks.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Severus murmured again, his voice quieter this time. He looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers with a depth that made her heart skip a beat. “How do you make it look so easy? This... this affection. I’ve never had it before.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in closer, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just beneath his ear. His skin was warm, and for a moment, she could feel the tension that had once been so ingrained in him begin to dissolve.

“You deserve it, Sev,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “All of it. You deserve all the affection I have to give.”

Severus didn’t respond at first. His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might withdraw, retreat into the shadows as he had done so many times before. But then, slowly, his hand tightened around hers, his fingers brushing across her skin in the most gentle of ways.

"Then… maybe I’ll let you give it to me," he said quietly, his voice almost shy.

It was a small step. But it was the beginning of something new—a slow unraveling of the walls Severus had built around himself, piece by piece, kiss by kiss. And Y/N, for all her cunning and ambition, found herself willing to take it slow. Because for once, she wasn’t after power or success. She just wanted him.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Severus had started to want her too.

Weeks later, as winter settled over Hogwarts, the two of them had fallen into a familiar rhythm. The touches had become more frequent, the kisses more tender. Even though they were both Slytherins—carefully calculating and often ruthless in their own ways—there was an unspoken understanding between them: in this space, away from the world, they could let their guards down. They didn’t have to be the cold, calculating snakes everyone else expected them to be.

In the quiet moments by the fire or beneath the shadow of the castle walls, when no one else was watching, Severus and Y/N had created their own world. And in that world, there was no need for masks. There was only warmth, affection, and the growing sense that they had found something rare and precious—something that didn’t need to be dissected or justified. It just was.

And that was enough.

[zuvluguu]

Here's to the bridge-builders, the hand-holders, the light-bringers, those extraordinary souls wrapped in ordinary lives who quietly weave threads of humanity into an inhumane world. They are the unsung heroes in a world at war with itself. They are the whisperers of hope that peace is possible. Look for them in this present darkness.

Light your candle with their flame. And then go. Build bridges.

Hold hands. Bring light to a dark and desperate world. Be the hero you are looking for. Peace is possible. It begins with us.

~L.R. Knost

[fanged-fanfics]

💕 LMK Fic Masterlist 💕

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆˚｡⋆୨🌈୧⋆˚｡⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

Key:

♡ - Fluff

♧ - Hurt/Comfort

♤ - Angst

◇ - Platonic

☆ - Comedy

Traffic Light Trio:

Crushing Headcanons (MK x GN Reader) ♡

Defending the Successor (MK x Fem Reader) ♡

Dating Headcanons (Red Son x GN Reader) ♡

Fire On the Tongue (Red Son x Fem Reader) ♡

The Flame Prince's Heir (Red Son x Fiance!GN Reader) ♡/♤

Date Night (Mei x Fem Reader) ♡

Take a Break, Eh? (Mei x Calm!GN Reader) ♡

Life at Home (Red Son x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Monkey Boyfriends (MK x Monkey!Masc Reader) ♡

A Fanbase of Three (Traffic Light Trio x Band Member!Reader) ♡

Healing a Trio (Traffic Light Trio x Healer!GN Reader) ♡

To Calm a Monkey Kid (MK x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Gold Threaded Webs (MK x Spider Demon!GN Reader) ♡

Flickers Left Unsaid (Red Son x Childhood Friend!GN Reader) ♡

Eclipse/Sundial Duo:

Guard Dog Headcanons (Macaque x Fem Reader) ♡

Oh, to Dance With You (Macaque x Dancer!Fem Reader) ♡

Child of The Shadow (Macaque x Parent!GN Reader) ♡

To Raise a Cub (Macaque & Cub!Reader) ☆

To Raise a Cub Pt2 (Macaque & Teen!Cub! Reader) ☆

To Raise a Warrior (Macaque x Parent!GN Reader) ♡

Brainrot Slang (GN Reader) ☆

Smitten Sparring (Fighter!Fem Reader) ♡

First Relationship (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Clingy Clones (Wukong x Masc Reader) ♡

Brainrot Slang 2 (Wukong x GN Reader) ☆

Sleep Aid (Wukong x Overworked!GN Reader) ♡

Flustered in Love (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Proposal Headcanons (Wukong x Fem Reader) ♡

Stakes and Mis-skates (Wukong x Fem Reader) ♡

Little Peach Speaks (Wukong x Parent!GN Reader) ♡/◇

A King's Form (Wukong x Mystic Monkey!GN Reader) ♡

Heavy Is The Crown That Crushes The Head (Wukong x GN Reader) ♧

A King's Petty Sqaubbling (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Other Demons:

A New Chance (Xiangliu x Celestial!GN Reader) ♡

Post-S3 Headcanons (Mayor x Masc Reader) ♡/♤

At the Edge Of the World (Xiangliu x GN Reader) ♡

Celestials:

Dating Headcanons (Fem Reader) ♡

Spider Clan:

Spoiling Headcanons ( Spider Queen x Fem Reader) ♡

Two of a Kind (Syntax x GN Reader) ♡

The Brotherhood:

Of Fur and Feathers (Azure x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Nesting Headcanons ( Peng x GN Reader) ♡

Others:

Dating Headcanons (Camel Ridge Trio x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Morning Routine Headcanons (Spicynoodles x GN Reader) ♡

Two Troubling Bozos (GoldFlame Duo x Masc Reader) ♡

Dress to Impress (StoneFruit Trio x GN Reader) ☆

Doors (StoneFruit Trio x GN Reader) ☆

Bedtime (Sundial Duo x Overworked!GN Reader) ♡

Lost to The Ice (Spicynoodles x GN Reader) ♤

Cuddle Headcanons (Sundial Duo x Fem Reader) ♡

Dating Headcanons (PartyFavors Duo x GN Reader) ♡

A Solution Takes Three (Sundial Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Health Issues (Sundial Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Rage Quit (Sundial Duo x Masc Reader) ♡

Nerds At War (FireWall Duo x GN Reader) ♡

LMK Characters as Queerplatonic Partners (LMK x GN Reader) ♡/◇

LMK Characters as Queerplatonic Partners 2 (LMK x GN Reader) ♡/◇

A Crown Fit for A King (And A Warrior) (Eclipse Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Songbird (Eclipse Duo x Male Reader) ♡

Peace of Mind (Firewall Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Wild Night (Jackfruit Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Pretty Bird (Macaque/Monkey King/Xiangliu x Phoenix!GN Reader) ♡

Resting and Rejuvenating (GoldFlame Duo x GN Reader) ♡

[starogeorgina]

𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞

The king’s queen and hand

Paring: Aegon ii Targaryen × reader x Ser Criston Cole

Warnings: Swearing, smut

“Anyone walking by would think I have invited a whore from the streets of Silk into our bed.”

You swat at Aegon’s arm, “shush.”

The playfulness in your husband's voice brings a smile to your face. He has been attending small council meetings until late hours most nights discussing war plans, and by the time he returns to your shared apartments, you are fast asleep, so the intimacy has been lacking, and you crave nothing more than Aegon’s attention.

With your back pressed against his chest, you feel a vibrating ripple from him as he chuckles, “Am I wrong?”

“Oh gods,” you whine loudly, gripping onto Aegon’s wrist as he speeds up his movements of sliding two fingers in and out of your dripping cunny while rubbing his thumb over your sensitive clit. His free hand is squeezing roughly at your clothed breast.

Aegon grazes his teeth against the back of your neck; he loved how obnoxiously loud you were being.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and your body shudders with pleasure. “You're doing so well, taking my fingers,” Aegon whispers. “But I think you're ready to take more.”

“I want all of you, now.”

“Patience sweet wife,” he removes his fingers from you, leaving you with an ache between your legs that was verging on painful. “I have a surprise for you.”

A tingling sensation shoots through you. Aegon shuffles further back on the large bed that dominates the room until he hits the pillows, then motions for you to do the same. Your hand skims across the soft velvety emerald green sheet below, which matches the canopy adorned with gold thread and embroidered with intricate symbols including burning flames and dragons, before you sit between your husband's thick thighs again.

Hearing the clicking sound of the door closing, your head snaps up, and you lock eyes with the king's hand, who was wearing comfortable clothing instead of his usual armor. “Ser Criston,” heat rushes to cheeks; you were thankful that you hadn’t begun to undress yet. “I wasn’t expecting to see you; the hour is late.”

Criston stares at you for a long moment, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Forgive the intrusion, your grace, but the king requested I come at this hour.”

You sit upright and look over your shoulder to face your husband. “Aegon?”

The candlelight flickers softly, casting shadows across the room making your brother-husband's lilac eyes glisten, and his expression even harder to read than normal. In high Valyrian Aegon says he knows about your conflicting feelings towards the knight, who was not only the hand of the king, but your former sworn protector.

Your mouth goes dry. “What is your suggestion?”

It was common for the occasional lady to join you and Aegon between the sheets since you both found pleasure from it, but never before has it been suggested that another man joined. You assumed the surprise he mentioned would be a new toy, oil, or even a new outfit designed for your husband’s eyes only.

Aegon licks his lips, “for the king's hand to fuck you. Is this something you want?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What do you say, Ser Criston? I see the way you look at my wife, and until the war is won, I cannot always be here to protect or satisfy her myself.”

Licking at his lips, Ser Criston looks down at the ground.

You lean forward and mumble into Aegon’s cheek, “I don’t believe he wishes—”

In the blink of an eye the knight is standing at the foot of the bed, “I believe what you are suggesting would be improper my king, I do not wish to offend her grace.”

Aegon reaches his hands down over your shoulders and slowly unlaces the front of your dress, revealing your breasts. “You can leave anytime Cole, or join me in pleasing our queen.”

The sexual tension in the air thickens as Aegon’s hand brushes against your thigh, slowly pulling your skirts up higher sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You could feel the heat emanating from your husband's body as his soft stomach pressed into your lower back, fuelling your desire. In a low voice you say, “no offense would or will be given Ser Criston.”

Aegon smirks against your neck.

Kneeling on the bed, Cristion’s eyes widen in anticipation as he stretches his arm out to slowly reach out to touch your breast. He traces his fingers over your nipples, causing them to harden under his touch. Sensing Criston was nervous, you decided to take the lead. You grip Aegon’s hand and press it against your other breasts; his touch is a lot rougher than the knights. You raise your skirts enough until your cunny is completely bare.

“My wife is wet and desperate to be touched.” Aegon rubs his thumb against your clit again, causing you to whimper. “Get on with it, Cole, or this chance will slip away.”

Criston seems lost in thought as he stares off for a moment as if he’s contemplating what to do. You half expected him to excuse himself and leave, but the knight surprises you by suddenly untying his breeches and lowering them enough that his hard cock springs free.

Aegon gives you a mischievous grin and says, “You’re going to enjoy this, my queen.”

You respond by clashing your lips against his while instinctively moving your legs open to make space for the knight. Criston presses the tip of his hard cock against your dripping hole, pushing into you slowly and stretching out your tight walls.

You moan at the stretch, “Oh gods!”

Criston grips your chin, turning your head away to face him so he can kiss you. His lips are softer than you imagined. Aegon hooks his hands under your knees to bend them back, opening you wider as Criston speeds up his thrusts.

Lightly, you tap at Aegon’s thigh and motion for him to move to the side. You lay completely flat on your back and fumble to pull his breeches down. You take Aegon’s cock in your hand and begin to stroke him before licking at his tip and taking him into your mouth.

“My queen, your cunt is so tight.”

Your free hand finds Cristion, linking fingers with his as his thrusts become sloppy. If your mouth wasn’t muffled by cock, you’d be moaning both of their names.

“Fuck!” Criston pulls out just as he cums, coating the outside of your cunny and thigh with his seed.

“It’s your mess, Cole; clean it up.”

When Criston goes to reach for a cloth, Aegon clicks his tongue and says, “With your mouth. And don’t stop until she cums.”

Without argument, Criston kneels between your legs and licks up your slit, tasting your wetness mixed with his seed eagerly. This continues for a few months until both you and Aegon climax at the same time, and his cum spills down your throat as your juices cover the knight's face.

—

You bask in the comfort of your husband's arms and the warmth from the water covering you from the chest down.

“May I ask what is in the box?”

A dark red leather box had been placed on the small table near your tub by one of your ladies a few hours prior. You were so exhausted from your activities the night before that you hadn’t had a chance to gift the item inside yet.

Stretching out, you lean further into his embrace. “I will deal with it shortly.”

“And which one of our children is this for?”

“It’s not for the babies. I’ve got a new collar made for my dragon.”

Aegon nuzzles his face into your neck, “dragon and children alike are spoiled just like their mother.”

“Me? Spoiled?”

He nods, “Not only do you have me wrapped around your finger, it appears the king's hand is bewitched by the sweetness between your legs also.”

“Hmm, I do hope so.”

[nomie-11]

The Wounded Healer, The Drowned, and The Guilty Masterlist (completed, under editing!)

The Empyrean Book 1: Fourth Wing - Xaden Riorson x OC, Violet Sorrengail x Liam Mairi

Read Book 2 Here!

Word Count: 147.9k Chapter: 28/28

In the dark, suffocating confines of a basement dungeon, Genevieve Hale has spent over a year enduring relentless torture at the hands of Lilith Sorrengail. Her only companions are the stars she's etched into the ceiling—symbols of the hope she once had. But when Lilith offers a twisted deal that promises freedom in exchange for betrayal, Genevieve is forced to confront a future she never imagined. Now, set to become a rider at Basgiath War College, Genevieve emerges from captivity not as a broken prisoner, but as a weapon forged in pain and driven by a burning desire for vengeance. As she steps into the light, a dangerous resolve takes hold—Lilith Sorrengail will pay, and no one will stand in her way.

Chapter 1 -Chains of Starlight* (rewritten!)

Chapter 2 - Into the Storm* (rewritten!)

Chapter 3 - Secrets at Sunrise* (rewritten!)

Chapter 4 - The Dance of Survival

Chapter 5 - The Unyielding Duel

Chapter 6 - Echoing of Silent Screams

Chapter 7 - Forged in Flames

Chapter 8 - So What?

Chapter 9 - The Freedom of Wings

Chapter 10 - Shifting Tides

Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

Chapter 12 - Above the Clouds, Beneath the Earth

Chapter 13 - An Inferno of Desire

Chapter 14 - Threads Unraveling

Chapter 15 - A Moment of Peace

Chapter 16 - Whispers of Winter

Chapter 17 - The Pursuit of Knowledge

Chapter 18 - The Scrutiny of a Sorrengail

Chapter 19 - Shadows of Secrets

Chapter 20 - The Silent Clash Before the Fall

Chapter 21 - A Renaissance of a Heart

Chapter 22 - To Take a Leap of Faith

Chapter 23 - Between the Fading Stars and Fireworks

Chapter 24 - The Double-Edged Dagger

Chapter 25 - When Death Waits Just Beyond The Horizon

Chapter 26 - Shadows of Blue and Silver

Chapter 27 - Starchild Rising

Epilogue - Unsent Correspondence from the Desk of Late Rider Cadet Liam Mairi

[novaursa]

https://youtu.be/SAxxvlU4o8M?si=A4kzQAl-VmQXZ90V

Can you write this scene but reader!targaryen is married to Oberyn Martell? 👀

Sunspear's Flame

- Summary: You arrive with Oberyn to the capital for the royal wedding. But that was not all you came for.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Oberyn Martell

- Note: The reader is the younger sister of Rhaegar that survived Robert's Rebellion, as she lived in Sunspear during it.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Without further context beyond the link and in attempt stay close to the canon world of ASOIAF/GOT this was the best I could do.

The heat of the Red Keep presses down upon you like the grip of a dragon’s talon, familiar and suffocating. The sun hangs high, casting the shadow of the city’s walls across the cobbled streets as your party makes its way toward the gates. The last time you saw the capital, it was burning under the rebellion’s fury, and now, it simmers with the fevered anticipation of another royal wedding.

You ride beside Oberyn, his dark eyes scanning the city with the sharpness of a blade. His grip on the reins is steady, but you sense the tension thrumming beneath his composed exterior. His fury is always close to the surface when it comes to matters of your family and Dorne's losses. And you—Y/N Targaryen, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, sister of Rhaegar—bear a tempest of your own, carefully concealed behind your gaze. The memories of your brother’s fall, of your family’s ruin, burn like wildfire beneath your skin.

The Martell delegation rides in colors of red and gold, the sun and spear of Dorne vivid against the sky. Your children, seated on smaller mounts, ride behind you, their faces drawn with the solemnity of the occasion. The streets are lined with onlookers, their whispers threading through the air as you pass, a symphony of curiosity and unease. House Martell has not come to King’s Landing since the war, and now, your presence is a reminder of old wounds yet to heal.

As you approach the towering gates, you see the Lannister banners flapping in the breeze. The city guards, clad in crimson cloaks, stand rigid, watching your approach with wary eyes. And there, at the entrance, you catch sight of him—Tyrion Lannister, flanked by his sellsword Bronn and a small entourage of the royal court. The Imp’s sharp gaze meets yours, a flash of recognition crossing his features before his lips curl into a sardonic smile.

“Prince Oberyn, Lady Y/N,” Tyrion calls out as you dismount, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. “King’s Landing is honored by your presence.” His tone is courteous, but there is an undercurrent of wariness, as if he is bracing for the storm he knows you carry.

You step forward, your gown—a deep, Targaryen black edged with the orange of Dorne—whispering against the stones. Oberyn is at your side, his presence a blazing sun to your cool flame. “The honor is ours, Lord Tyrion,” you reply, your voice steady. “It has been too long since we have graced the capital with our presence.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flick between you and Oberyn, his smile tight. “Indeed. I trust your journey was uneventful?”

A smile, sharp as Valyrian steel, tugs at Oberyn’s lips. “For the most part. Though the closer we came to the city, the more it stank of Lannisters and Tyrells. A reminder of the filth that needs to be cleansed.”

There is no mistaking the venom in his words. The guards bristle, hands inching toward their weapons, but Tyrion merely raises a placating hand. “Prince Oberyn, let us not mar this joyous occasion with hostility. We are all here for the same reason, are we not? To celebrate my nephew’s wedding.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkens, and you feel the shift in his stance, the barely restrained fury that has always burned within him since Elia’s brutal death. “Are we, Lord Tyrion? Perhaps Dorne comes with another purpose.”

Silence falls, the tension thick and stifling. Tyrion’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “What purpose might that be?”

“To see justice done,” you interject, your voice ringing clear as a bell. You step closer, your gaze fixed on Tyrion. “For what was done to my family. To my brother, to my sister-by-marriage. To their children.” The words are knives, each one thrown with precision, and Tyrion flinches, just slightly.

Oberyn’s hand finds yours, a brief, fierce squeeze that grounds you. “Dorne remembers, Lord Tyrion. And we do not forgive or forget. I am here to ensure that the wrongs against my family are set right.” His eyes flick to you, then back to Tyrion. “And to remind you all that there is a true heir to the throne, one with the blood of dragons and the sun.”

Tyrion’s gaze shifts between you and Oberyn, calculating. “I see.” His voice is measured, the mask of the diplomat slipping back into place. “You know, there are many in this city who would see your claim contested, Lady Y/N. Many who believe that Robert Baratheon’s victory was… final.”

You meet his gaze, the fire of your blood rising. “The usurper is dead. His bastards are dead. And his children are no more than the spawn of incest and lies. The people will see the truth in time.” You take a step closer, feeling the weight of generations behind you, the legacy of fire and blood. “We have come to support the rightful claim, and we will not be silent.”

Tyrion studies you for a long moment, then inclines his head. “Your words are bold, Lady Y/N. But bold words often lead to sharp ends in this city. I hope you and your family will find your stay here… comfortable.”

“Comfort was never our aim,” Oberyn cuts in, his smile dangerous. “But I appreciate your concern, Lord Tyrion. Rest assured, Dorne can take care of itself.”

The anomasity is palpable as the two men lock gazes, a silent battle of wills. Then, with a slight bow, Tyrion steps back, gesturing toward the gates. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Prince Oberyn, Lady Y/N. May your stay be… eventful.”

You and Oberyn exchange a glance, and he gives you a small, reassuring nod. This is only the beginning. The game has begun, and the pieces are in place. As you step through the gates of the city that was once your home, you feel the stirrings of something ancient and powerful within you.

Fire and blood. Justice and vengeance. You are a Targaryen, and this is only the first move.

[sapphoscreature]

Caitlyn and the Grey- Symbolism

I think it’s interesting to consider the Grey, within the narrative, as symbolic of Caitlyn’s character arc throughout Act 1, and how she is influenced by and influences the wider context.

The Grey is, I think, a morally grey choice. Its symbolism and use encapsulate the tensions at the time both within Caitlyn’s character and within the wider context of Piltover and Zaun. It also preludes the outcome of Act 1, and where this leads Caitlyn, Piltover, and Zaun.

I’ve tried my best to unpick the threads which twine together in the narrative, but this is only my interpretation and there are aspects I may have missed. Along the same line, I have decided to focus on Caitlyn, so my analysis of why other characters (like Jinx and Vi) make their choices is not as in-depth, and definitely deserve their own analysis.

(I made an earlier post about Caitlyn & the Grey, but some of my wording was a bit shoddy and the analysis not as explored as it could have been. I hope this offers something better.)

Caitlyn- loss, the crown, and vengeance:

Following the attack on the council which kills her mother, Caitlyn is grappling with her emotions.

She feels a deep, deep grief for the loss of her mother. She is also guilt-ridden, blaming herself for not stopping Jinx whilst she could- ‘I had the shot.’

And she is angry. Incredibly angry. Jinx is the target of her anger- literally; Caitlyn fantasises about shooting her. ‘I want to tear that laugh from her throat forever.’ Clearly, she wants some kind of vengeance.

On top of this, she now has the ‘legacy’ of the Kiramman house sitting on her shoulders. Guilt-ridden, she admits to her father she feels neither ready nor deserving of becoming the matriarch. But nonetheless, people are now looking to her. Her father can collapse at the funeral, but she must stand tall. The only people she admits vulnerability to are those closest to her- Jayce and Vi (especially Vi emotionally, crying in her arms).

The crown is heavy, the grief is drowning her, but Caitlyn does recognise that her anger is having a negative influence on her thinking. ‘I know,’ she says to Jayce he expresses alarm at her desire for revenge (this is a line I will come back to later).  

And that self-reflection is important to consider, too. Caitlyn in season 1 is intelligent and perceptive, and recognises in her succinct, direct manner both her own ignorance to and the extent to which the Piltover/Zaun divide stretches. ‘This city needs healing. More than I ever realised.’ ‘Please,’ she asks Ekko, ‘let me help you,’ or else, ‘the cycle of violence will never stop.’

Following the council attack, some kind of conflict does, unfortunately, seem inevitable between the two cities. Whether this be all-out war or not, the cycle continues. But whilst Caitlyn is impacted by the attack, she retains being driven by the same empathy and perception which made her open to recognising her own ignorance.

Both Caitlyn and Mel are reluctant that a full-scale invasion of Zaun occur, knowing this was the act of a ‘single deranged individual’ and that ‘innocents could be caught in the cross fire.’

With Ambessa’s interjection, however, the invasion is set to go ahead, although without the use of Hextech.

Ambessa fans flames further by aiding the chem-baron attack on the memorial service. And this attack exacerbates all of Caitlyn’s negative emotions.

The pressure on her shoulders as the Kiramman heir, her guilt, her grief. Her anger, absolutely. I think that this is when they become the prevailing emotions which influence her choices and cloud her self-perception, as well as her perception of others.  

And this is when things get grey.

Establishing the Strike team:

Caitlyn and Vi’s relationship in Act 1 definitely deserves its own deep dive. I’m painfully aware I’m not giving it the attention it deserves here. But, for the sake of brevity, I think, for Caitlyn, Vi anchors her to the self-reflection she is beginning to lose sight of.

Following the memorial attack, Vi is looking for the Caitlyn she knows, the Caitlyn who took on the council in season 1. The Caitlyn who, after that failed, was ready to make a new plan and ‘fix’ things. The Caitlyn who was a misfit to her own society. The Caitlyn she fell for.

But Caitlyn is hemmed in by the Kiramman pressure and her emotional struggles. Vi urges her to stop the invasion- this will only lead to more hurt on both sides- but Caitlyn cannot think of how to ‘fix’ things. ‘She dies and leaves this giant hole, and I’m just supposed to fill it.’

She needs Vi to anchor her. ‘Everything is falling apart,’ she laments. ‘We won’t let it,’ Vi promises. She retains that connection, that grounding and belief in Caitlyn, in the woman she knows (and loves). They can stop the invasion, take matters into their own hands.

This holding onto their optimism to ‘fix’ things remains important, even as tensions are incredibly heightened after the memorial attack. Even as they are trapped in these tensions, part of the cycle. The choices they make becoming part of the cycle.

It’s a battle within itself. Vi is trying to hold onto Caitlyn for as long as she can throughout Act 1. And Caitlyn is still there, but she is battling with herself. With her grief, guilt, and anger.

And as they devise their plan, we see Caitlyn at the Kiramman archives. She is taking up the mantle. She uses the literal symbol of her family- their key- to discover the archives, the vents, and the Grey.

The Grey reflects back on her face, her pensive expression. In an earlier post, I said this represented the dark path Caitlyn is going down. However, I think it is more complex. I think it reflects her struggling to grapple with her emotions and the pressure and tension of the current situation and how these are convincing her to make a morally grey choice.

It is important to place the establishment of the strike team and their use of the Grey within this context.

The Strike Team and the Grey

The Grey is indicative to me of the situation in which it is used. This is reflected in how it is used, and in its very nature itself. It is a morally grey action because of the what, why, and how.

The wider context is also important, and we are invited by the framing to consider the comparisons and contrasts in the strike team’s use of the Grey the historical precedent of its presence in Zaun.

I want to explore what the Grey actually is and the strike team’s use of the Grey first before turning to Caitlyn specifically and why she chooses the Grey and what it represents.

There are a lot of layers you could consider when breaking down the moral greyness of the Grey. In the process of writing this I saw more and more from other people (I will link an interesting reddit post at the end). I have included some, but I think I’d rather this just add to the conversation than be in any way an attempt to make a ‘definitive’ post about the Grey.

Zaun: Context:

First, a brief summary of what is happening in Zaun when the strike team enters to provide context.

Jinx puts it best- ‘it’s all going to shit.’ Fighting has broken out amongst the chem-barons now vying for power in the vacuum Silco has left. The ‘Sucker’ sequence shows fighting on the streets, fires breaking out. Children like Isha are running from the chem-barons’ goons, part of the child labour they employ in the shimmer factories. The Firelights are bringing people to their safe haven because of all the fighting. Deaths are referenced in a meeting with the chem-barons organised by Sevika.

Sevika calls these ‘turf wars.’ I have inferred that different chem-barons control different areas of the city- ‘you started this dance when you raided the Rapturewalk.’ Innocents are getting hurt because the conflict is in the city itself.

(I will discuss Jinx later)

What is the Grey?

There is actually a lot of grey area when it comes to the Grey in the specifics. But we do know:

Air in the fissures became increasingly toxic owing to the rise of industry, this toxic air became known as the Grey

This can lead to negative physical effects- reddened eyes, irritation of the lungs; long periods of exposure can lead to the deterioration of the affected areas

Kirammans installed ventilation systems to prevent the air from being so polluted  

We do not know whose industry created such pollution. We do not see anyone die as a direct result of the Grey, but clearly, ‘factory smog’ is not a healthy thing to be breathing in over long periods of time. 

How do the strike team use the Grey?

The strike team have three key objectives:   

Locate Jinx

Dismantle shimmer

Neutralise any agents still loyal to Silco

The Grey is used by them to target these three objectives. We are shown this both in episode 2 and through the ‘Hellfire’ sequence in episode 3. They deploy the Grey on Silco’s goons, then the chembarons’ bases and the shimmer factory (destroying amounts of shimmer), before seeking out Jinx in the arcade.

To an extent, their actions could actually benefit Zaun. Destroying shimmer, something which stems from the damage Cait and Vi see shimmer cause, because of Silco and Singed, during season 1, would be to destabilise the power struggle going on between the chem-barons causing violence on the streets.

The literal use of the grey does de-escalate the violence. When chembaron Smeech reaches chembaron Margot’s base (a big statue of her face- someone’s got power), he comments that the Grey has ‘cleared the place out. Might have made our jobs a lot easier.’ They were anticipating confrontation, but it has been prevented.

The use of the Grey is not a long-term nor Zaun-wide affair. The strike team moves from one spot to another (using the vents to do so, something you could argue allows them an element of surprise on their targets which prevents them from fleeing to a place where innocents might be put in direct danger, and also prevents alarm among people at the sight of the strike team in Zaun), targeting the chembarons and their lackeys who monopolised the streets of Zaun for their violence and shimmer trade.

The Grey seeps from Margot’s base but the street itself is not flooded. As the strike team enter the arcade the Grey seeps in, but when Jinx escapes afterwards, the street outside is clear.

The Grey is used as part of a mission targeting specific objectives to prevent a full-scale invasion which could put civilians in danger.

And yet, the Grey is used. It functions as a weapon to debilitate their targets. It has unpleasant side effects, which alongside the strike team’s use of violence with their Hextech weaponry, allow them to incapacitate their targets.

(We can’t be sure how long the Grey takes to dissipate, or how long the chembarons’ people are exposed- we see some of the same characters at Sevika’s rally in episode 4, and they appear physically fine; I interpret it as short bursts of exposure- Caitlyn has control over the stopping and starting of the fans in the vents- we see her pulling levers, twisting handles).

The framing invites us to consider this morally grey approach through comparing and contrasting the strike team’s use of the Grey to its historical precedent in Zaun.

The Kiramman archive illustrations present it as a monster, a billowing mass which swallows Zaun. Through the eyes of both Jinx and Heenot, Smeech’s lackey, it also appears as such, as do the strike team who emerge from it.

This emphasises its harmful potential, which comes, more crucially, from the fear it derives. Vi argues with Jinx that they used the Grey to ‘clear the streets. To keep people safe.’ The violence has been de-escalated, there are no civilians being directly harmed by the Grey, but it has based itself on this fear owing to the historical precedent of the Grey in Zaun.

And yet you can also contrast. That the strike team are presented as part of the monster suggests they control the dissemination of the Grey, contrasting with the swamping monster, out of control, which floods through all of Zaun in the historical images.

A frame of Silco’s goons running from the strike team and their cloud of Grey is immediately followed by an historical image of innocents Zaunites running from a billowing beast. We are seeing once again the historical precedent of fear, but we are also noticing the differences- the Grey is controlled by the strike team, it follows them, and the only people in the frame are Silco’s goons, no innocent civilians.

(Once again, we don’t know how far it could spread but as others have suggested, the thick air of the undercity could impede its progress, and it never makes it down to the Firelight base. Combined with the targeted use, I think it is fair to therefore make this contrast).

All of this illustrates my earlier argument- the Grey is indicative of the situation in which it is used. The objectives of the strike team which could benefit Zaun intertwine with a way of going about those objectives which is morally grey and therefore underlines how the characters and their choices are becoming enveloped into the historic cycles of tension and violence which exist between Piltover and Zaun.

This neither makes them good nor evil- they are morally grey. It represents their interactions with their wider context, how they are influenced and influencing the wider context.

It represents how Caitlyn is doing this, how she is morally grey.

So why does she make this choice? What is influencing her which makes the good objectives of the strike team tainted so grey?

Caitlyn- Why choose the Grey?

‘Can I do the right thing for the wrong reasons? Is it bad that I’m making friends with my demons?’ - 'Hellfire'

What is key for me about the Grey in the narrative is how it symbolises Caitlyn’s emotions, her mental state. The Grey is a pollutant, and how its smog affects the physical body is a reflection of how Caitlyn’s emotions are affecting her mentally, and therefore how she in turn interacts with the wider context.

As I said earlier, the memorial attack exacerbates her anger, which is in turn exacerbated by her grief, her guilt, and the pressure of the Kiramman name.

As the strike team conduct their mission, we see how Caitlyn’s negative emotions influence her choices and cloud her self-perception, as well as her perception of others. This, for me, is why the Grey is the weapon of choice within the narrative.  

There are literal considerations you could take into account as to the why, and I’ve sort of explored these in the how- preferable to full-scale invasion, vents allow for targeted use, short-span use non-fatal etc. But for me the symbolic nature of the Grey reflecting Caitlyn’s emotions, and crucially how these push her to make morally grey decisions, is what defines the why- the above lyrics to ‘Hellfire’ encapsulates this nicely.

So, what is the ‘wrong reason’?

Vengeance:

Vengeance. That is what Caitlyn wants. Vengeance against Jinx.

It is born, crucially, from her grief, her guilt. It stokes her anger and soon becomes an all-encompassing smog which clouds Caitlyn’s thinking.

Jinx remains the spectre of Caitlyn’s fantasy as the strike team carry out their mission. She appears as a silhouette in the vents. She taunts them in the arcade with the shooting game. Caitlyn hyperventilates before taking a shot at a figure which mirrors her earlier fantasy in her hideaway. The impact frame of her eyes is pretty disturbing, evocative of how twisted Caitlyn’s mental state is becoming the longer Jinx remains elusive.

She becomes increasingly aggressive as their hunt continues. She shoves wanted posters in the chembarons’ people’s faces. She is cold and threatening with Heenot. And the ‘Hellfire’ sequence makes clear just how vengeance is twisting her as she appears a figure tinted red, eyes fiery.

Caitlyn is losing sight of herself. Losing sight of the wider context. This is affecting how she treats others.

Recall her conversation with Jayce in the hideaway, his alarm at her anger. ‘I know,’ she acknowledges, and confesses, ‘I just understand now how easy it is to hate them,’ she admits. The attack on the council has made bolder the line of divide cycles of violence bring- ‘them’- but Caitlyn is hanging onto her self-perception.

But the memorial attack changes things. ‘Animals,’ she calls the attackers. This dehumanising word demonstrates how much Caitlyn is losing sight of herself. Her empathy, her prior reluctance to see any difference, on a human level, between Piltover and Zaun (hiding in Vi’s childhood home in season 1 she says, ‘we’re people, just like you’).

Losing sight of the humanity in others means Caitlyn is also losing sight of herself. Her own humanity. And, if the Grey is depicted as a monster, and the monster is reflecting Caitlyn (and under her control), this says a lot about how vengeance is twisting her thinking, suffocating her person, and causing her to contribute to cycles which divide and hurt.

‘Leader of House Kiramman’:

This ‘losing’ of identity can be reflected further, I think, in how Caitlyn’s personal motives define her using the Kiramman name, her first taking up the mantle.

She utilises the power of her family name to assert her choices over the council. Once again, it is important to consider that this does prevent the full-scale invasion, but I think it is fair to argue Caitlyn is also being influenced by her need for vengeance. The Kiramman name is tool, a key, which can get her what she wants.

And I think it is interesting to consider how her reversing the helpful intentions of her ancestors in installing the vents, utilising the Grey instead of dispelling it, represents both Caitlyn losing sight of herself and her prior issues with her family name.

‘I know you doubt the merit of your birthright, Caitlyn,’ Cassandra says. In season 1, we see her resisting the stifling confines of what her mother expects and wants for her. She is a misfit.

After Cassandra’s death, the pressure of the name Caitlyn does not even want bears down on her, along with the guilt of perceiving herself as complicit in her mother’s death.

And Caitlyn struggles under this weight until the Kiramman name is twisted, too, into a tool not dissimilar to the Grey. She is not yet ready for the responsibility and how such power and privilege affect both Piltover and Zaun. It is her ‘legacy,’ but Caitlyn is losing herself.

This is even more impactful when considering that many of Caitlyn’s issues and arguments with her mother derive from her being a reluctant and unwilling heir. The Kiramman name came between them in life, and in death is twisted, as Caitlyn’s grief and love for her mother become twisted themselves by vengeance.  

There is irony in learning the Kirammans helped the undercity with the vents, something altruistic similar to Caitlyn’s own values when she is not choking on grief and vengeance. But the placing of the crown on her head happens at the hands of tragedy, and it rests twistedly for now.

The Grey becomes Black and White:

This is all key in why I think the Grey, what it represents, and how it is used, act as a prelude to the culmination of Act 1- Caitlyn’s appointment as commander.

Ambessa is impressed with Caitlyn’s assertion in the bunker, observant of her grief (and Salo’s) after the council attack, and perceptive of the power of the Kiramman name. As Salo says, ‘it bewitches people.’

By the end of Act 1, Caitlyn has failed to capture Jinx and left Vi after feeling betrayed by her for stopping her from shooting Jinx, therefore endangering Isha. By this point, I think there is no stopping the sliding slope into the black and white brooding figure of vengeance we see in the ‘Paint the Town Blue’ sequence.

She is choking on her emotions, and with Vi, her anchor, gone, is ripe for Ambessa’s picking. Caitlyn needs direction and Ambessa is offering it to her. She promises Caitlyn the thing which has slowly consumed her over the course of Act 1- vengeance. She steps further down this course.

Thus, grey turns to black and white. Caitlyn becomes complicit in, is the face of, the Piltover/Noxian occupation of Zaun, the violence this brings. Caitlyn has lost sight of herself in her hunt for Jinx and therefore others are harmed for her purposes (and Ambessa’s).

Caitlyn comes back to herself, slowly (from episode 4 we see her grappling her position), although of course, remains permanently changed (it’s interesting how the vengeance and idea of either doing the ‘wrong thing for the right reason’ or 'right thing for the wrong reason’ follow on in act 2 but that’s not my focus here).

Jinx and the Retaliation:

I think Jinx’s retaliation to the strike team’s mission and their use of the Grey underlines how its moral greyness feeds into the cycles of violence (I’m only going to analyse here her actions in relation to Caitlyn’s- this is already way too long and she deserves her own post).

Jinx is, like Caitlyn, motivated by her emotions, particularly related to Vi and her upset at seeing her as part of the strike team. She tells Sevika she is going to ‘finish what’s left of her family’ after their fight with Smeech, referring to their confrontation in the Temple of Janna.

She retaliates against the strike team to do so- setting trigger explosives in the vents, hanging vivisected dolls of them from a propellor she ties Heenot to in the first step of luring them down to the temple.

He says, ‘Jinx is off the rails, even for her. She’s got a real fire lit under her ass. She’s planning something big, right here in the pipeworks. She was heading towards the old tunnels. Something about rerouting the vents.’

Jinx begins using the Grey against the strike team. She breaks a pipe and, along with arrows, uses it to lead them to the temple. And, most significantly, at the conclusion of the fight, Sevika triggers explosives which puts Jinx’s ‘big’ plan into action. The rerouted vents drive the Grey up into Piltover, where it explodes in great plumes which flood streets and paint the town in a multicolour splash.

The cycles of violence have continued. Caitlyn wanted vengeance on Jinx, but Jinx has retaliated right back. In light of the ways in which Caitlyn and Jinx parallel each other near constantly throughout ‘Arcane’ (especially in season 2), I think this is suggestive of the futile nature of vengeance.

‘An eye for an eye,’ and you lose sight of yourself. Caitlyn’s hideaway is blasted with the Grey, the wind chime feature which had represented her feelings in episode 1 broken. There is no more space in herself, at this time, to piece apart her thoughts.

And the attack on Piltover allows Ambessa to consolidate her position as Piltover’s saviour and assert her will.   

There is so much more you could say about Jinx and Caitlyn, especially because of how they parallel each other constantly throughout the show (how their uses of the Grey contribute to them becoming symbols of something of which they are doubtful is really fascinating to me), but for the purposes of this deep dive on the Grey, I hope this suffices.

Conclusion:

The conflict which so much defines the shared history of Piltover and Zaun is growing steadily more volatile during act 1, and it is interesting to piece apart how characters impact upon this- there are good intentions in the strike team’s mission, but these are inseparable from the morally grey means through which they go about it.

Means influenced by emotions which have grown from the prior continuance of the cycles of violence. ‘Arcane’ is a tragedy, and there is certainly tragedy in watching Caitlyn be so changed by events.

The Grey is a reflection, a symbolic representation, of how Caitlyn changes throughout Act 1. How she is influenced by and influences other characters, and the impact this all has on the wider context. The morally grey path she goes down in her quest for vengeance.

By act 3, we see her having realised the error of her ways, knowing what she has done cannot be erased, but willing to fight against cycles of violence, walk away from her vengeance, and ‘trust in tomorrow.’

But in the smog of the conflict, everything seems grey.

I hope this exploration of the symbolism of the Grey was interesting. If you’ve reached the end of this, thank you so much for reading- I realise it is really long. I’m just very much fascinated with this show, so… I appreciate it!  

Reference: the reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/arcane/comments/1grizex/s2_spoilers_a_lot_of_people_are_misinterpreting/?share_id=6QplLMckmb2t4DnH3uGfw&utm_content=1&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_source=share&utm_term=1&rdt=56152

[wonderlanddreamer]

i please want a hurt/comfort where mr t. shelby gets buried alive and y/n comes to the rescue plz

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Buried beneath the earth, Tommy's only hope lies in your relentless determination as you push beyond all limits to bring him back.

Warnings: Threats, Violence, Emotional Distress.

Tommy Shelby awoke to a suffocating darkness. His first instinct was to move, but the moment he tried, he felt the crushing weight of the earth pressing down on him from all sides. Panic surged through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He forced himself to take shallow breaths, trying to conserve the limited air and stave off the rising tide of claustrophobia.

Buried alive.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. His hands trembled as he felt the smooth, wooden walls of his coffin, the grain of the timber cold and unyielding under his fingertips.

Tommy's mind raced, a torrent of thoughts and emotions swirling in the darkness. Fear, anger, and despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he clung to a single, stubborn thread of hope. He was Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders. He had survived worse than this—war, betrayal, the constant dance with death. This was just another battle.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think logically. He needed to find a way out. His fingers traced the edges of the coffin, searching for any weakness, any sign of escape. The wood was solid and unyielding, the nails driven in with cruel precision, but Tommy refused to give up.

As he struggled, he began to pound on the lid of the coffin, the sound of his fists striking the wood echoing back at him in the confined space. He hoped against hope that someone would hear him. His knuckles split and ached, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

The rhythmic pounding became a metronome of desperation. Each impact sent jolts of pain through his arms, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was still alive, still fighting. And Tommy Shelby was nothing if not a fighter.

Your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination as you stepped into the dimly lit alleyway, clutching Tommy's revolver with a steady hand. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced eerily around you. The air was thick with the scent of damp brick and refuse, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Tommy had told you everything you needed to know—who he was meeting, when he'd be home, and what to do if he didn't return. You'd gone straight to Arthur and John, but waiting around helplessly was never an option.

You were going to find him.

Your normally soft and calm demeanour had been replaced by a fierce resolve. The adrenaline coursing through your veins sharpened your senses, and your eyes scanned every corner of the alley with heightened awareness. You'd tracked down the weakest link among the men who had taken Tommy, a low-level thug named Billy, known for his cowardice. He was the kind who folded under pressure, and tonight, he would break.

Billy was leaning against a brick wall, nervously lighting a cigarette. The flickering flame briefly illuminated his anxious face. He barely had time to react before you grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall, the cold barrel of the revolver pressing into his temple with unyielding force.

"Where is he?" you demanded, your voice low but deadly serious, each word laced with an icy resolve that sent shivers down Billy’s spine.

Billy's eyes widened in terror, and the cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in a puddle with a faint hiss. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his voice quivering, betraying his fear.

You pressed the gun harder against his head, your anger flaring like a wildfire. "Don't lie to me. Tommy Shelby. Where is he?"

Billy's resolve crumbled visibly, but he still hesitated, his eyes darting around as if searching for a way out. That hesitation earned him a swift, hard punch to the gut. He doubled over, gasping for air, his wheeze echoing in the confined space of the alley.

"Talk!" you barked, your voice reverberating off the alley walls, amplifying your fury. "Or the next one won't be so kind."

Billy wheezed, his face contorted in pain, each breath a struggle. "I-I swear, I don't know!"

You didn't have time for this. You grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to his knees. The rough pavement scraped against his skin as he fell. "Wrong answer," you growled, pressing the revolver against the back of his head, the metal cold and unforgiving. "You have one last chance before I paint this fucking alley with your blood."

Billy's resolve shattered completely, his voice a desperate plea. "Alright, alright! They buried him! Out in the old graveyard, near the edge of town. Please, don't shoot! That's all I know, I swear!"

You released him with a shove, and he crumpled to the ground, whimpering. Stepping back, you kept the gun trained on him, your eyes blazing with a mix of fury and determination, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your shoulders.

"If you're lying, I'll find you again," you said coldly, your voice a promise of retribution. "And you won't get a second chance."

Billy nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the dirt and grime. "I'm not lying, I swear!"

You turned on your heel, your mind focused on only one thing: saving Tommy. With every step you took towards the graveyard, the weight of the revolver in your hand reminded you of who you were fighting for.

Your breath came in rapid bursts as you sprinted towards the old graveyard, each exhale forming a cloud of vapour in the cold night air. The revolver was clutched tightly in your trembling hand, the metal cold and unforgiving. You had sent a frantic message to John and Arthur, but waiting for them was not an option. Every second counted, and Tommy's life hung precariously in the balance.

The graveyard loomed ahead, shrouded in an eerie silence that was broken only by the rustling of leaves in the wind. The moonlight cast long, ghostly shadows over the tombstones, giving the place an otherworldly feel. As you approached, the silhouette of a man standing over a freshly dug grave came into view. Your heart lurched with a mix of fear and steely determination. Tommy was down there, buried.

You moved closer, trying to stay hidden in the shadows cast by the ancient, crooked trees. The man, however, was vigilant. His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, and without warning, he fired his gun. You ducked instinctively, the bullet whizzing past your ear and embedding itself in a nearby tree trunk. Adrenaline surged through you, and you charged forward, driven by the desperate need to save Tommy.

The man met you head-on, and the two of you clashed violently. You swung the revolver at him, but he dodged with practised ease and landed a punch to your gut, knocking the wind out of you. You stumbled back, gasping for air, but your resolve remained unbroken. You lunged at him again, grappling and struggling with every ounce of strength you had. The sound of your scuffle echoed through the graveyard, a cacophony of grunts, curses, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh.

Below you, in the suffocating darkness of the coffin, Tommy could hear the muffled sounds of the struggle above. His consciousness was slipping, each shallow breath a battle against the crushing weight of the earth. The faint sounds gave him a glimmer of hope, yet a surge of helplessness washed over him. He wanted to fight, to protect you, but he was trapped, barely able to move, let alone breathe.

"Get the fuck away from her," he thought desperately, his fists weakly pounding against the coffin lid. The fear of losing you gnawed at him, making his already limited air supply feel even thinner, his vision blurring as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.

The fight above was brutal. The man managed to get the upper hand, pinning you to the ground with his weight pressing down on your chest. His breath was hot and rancid against your face as he reached for his gun. Panic flared in your chest, but you fought back with all your might, clawing and kicking, refusing to give in.

Just as the man raised his gun to finish you off, a gunshot rang out, and he staggered back, clutching his shoulder. You looked up to see John and Arthur rushing towards you, their faces grim with determination and their guns drawn. They fired again, and the man crumpled to the ground, his threat neutralised.

John and Arthur rushed to your side, pulling you to your feet with a mix of concern and urgency. "Are you alright?" John asked, his voice tight with worry.

You nodded, your breaths coming in gasps, each one a struggle against the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Tommy...he's down there," you managed to say, pointing to the freshly dug grave.

Without wasting another second, you dropped to your knees beside the grave and began to dig frantically with your bare hands. The dirt was heavy and unyielding, caking under your fingernails and turning your hands raw and bloody, but you didn't care. You had to reach him.

"Hold on, Tommy!" you called out, your voice shaking with emotion. "We're coming! Just hold on!"

With John and Arthur's help, the hole grew deeper. The three of you worked in a desperate frenzy, scooping away the earth that entombed Tommy. Finally, your fingers brushed against the rough wood of the coffin lid. Your hands were raw and bleeding, but you didn't stop. With a surge of strength fueled by sheer willpower, you pried open the lid, revealing Tommy's pale, dirt-streaked face.

"Tommy!" you cried, reaching in to pull him out. His eyes fluttered open, and he took a gasping breath of fresh air, each inhalation a victory over the suffocating darkness that had threatened to consume him.

"We've got you," Arthur said, his voice choked with relief as he helped lift Tommy out of the coffin. "You're safe now."

Tommy's eyes, though glassy and unfocused at first, gradually locked onto yours. Despite his weakened state, the fierce protectiveness in his gaze was unmistakable. "You shouldn't have come alone," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, worry mingling with gratitude in his tone.

"I had to," you whispered back, tears streaming down your face as you helped him out of the grave. "I couldn't lose you."

John and Arthur worked quickly, their hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. They supported Tommy on either side, helping him to stand. His legs were unsteady, and he leaned heavily on them. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his warmth and the steady beat of his heart against your chest. Relief flooded through you, mingling with the lingering fear and adrenaline.

"We need to get him out of here," John said urgently, his eyes scanning the graveyard for any signs of additional threats. "There could be more of them."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "Let's move. Our car's not far."

You helped them guide Tommy towards the exit of the graveyard, moving as quickly as his condition allowed. Each step felt like progress, a step away from the brink of disaster and towards safety. The cold night air was a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the grave, a reminder that you were alive, that Tommy was alive.

As you reached the car, John opened the back door, and you carefully helped Tommy inside. He winced in pain, his body protesting the movement, but he managed a weak smile in your direction. "You really are something else, darlin’," he said, his voice raspy but filled with admiration.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his face, your fingers lingering on his cheek."I told you, Tommy. I'm not losing you."

Tommy managed a faint smile, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "I know, love. I know."

You could feel the weight of the night's events pressing down on you, but there was a sense of peace now that Tommy was safe. You gently cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the dirt and grime. His eyes closed briefly, leaning into your touch as if drawing strength from it.

"You're my everything," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Tommy's hand reached up to cover yours, his grip weak but full of warmth. "You saved me," he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude. "You always do."

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, bound by a love that had proven unbreakable, even in the face of death.

"I love you, Thomas Shelby," you said softly, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss.

He kissed you back, his lips warm and reassuring. "And I love you, more than anything," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

You held him close, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own.

As the car sped through the quiet streets, you held Tommy close, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own. The city lights flickered past the windows, casting fleeting shadows across his face. In the cocoon of the car, with the world outside rushing by, you found solace in each other's arms, knowing that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

[elegantsplendour]

Once Upon A Time, A Dragon Met a Swan

Summary: After the Greens have won the war and Aegon’s passing, Aemond is crowned king. You, a high born lady he fell in love with during the Dance when he served as Prince Regent, became his queen. Years after your marriage, you’re still in love with each other as ever. One day, you discover age had a surprise for you.

Contains / warnings: fluff, king! Aemond, queen! Reader, smut, pregnancy, brink of death, happy ending

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💌

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @theroyaldixon @buglyberry @aemondx

Word count: 2k

Amidst the grand feast held in honor of your first born son Rhaegar's nomination as heir, the King and Queen of Seven Kingdoms adorned themselves in opulent attire, captivating all eyes. You wore a gown that sparkled with the brilliance of a thousand stars, its black and white hues revealing the elegance of your bare shoulders. Aemond's robe, a tapestry of red and black, was meticulously embroidered with golden thread, each stitch a testament to the Targaryen dynasty's resplendent might, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon.

As the solemn ceremony unfolded, the weight of destiny hung in the air, but it was the magnetic pull between you and Aemond that whispered a more primal truth. With each step on the dance floor, a current of enthralling energy surged through your veins, igniting a passionate flame that only grew stronger as the night wore on.

As the final notes reverberated through the hall, Aemond drew you into an embrace that spoke of a deep longing. His voice, low and husky, caressed your ear, "I need you tonight, my queen," A sly grin curved on your lips as his plea awakened a burning ache inside you.

The mighty Aemond Targaryen, pleading for your touch.

Not that the king and queen were not intimate in the privacy in their chambers.

Whispers have it that the queen has an insatiable appetite for her king.

You leaned close, the warmth of your breath grazing the skin of his neck, "There hasn't been a night when I haven't yearned for you," you teased, "Your Grace."

The air crackled with anticipation as Aemond caught his breath, captivated by your formality. Leaning his head against yours, he murmured, "You are insatiable as ever, my queen." A seductive glimmer sparkled in your eyes as you whispered back, "Then chase me to our chamber, my king." Leaving him burning with desire, you gracefully slipped away from his grasp, your sway like a seductive siren's call.

As the grand feast approached its final moments, Aemond hurried to your chamber, his heart pounding with a mix of longing and urgency. There, he found you standing near the balcony, the moon casting a gentle glow upon your exposed back. Slowly, he closed the distance between you, his hands encircling your waist as his lips found the tender skin of your neck. A smile curled your lips, radiant with adoration and a hunger that mirrored his own. "Is that a wrinkle, Aemond?" you playfully remarked, planting a soft, teasing kiss where the mark of time would be.

Aemond cupped your cheeks, his deep chuckle resonating through the room. "Unfortunately, I lack the immunity to aging that you possess, my love," he confessed. Undeterred, you drew him into a fierce kiss, the intensity of your love blazing like a wildfire. "Nonsense," you purred against his lips, the fire in your eyes mirroring the heat between you. "Your Valyrian blood grants you such… an eternal grace."

With a surge of passion, Aemond's hand ripped away the fabric of your gown, leaving you gasping in delightful surprise. He swept you into his arms, carrying you to the bed with a mix of tenderness and urgency. His kisses trailed a scorching path down your body, igniting every nerve with searing pleasure. "Fear not, my love," he assured, his voice laced with raw desire. "Age brings with it a wealth of experience." As his lips traced down your neck, your breasts, your belly, and eventually down your core, your lips quivered with restrained moans as you pleaded, "Aemond, seal my lips with yours, otherwise I’ll lose control!”

You heard a barely audible chuckle before an overwhelming pleasure incited a loud moan, “Gods, Aemond.” His tongue worked expertly between your folds, his movements demanding yet tender.

“Beg for me, my love. I will give you what you want and more.”

“I want you inside me,” implored as you arched your back, showing him shamelessly how your body longed for him.

“Hmm,” Your king lifted his head, his good eye and sapphire piercing through you with amusement, “Here I thought my insatiable queen preferred some more torment.”

You left out a gasp as his rough movements transformed into a series of soft kisses around your most intimate parts but never really reached there.

His strong arms held your thighs in place as your body trembled and squirmed under his magic.

“Your Grace, please,” this time, your voice laced no more with desperation, but seductively while feigning innocence, “Spoil your poor queen.”

With a satisfied grin on his face, he hovers over you while giving a tight squeeze on your buttocks, “Is that what you want, love? To be so thoroughly ravished that you can’t even walk tomorrow?”

“No,” you breathe, uttering each word clearly,“I want you to make me unable to sit tomorrow.”

With that, Aemond finally crashes your lips, muffling your desperate moans as he thrusts into you forcefully.

Hands pinned by his muscular arms above your head, all you can think of is the sinful slapping of your skins, his growls amidst the mind-blowing pleasure crashing your core.

As Aemond felt your walls convulse, he grinned, “Let it out, my love. Let them hear you. Let King’s Landing know that the blood of the dragon runs hot.”

With a loud cry, you reached your peak together.

As he collapsed on your body, you didn’t waste a second to roll yourself on top of him, tantalizing him with your gentle yet teasing kisses.

Bathed in the exhaustion of love-making, he held you in his arms. Silence reigned over the bed chamber, the moon light casting an ethereal glow on both of you.

“I am the happiest Targaryen ever lived,”he pressed a kiss on your forehead, “If not the only one, thanks to you, my love. Before we met, I never thought a life like this was possible. With my father’s negligence and the Dance, I convinced myself that power was my only way out. For a time, I felt I was beyond redemption,” he confessed, hands tracing your jawline.

You held him tighter, cupping his cheeks, “Aemond, you are not like that anymore. You are strong. You have become a man your father never was, a man Aegon never was,” your unwavering gaze full of conviction, “You carry people, you carry the realm, our children, you carry me.”

He planted a kiss on your cheek with a contented sigh, “You are my life.”

After a peaceful silence, Aemond hovered on you again with a mischievous glint, “Ready for round two, my queen?”

You burst in laughter, “And here you said I was the insatiable one.”

The next morning, Aemond and you, hands tangled together, sneaked into the garden with a book in hand; the fresh moments before the Small Council’s meeting have become your morning ritual, reminding you both of the liveliness of your younger days.

Your children, unknown to you, gossiped while observing you from a distance. Baelon, the most mischievous of them all, rolled his eyes and whispered, “I am glad that our parents still behave like two newlyweds, but I simply wish that they would make their methods of maintaining their youth…” he paused in suspense, “Less audible.”

Elaena giggled uncontrollably. Even Rhaegar, the ever dutiful and serious son, couldn’t help but to chuckle, “It has been a long time since the realm has seen the king and queen so fiercely in love and devoted to each other.”

Just as the siblings giggled in secret, they heard a loud thud.

“Y/N !” Aemond screamed as you fell on the ground, “Call the maesters!” He picked you up and rushed to their chamber. As the royal family gathered nervously at the bedside, the maester turned around, smiling, “Congratulations, Your Grace, the queen is with child, again.” Aemond’s eye opened in surprise and joy but quickly it was quickly replaced by concern, “Is her health strong enough for delivering another child? I do not wish to risk her life, ever.”

The maester nodded, “Her Grace’s condition is impeccable for pregnancy. It is a rare thing for a woman her age.”

Relief washed over Aemond’s face as he traced your unconscious features. Elaena, fascinated by Aemond’s devoted gaze, whispered to Rhaegar, “If my future lord husband doesn’t look at me the way father looks at mother, I don’t want him.”

Rhaegar smiled, his eyes shimmering, causing Elaena's cheeks to flush. "I have absolute faith in you, my dear," he whispered.

Ten moons went by as fast as a wheel, but your labour was not nearly as easy as the maesters had described. You screamed in agony as the maesters informed Aemond regretfully, “Your Grace, Her Grace most likely may not survive, but there might be a way for the child to survive.” Aemond's eye blazed with fury, understanding the implications behind their words, "What you speak of borders on treason! I want her, the queen. If she dies, I will have every one of your heads."

The children trembled at their father ‘s roar, they had never seen him so much in despair and anger. their innocent hearts shattered by the sight of his despair and anger. They wept, clinging to one another, seeking solace in their shared fear and sorrow.

Aemond gripped your hands, tears falling down like a torrential downpour, “Fight for me, love. You are my life. It’s all my fault, I should’ve given you the tea…. ” You manage a painful smile , “It’s not your fault, Aemond. I… I had a wonderful life. You are… you and our children are at far the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ve never believed in destiny before, but… this is my time.”

Aemond held your hands desperately, “No, don’t you dare leave me, y/n! Don’t condemn me to an eternity of misery.”

In that moment of agony and farewell, the door to the chamber was forcefully opened.

“Rhaegar, you’re here,” You sobbed, the staggering pain muffling your words, “I thought… I thought you were at Highgarden visiting your betrothed.”

Rhaegar clasped your hands, his gaze fixed on you, “Mother, I have faith in you. Fight for us, please.”

Your boy, your first born, has grown into a fierce warrior, future protector of the realm. As you locked eyes with his violet gaze, a rush of distant memories flooded your mind, intertwining with the present moment.

The Dance had just concluded with a realm ruled by ashes, uncertainty and the Targaryen line shattered.

Where was the Prince Regent?

Pentos, in the arms of his beloved lady.

Amidst the blood-red dawn, a dragon and a swan sought refuge from violence and destruction, swirling on the shore of the Narrow Sea. Their laughter and love filled the air as if no one else existed in the world, with only the gods as witnesses to the passion of their love. Under the watchful eyes of the Seven, their bodies entwined, sealing their destiny until the end of time.

It was at that moment your first little dragon, Rhaegar, came to you.

Clinging onto the most cherished memory of your life and clenching your fists in the sheets, you let out a primal scream that seemed to reverberate through the entire Keep, pushing with a ferocity that defied your destiny, your determination burning like a flame refusing to be extinguished.

Your husband clutched you in his arms, his body seemed like an anchor to your life. Aemond gritted teeth as yours sank into his skin, his shoulder bearing the imprint of your bite, almost drawing blood. He longed to share your pain to shoulder the burden in your stead.

In a miraculous moment, you gave birth to a fragile little infant daughter. Tears streamed down your face like a river. You laid on the labour bed, trembling with both relief and agony, cried like a child while Aemond held you with all his might, “Aemond, it hurts.”

“It’s over, love. You’re so strong, so brave. I love you. I love you beyond everything,” his confession quivered, a testament of close call of losing you.

Shortly after, you drifted to slumber out of exhaustion.

Centuries later, in a scroll of healing account kept in the Citadel, the miraculous birth of Princess Daenyra Targaryen and survival of the Queen Y/N, wife of King Aemond Targaryen I, defied all reason, a baffling enigma to Westeros' maesters. Defying all signs of demise, love and hope emerged victorious even against the gods’ will.

Bedroom scene imagine

(From 1:45 makes me🤤🥰🤭）

“And a lust for life,

Keeps us alive.”

“And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places.”

[sgtpeppers]

"You are my love, you are my song": Paul & Love As A Duet:

One of my favourite things Paul does in his work is use the idea of singing a song with someone as a metaphor for love or a relationship, so I've catalogued the main instances I think this occurs below!

Now, Paul writes lyrics about music/songs a lot (because he's Paul, he lives and breathes music), so this isn't every song that he references music or even references music in terms of a relationship, but the ones I felt explicitly have a 'loving someone = making music with them' lyric.

Starting in the late sixties we have three songs where there are lines about performing alone, or hearing someone else's song but not necessarily being a part of it.

So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin, You're waiting for someone to perform with

Hey Jude (1968)

And when at last I find you Your song will fill the air Sing it loud so I can hear you Make it easy to be near you

I Will (1968)

Far away my lover sings a lonely song And calls me to his side When a song of lonely love invites me on I must go to his side

Goodbye (1969), written for Mary Hopkin

Once we get to Paul's first solo album, where he's actively bringing Linda in on his music, we have this line about singing songs alone in the past tense:

I used to ride on my fast city line Singing songs that I thought were mine alone

Man We Was Lonely (1970)

But in the present tense, has someone to sing his songs with:

Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song

Maybe I'm Amazed (1970)

On Wild Life, we have the song that captures the idea completely, Paul and Linda singing to and with each other, both of them simultaneously the song, the singer and a recipient of a love song:

You are my love, You are my song, linger on, You are my song, I am your singer. You are my one You are my own melody, You are my song, I am your singer. Someday when we're singing We will fly away, Going winging. Sing, singing my love song to you. My song is sung, When day is done harmonies will linger on, I am your singer, I am your singer, Singing my love song to you.

I Am Your Singer (1973)

In Venus and Mars, we've got a little nod to the same idea, although perhaps less viewing love as a song to perform together, but certainly tying the idea of love and a song together.

My heart cries out for love and all that goes with loving Love in song, love in song

Love in Song (1975)

Then the idea seems to disappear, but reappears on Tug of War with Here Today, a song we know is about John. This isn't necessarily in the same vein as the Linda songs, but the very literal reading is about the importance of singing with John and keeping someone's memory alive in a song.

And if you take that metaphor of love as a song, the duet can still be kept alive if Paul continues to sing for the both of them.

What about the time we met? Well I suppose that you could say that We were playing hard to get Didn't understand a thing But we could always sing … And if I say I really loved you And was glad you came along Then you were here today, For you were in my song

Here Today (1982)

From here on out my thoughts are more scattered, because I think primarily this idea is something he ties to Linda and John. But there are a few more interesting lyrics I think it's worth adding here.

In Press To Play, we've got a reference to 'our' song, which again, alludes to the idea that love is a song created between two people:

If you should ever feel that something's wrong, I'm going to want to put it right, To bring a happy ending to our song, I'll carry on believing in a love.

Only Love Remains (1986)

On Flaming Pie we have him reflecting on how songs were something he and the other Beatles could come back to, this idea of music being a thread that ties him to other people.

But we always came back to the song We were singing At any particular time

The Song We Were Singing (1997)

On Driving Rain he reflects on a time where he was free, his heart was 'singing' and he was doing that with someone else:

I well remember when my soul was free My heart could sing, so could we

Tiny Bubble (2001)

And then this idea of him constantly reaching out, singing a song and waiting for someone else to join in:

If you love me, won't you call me I've been waiting, waiting too long In my soul is constant yearning Always singing, singing this song

Anyway (2005)

I'm not really trying to make some big point here, I just love this motif and especially the ways I think John, Linda and music all tangle together in his head. I'm not usually one for digging into every little line of a song for some sort of hidden meaning, but I do think it's interesting to note when patterns emerge in a body of work.

If anyone's got an additions/thoughts/corrections (or has written a similar post with a more coherent point), please do share, I love chatting about this stuff and reading other people's thoughts!