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frannyzooey · 2 months ago

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Veneration

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Rating: E

a/n: another piece from Ao3 — enjoy! ❤️

—

“Where is she?”

Marcus stalks into his chambers, his white cape billowing behind him, a guard following in his wake.

“I asked for her, sir. I’m not sure where she is. She –”

“Just find her,” he growls, frustration etched on his face.

The guard makes a hasty apology, slipping from the room. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Candles fill the space, pools of shadows gathered around the edges. The fabric on the bed is rich and decadent, every piece of decoration in the room dripping with luxury.

It’s jarring, after so many months living in a battle tent.

A table filled with food in abundance, he bypasses everything on it for the jar of heady wine. Pouring himself a cup, he drinks deeply.

He thumbs at the slice on his neck, smearing blood on the tips of his fingers. His hands are used to being drenched in blood, crusted with it, the firm hold of a sword nearly molded to the creases of his palm.

It took everything he had not to raise it to the fucking pup who cut him. The one who is so careless and callous, he threatens to burn down everything Marcus has worked for.

All of his protection, wasted. His entire career, played with for sport.

Where is she?

He rips the pin off his tunic, tossing it to the side — he should be more careful with it, but he’s in no mood to be careful with anything. The laurel comes next; the stupid fucking pageantry. He’s a general, a man made of sweat and blood and his fingers tear at the clasps of his armor, but he quickly gives up, pouring another cup of wine. Beautiful and untarnished, the armor is all for show, just like the adornments they covered him with.

It felt good to ride through the city and wave to the people he has been campaigning for months, but he could do without the show of it all. He recognizes the need for celebration, and he’ll gladly give it to them, but he wishes he could do it in his actual armor. The one he defends their city in. The one nicked with a thousand dents from a thousand swords. The leather that fits to his body like a second skin, and he wished for it during the ceremony more than ever, wanting to present himself to the city like the soldier he is.

He sighs, the weight of the day resting heavy on his shoulders. He’d hoped he’d feel more relieved after his conversation with Lucilla, that maybe he’d finally have someone useful he could persuade to act – and yet, the conversation was fruitless.

Frustration throbs behind his eyes, and he closes them, rubbing at his brow.

“You’d think someone who just had a parade held in their honor would look a little less plagued.”

At your voice, his head snaps up. He watches you slip into the room, servant girls on your heels.

He shakes his head, a stern look on his face. “Alone.”

His command is clear, and you obey, dismissing the girls with a slight wave. All for show in the first place, they turn and leave the two of you.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting to see you since we entered the gates.”

You walk closer, bending to pick his cape off the floor. “You know I’m not allowed up there with them.” You finger the rich fabric, fighting the urge to bring it to your nose just to inhale his scent.

A scent you’ve missed for almost a year now. A scent that was pressed into your bedding before he left, a scent you used to have memorized from the soft divot just underneath his ear. Oil and sweat and a heady fragrance that clung to his curls and clothes - one you’d been longing for since he left you behind for the promise of North Africa.

“I know,” he answers. “I thought you’d come to see me sooner. Or that I would have seen your face along the route.”

“Would you even have remembered what it looked like?”

It’s childish, the question. You know it, but a barrier comes up automatically, placing protection around your heart. You were so sure of your bond until you saw him climb those steps, taking his place alongside the Emperor. A tiny prick of doubt at the display of his status bled within you, and though you want nothing more than to run to him for reassurance, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“How can you even ask that?” he asks lowly, hurt and frustration buried between his dark brows.

He steps closer, and yet you withhold, standing your ground.

You did see him on the route, hidden in the back of the crowd, watching from underneath the hood of your robe. The second you heard he was approaching the city, anticipation stole the air from your lungs, so strong that you had to stop your chores. A thousand different scenarios of reuniting with him swirled through your mind, all of them abruptly stopped by the remembrance that you couldn’t greet him. Not in public, not where anyone could see. You watched him instead from the depths of the crowd, feeling pride as he rode past.

There, he looked like a shining god. Here, in front of you, he looks older.

Aged in a way that makes him even more handsome, there is new gray along his temples. More, along the curve of his jaw. The candlelight catches strands that mix in with his dark curls, and you take in the wrinkles the line the edges of his eyes, the ones that crease his forehead. The one between his brows was there before he left, only it’s deeper now - something you know has to do with the way you haven’t touched him yet.

“This finery suits you,” you muse, fingering the edge of his armor.

He scoffs, catching your hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth, you watch with rapt attention as his lips mold to your knuckles, one delicate kiss after another.

“I hate it,” he mumbles against your skin.

You smile. “Then let’s remove it.”

–

He’s patient as you help, but barely.

You can feel the tension radiating off his body as you unclasp his armor and lift it off, the heavy leather set to the side. His eyes stay trained on you as you guide his thick tunic upwards, discarding it onto the floor. He stands in his underclothes for a moment before you sink to your knees and undo the tie at his waist, letting them fall as well. Bare now for your eyes, you inspect him from your position, your hands running over his skin.

It’s familiar, yet not: new wounds that have healed, new scars for your touch. He stirs under your exploration, twitching along his thigh, but you don’t give into the touch you know he wants - not yet. You used to spend hours exploring his body: working oil into his tired muscles, memorizing the firm planes of them born in the training yard. He’s just as thick and strong as you remember, maybe even more so now.

Standing, you turn to retrieve a strigil from his bedside table, undoing the clasp of your tunic with one hand with your back facing him. It falls from your shoulders, slipping onto the floor in a puddle of cloth and when you turn to face him, the hunger in his gaze at your nakedness floods you with arousal.

“They bathed me before the parade,” he says dismissively, glancing at the tool in your grip.

You had a ritual before he left: he would summon you to his chambers, and be waiting for you. You’d help him undress, and sometimes you’d bathe him, but sometimes he liked it better this way - your small hands smearing rich oil along his tanned skin, your fingers working it in. The deliberate strokes of the strigil swept along the lines of his muscles, the tool gathering all the grime and the dust and the sweat from the yard. Never enough that it disappeared though. You smelt it on you when you slipped from his chambers later that night, always pressed into your limbs, his seed trickling from between your thighs.

Assuming he wants the same veneration tonight, you’re surprised when his hand flicks out faster than you’re prepared for, his grip relentless on your wrist. It tightens, and he pulls you towards him, your back to his front. The heat of his body is flush with yours, the weight of his cock thick along the curve of your ass.

“How long I’ve waited to have you,” he breathes into your ear, his tone a growl that sends a shiver down your spine. The scruff along his jaw scrapes against your skin, and you melt into him. “Why are you doing this?”

You drop the stirgil on the tiled floor, the sound barely heard over the pounding of your heart. Letting yourself lean against the thick, broad plane of his chest, his hand lets go of your wrist to skate up your side, roughly palming the weight of your breast. He groans when he touches it, a relieved one that blends with your softer moan, and his other hand curls around your front, cupping you firmly between your thighs. His fingers reach for the curve of your entrance, his teeth scraping along your shoulder when he finds you wet. His touch lingers there, his fingers spreading you to find more evidence of your need.

There is a tension that still vibrates from his form behind you, hidden underneath his skin. He’s holding himself back just for you, and though you want nothing more than to put aside your hesitation and your pride, it’s actually easier to do it this way. To encourage him to take, so different than the sweet murmurs you’ve wished for in the night, less vulnerable than the tender touch of his hands.

You want it to hurt, just like you’ve hurt, and you know he also needs this right now.

Your hand rests upon his, sliding it up.

Up, up, up until it circles your throat.

He flexes his grip, his fingers pressing into your pulse that thrums underneath his touch. You give him silent permission — permission to be the one he wants to be with you sometimes.

Permission for him to be rough, like he is in battle.

Permission to take you as he needs to take you.

Tilting your head to the side, you whisper against his scruffed cheek. “I’m yours, General.” The title gives away the game, your slip into character. “Tell me what you want.”

Your words set him alight, his body moving just how it does on the field: in control, precise, power emanating from his stance when he tugs you away from him and pushes you to your knees. He blocks out the light above you, his fingers curling around your chin to pull you closer. Your hands splay on his sturdy thighs to catch your balance, and he steps forward, crowding you.

“Open your mouth.”

An order, like he was born to give.

Dutifully you do, and he wastes no time feeding himself between your warm, wet lips. The thick tip of his cock brushes against your bottom lip, the weight of him smearing across your tongue the deeper he gets. He tastes so good and so familiar, so musky and masculine, and your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft, curving to the skin as he hardens even more. You slide it along every ridge, every vein of his thick cock, and when he pulls back just before pushing himself deeper with a groan, you swirl your tongue around the rounded tip.

Going back for more, you do it again.

Your hands slide up his thighs to his hips, your fingers digging into the skin, and you pull him deeper, encouraging it. He groans loud and shameless, your cunt throbbing when you look up to the light flickering over his skin. It looks so rich and real , your hands slipping backwards to palm the curve of his ass with a greedy grab.

The release of want pours from you both, his body still tight with tension but a different type of tension: not frustration, but need.

He gives in, thrusting into your mouth harder, flickering candlelight catching the drool that gathers around the edges of your mouth and slides down your chin. Your cheeks hollow, his thumb fitting into the indented curve. Your eyes shut tight, his cock pushing against the tight ring of your throat. He holds there for a moment, and then pulls out, his is cock glistening and he strokes it while you catch your breath, but you’re already grabbing for him before you’re ready.

“I want more,” you beg, your voice hoarse. “Take what you need.”

He strokes himself faster, harder, his stomach tensing.

“I know you’re holding back, but don’t. Take anything you want from me. I can take it.”

Those are the words that do it. He growls, his hand palming the back of your head to force you back onto his cock. He pushes it past your lips as far as it will go and then some, not stopping this time when he reaches your throat. He feels the tight, constricting curve of it, and pushes a little further still, thickening at the strangled whine you let out into the dark curls at the base. Swiping the hair from your face, he cups your cheeks in his hands and angles your face to turn up towards his own.

Then, he fucks.

His pace is relentless, brutal, his cock slipping into the tight fist of your throat with every thrust forward. Stars dance along your vision, your chin soaked with spit. Desperation radiates from him, his grip tightening on your face, your fingers digging crescents into his hips and he groans, wanting more pain.

A familiar ache, one that he’s used to. Something to distract him from the deeper pain of your hesitation when you first walked in the room. Deeper still, the ache he felt for you while he was gone.

“You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I missed this.” Every word of his confession is mixed with his heavy breaths, with soft grunts from the back of his throat.

You hum, a tiny frown pulling between your brows. You missed him just as much, missed this just as much — the way he emanates authority, the way he bends and molds and positions you just like his soldiers, to do as he bids.

He pushes you further, shedding the frustration and pent up tension of the day with every harsh stroke. He feeds it to you, makes you swallow it as it pours from him into your waiting mouth and an ache blooms in your throat, your jaw tense with the effort of trying to stay open wide enough for him to fit. Slipping your slim hand between his strong thighs, you cup his heavy balls with a tender squeeze — a touch that makes his head tip back as they draw up.

Harder, faster and then he doesn’t give you any warning before he fists your hair and pulls you off his cock, stroking it with a slick, rapid beat to come on your chest. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts.

More, when you start to smear it into your skin like oil, pressing it into your skin.

When he’s finished, he sags with release — though you know he’s not done. His hands reach for you, pulling you up off the floor and then finally — finally — he kisses you.

Fevered and desperate, his mouth open to taste yours, his tongue sliding against your own. Your fingers thread through his curls to keep him close, and his own dig forcefully into your skin, as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you tight. They splay to slide up your back and down again, stretch to cup the curve of your bottom and he lifts you to carry you over to his bed. He means to drop you there so he can sink to his knees, but when you cling to him, he falls with you, his weight settling over your body.

This — this is what you dreamed of every night he was away. This is what you held onto, this is what you missed. This version of Marcus that no one else gets. Not the stoic General, but rather the tender touch of his calloused hands. The slide of his body against yours, the murmurs of his adoration poured along the column of your neck.

Your legs wind around his waist, your hips canting up and he groans into your mouth at the sticky smear you leave on his stomach. More than ready for him, desperate for it.

“My love, I need a minute.”

My love. The endearment fills your heart until tears leak from the corners of your eyes, and you pull him closer, wanting to be buried underneath his bulk. Winding your arms around his neck, you keep his mouth pressed against yours, only to frown when he pulls away.

“I need a minute,” he repeats, his head bending to brush his mouth along your throat. “But let me indulge myself in the meantime.”

You watch the muscles in his thick shoulders shift as he holds himself above you and bends his head, taking your breast into his mouth. It’s a greedy suck, his hand pushing the soft weight of it up so he can fit more. His teeth scrape against the peak, and then he’s moving onto the other one, giving it the same attention while you moan underneath him.

Down further still, he presses kisses along your belly, against each hip. Your thighs open wider, making room for him. A part of you expects him to tease you like you did him, but he doesn’t — he settles in, hooking his arms under your thighs and spreads you wide right before he bends to devour.

Your hands rest upon the top of his head; your own version of a laurel resting on his curls. No adornments, no finery, no pristine armor and gold.

Your eyes close, savoring the slow, wide licks of his tongue. The devotion he gives your cunt with every slick, firm slide.

Not the General that the city fears and adores in equal measure - just Marcus, bending the knee for you.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius/you #marcus acacius/reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #gladiator ii #pedro pascal

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writers-potion · 8 months ago

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Writing Weapons (3): Staffs, Spears and Polearms

Staffs

The staff is inexpensive and in the hand of a skilled fighter - deadly.

Particularly useful for entertaining fight scene, or for spontaneous fights.

A seasoned fighter can fight with a broomstick or garden hoe.

Useful for petite heroine: much lighter, long enough to fight at a distance so that he can't tackle or grapple

Spears

In most period, spears were the most common weapon for warfare

spears are cheaper than swords (better for large armies&peasants)

Spears can be tipped wth metal, stone, or anything at hand (bone, glass shards), or simply have one end sharpened to a point.

The Throwing Spear

An army would throw lots of spear at the enemy to do as much damage as possible before closing in

Each soldier may hold multiple throwing spears

The 'atatl' is used for loading the spear on the shoulder and catapulating it forward. This sllows women to hurl a spear with as much strength as a man.

Some spears are designed so their tips break on impact to prevent re-use.

Throwing spears are fairly lightweight. It is sometimes called 'javelin'.

The Thrusting Spear

The main weapon for peasants pressed into military service

Very long, often made from farming implement

The first row of soldiers kneels with spears low in hand. The second row kneels with spear at hip height. The third row stands with spears at waist height. The fouth holds the spears at shoulder hieight and the fith holds them above.

The thrusting spear is sometimes called 'lance'. If it's very long, it's called a 'pike'.

A warrior can hold a spear in the right and a shield in the left.

Polearms

Polearms are thrusting spears with cleverly designed, large heads which can stab, cut, hook, twist, cleave, push or pull.

Can be used as lances or as staffs

They serve best at a distance (preventing a sword-armed fighter), but can use them close-up as well. Some are even designed to pry open plate armour.

Can add authenticity to a medieval fight scene.

Poleaxe

spear with a tip for thrusting combined with an axe-blade for cleaving.

Billhook

Originally an agricultural tool, a hook-shaped blade for clearing brush.

Billhook has a long handle, a long sharp spike as a tip, and a pronounced hook.blade which serves to pull and cut the enemy's legs and ankles.

Halerd

Axe-blade on one side and a hook on the other

Developed to repel horses and to stop swordsmen getting close.

It became a ceremonial weapon, sometimes worn by guardsmen on parade

Blunders to Avoid

Medieval battles where every soldier fights with a sword

Soldier carrying polearms and not using them

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

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blueiscoool · 2 years ago

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Archaeologists Find a Beautiful 3,000-Year-Old Octagonal Sword in Germany

A rare Bronze Age sword unearthed from a burial site in Germany is in such good condition that it still glimmers.

According to a statement the Bavarian State Office for Monument Protection released on Wednesday, the weapon was discovered in the town of Nördlingen in Bavaria, and may date to the 14th century B.C.

"Last week, archaeologists made a very special find during excavations in Nördlingen: a bronze sword that is over 3,000 years old and is so extraordinarily well preserved that it almost still shines. It is a representative of the bronze full-hilt swords, whose octagonal hilt is made entirely of bronze (octagonal sword type)," a translation of the statement reads.

Its octagonal shape make it a rare find, as only the most skilled blacksmiths were capable of making these types of swords—known as Achtkantschwert in German—that required precise casting and decoration.

"The production of octagonal swords is complex because the handle is cast over the blade (so-called overlay casting). The decoration is made with an inlay and using hallmarks. While there are two real rivets, another pair of rivets are only implied," the statement said.

These rare and specialized swords were only made in two locations in Germany at the time, one in the north, one in the south, although the exact location of this sword's origin could not be confirmed.

This find is especially unusual considering that most burial mounds in the area of Germany where the sword was discovered have been opened and looted in the past.

"Sword finds from this period are rare and come either from burial mounds that were deliberately opened in the 19th century or as single, presumed sacrificial finds," the statement said.

It is unclear if this octagonal sword was ever used in combat, or if it was a ceremonial blade.

However, archaeologists noted that while the blade had no signs of wear in battle, its center of gravity made it suitable for use as a real weapon, and it was capable of being used to slash opponents.

The grave in which the sword was found contained the remains of a man, a woman and a child.

"It is not yet clear whether the persons were related or what the relationship between them was," the statement explained.

Despite these questions, the sword marks an exciting find for the archaeologists and for Germany.

"The sword and the burial still have to be examined further so that our archaeologists can classify this find more precisely. But it can already be said that its condition is exceptional. A find like this is very rare," Mathias Pfeil, head of the Bavarian State Office for the Preservation of Monuments, said in the statement.

#Archaeologists Find a Beautiful 3000-Year-Old Octagonal Sword in Germany #bronze age #bronze Age sword #ancient tomb #ancient grave #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations

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nobodysuspectsthebutterfly · 28 days ago

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#she’s not using it but best believe it’s bejewelled and stunning!! #glad the canon art continues to provide them wrong <3 (via @darilarostarg)

#she would have stolen Blackfyre if George had moxy (via @claudiatherelentless)

“Book Rhaenyra wouldn’t carry a sword” crowd are weird, because how do you read F&B not coming away with the option that she absolutely would simply for the aesthetic.

#indeed #and they are weird. wonder if it's the same people who used to insist sansa would never wear armor #(despite it being a known fact that even the most “feminine” ladies wear ceremonial armor in battles and on occasions in westeros)#and yeah rhaenyra should've had blackfyre (just like baela should've had dark sister in a better universe)#i wonder what did happen to blackfyre when rhaenyra took kl anyway? it's not mentioned iirc #aemond must not have had it or it would've ended up in the lake. maybe larys hid it when he smuggled aegon and the kids out?#asoiaf #rhaenyra targaryen #swords #fire and blood #f&b folio society edition #oh fandom #cope and seethe #queue and me we're in this together now

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felassan · 13 days ago

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Lucanis narrative sketches and captions by Nick Thornborrow, under a cut due to spoilers and length:

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with ... well... spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Nick Thornborrow: "Don't think for a second I haven't seen your fan art. 👀"

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

Art by Nick Thornborrow. [source thread]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #feels #blood cw #injury cw #character death cw #body horror cw

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serpentface · 6 months ago

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Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

#faiza haidamane #Not really relevant to the core post itself but I don't have anywhere to put this #Faiza is a pretty extreme cultural rarity in that she's something along the lines of agnostic (regardless of her priestesshood)#It's a culturally specific form of agnosticism where the notion that God continues to exist and interact with the world in spirit form is #questioned. She personally gets the distinct vibe that God truly and wholly died in the act of creation and is no longer present #This isn't just a Her Thing it's a concept that comes up in some strains of religious philosophy but it's pretty rare #Orthopraxy is SIGNIFICANTLY more important to the faith of the seven faced god than orthodoxy so her merely thinking this isn't #a fundamental issue as long as she performs all expected rites and behaviors and etc (which she does quite devotedly) but it would #definitely not be socially accepted to openly proclaim (least of all from a senior priestess devoted to maintaining the connection of God's #spirit to Its lands and people) and she keeps it to herself.#She is the only main character who WHOLLY doesn't expect the pilgrimage and rites to end the drought. She doesn't fully DISbelieve #either (kind of like 'well maybe?') but for her this is all a very pragmatic political maneuver to stabilize the crumbling empire and #regain the people's faith in its leadership. It's not fully cynical like it means a lot to her but in a sense of very practically protectin #her beloved empire rather than a more spiritual sentiment.#It's very complicated for her like she takes her role very seriously and cares deeply for her faith while not actually believing #in it in any personal sense. More about what it represents to her than what it's supposed to literally be.#the white calf

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bellarkeselection · 6 months ago

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Hiii I was wondering if you can do daemon Targaryen x plus size reader getting married fluff? Thank you!

Dragons Binded Through Blood

The double doors of the throne room creaked opened before my eyes. My Targaryen silver hair was completely loose except for two strands twisted up to appear like a crown sitting on my head. Walking through the entrance I focused my gaze on the stone floor until I reached the man who would soon become my husband. The Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

My sister always looked up to him but not in the same way as I did. I was the twin sister of Rhaenyra who was born a few minutes after her and a bit bigger than she was. “Iksos bisa nykeēdrosa mirros ao jaelagon, uncle. Am nyke nykeēdrosa someone ao jaelagon hae aōha riñnykeā ābrazȳrys? ( Is this still something you want, Uncle. Am I still someone you want as your lady wife?”

“Nyke iderēbagon ao, y/n. Regardless hen whispers lī orvorta lords vestragon bē ao. Nyke jāhor va moriot iderēbagon ao ( I choose you, Y/n. Regardless of the whispers those cunt lords say about you. I will always choose you.” His dark purple eyes lowered down to meet mine while he stood dressed in all black and red clothing of our house.

His words would mean more than they did the first time he had said something along those same lines to me when he asked me to marry him. Every lord that I had come into contact with attempted to compare me to my sister or politely ask if my size was because I ate more than I should, every single one of them except Daemon.

I’d remember the day he asked for my hand in front of the entire court and my father.

Standing beside my sister off to the side at the front of the crowd of people gathered in the throne room all awaiting to see whatever Daemon had to report on his battle fighting in the Stepstones. Heavy footsteps came through the crowd before I saw my uncle walkthrough and stand before my father. He wore white bones shaped into a crown upon his head. “You wear a crown. You also call yourself King.”

“Once we smashed the Triar Key they named me King of the Narrow Sea. But I know there is only one true king, your grace.” Daemon lowered himself down on one knee removing the crown from his head. “My crown and the Stepstones are yours.”

My father walked down the throne stairs clanking his sword on the harsh floor until he reached his younger brother. “Thank you, brother. I now ask you to give up your crown and title of King over to me if you would be so generous.”

“I will in exchange for something in return.” Daemon raises his head glancing behind his shoulder at me briefly.

Father raised a brow at him. “I suppose you can have anything for your victory in battle. What is it that you wish to have, brother?”

“Give me your daughter, Princess Y/n. Allow me to take her as my Lady wife.” His gaze focused on his brother.

Father glanced over at me asking me softly. “Daughter, what do you think about this opportunity? Do you wish to marry Daemon?”

“I’d gladly marry him, father.” Breaking through the crowd I jumped into his waiting arms where he spun me around in some circles till he sat me down on my feet. I grinned leaning forward, capturing his lips with mine ignoring the crowd of people watching us.

Daemon eyed the Septon who stood before us where he handed him a knife cutting his palm drawing out some fresh blood. He handed it to me and I did the same thing as he had. “Now we bind ourselves through blood, princess.”

“And become husband and wife forever, my prince.” I smiled fondly at him, connecting our bleeding hands together as one.

The Septon shifted his gaze between Daemon and I. “In the sight of the seven look upon one another and say the words.”

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crown, Stranger. I am hers ( his ) and she ( he ) is mine from this day until the end of my days." Daemon and I said in unison together with genuine smiles on our faces. We met the other's gaze and sealed the ceremony with a long awaited kiss.

I leaned up pressing my lips down upon his. He embraced me back instantly when my fingers dug into his shoulders once I had wrapped my arms around his neck. He ran his fingers over every inch of my body he could reach. Together we would keep the house of the dragon alive.

#daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen x you #hotd #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #ask box is open for anything #requests open #comments really appreciated #plus size reader #got wedding #viserys targaryen #hotd x reader

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argisthebulwark · 7 months ago

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My Best Friend, My One & Only

summary: how they propose <3 gn reader, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. feat: Farkas, Teldryn, Miraak, Brynjolf, Balimund, Mercer, Vilkas warnings: non explicit mentions of battle/injury a/n: yes I know this isn't how proposals work in the elder scrolls, I know about the amulets, rings are just more romantic to me masterlist

Farkas does it in the middle of a difficult battle. When you're back to back, weapons bloodied and muscles beyond exhausted and the enemies are circling closer. "If we make it out of this," Farkas pants, back flexing as he readies his sword once more. "Will you marry me?" "What?" "C'mon, if we're both alive tomorrow we'll get married. Deal?" "Alright, deal." You gulp, rallying whatever shred of strength you have left. An arrow lodges itself near your feet and you're lost again, hacking and slashing through the seemingly endless waves of bandits. It isn't difficult to keep track of Farkas on the battlefield - his stature and the roar of his victorious laugh calm your worries about losing him. Once only the two of you remain standing, you turn to him. Through the mud and viscera Farkas is grinning as he approaches you, chest heaving with each deep breath. "We both lived." He brags, one messy hand scrounging in his pockets. Your heart flips when he produces a stunning ring in his outstretched palm and offers it to you. "I didn't think you were serious." You breathe, plucking it from his hand despite the screaming of your muscles. Holding it up you marvel at the silvery moonlight glimmering on its beautiful stones. "I wouldn't joke about this." The ring fits so easily onto your finger. Farkas presses shameless kisses on your hand and up your arm, clearly so excited to see his ring on your finger. You can hardly believe that this is real, this isn't a dream.

Teldryn has never really brought up marriage, so the hypothetical catches you off guard - would you ever want to get married? Coming from a relatively large family it had once been the expectation but after the years of dealing with dragons and wars it's become less of a priority. "Yeah, I suppose I would." "You suppose?" "Well, you never bring it up so I haven't given it too much thought." "I ever said to me, specifically." There's a glimmer of humor in his eyes but you can't bring yourself to play into it. Something about this conversation feels heavy, like it's more important than some silly banter. "I wouldn't consider it with anyone else." Teldryn sighs and flips a coin your way. You scramble to catch it, glaring over at him when he begins to wander away. Prepared to ask why in the hells he would throw a septim your way you stare down at your hand. Sitting there in the palm of your tattered glove is the most beautiful ring you've ever seen. Small pale stones glitter around one dark gem placed in the center, all held together with sturdy metal. That bastard has the audacity to propose to you so casually? To toss this gorgeous ring at you, risk it falling into the dirt, and stroll off as if he hadn't just offered you something so beautiful? "What d'ya think?" Teldryn smirks, glancing over his shoulder. You want to berate him for his nonchalant tone but you've lost all words, tears springing into your eyes at the realization. Teldryn's offering you a future together, a promise that he won't leave. Placing that ring on your finger, you know that it's all you want.

Miraak doesn't. He began referring to you as his spouse ages ago. You've been his partner for so long it's an easy rhythm to fall into. Everyone else simply accepts that you're married and you're comfortable with it - saves you the trouble of planning a wedding. You know that Miraak isn't going anywhere and neither are you. After lifetimes together, you feel that traditional wedding ceremonies can't capture the depth and love that have been crafted between you. Miraak is your future and your past, and when he whispers that you are his entire world you know that it is true. "So," some lordling pipes up, drawing everyone's attention. Thanes and Jarls mill about the room and Miraak rolls his eyes, still unsure why you insist on maintaining relationships with them. "Yes?" You respond, rubbing a soothing hand over Miraak's arm. You take a sip of your drink and ready yourself for whatever political nonsense they have to offer now. "We've heard so many stories about you two - how did Miraak propose to you?" Wine practically shoots out of your nose. You snort, grabbing onto Miraak's coat and fight the laughter bubbling up at his expression. Your beloved husband is looking especially pale when he wipes absently at your face. "Well," he stalls and oh, it is delightfully entertaining. Miraak, always so eloquent, at a loss for words? It's a rare sight, even you have hardly seen it. "I may have skipped a few steps." "There's still time." You snicker playfully, fixing the lapel of his coat. He sends you a cutting glare, though it hasn't scared you for ages.

Brynjolf wants to keep it lowkey. He never thought he'd make it this far, not bothering for decades to imagine anything for himself outside of the Guild. When you're seated atop a manor, packs full and enjoying your last night before the long carriage ride home, he slides the ring toward you. "Did you steal this?" You question, totally ignorant of the furious blush in his face. Examining the ring in the moonlight is difficult but you're impressed, a simple and stunning piece. One deep green gem is framed with gentle swirls of metal, so unlike the terribly gaudy pieces you're used to pocketing. "Usually these lords have awful taste but this is beautiful, Bryn." "Glad you like it." He sounds a bit off, almost nervous. You scour the streets below but can't make out any guards. "It looks expensive, I bet Tonilia can fetch a good price." "No." "No?" Your brows tighten, that strained tone of his voice sets your nerves on edge. "It's for you." The situation punches you in the gut. Brynjolf, usually so calm and collected, looks nearly ready to launch himself off the roof. The gorgeous ring sitting in your hand, the ring that's for you. "Are you asking me to marry you?" Your fingers quiver when Brynjolf finally meets your gaze. "That depends on how you're plannin' to answer." His nervous laugh is so endearing. How could he possibly think you would refuse him? "Well, we live and work together, we've discussed spending our lives together, and all the recruits think we're already married." You squeeze his chilly fingers, surprised at how scared he is. "Of course I want to marry you, Bryn." "Oh, thank god - please don't fence that, love. Cost me a fortune."

Balimund works with Madesi for ages to forge a ring just for you. He's known for years that he intends to spend his life with you, there's no need to rush this step. The pair craft a ring to Balimund's exact specifications, priding himself on knowing exactly what you like. He chooses one of the nights you treasure the most - a quiet night at home together. No couriers pounding down the door or Jarls demanding your presence, just a night at home. You notice Balimund planting extra kisses to your shoulder while you cook dinner together and gazing at you across the table until you're certain there's something stuck in your teeth. Curled up on the couch together, your heart feels so full it hurts. Balimund's heavy arm rests around your shoulders, calloused fingers trailing over your skin as gentle kisses press to the crown of your head. You notice the uptick in his heartbeat where you're pressed to his chest and snuggle closer. "You alright, dearest?" You yawn, glancing up at him. Balimund finds himself struck by the sight of you; eyes soft and tired after a lazy day together, that gentle smile on your face he loves so dearly. He swears he falls in love with you all over again in this one moment. "I want this for the rest of my life." He mumbles, grasping the little box in his pocket. He's been fussing with it all night, gathering all his courage over the course of the evening but suddenly it's all gone. When he feels your hand cup his face Balimund gulps and draws the box out. "Me too, love." "Yeah?" He thumbs open the box, nervously presenting you when the fruit of his labor. Perfectly polished metal bears three sparkling gems. They aren't large or especially impressive but he recalls the way your eyes lit up when you'd seen each of them in his chest of supplies. "Balimund, please tell me you're proposing." "'Course I am, dearest." "Oh thank the gods."

Mercer doesn't. He's already gotten far too close, he can't let you creep any further into his heart. Occasionally when you're tucked into bed at his side, legs tangled together and all worries banished, you smile up at him and he sees an entire future. And gods, he hates it. Boring days spent together in the Cistern and weeks on the road to some high profile job. His family's ring sparkling on your finger and your lips on his skin. Watching grey creep into your hair and retiring in some fancy manor not too far from Riften, somewhere you can watch the leaves turn that shade of orange that lifts your spirits. Marriage, family, a real life together... he hates the thought of it. He's in too deep and there's no going back. His stomach always turns when he catches glimpses of that potential life he could have with you because for one desperate moment he wants it. He wants to forget about all the bullshit he's spent his life building up, the Guild, the Eyes, everything to live that life with you. But he can't. Mercer wishes he didn't make your smile falter in these moments when he wants you so badly. He clutches you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead in a silent apology for the heartbreak he'll surely dump on you someday. He knows he'll only break your heart, the longer he puts it off the worse it gets, but he can't bring himself to give you up. "Love you." Guilt spikes at his heart each time you yawn those damning words into his chest. Your skin is so lovely and warm when an arm wraps around his waist. I love you. He chokes on those words he can't say, choosing instead to kiss your head once more instead of damning himself further.

Vilkas knows that you'll say yes but fuck, he's still terrified. You're relaxing in the fancy inn, muscles loose from an afternoon of lazing in the hot springs. He's never been away from Jorrvaskr for so long without being on an assignment but tonight his nerves are entirely your fault. He's had it planned out for weeks. The many days spent relaxing far from the worries of your everyday life have lead up to this evening; a fancy dinner he's picked out every little component of, chilled drinks on the patio, and the ring. It sounds so easy in his mind but standing here in your rented cabin, he can't keep his hands from shaking. Thank the gods you help him with that last button. He'd only bought the jacket after you pointed out it would look nice on him, and when you smile up at him he can hardly breathe. "Are we running away?" You sigh, thumb tracing over his cheek. "Not if we plan on going back." He fumbles with the box in his pocket, stunned when you smile up at him. "There's no one else in the world I'd rather run away with. Even if it's just for a couple days." He isn't sure what he's thinking - the entire plan is forgotten when you're beaming up at him. Vilkas produces the ring, heart swelling at your words and the blatant love in your eyes when you gaze up at him. Suddenly his meticulously planned dinner seems far less romantic than what you'd said. "Vilkas," you pause, carefully reaching toward the little box. "What is this?" "Please marry me." He chokes out, all his fear and anxiety spiking when you thumb it open to glance at the ring. It's bewildering how just a few minutes can feel like hours but he endures it, choking back every nervous word until you respond. "Of course I'll marry you, Vilkas." Thank the gods you put him out of his misery. Vilkas feels numb when you launch yourself at him, arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck. God, the world feels so wonderful right now. Vilkas holds you to his chest, relief slowly ridding him of those nerves until he's practically giddy - you've agreed to marry him.

#skyrim #writing #skyrim x reader #x reader fanfic #farkas #teldryn sero #miraak #brynjolf #balimund #mercer frey #vilkas

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redundantz · 2 years ago

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Ancient Loz AU Story

10,000 years before the events of BOTW the Princess of Hyrule and the Hero who wields the sword that seals the Darkness first fought off the Calamity. With the help of the Sheikah, Guardians, Champions and the Divine Beasts. However, the hero and her best friend; the Prince of the Gerudo, were now missing. The only one to return from the fight was the Princess… Bloodied and bruised. She emerged from the castle alone. No longer the energetic, and free spirited person she used to be. Now, she is filled with a sole dedication to her Kingdom. But cold, and filled with deep sorrow. She orders the Sheikah to create shrines to train the next hero.They prepare the towers, store the Guardians under the castle till they are needed. Research started on the slate where it can be used for building infrastructure and even battle. Anything to help prepare for another Calamity.

The Gerudo Prince wasn't seen again and the heroes identity was forgotten But, the Royal blood of Hylia lives on….

Link is from a traveling caravan. His family has blood from the ancient Zonai tribe. He travels with a decent size troupe along with his sister, father and grandmother.

He meets Zelda during a festival where he was entering an archery contest in castletown. Zelda, who was disguised as Sheik, was also entering. She beat him at the contest(barely), but was extremely bothered by how good he was.

The festival goes on for about 3 days and at the end there is the sword ceremony where all the people coming of age(18) can attempt to pull the sword. She was presiding over it and witnessed him pull the sword and his whole life change. Not long after they meet officially and Link is appointed as her Knight; She introduces him to Ganondorf, her best friend from childhood.

And the chaos and comrade-ere ensues~

Over 3 years they travel, train, fall in love and wait for the day when the evil is supposed to show itself. With no sign of the great evil, they start to relax a bit. But that is when it strikes. Ganon travelling by himself at this time. Explores a cave in the Gerudo desert and encounters something ominous. Whispers in the dark speak to him and his fears and wants and his distaste for the King of Hyrule…. The voice is familiar, much too familiar, and before he can fight back it consumes him. When he awakes he is alone. He isn't instantly ‘evil’ but over time it twists his thoughts and actions. His closest friends and mother grow concerned. He becomes harsher and radical. Cruel. During a secret meeting with the King, Ganon assassinates him. Zelda happens upon Ganon covered in blood. She thinks he's hurt and is concerned by his behavior the past year. He snaps. He tells her every dark thing he has been thinking, and that he killed her father. In shock, and devastated, she can’t move as Ganon is about to strike her. But Link manages to get to her in time because the master sword was glowing, something he has never seen before but an instinct so old took over him. He races to escape with her. Ganon takes over the castle. But only as a steward because the King and the Princess are nowhere to be found. No one is the wiser to his malevolent plots. Yet. He knows she has to act fast since Zelda and Link escaped.

Zelda and Link make it all the way to Kakariko Village and Impa and they are all Informed that the Calamity is upon them. No one can believe it is their Ganondorf who is doing this but it is undeniable. They grieve, but they must act fast. With the help of the Sheikah they gather the guardians, monks and send word to the Races and Champions to prepare for battle. Zelda listens as Link hums an old Zonai Lullaby his mother used to sing to him. And it makes her remember something she read about. A story about there being an ancient Zonai device below the castle that would help defeat the Demon King.

Impa knows the tunnels She can help them sneak in. So they prepare to infiltrate the castle.

Under the castle they find the Zonai Artifacts that were left behind for sealing the great evil.

Ganon's followers saw them enter however and informed him. Knowing this is his chance he stops all pretenses and releases his power. Unleashing a mob of monsters and a cloud of malace into the castle and across Hyrule. But the Champions and Shekah are prepared to meet them.

Looking around for any clue. Trying to think of anything they read or that Link heard from his family that could be used to turn on the sealing jewelry. They don’t know how to activate it, but Ganon is going to be upon them soon as they had to fight through hordes of monsters beforehand.

Out of the dark behind them he emerges.

Zelda and Link manage to avoid the surprise attack. They both go on the defensive. They fight and try to reason with him. They can’t believe this is their friend, their lover. The fight is tough, because they all know each other's moves after training together for years along with the emotional turmoil. Zelda tells Link he needs to figure out how to activate the artifact if they are to succeed. She will hold him off. But by this point they are both exhausted.

Ganon manages to cut Link, spraying blood over the floor and the statue. Link falls to the floor and Ganon towers over him ready to strike him down, but Zelda blasts him away. Ganon turns his attention to her. Annoyed with her meddling and manages to land a blow on her also. Cutting the tip of her right ear off.

The statue lights up from the blood. The blood of a zonai. That was another part of the Lullaby from Links family Zelda realizes. The Jewelry glows and expands before flying off the wrists of the statue to Link. He is surrounded by a green glowing light that blasts Ganon and Zelda back. The bands constrict around his arms and legs disintegrating the clothing underneath. He screams. Zelda watches on in horror as Link transforms before her. His skin is turning black and his bones and skin stretch until he is 6 ft tall. What did she get him into? This was supposed to help them what was happening… She is living in a nightmare. What else will she have to give up. She cries as she looks at him, feeling his pain and fear. His hair band she had given him falls from his hair. Rolling across the floor towards her. “..Zelda….” He says

She picks up the hair band and goes to him! But he is not really responding. He is restrained and struggling within himself. His head is filled with the spirits of the Zonai he knows what he must do…he knows this is the last time he will see Zelda and Ganon. To seal the Demon King he must sacrifice himself. He says the last part of the Lullaby to Zelda and she knows. This is it. She kisses him. Though a bit strange now that he's so tall and his lips are cold. Ganon is getting up across the cavern from them, laughing. He mocks them and their weak attempts at thwarting him. One last clash. Zelda manages to get his weapon from him and Link plunges his arm into Ganons chest activating the sealing power. Glowing green. They both freeze in place and all is quiet. Entombed under the castle. The malice and monsters disappear. Zelda cautiously goes up to them. She doesn't touch them lest she break the spell somehow. The only thing she does is grab the hair bangle that fell to the floor in the final fight. It was the one from Ganon’s hair. And she left for the surface.

Alone.

Thanks for Reading! <3

#zelda #ancient loz au #zelda au #link #ganondorf #tloz #totk #legend of zelda #ganzelink #zelink #i finally wrote something!!! its not a fic but now you guys can fianally read mainly what i had in my head #thanks for liking my AU everyone i can say it enough #botw #there is probably so many issues and plot holes or contrivances but whatever im jsut having fun!#this doesnt even make sense now that totk is out but oh well #long post

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sifu-kisu · 3 months ago

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Parts of a Chinese Sword: The Jian and Dao Anatomy

Chinese swords are very beautiful and dangerous weapons that have played an important role in Chinese history and culture for thousands of years. Their intricate design and construction are a testament to centuries of Chinese swordmaking tradition.

One must be familiar with the complex workings of Chinese swords to fully appreciate their lethality and beauty and use them more effectively in Wushu or Kung Fu Chinese martial arts. In this article, we’ll introduce you to the various components of the Dao or Jian, the traditional Chinese swords, and their use.

Parts of the Jian / Straigh Double Edge

The Parts of a Jian Sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Jian is a type of ancient Chinese straight, double-edged sword that has been valued for over a thousand years. Its blade is long and narrow, while the handle is straight and slim. Soldiers, martial artists, and academics employed the sword in ancient China and surrounding regions. Together with the staff, spear, and Dao swords, it is one of the four key weapons in Chinese martial arts.

1. Jiantan – Pommel

The Chinese word for the pommel of a Jian sword is Jiantan, and it is there that the sword begins. It’s a metal weight at the end of the handle, and its purpose is to balance the blade so the user can have a firm hold. First only available in ring pommels, Jian pommels eventually evolved into more complex designs like the metal cap, ball, or teardrop shapes and the common disk pommel known today.

2. Jian Sui – Tassel

A Jian sword’s tassel is a decorative accessory that can be fastened to the pommel or scabbard. The Chinese sword tassel is often constructed from silk. This sheath beautifies the Jian and adds a few features that may or may not improve the sword’s effectiveness in battle.

3. Jianba – Handle

The different possible edge features on the Jian sword – Credits: Sword Buyers Guide

The Jianba is the sword’s handle, and it is always straight and slim, measuring somewhere between 6 and 10 inches (15 and 25 cm) in length. For ceremonial and combat purposes, it may be crafted from various materials, including bone, wood, horn, and even jade. The majority of Jianbas have a shorter handle designed for use with one hand, although there are also longer versions used with both.

4. Jian Ge – Guard

Traditional Jian sword guards are thin, tapered pieces of metal that can be angled in either direction relative to the blade and handle. In some cases, it can be round or square that goes between the blade and the handle. Its purpose is to shield the user’s hand from the oncoming blade and to stop the enemy’s weapon from sliding down the blade onto the hand. In some cases, it only serves as a beautiful ornamental piece.

5. Shaungxue – Hamon

A hamon is the visible line on the Jian sword that is sometimes on the blade but not always. It is a result of the differential hardening used throughout history to make the edges of the blade sharper by using clay. It is a feature most known today on the Japanese Katana.

6. Jianti – Blade

The blade of a Jian sword is narrow and long, normally measuring 23 to 31 inches (60 to 80 cm) but reaching as high as 47 inches (1.2 meters), and always tapers into a sharp blade tip. It is the only straight Chinese sword, one of just a few in the arsenal of Chinese swords, with no curving variant. The blade is forged from bronze, then iron, and finally, high-quality steel, and it is optimized for speed and accuracy when cutting.

7. Jian Ren – Edge

The straight Jian scabbard –

The sharp edges on both sides of the Jian’s blade are called Jian Ren. This Jian Ren has three sections and parts, mostly seen in the combat or martial arts type of Jian sword.

Top – razor sharp and used primarily for hacking, slashing, thrusting, but not blocking

Middle – semi-sharpened part of the blade but much thicker, which is used for slashing and blocking

Bottom – very thick, sturdy, and usually unsharpened for defensive or unorthodox offensive movements

8. Jian Jian – Blade Tip

The very point of the Jian sword is called Jian Jian. It is sharpened on both sides and made to be deadly when used for thrusting and piercing, but it can also be used for slashing.

9. Jianqiao – Scabbard

When not in use, a Jian sword is stored safely in its scabbard, called the Jianqiao. It’s usually crafted from wood and covered in luxurious materials like silk or leather. Metal fittings and tassels are two examples of possible embellishments for the scabbard.

Parts of the Dao Sword (Knife/ Saber)

The Parts of a Dao Sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Dao sword, often called the Chinese broadsword, is a renowned blade that has served Chinese warriors for millennia. Its defining feature is a single-edged blade, which can be straight or slightly curved and may be gripped in one or both hands thanks to the long, slim grip. The Dao sword has a long history of use in numerous Chinese martial arts traditions, but it was primarily a sword of the soldier thanks to its ease of use and simpler design.

1. Daoba Dingshu – Pommel

Usually, the Dao sword has a smaller metal cap of a pommel which can be ring type, as seen in the 20th-century use of the Dadao. However, the most common type is a round or wider disc shape. It serves as a back support to the user’s hand as well as a possible blunt attack tool.

2. Lanyard and Tassel

Like the Jian has the traditional Chinese tassel, so does the Dao. But most of the time, the Dao swords have a lanyard, which is meant to have a better grip on the sword and make this curved blade more effective in mounted attacks.

3. Daoba – Handle

The handle of the Dao, which can be as small as a person’s hand or the size of the blade itself, is called the Daoba. Its most common length is 8 to 13 inches (20 to 35 cm), and it can be used with one or two hands for powerful slashing attacks.

4. Daoba Shu – Ferrule

The small metal piece just under and between the guard and the handle is called the Daoba Shu. These are often circular metal rings made for extra joining and fastening of the handle and sealing and reinforcing the wrapping material.

5. Dao Hushou – Guard

The metal piece that protects the user’s hand between the blade and the handle is the Dao Hushou. The most common type of guard seen on a Dao sword is round or disc-shaped. It offers protection to the user’s hand but is fairly limited. It makes for an excellent marching or cavalry type of guard. However, It is also featured in the parts of a Katana known as tsuba.

6. Dao Cao – Groove

The early types of Dao Ren on the straight Dao swords, which curved with time – Credits: The Scholar General

The Dao Cao translates to saber groove and can be found in almost all types of Chinese Dao. They are sometimes referred to as blood grooves, but their real purpose is to lessen the weight of the blade so that it can increase the saber’s handling and speed. In addition, they make eye-pleasing aesthetics.

7. Dao Ren – Blade (Edge)

The sharpened side of the Dao swords, which makes them single-edged, is called the Dao Ren, which sets it apart from the Jian. This edge makes for an effective slashing tool that benefited from the curve added onto the later Dao types of swords. Thanks to the Dao Ren, these blades were easier to master and cheaper to produce, but still very effective in combat and became the main type of military sword for Chinese soldiers.

8. Dao Bei – Spine

The sturdy part of the Dao sword, which can hold off the flexibility of the edge, is called Dao Bei. This isn’t a sharpened part and can be either straight or curved based on the type of sword and can be used for defensive purposes too. Sometimes the blade can be made broader and wider, and there are instances of a spike on some Dao Beis.

9. Blade Rings

There are some cases of Chinese swords with rings placed on the Dao Bei or the blade’s spine. They are mostly for entertainment and ornamental reasons, but some say they are also beneficial in combat.

10. Tunkou – Blade Collar

An unsharpened piece of metal, usually on top of the guard of Dao swords, is called a Tunkou, which is a blade collar. This is placed for decorative purposes, mostly with traditional Chinese elements, but it also holds the blade tightly inside the scabbard, keeping it safe from the elements.

11. Dao Feng – Blade Tip

The very end of the blade is called the Dao Feng, the blade’s sharpened tip. There are cases where only one side is sharpened, but on some Dao swords, the tip is double-edged, making it ideal for both slashing and thrusting.

12. Daoqiao – Scabbard

The P-shape curved scabbard of the Dao sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Daoqiao, or the scabbard for the Dao blade, has the same features and materials as the Jian, except that it is curved. It protects the blade from outside elements and is a nice resting piece for carrying the Dao around.

13. Dao Shu Liang – Scabbard Suspension

The Dao Shu Liang is how the scabbard is different from the Jian. This tradition came from Persian influence on the west during the Tang Dynasty and is basically two ropes swinging from the blade that hold the swords in a horizontal fashion

#sifu kisu #atlab #northern shaolin #lok #northern shaolim #kung fu #jian #baguazhang #atlab lok #piandao #Jian Shu #Chinese sword fighting

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anjelicawrites · 1 year ago

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You Can Never Leave

Paring: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x older!reader

Synopsis: you are in a secret, albeit happy, relationship with Aemond, until you are not anymore.

Warnings: DDDNE, consensual relationship that becomes abusive, dubious consent from reader, abusive behavior from Aemond, p in v sex, Iron Throne sex, oral (male receiving), titty sucking, ass and cunt spanking, strangling, finger fucking, the Iron Throne used as a death threat.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used if needed.

Please, please, please, read the warnings before starting this one. This is not one of my happy filthy fics, read the warnings please!!!

NSFW and 18+ only please

You observe Aemond stalking towards the Iron Throne from the shadows; he looks intense, the shadows in the room and the storm raging outside play on his features, painting the mask of someone you don’t recognize anymore.

You had befriended the young prince as per his mother's request. You were older and not a widow, yet, a friendship between you two not scandalous, Alicent had thought.

The queen had confided in you, one of her dearest and more trusted ladies in waiting, while walking in the gardens, about her concerns with Aemond only focusing on his studies and sword training.

“He reminds me of my husband, with due respect Your Grace.” You told her, stopping under the shadows of a group of trees. “I have to trick him into doing something else but the work he does for the Crown, sometimes.” You finished with a soft smile.

“Would you do the same for my son?”

Her beautiful brown eyes held all her concerns and you felt for her, the love you had for her, the knowledge of how alone she truly was, had drawn you to trying to help her. You cared about her too much not to.

“I will try, Your Grace.” You answered and her smile had warmed your heart and strengthen your resolve.

You had managed to lure him away from the library and the training yard many times, talking with him about philosophy and history while walking in the gardens, the young man always respectful and slowly losing his usual stiffness with each talk.

“I know what are you doing.” He had told you once, the shadows of the setting sun hiding his expression.

“Would you like me to stop?”

Your question was earnest: as much as you wanted to quell Alicent’s concerns, if Aemond didn’t appreciate your company, you would have stopped bothering him immediately.

“No, I wouldn’t like that.”

He was wearing an expression you couldn’t truly read, too many shadows had fallen, but it didn’t scare you, knowing full well that under the mask, Aemond always burned with emotions he would not share.

Yet your walks were stopped by your husband’s untimely illness and then death.

You had spent weeks by his side, as he battled the pneumonia that killed him and then sealed yourself in your rooms, the pain of his loss tearing a hole in your chest that seemed capable of absorbing every ounce of light and happiness in your life, Alicent the only person who had managed to enter your rooms to console you, something she couldn’t do openly during the funeral ceremony.

In the haze of pain and confusion you had walked through, as you organized you late husband’s funeral, Aemond had offered you his condolences and retired into the fold of people talking around you, your brain not truly registering his words, nor his tone.

It had been days later, after the funeral, that he knocked on your door, late at night, when the whole palace slept, his hand still raised when you had opened the door.

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” He said, a tinge of insecurity in his deep voice.

You had fallen against his chest, crying, ugly, fat tears and sobs you couldn’t control. You pain had been a dry desert you had to cross through. Even with Alicent you couldn’t express yourself in such a violent way, but Aemond, your friend who reminded you so much of your late husband at his age, the gates had just opened, leaving you defenseless and him to deal with your violent output of emotions.

You didn’t know how he had managed to walk you towards the bed, your body entwined with his, but he did and he had awkwardly caressed your back, until you had calmed down enough to talk.

“I’m so sorry.” You managed to say, your eyes not meeting his. “I don’t know what happened.”

Out of nowhere he had given you a handkerchief, his initials sewn into the delicate silk.

“Don’t be.”

His tone was firm, his hand under your chin so that he could look into your eyes, knowing full well that you two were too close to one another for this to be proper.

“Aemond…”

You had never used his given name, only his title and the pupil of his eye enlarged with the hunger he had forced himself to stifle for so long.

You will never know who had started the kiss, only that his lips were on yours, hungry and demanding, your hands in his soft hair, your breasts squashed against his solid chest, his strong arms crushing you against his body.

You wailed when his arms trapped you too tightly against his body, his tongue clumsily inside your mouth, seeking yours as his fingers tried to open the latchings of your dress, desperate and uncaring of the delicate latches he was destroying.

“Aemond… Aemond!” You tried to say, his lips on your neck, graceless kisses and bites left on the delicate skin there, your arms fruitlessly trying to push him away. “Please, Aemond!”

The high pitched panic in your voice seemed to kick him out of his frenzy, his only eye focusing on your face, the array of emotions he saw there.

“I’m sorry.” he blurted out, yet his hands were still on your trembling body, fingers contracting on the heavy material of your dress, his hunger for you clear on his features.

“Aemond.” Your voice was still uneven, but you tried to be gentle. “Have you ever done this before? Do you know what you’re doing?”

He blushed and turned his head, his hair hiding his expression.

“It’s complicated.” He finally said, under his breath.

He resisted a little when you tried to turn his head, it’s only after you’ve pleaded with him, that he looked at you, ashamed.

“You don’t have to be so overwhelming. I’m not going anywhere.” You gently cupped his scarred cheek. “You need to be gentler.”

For a second his mask slipped and you could see how surprised he was, but he managed to control himself again.

One of his hands covered yours on his cheek, so big and warm, his fingers delicately curled around your palm and you knew this was the moment when either of you were to say that the kiss was grossly inappropriate and that he should go back to his quarters. You could feel the words forming in your head and, if you had pronounced them, you wouldn’t find yourself in the predicament you are now. But you stayed silent, didn’t you? And, if he had similar thoughts to yours, he didn’t share them, preferring to pull your face closer to his.

“May I?” He asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Yes, my prince.”

“Use my name. Say it like before!” He sounded more in control of himself, his eye focused on your lips.

“Aemond.”

You barely managed to finish the last syllable, that his mouth was on yours, clumsy but not as hurried as before and you knew you should have pushed him away, instead your hands found refuge in his hair, your lips parted to make way for your tongue to tease his, a moan escaping your bound lips when you tongue slid against the rood of his mouth.

You straddled his hips, yours already grinding against his trapped cock, his fingers again at the fasting of your dress, trying to open the knots your handmaid fastened this morning.

“Do you want me to take the lead, Aemond?” You asked when your lips parted. “To show you?”

He audibly took a breath in, his pupil enlarged into a bottomless pit of need.

“Yes.” Was a deep rasp that reminded you of the growl of Vhagar.

You didn’t want to, but you had to dismount him to turn around and guide him as he unlaced your dress with hasty fingers, his hands turning you to face him as he helped you out of the heavy brocade and silk, his eye raked down you body, still covered by the layers of slips, his hands fastened around your breasts with a moan at the weight and feel.

“Let me help you as well, Aemond”

Your voice sounded breathy and needy in your ears, your fingers trembled as you opened his tunic and helped him out of the layers he wore underneath. His skin glowed, illuminated by the candles, small scars and burns littered his torso, his nipples darker and you had to fight the urge to suck on them.

Slow, you needed to go slow.

He removed all the clothes still covering your body, a long, appreciative hmm left his lips when your beauty was barred to him: the softness of your curves and tummy, the patch of hair between your legs and your breasts so perfect and enticing.

He hurried with his breeches and underclothes, his cock hard and red already, just by seeing your naked body, one of your hands cupping it, feeling its weight and warmth.

“Lie on the bed.” You told him and his cock seemed to swell at your words.

He looked absolutely breathtaking with his long legs splayed open, his erect cock against the tight muscles of his abdomen. You were hungry for him, your tongue unconsciously licking your lips as you crawled between his legs.

“You need to tell me if you want me to stop. Promise me that you will, Aemond.”

It should have been ludicrous that you were telling this to the rider of the largest dragon in the world, but you were the one with the experience, it was your duty to keep him safe.

He stared at you for the longest time, something in his eyes that you couldn’t truly read, something akin to devotion.

“I will.”

Gods be good! The low rumble of his voice, his hips jutting up without his control: you needed him in your mouth, in your cunt. You needed to know how he sounded like in the throes of passion, but you controlled your hunger, when your lips started kissing his cock, when he started to raggedly fuck your willing mouth, when he came all over your face with a cry of pleasure.

You hugged him, then, letting his head slot under yours, until his breath slowed down, and he had turned you on your back, his cock hard and ready for you again.

A grasp escaped his mouth when his fingers met the wetness coating your hungry cunt

“Is this for me?” He sounded so surprised you heart broke.

“Yes Aemond. It means that I need you. Please.” Your voice so small, so needy in your ears, you were ashamed of yourself.

He had covered your body with his, then. His cock nestled between your lips and you both moaned when he started rutting against you, the movements irregular and desperate, the pleasure climbing up his spine like fire.

“Aemond, please!”

You were desperate, your cunt clenched around nothing and it hurt, the warmth of desire clawing at your insides the same way your nails were cutting his long back: if he didn’t breach you, you knew you’d go insane.

He begged the Gods when his cock head was enveloped by your cunt, the warmth and tightness almost painful as he slowly entered you, his hands grabbing the bed sheets in the desperate attempt to control himself.

Your legs curling around his hips when he bottomed out were his saving grace, forcing him to stop moving and focus on himself, and you.

You looked ravished and desperate, your teeth biting your lower lip to the point of pain, your cunt stretched almost to its limit to accommodate Aemond’s thick cock, your nails scratching down his back in desperation, your mind torn between needing him to keep still and rut inside of you until both of your were out of breath.

His movements were jerky, no finesse as he slammed inside of you, but that didn’t truly mattered, when you felt your body come alive under his, when his cock head slammed repeatedly against that patch inside of yourself that made you beg and cry, when broken words of praise spilled from his delirious lips. When the pressure inside of you was too much to bear and you clamped around him, coming with him, long screams of pleasure reverberating against the thick walls of your room.

Aemond fell against you, your arms welcomed him, your legs loose around his hips, as his bigger body trembled in your embrace and your lips kissed the crown of his head.

You knew that you were supposed to send him away, to tell him to dress and go back to his chambers; you couldn’t. As big as he was, he felt so small in your embrace, his mouth frantically leaving kisses on the patches of skin he managed to reach. It broke your heart to even think about kicking him out of your bed, not when his hands felt so desperate on your skin: you couldn’t bear to hurt him.

And so it started, with your too soft heart and his newfound hunger.

That very night he sheathed himself inside of you again and again, until you were too sore and he covered you in kisses to show you how sorry he was.

And he kept coming back.

Now, shrouded as you are by the shadows of the Throne Room, you wonder where that Aemond went. The one who knocked on your door night after night, who would let you ride him, his mouth on your breasts, sucking and kissing, who would steal kisses during your walks in the gardens until you squealed in his arms. Who would kiss every mark he left on your body, when his passion overridden his desire to keep you safe. Who would spend hours just learning to play your body like a fine tuned instrument, reveling in every moan, every scream of pleasure he managed to extract from you. Who would talk to you, his head on your bosom, who would pour out his frustration towards his brother and his antics or be jealous of the Lords showing their interest in you, when your mourning stopped, even though he fully knew he would never be able to marry you.

Can you pinpoint the moment your sweet lover changed?

Your grandmother, a pious yet extremely superstitious woman, used to tell you to steer away from abandoned places, because something will occupy and corrupt what people leave vacant. You started to wonder if that could happen to a man’s heart: when the cracks form, could that space become the home for something to fester and spread, like an infection?

Perhaps it was the night he killed Lucerys Velaryon, when he came to your room still wet from the storm raging outside, his skin cold and clammy, his hair soaked, the same way his clothes were, after he had told his family what he had done?

He looked haunted, wraith like with his hair disheveled down his back, so unsteady on his feet that he had almost fallen on you. Maybe the seeds took root when you told him to go to his room and call his servants to prepare him a bath, and that you would be there with him as soon as possible; perhaps, if you had called upon your people to draw a bath in your chambers, he wouldn’t have changed.

It hadn’t taken you more than half an hour to reach him and to find him standing in from of the steaming bath, still clothed and drenched; his hand had closed like a manacle around your wrist when you started to help him undress himself.

“There’s no man more accursed than the kinslayer.” He told you, a fever in his eye unknown to you. “You shouldn’t want to tarnish yourself.”

“Aemond.” You said weakly. “Let me help you, please.”

He stared down at you, eyebrow raised, with a coldness foreign to you in his eye. For a second his hold tightened, to the point that you cold barely breath through the pain, to then free your wrist with a jerk.

“As you wish” Came from his lips, distant like never before.

You could barely move your hand, still numb from his hold, to help him out of his clothes, his skin as cold as ice under your tentative touch.

He let you wash his body without saying a word, as if you were his servant, not his lover, you thinking that the enormity of what had happened weighted too much on his mind for him to express himself.

You dried him with the warm bath towel his servants had left near the fire. When you moved to grab his night clothes, he stopped you again, a strong hand around your still hurting wrist and, without a word, he dragged you towards his bed.

“Aemond, please. You need to sleep.” You pleaded, stumbling on your own feet to keep up with his gait.

“Later.”

Again, he regarded you with coldness in his eye, as if he didn’t know who you were and just threw you face first on the bed, his body trapping yours before you could ever try to turn on your back, one hand on your nape, the other pulling your nightgown up towards your hips, roughly.

“Aemond, stop!” You tried to say, the mattress suffocating your pleas.

“I need you, now.” A cruel slap landed on your ass. “Or the touch of the kinslayer disgusts you now?”

“Never, Aemond!” You whimpered when his had grabbed your hair to lift your head up. “You’re hurting me!”

A fast round of slaps rained on your buttocks and you screamed.

“Don’t pretend this is the first time I enjoy you like this.” The hand that had been punishing you traveled fast to your cunt, to find the shame of your arousal. “It seems to me you’re liking what I’m doing.”

You yelped and cried when he spanked your wet cunt until you were a squirming mess on his bed.

“Tell me, lover, should I stop?” He said, cold as ice, his hand painfully gripping your abused cunt.

“No Aemond, please.” You answered, afraid of what he would do, if you were to tell him to let you go.

“See, it wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Another slap landed on your arse, before he breached you, hard and fast, his cock hurting you even though you were soaked.

You had to grab his bed sheets, your teeth biting the soft cotton as he fucked you violently, his hands on your hips to move you to his leisure, grinding against your abused cunt until you cried out in pain.

“You can’t help but liking it, isn’t it, lover? You crave it, even from a kinslayer.”

Your cunt clenched around his cock, your body too attuned to his to register the anger in his voice when he started fingering your pearl with fast movements that hurled you towards your orgasm, him following you with a grunt of pleasure.

You curled into yourself when he let you go, tears threatening to fall as you realized that this was the first time he had taken you in his chambers: it shouldn’t have happened this way.

You jumped out of your skin when his hand touched your back, unsure of what he would do to you.

When he gently turned you to face him, you thought whatever malady had taken hold of him, had passed, his touch so gentle as he rubbed the salve he used after sword training on your skin.

“This will never happen again.” Was the closest thing to a sorry you could get from him.

You wanted to believe him when he hugged you tight and kept you in his warm embrace until sunrise.

But it was all lies, you had realized, when the bad days became more frequent, when he had ruthlessly fucked inside of you, one hand curled around your neck, until you had fainted, after Jahaerys’s death. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt that opened the cracks in his heart? Or had been seeing poor Helaena falling into madness? Or, maybe, it was the war?

Did it really matter, when he stopped promising he wouldn’t raise a hand against you? When he seemed to revel in the marks he left on your abused body, his fingers pushing against the welts to hear you wail in pain, or fuck your cunt even after you begged him not to, that you were too sore.

Did it truly matter, when he had grabbed you neck, one night, his hold barely letting air pass through your windpipe and had coldly asked you about that stupid Lord that was clumsily courting you.

“Nothing happened, I swear!” You gasped, tears forming on your eyes. “I told him off, Aemond please!”

He regarded you with a cruel stare, his hand a fraction tighter, your fingers desperately scratching at his wrist.

“You are mine, lover. You will never leave my side, but in death. Say it!” He forced your body closer to his, his eye zeroed on your facial expression.

“Where would I go, Aemond?” Tears streamed down your cheeks, you were so scared. “I am yours, until death.”

For a second he closed his hand with such a force around your neck, that you thought he was going to strangle you, but he let go and you fell back on the bed, coughing desperately.

“Yes, who would have you, now that you are stained?” He said, disdain in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength to push him off yourself when he covered your body with his, his engorged cock at your abused hole, only to desperately ask yourself why he now hated you so much and still couldn’t let go of you.

He would go to battle, those days the only ones when your poor body could find some respite from his constant abuse as your mind tortured itself trying to find ways to be in his good graces again: if you could better yourself for him, then he wouldn’t hate you so, he would go back to be your gentle lover who would find refuge in your arms from the life in Court.

But that never happened.

He would call for you, not an ounce of tenderness in his touch anymore, no good days to tide you over during the bad ones, only his roughness on your body and the welts he left there, as you scrambled to make yourself as small and obedient as possible to avoid his wrath.

Maybe, you had thought one day, when this war will be over, he’ll go back to the Aemond you knew and loved.

As you observe him from the shadows, you realize that the Aemond who had knocked on your door, oh so many moons ago, is dead. The young man who would confide his frustration and love for his older brother, their relationship so complicated to navigate, will never come back: he is like those men in the stories your grandmother told you, who would come back from death, but wrong, a shell worn by something else, something cruel and malicious.

“Come here.” He orders and you jump in the pocket of darkness shadowing you. “Do you really thing I wouldn’t know where you are?”

His eye scans the shadows like a predator’s, his hand raised to call to you.

“Don’t make me come and collect you, lover.”

You don’t want to go, you want to run away from the monster who has taken the place of the man you loved, but there’s nowhere for you to go: like those who wouldn’t steer away from abandoned places, and end up being imprisoned there, you are bound to Aemond, chained to him, until death.

“Aemond.” Your voice trembles as you take cautious steps towards him.

“What were you doing? Spying on me?” His hand closes like a manacle around your wrist the moment you are close to him.

“No Aemond.” You hate the panic in your voice, the fear lacing your words. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

His cold eye rakes down your body, his hand around your wrist a fraction looser and you fool yourself into thinking you might have made it, this time.

He pulls you towards himself with such a force you fear your arm might get out of its socket, his free hand grabs your hair and pulls your face against him, until your noses are almost touching.

“You talking to that Septa has nothing to do with this, right lover?” You cry out in pain when he pulls on your hair and starts dragging you towards the Iron Throne. “You’re not thinking about giving yourself to the Faith to escape me, do you?”

Uselessly your hands go to his fingers to pry them open, your feet scrambling on the floor to keep up with fast gait.

“No Aemond! I swear!” You scream.

“I would have you, anyway.” You are both facing the Iron Throne now, Aemond’s rage lacing every word he spits in your face. “Septa or not you belong to me!”

“Aemond I would never leave you!” You scream, uselessly, he’s not truly listening.

“I’d kill you before I’ll allow you to abandon me!”

A terrorized sound leaves your lips when he bends you against the Throne, one of the swords mere inches away from your unprotected neck.

His free hand grabs the layers of your skirt to lift them up, his fingers destroying your delicate underclothes in the rush to get to your cunt.

“Why are you making me do this?” He shakes your head with every word, the blade closer and closer. “Why don’t you learn?”

You’re desperately trying to push yourself away from the Iron Throne, one hand against the cold metal, the other fruitlessly scratching Aemond’s fingers in your hair: you don’t want to die like this.

“I just want to make you happy!” You manage to scream, to which he barks an unhappy, cruel laugh.

“You can’t, lover.”

The hand that’s destroyed your small clothes, finds your cunt, two fingers breach you roughly and start pumping in and out.

“This is the only thing you can be”.

The fingers curl and find that rough patch of yourself that makes you howl in pleasure. Amidst his violence and abuse, he still knows how to play your body to fit his desires and make you feel ashamed of yours.

You try to brace yourself for his cock, but you’re not wet enough, the fit tight and painful, not that he cares.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like this.” He growls in your ear. “I can feel that you’re wet: doesn’t it mean that you need me, lover?”

You sob when he uses your words against you.

“Doesn’t it?” He pushes you against the blades again, closer than ever before.

“Yes, Aemond.” You cry out in fear, your hands desperate to find a safe purchase against the Iron Throne, before he starts pounding.

He’s merciless in his taking of you, his thick cock brutal against your abused walls, your nerves alive with the pain he’s inflicting you, and the pleasure when he angles himself to hit against the rough patch inside of you, reveling in the way you whine and mewl, in the way your wetness squelches with each and every push in he subjects you to.

“You’re so fucking wet, stop pretending you don’t need this!”

You’re just boneless in his hold, your body a mere hole for him to fuck until his balls are empty, his savagery, momentarily, satiated by your degradation.

Tears stream down your face, the pain, the abuse ravage your mind as your body deceives you once again, opening up to his violence, your juices easing his brutal thrusts, your cunt curling around his cock when his fingers find your pearl, his touch rough and fast, and you come, your body bearing his last, brutal pushes, before he comes with a bestial grunt.

His last night with you is a nightmare, your body broken and hurt under his, his cold voice letting you know he’s not taking you with him to Harrenhall, because he doesn’t have the time to deal with the problems it might cause.

“When this was is over and I’ll still be Prince Regent.” He whispers into your ear, before leaving. “I will have you as my spouse, so that no one will ever separate us.”

Your soul trembles at the thought that once had been so full of happiness.

When he leaves for Harrenhall, a part of you hopes he’s never going to come back, hopes he finds his demise in battle.

If either of you needs to die to be free, a part of you hopes it’s him. Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen

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