#though lord knows i have enough going on in my wips

[mangofresca]

detritus

“I dreamt that you died last night,” he said suddenly, and Romano half-turned, surprised at the admission, at the tonelessness of it, that emotionless void a chasm he almost fell into, tangible in its brusqueness. He’d been strange all day, oddly quiet and unsettlingly depressed, barely speaking to any of them, always one step behind Romano, with hands in clenched fists and a mouth set in a bitter frown, every inch the raging empire in collapse.

Somehow, Romano knew that his fingernails would leave dark crescents in his palms. He wondered if Spain even noticed the pain. He wondered if Spain even counted it as pain at all, considering all else he’d been through. All else he’d caused.

Romano blinked, floundered, mouth opening and closing around a voice he couldn’t seem to find, the air in his lungs leaden enough to stay with him, refusing to leave, heavy and cloying. Not that it matters, his mind supplied. Nothing you can say will change anything. He knows that.

Spain stared into the distance, skin illuminated in tangerine and fire beneath the radiant sky of sunset, eyes locked on a horizon they had walked beneath for decades, centuries, dancing around willowing orange trees and sleeping beneath midday haze. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked out at a landscape of memories turned antique with change. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked at him.

He didn’t say anything, only watched Spain stare into the rolling fields of a land Romano would never call his own.

“Y’know what the worst part is?” Spain’s voice was soft, feather-light and delicate, only just carried from bloodied lips to Romano’s ears through a breeze scented with citrus and perfidy. “When I woke up, I felt disappointed that it was just a dream.”

The air in Romano’s body felt poisonous, rancid, fetid with betrayal and hurt and a grief so profound it felt tangible, like a mass within his body that he could hold, mold, could wrap his fingers around and see the validation of his sorrow. Like he could hold it out to Spain as proof of his apology, words he could never say lost to the inevitability of the future, a timeline of events to which he could only play spectator.

Romano supposed he should be glad Spain hated him. Maybe at one point it meant he had been loved.

The setting sun lengthened their shadows, and Spain’s silhouette was touching his, melding them together into the way they used to be—one form, one being, a single heart beating between the two of them, held together by dewy tomatoes and freshly-made churros and the echoes of tarantella across the tiles of Spain’s floors.

Romano pushed away, gagging on the sour taste of nostalgia grown cold, of yearning for that which could only bite, could only hurt, made bitter and beautiful in its lack of reprieve, of sentimentalities honeyed with war-ravaged brutality. He heard, after a moment, the rustle of grass and the footfalls of steps behind him, and he stopped in surprise when scarred arms linked around his waist, when a chest pressed against his back, when a voice laced with sorrow and imperial madness danced the shell of his ear.

“I hope you and Venezito do well.”

Romano stared at him—his eyes were always green, so green, he noted distantly, vaguely, green and earnest and too fucking good at burning hot with hatred—before shaking him off, walking away, forcing more distance between them, the too-steep edge of a cliff neither of them were willing to cross.

Spain didn’t run after him this time. Romano couldn’t bring himself to feel disappointed.

[allpiesforourown]

OKAY SO I have way too many WIPs to write a role reversal fic and I meant to just yap about my au and ended up writing 2k words about it if you want to read it below...

oblivious shizun luo binghe / oblivious disciple shen yuan

First of all i've been reading a lot of role reversal fics lately but big shout out to ao3 user anqlbean for this fic because it really gave me "fuckboy shizun binghe, hiding that he's a demon lord" brain rot

Okay so anyway. In fair cang qiong sect where we lay our scene-

Luo Binghe is the Qing Jing peak lord. He’s also the heavenly emperor of the demon realm. No one knows both of his identities except for mobei jun and a handful of other people from his inner circle. It’s risky for a demon to hide as one of the cultivation world’s most prominent figures, but he likes having the best of both worlds!

Enter Shen Yuan: Shen Yuan's cultivation history is somewhat similar to Shen Jiu's in that he started cultivating late and joined Qing Jing well into his teens. He’s about 16 when he becomes Binghe’s student, but the thing is… Luo Binghe is kind of just the peak lord in name.

He spends his free time getting laid in the next town or going on an adventure with some hot demoness instead of giving classes. He’ll go on cultivation missions and take requests from villages and whatnot, but he doesn't bother teaching his disciples, just gives them a cultivation manual and tells them to figure it out. Half the time when students greet him on the peak he just nods because he doesnt even remember the disciple’s name. It’s fine though, once every few months he’ll take a break from all the one night stands and actually take a student along with him on a mission, just to keep the sect leader from complaining. “See, I teach my kids! Last month I took what’s-his-name on a night hunt!”

By the time Luo Binghe bothers to take Shen Yuan along for a mission, Shen Yuan is already 20 and has been on the peak for 4 years. Luo Binghe barely knows he exists, and he justs wants to collect this herb he was tasked with retrieving, send Shen Yuan back with it, and then get nasty with the woman back in the village who gave them directions to the cave that grows it. 

Unfortunately for Binghe, the cave is also home to one of the few flowers that can affect a demon lord. Binghe can’t move as he falls to the ground and hears his student yell “Shizun!” and run over.

They can hear monsters nearby so Shen Yuan’s two options are to 1) heal his shizun by taking advantage of Binghe's body or 2) abandon him to die and leave by himself. Binghe has experienced both multiple times, and is ready for either one. He's not ready for Shen Yuan to choose a third option that no one has ever chosen before: heaving Luo Binghe onto his back, transferring him qi, and using every bit of strength to carry him to safety. 

By the time they return to the cave’s entrance, Shen Yuan only has enough energy to use a talisman signalling the sect for help before they both pass out. 

When Luo Binghe wakes up, the Qian Cao peak lord is asking him how he feels while his head disciple is yelling at a sheepish Shen Yuan for doing something reckless again! Apparently this is not the first time Shen Yuan has exhausted himself for the sake of another person. 

Over the next few days, he can’t think of anything other than his student. 

(Also, he secretly feels kind of… angry??? Was his body so unappealing to Shen Yuan that he'd rather half-die than dual cultivate with him?? He's not sure why he's so pissed off by the idea, it's not like he's ever wanted to dual cultivate with a man before, but still…)

Finally he decides he has every right to be curious about shen yuan, that’s his disciple! Unfortunately while Binghe was ignoring Shen Yuan's existence for the past few years, his disciple has managed to build up… a reputation at Cang Qiong. 

Oh Shen Yuan selflessly saved Luo Binghe? Big deal, saving people is an average Tuesday for Shen Yuan, apparently! “He stopped my qi deviation” this, “he threw me out of a poisonous demon's way” that. 

For the first time ever, Luo Binghe is not special. If anything, he has less pull with Shen Yuan than anyone else at Cang Qiong, because everyone else knows Shen Yuan better. Luo Binghe doesn’t know Shen Yuan’s birthday, but the rest of his students make sure to throw Shen Yuan a party every year to thank him for all his tutoring. Binghe is SO far behind, which is a feeling he hasn’t felt in YEARS. 

About a month after the mission, he finally sees Shen Yuan sparring alone. Luo Binghe walks over, acting unbothered and nonchalant even though he's screaming internally. He greets his disciple and says, “This master has yet to properly thank Shen Yuan for his assistance at the cave… join me at the bamboo house tonight.” 

Shen Yuan apologizes, says he has important plans but would love to join him another night, then spends the rest of the day off the peak with the An Ding head disciple. 

Luo Binghe is flabbergasted. He's less important than an An Ding disciple???? Really??? Fucking An Ding????? 

After that, Luo Binghe……. He isn’t stalking Shen Yuan, despite what Liu Mingyan (Xian Su peak lord) might say with excited eyes. He’s just keeping an eye on this interesting disciple he never knew he had! In secret. 

He walks in on Qingge and Shen Yuan “sparring” and sees the exact moment Shen Yuan oversteps, loses his balance and goes tumbling on top of Liu Qingge. Binghe storms over, picks Shen Yuan up by the back of his robe like a cat, and physically separates the two of them. The two disciples gawk at how weird that was and he has no idea how to come up with an excuse for whatever the hell that just was. 

Instead he asks what they’re doing. 

Shen Yuan, being polite and answering the question: Liu-shidi and I are heading on a mission soon-

Luo Binghe: this master shall join you.

Shen Yuan: uh… it's a very simple request, two disciples are more than en-

Luo Binghe: this. Master. Shall. Join. You.

Liu Qingge: ???? What the hell is his problem 

Shen Yuan: Okay… this disciple is grateful for shizun’s assistance…?

Their flight to the village is dead quiet. 

The townspeople sigh theyre so glad they’re here, some demonic creature has been destroying their wildlife! This area makes most of their money with lumber exports, so if the creature continues to destroy their trees, it’ll result in huge losses. 

When they find the demon, Shen Yuan starts yapping non stop. It’s like he’s suddenly transformed into a textbook, explaining that this little beaver-esque demon needs to chew up trees for its survival. Luo Binghe is bored out of his mind and pulls out his sword. 

Shen Yuan gaps and picks up the small creature, holding it protectively against his chest. “This species isn’t even violent! We can’t kill it!” 

Luo Binghe crosses his arms and says they have to complete this commission somehow. Shen Yuan argues they can simply relocate the demon somewhere else! Luo Binghe expects Liu Qingge to complain or brutishly try to kill it, but he shrugs and says he’ll follow Shen Yuan. Apparently this happens regularly…

By the time they rehome the creature somewhere it won’t be a bother, it’s too late to fly back to the sect.

The only close by inn apologizes and says they only have two rooms left, and each one is a single bed. They can have a mat sent up, but…

Binghe says he should room with Shen Yuan because they’re both from Qing Jing, and (he glares at Liu Qingge as he says this) Liu Qingge is an outsider. Liu Qingge narrows his eyes and says it would be inappropriate for a peak lord to share a room with a lowly disciple, so he should room with Shen Yuan. 

Shen Yuan cheerfully chimes in that he and Liu-shidi sleep together all the time! “Whenever shidi and I camp outdoors, he says he prefers sleeping on the ground. He’ll be happy to take the mat.”

Luo Binghe's smile becomes a little forced, but shen Yuan doesn't even notice the murderous intent rolling off his shizun, aimed at his friend from Bai Zhan. 

In the end, Shen Yuan gets one room, and Liu Qingge gets the other. Luo Binghe insists his cultivation is high enough he doesn’t need to sleep, and had no intention to sleep tonight anyway.

This is a perfect time to go and find a brothel or a hookup. He realizes this is the longest he’s gone without sex in a long time, all because he’s been obsessed with Shen Yuan so much lately. But he’s got too much on his mind to do that tonight… He’s still thinking of the loving way Shen Yuan protected that small helpless demon, going as far as defying a peak lord for its sake.

Shen Yuan is… someone with shockingly good character. Despite being surrounded by cultivators, meeting people who are good is surprisingly rare. He doesn’t want his sweet disciple to have that lovely sense of justice stolen away from him by… gross perverts like Liu Qingge lusting after him! 

(He’s not projecting!)

He’s already neglected Shen Yuan as a shizun for so many years. Now he has to step and make up for all that time! He’s decided what he has to do. 

First thing in the morning, he knocks on Shen Yuan’s door. He hears a sweet ‘Come in!’ from inside and for some reason he feels… really nervous. Inside, Shen Yuan is sitting on his bed, brushing his hair, and he smiles when he looks up and sees Luo Binghe. “Good morning, shizun.”

Good morning??? How can he say something so casually, without a hint of shame, looking like that?? He’s wearing nothing but one layer that’s not even thick enough to hide his body! He can see Shen Yuan’s milky thighs and small chest!!!! What the fuck!?

(Is this how he walks around the shared dorms on Qing Jing? Do all the other disciples see the outline of his body through his thin layer every morning?? The longer he stares, the more he tells himself he’s making the right decision by doing this.)

He cuts right to the chase. “Once we return, Shen Yuan shall move his belongings into the bamboo house. This lord will teach him all there is to know about being Qing Jing’s head disciple.” He makes it clear that this is a statement, not a request – he’s not giving Shen Yuan a choice. 

Shen Yuan gawks at him, and Luo Binghe says they’ll discuss things more in detail once they return to Qing Jing, but from this moment on, he represents himself as Luo Binghe’s head disciple. It takes Shen Yuan a few minutes to really comprehend what’s going on, but eventually he bows in thanks and throws on another, thicker layer. Shen Yuan moves for the door and says, “I better tell Liu-shidi-”

Luo Binghe’s hand moves before he can stop himself, and they’re both surprised by the deathly tight grip he has on Shen Yuan’s wrist. 

Luo Binghe clears his throat and lets go. “You should let him be. Sometimes if you spend too much time with a person, it can become off-putting.” There, surely that will keep Shen Yuan away from that brute, right?

Shen Yuan says, “Ohhh,” and then smiles. “Don't worry shizun,” he says gently, “This disciple understands what you're saying. Once I move into the bamboo house, I'll make sure to give shizun his space.” 

Then Shen Yuan walks away and closes the door behind him. Luo Binghe can hear Shen Yuan telling Liu Qingge the good news, “I don’t know if shizun is joking or not, but wouldn’t it be nice for us to do our head disciple work together?” 

Luo Binghe realizes that Shen Yuan is going to RUIN him, and he’ll do it without even realizing. 

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; got some more "draft stud" for y'all. No real reason, haha, just because I actually wrote a pretty decent chunk more of this than I ended up having space to post for the mystery slots last week and like, it SEEMS like so far this WIP is up a few of your ( crime ) alleys. Like juuuuust maybe, hahaha. So I took a lil' writing break and got it all Tumblr-able for all of your tire-thieving, crime-lording needs! ❤️ content notes/warnings: omegaverse, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake's total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason's impending migraine. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Jesus Christ,” Jason groans, burying his face in one hand. He doesn’t even bother asking when or where the little creep got ahold of any of his DNA to test that. Fucking–probably off the damn memorial, for all he knows. Or, well–admittedly "at a crime scene" is an equally likely option. “You know if I were legally alive, we’d be legally siblings, right? Technically we are legally siblings.” 

“I actually think it’s pretty common to ask siblings for favors like this?” Tim says. “Or cousins, maybe.” 

“Yeah, the actually related ones!” Jason says in exasperation. “Or at least the ones who aren’t trying to drop-kick each other into either early retirement or a life sentence in goddamn Blackgate!” 

“I mean I really don’t think we have that kind of relationship anyway, considering, but also I’m not the one who you would ideally be knocking up,” Tim says with a shrug. “Also full disclosure, I don’t actually think Blackgate could handle you so there’s not much point in trying to send you there. Maybe if I just needed a free weekend or something, I guess.” 

“Why did Batgirl turn you down on this, Dream Warrior?” Jason asks, half-eyeing him.

“I’m going to blame either David Cain or Lady Shiva for that,” Tim says. “Probably Shiva, considering we were effectively asking her to sire a pup and then not actually be their parent. I didn’t think there was a high chance of her saying yes, honestly, but she was both our immediate first picks so it seemed kinda . . . I dunno, disingenuous not to ask her?” 

“Yeah, obviously she would've been,” Jason snorts as he unwraps his sandwich to tear a bite off. It's goddamn delicious, which MM's always is, but he's still vaguely annoyed because it's goddamn Tim Drake who brought it. “So what pick in the stud draft am I, eleven? Twelve? Lucky number thirteen?” 

He cannot actually imagine how many people must've turned Tim down for him to be here, so–

“No, you're second,” Tim replies, shaking his head. Jason stares blankly at him past his mouthful of wafflewich. “If you say no, I’ll be calling Super-Man, and if he says no then–” 

“Superman?!” Jason sputters. 

“No, Super-Man,” Tim “corrects” like he somehow thinks he’s actually saying a different name. “Kong Kenan. How was that not self-evident?” 

“Because it sounds exactly the fucking same, that’s how!” Jason says in exasperation, though that does make more sense. Definitely more sense than Clark, anyway, because that was definitely a what the actual fuck EVEN moment. 

“It really doesn’t, but this is getting off-topic,” Tim says, then gestures meaningfully with a hand and asks, “Which is: what are your thoughts on sperm donation? 

“Sounds boring,” Jason replies frankly before taking a swig of coffee. 

“Oh, that was a metaphor, Kon said he’s fine either way but I’d really prefer you actually fuck him,” Tim clarifies with a much more meaningful gesture. 

Jason stares blankly at him again. Tim continues to look unfazed. 

“. . . is this a kink thing, Beyond Thunderdome?” Jason asks finally, for lack of any other reasonable explanation.

“This is a ‘I don’t want my omega to feel like a lab experiment for his first breeding heat because he’s worried about making me feel emasculated’ thing,” Tim says. 

“. . . yeah, fair enough,” Jason allows, taking another sip of his coffee. Still goddamn delicious; still Tim Drake-related annoying. “Jesus, though, you could’ve led with that. You know I’m a fucking beta, though, my chances of successfully knocking up your boy in one cycle are not that impressive.” 

“Well, that’s the useful thing about cycles,” Tim says with another little shrug. “They, you know, cycle.” 

“You want me to fuck your omega through probably multiple heats?” Jason asks, still more than a little incredulous about the idea. Again, he was not even aware that those two were dating. He was not even aware that Tim was into invulnerable and insatiable touch-based telekinetic omegas built like sexy industrial farm equipment with a very public history of “let me prove I’m good enough” issues, though actually when he thinks through that full sentence in his head it’s admittedly difficult to make an argument for why he would not be. 

Maybe if he was very, very gay or very, very asexual, Jason guesses. 

“Well, if it goes well this time, we’d probably ask you to do it again in a couple years anyway, so why not?” Tim says. “Kon wants to have more than one.” 

“Oh, so twice as many multiple-heat fucks?” Jason says. Jesus, this little freak of human nature. 

“Maybe three times, depending?” Tim says, tilting his head to one side with a considering expression. “Kon was designed to be hyper-fertile but given I have heard of exactly one Kryptonian ever that had a littermate it seems like Kryptonians might have a lower chance of conceiving litters than humans do, so we don’t really know how that might go yet.” 

Jason pauses for a long moment, because all general incredulity and disbelief aside, that sentence contained a red flag the size of a damn bedsheet. Several bedsheets sewn together, in fact. 

Maybe just an entire Bed Bath & Beyond’s worth of bedsheets, actually. 

“‘Designed to be’,” he repeats, and Tim’s expression briefly sours. 

“We’re not going to get into what Paul Westfield’s backup ‘make myself a custom Superman’ plan entailed,” he says. “Especially because he didn’t immediately scrap the thing when Kon came out sixteen and unpresented.” 

“Fucking hell,” Jason says. Well, that definitely explains Tim wanting to make sure Superboy doesn’t feel like a lab experiment while he’s getting bred.

“Mmmhm,” Tim says. 

Jason eyes him for a long moment as he takes another swallow of very good coffee, debating on how stupid this idea is and also if he wants to deal with Bruce’s opinion on him getting involved in it. A counterargument, admittedly, is Superboy’s very pretty smirk and ass you could bounce a giant penny off. 

Though . . . 

“Do you actually factually know if Kryptonians have a lower chance of conceiving litters, or is the prevalence of them having singles potentially just a birthing matrix thing?” he asks. “Because another solid reason I can think of to use one of those besides not risking the dam’s health or life and doing whatever weird ‘genetic optimization’ thing they had going on with 'em is Kryptonians being a lot more likely to conceive litters. Like big litters.” 

“. . . that is a question that I should have thought to investigate sooner,” Tim admits with a slight wince. 

“Y’think, Season of the Witch?” Jason asks dubiously. Tim frowns, tilting his head again and clearly confused, and Jason rolls his eyes. “Third Halloween movie, genius.” 

“Oh,” Tim says. “I was wondering what the names were about.” 

“Terminator, Nightmare on Elm Street, and Mad Max,” Jason says with another roll of his eyes. He did not think calling the guy a bunch of threequel titles was that subtle a dig. “Jesus, kid, watch a movie that didn’t originate on either Netflix or PornHub."

“I don’t watch either of those?” Tim says, wrinkling his nose. 

“You watch porn somewhere, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me to knock up your bitch for you,” Jason snorts dubiously, tearing another bite off his sandwich. Who even has that thought process? 

“I’d really prefer you not call him that,” Tim says. 

“Who cares, he’s not even here,” Jason retorts dismissively, waving him off as he chews. 

“Well yeah, I wouldn’t be telling you not to call him a bitch if he was here, because that would actually be helpful,” Tim says reasonably. Jason . . . pauses, and stares at the corner of the wall past Tim’s head. It’s a wall. 

 It . . . sure is a wall, yeah. And also the corner of a wall, yup. 

Wall. 

Jason chews the rest of his bite very slowly and does not allow himself to process the implication that Superboy might like being called a bitch in bed. 

“I’ve never actually heat-partnered anyone before,” he says. “Like I’ve rut-partnered a few people, but I feel like that is likely a significantly different experience. And probably also easier, frankly, given getting most alphas off takes about a fifth of the time and effort as getting most omegas off.” 

“That’s not really a concern,” Tim tells him with another one of those little shrugs. Jason stares at the corner of the wall past his head some more. It is . . . still a wall, yeah. Yup. Definitely still a wall.

What the fuck does that even mean? There is literally no way Tim meant “you wouldn't need to bother getting my omega off while you were breeding him as non-lab-experiment-ly as possible”, because in what fucking world would he have meant that, so like–what? Just . . . what? 

Jason’s brain is unfortunately supplying some very goddamn creative and very goddamn dirty theoretical answers to that question.

[therogueflame]

Dragonseed

Hi my horny little fuckers (affectionate),

This piece is based on this ask that requested breeding kink daemon so like...you know i went all out.

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WC: 6.7k

Summary: A night of unrestrained passion blurs the lines between power, devotion, and desire.

Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), oral (kinda? f!receiving), multiple positions, creampies, breeding, possession, talk of pregnancy, obsession with legacy, targcest, dirty talk

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The blood of Old Valyria coils hot beneath your skin, an ancient river that hums through your bones and shudders in your breath. It is a birthright and a curse, a fire no ocean could drown. In the towering halls of Dragonstone, where the stone still remembers the beat of leathery wings and the roar of beasts who ruled the sky, you move as though you were born from the very heart of the mountain. Silver glints at your temples beneath the wavering torchlight, a crown by blood if not yet by name, and your gaze carries the weight of a hundred generations who refused to kneel. You are a Targaryen, daughter of a house shaped in fire, and tonight the blood of your ancestors drums louder than ever, answering the pull of the man who stands just beyond the threshold.

Daemon is your husband now, tied to you by oath and ceremony and the raw, unbroken thread of your shared bloodline. The union is so new that the scent of burning oils still clings faintly to the hem of your gowns, that your chambers have not yet been stripped of the lonely air of a maiden's room, that you still wake some mornings and marvel at the iron weight of a ring on your finger. There has been little time for tenderness and even less for patience. The feasts were endless, the faces eager and expectant, the smiling lords and ladies who whispered in corners about the strength of your bloodline, the power of your children to come. You had smiled too, wearing the mask expected of you, all the while feeling the restless fire building beneath your skin with every passing hour you spent at Daemon’s side, untouched and unfinished.

Now, finally, there is no one left to watch. The last servants have retreated. The heavy oak doors have been drawn shut. The night belongs to the two of you alone.

You feel him before you hear him, a shift in the air, a gathering of something too potent to be named. His boots strike the stone floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm, echoing up the length of the corridor, a hunter’s patience wrapped in a soldier’s stride. When you turn to face him, he is already so close that the torchlight trembles against the broad line of his shoulders, painting his hair in violent shades of gold and red, his eyes catching the light and reflecting it back to you with a hunger that strips you bare. His presence crashes over you like a tide, stealing the breath from your lungs, and still you stand, shoulders squared, chin lifted, refusing to look away. You may be his wife now, you may ache for him with a need that gnaws at your very soul, but you are Targaryen too, and you will not go to him meekly. He must come to you.

He does.

He crosses the last few steps without breaking eye contact, every line of his body coiled and burning with a heat that has long since left patience behind. When he reaches you, he does not touch you, not yet, but the nearness of him is suffocating. The heat of his skin leaches into yours, dizzying, relentless, making your heart hammer wildly against your ribs. His voice, when it comes, is roughened from restraint, low enough that you feel it more than hear it, vibrating through the narrow space between your bodies.

"You think I have not imagined it?" he breathes, and the hunger in his voice has teeth. "How you would look with my child growing inside you? The curve of your belly, heavy with our blood, with our fire?"

The words strike you like a physical blow, tearing away whatever fragile composure you had clung to. Your lips part, a sharp breath escaping, but you catch yourself before you can give him the satisfaction of seeing you undone so easily. You tip your chin up a fraction higher, your pulse roaring in your ears, and meet him blow for blow. When you speak, your voice is soft but steady, threaded through with a challenge you do not bother to hide.

"Is that all you want from me?" you ask, and even as you say it you know you are taunting him, daring him, beckoning the beast that lurks just beneath his skin.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His eyes roam your face, greedy and reverent all at once, and then his mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile, something sharper, something older. He moves then, closing the final sliver of space between you, his hands finding your waist with a grip that is possessive and unyielding, strong enough to remind you that you are his and always have been, even before the vows were spoken. His forehead presses to yours, and for a heartbeat he simply breathes you in, his fingers digging into the rich fabric of your gown, his body trembling with the effort it takes to hold himself still.

"No," he murmurs, his voice a prayer offered at the altar of your body, his words sinking into your skin like claws. "But it is where I will start."

The last of your defenses crumble then, shattering like fragile glass beneath the weight of him, beneath the certainty that there is no undoing what has been set into motion. Whatever waited between you all those endless nights before the wedding, whatever unspoken promises passed between glances across court, whatever fevered dreams you nursed in the dark when no one could hear you cry out his name, all of it is nothing compared to this. This is real. This is fire. This is the dragon you married coming to claim what has always been his.

And you, daughter of the same flame, do not fear the fire.

His hands tighten at your waist, anchoring you to him, and you feel the tremor that runs through his arms, a thread of restraint pulled tight enough to snap. For a moment, he simply holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in like a man starved. The space between your bodies vibrates with the force of everything unspoken, every vow that lived in your blood before it ever passed your lips.

His movements are slow and carefully deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. As his fingers locate the fastenings of your gown, he undoes them one by one, his knuckles lightly brushing along your spine. There's no rush or tearing of fabric—his actions are marked by a reverent devotion, a deep and intense admiration that leaves you quivering. The air is saturated with his scent and warmth, and every touch exudes a profound, overwhelming devotion.

The weighty cloth slides off your shoulders and gathers at your feet, exposing you to him. For a moment, Daemon remains still and silent, his eyes sweeping over every part of you as though he intends to etch your image into his very being. His hands drift to his swordbelt and the fastenings of his tunic, moving deliberately slow, his gaze never leaving you. Each movement is a declaration, a vow, a challenge.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, scraped raw by everything he’s been holding back.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing low across your belly, slow and reverent, like he’s already imagining the shape of his child there. His eyes drag up your body, heavy with want, his breath shuddering. “To carry my blood. To give it form.”

He leans in, mouth nearly at your ear, every word shaped around hunger and certainty.

“Let me fill you. Let it take.”

The last breath of distance dissolves between you, and Daemon’s hands transform from languid to fervent, no longer restrained or patient. They carve into your skin, leaving fiery marks of ownership that sear like a brand. His mouth crashes onto yours with a ferocity that eradicates any possibility of doubt—a kiss that steals the very breath from your lungs and ignites a wildfire in your veins. There is nothing gentle in him now, nothing tender. Only a blazing inferno of hunger and an unwavering, unbreakable devotion.

You surrender to him, mirroring his hunger with your own, your teeth grazing his lower lip in a possessive claim of your own. Your fingers clutch the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, as if sheer willpower could dissolve the boundaries separating your bodies. His growl reverberates against your mouth, a dragon's deep rumble that sends molten heat cascading through your veins.

He guides you backward with deliberate steps until your spine meets the unyielding cold of the stone wall. The stark contrast of temperatures—his searing skin against your front, the icy chill of ancient Valyrian rock at your back—elicits a gasp from your lips. Daemon captures the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with practiced dominance, tasting you, consuming you. His hands cradle your face, fingers weaving through your silver hair, tugging just enough to expose the vulnerable column of your throat to him.

"Mine," he breathes against your pulse point, where your lifeblood thunders beneath the skin.

"Yours," you echo, a fierce promise and an ancient truth.

His teeth graze your throat, sharp and possessive, before he soothes the sting with his tongue. You arch against him, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric still separating you from his skin. With a growl of frustration, you tug at his tunic, desperate to feel him, all of him.

"Take it off," you command, your voice low but unyielding. A queen's demand, even now.

His eyes flash with heat at your tone, a smile curving his lips that's all predator. He steps back just enough to pull the garment over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, marked with the scars of battles won and lost. Your breath catches at the sight of him, at the coiled strength evident in every line of his body. You reach for him, hands splaying across the warm skin of his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath your palm. There is a symmetry to this moment, a rightness that sings in your blood. Targaryen to Targaryen, fire calling to fire.

He catches your exploring hands in his own, bringing them to his lips to press fervent kisses against your knuckles, your wrists, the sensitive skin of your inner arms. Each touch is a brand, each breath a claim. When he releases your hands, they fall to the lacings of his breeches, working them free with trembling fingers.

His eyes follow your movements, pupils blown wide with desire, his breathing growing more ragged with each passing second. When you free him from the confines of his clothing, he hisses through clenched teeth, his hands flying to your hips with bruising intensity.In one swift movement, he lifts you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he presses you against the wall. The stone is cold against your back, but you barely notice through the haze of heat enveloping you both. His hands slide beneath your thighs, supporting your weight with effortless strength as he positions himself at your entrance.

For a heartbeat, he pauses, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that steals your breath. In this suspended moment, something passes between you that transcends mere desire—a recognition, soul-deep and ancient. The bloodline that binds you together, that separates you from all others, pulses between your joined bodies like a living thing.

He snarls "Mine" once more, a primal claim, before he impales you with a brutal thrust, filling every inch of your slick, tight heat.

The overwhelming sensation is almost unbearable—more intense than you ever dared imagine, more carnal and raw than your wildest fantasies. Every inch of you is electrified by the way his thick cock fills you, how Daemon dominates and claims every secret, sensitive crevice of your body. It’s a delicious torment, a fierce collision of agony and ecstasy, as if you’re being violently split open only to be remade entirely. The brutal, unyielding fucking merges with tender intimacy, each shared breath, every lewd glance, and each heated caress building to a climax that shatters all restraint. Your body is a willing vessel, hips thrusting and desperate to meet his relentless thrusts, the two of you locked in a wild, naked abandon. His every thrust drives you to the razor’s edge of ecstasy, keeping you there as your nails tear into the glistening, sweat-soaked muscles of his shoulders—a mark he brands upon you as you brand him in return. The cry that escapes your lips is a fierce, primal scream, a raw mating call that resonates with the ancient pulse of lust passed down through generations.

That guttural cry is the embodiment of your passion, bridging the scant gap between your bodies with the force of your urgency. His name is enunciated in every moan—a declaration, a desperate plea, a demand for submission, and a surrender so complete. Its raw power unspools the last shreds of your control, leaving you with nothing but the searing heat of him, the undeniable confirmation that you were forged solely for this carnal conquest. Not a moment passes when you aren’t hypersensitive to his every movement: the hot rush of his breath against your skin, the insatiable hunger in his eyes, the relentless pressure of his thrusts. Every part of you is consumed by his raw nearness, his unquenchable desire, his absolute certainty in this savage dance of lust.

This, this, this is what your flesh and blood scream for.

In the midst of the lust-fueled fire, only he exists—Daemon, the center of the universe where everything else is reduced to smoldering cinders beneath the blaze of his presence. Even the coarse stone pressing at your back and the crushing grip of his hands fade away beneath the incendiary passion he ignites, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins. It is as though he has embedded himself within your very soul, rewriting your essence in a language of searing desire.

Every forceful, calculated thrust is a symphony to your fevered heart—slow, deliberate, yet impossibly potent. With every deliberate motion, every promise fulfilled and vow cemented in the heat of your shared passion, your senses shatter. Your breath nearly escapes you from the intensity of his presence, and each deliberate drive shoves you deeper into vulnerability. The measured pace is deceptive; underneath lies the savage fury of an unbridled storm. Standing on the precipice of obliteration, you can feel the raw, destructive power of his desire, knowing with absolute certainty that you are destined to be engulfed without escape. At a moment’s pause, as he buries himself deep within you, his ragged breaths hit your neck like incendiary whispers. You feel his dominance everywhere—those hard, sculpted planes of his chest against your bare skin, his iron grip seizing the soft curve of your thighs, and the overwhelming fullness where your bodies merge. Even the chill of the ancient stone behind you is eradicated by the blazing intensity he thrusts into you—a relentless, consuming passion that permeates every fiber of your being.

When he resumes his savage onslaught, his expertise as a seasoned lover becomes undeniably clear—each thrust like a masterstroke that has conquered a thousand hidden desires. His eyes burn with an intense, animalistic heat, and his taut muscles ripple beneath his skin like a living, sinuous serpent poised for an all-consuming, torrid encounter. He is indiscriminate and unstoppable in his desire, his determination an intoxicating force that engulfs you completely until you yield without reservation. His raw strength is overwhelming—a magnetic presence that obliterates any gray area between agonizing pleasure and unmitigated ecstasy. Every whispered, breathless moan, every racing heartbeat, all your fleeting moments of awareness are claimed by him, as each powerful, relentless motion peels away your defenses until nothing remains but the hot, desperate fire of his need.

His forceful, unrestrained thrusts penetrate you with a brutal intensity that leaves you gasping for every precious breath, every second undone by the raw physicality of his touch. Your lips meet his in a fierce, ragged clash, a desperate moan escaping as every deliberate drive plunges you into a vortex of unfiltered, overwhelming desire. The slick, heated contact of his skin upon yours—soaked in sweat and unabashed lust—sparks a tormenting ecstasy that razes every coherent thought. Each powerful thrust is a calculated siege on your senses, dismantling every barrier until you are completely at his mercy. You grasp him with desperate, animalistic fervor, your nails carving savage lines into the taut muscles of his shoulders, a crimson trail attesting to your fervent claim. His eyes, dark and dilated with raw need, mirror the relentless rhythm of his body, drawing you into an inescapable spiral of rapture and submission.

Just when you believe you can take no more, he shifts his hips with calculated precision, thrusting up and deeper into you with unyielding force that makes you scream and writhe uncontrollably. The cry that erupts from you is primal—a raw and frantic admission of surrender that shatters the silence and fills the space between you with a shared, undeniable lust. That haunting sound reverberates within you, unraveling every last thread of resistance until you are stripped bare, reduced to your most elemental, primal self by the insatiable demands of his passion.

Your eyes find his, barely focusing through the haze of his relentless pace as the air is punched from your lungs with his every movement. His gaze is smoldering and fierce, a storm that promises your ruin and deliverance all at once. This deliberate, unyielding rhythm draws you impossibly closer until you can no longer tell where you end and he begins. The heat is almost unbearable, a fiery consummation that binds you tighter with each hard thrust of his body. You lose yourself in it, in him, abandoning all control and letting the vivid sensation overwhelm every part of you.

He drives you to the ultimate brink of sexual oblivion, pressing you against the hard edge of ecstasy with the relentless force of his body and desire. Every thrust quickens, each movement more insistent than the last, as you drown in the intoxicating musk of his skin and the searing heat of his arousal, burning as fiercely as your own. In this vortex of raw lust, the cold stone behind you and the desperate grip of his hands vanish, overwhelmed by the incendiary passion he ignites within you. It is not merely intimacy—it is a voracious claiming, a deep consumption that invades every secret corner of your being, stripping you bare until every gasp and pulsating heartbeat testifies to the sheer power of his carnal need.

You become liquid desire, a living flame flickering in his orbit, completely lost in him as your last threads of resistance disintegrate. In a single, instinct-driven motion, you wrap your legs more tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer, urging him deeper into your core.

He growls in a low, guttural tone—a sound blending triumphant conquest and unyielding demand—while his hands grip you with such intensity it seems as if he plans to merge your flesh into one unbreakable entity. Despite the harsh bite of the stone against your back as he pounds into you with ferocious intensity, you welcome the stinging pain—a delicious reminder of this moment's brutal reality. In that overwhelming surge of animal passion, you exist solely within his heat, his raw, primal drive, surrendering without hesitation to the way he fills you, claims you, and ultimately owns you.

Your voice, a shattered echo of his, finally finds strength to call out his name—a plea and challenge intermingling in your trembling sighs. He responds with one savage, unremitting thrust that robs you of every breath and thought, and for one earth-shattering, ecstatic moment, you feel yourself unraveling completely. Yet his relentless hold grounds you, a forceful reminder that there is no escape from the fierce, binding union between you—no escape from the chains forged of raw, unyielding desire.

Sensing the shift in him, you feel the mounting tension as he loses even a fraction of his control. An urgent need courses through you in tandem with his, compelling you to pull him ever deeper. With your legs tightening around his waist like steel, you drag him further into a frenzy of lust. He growls again, raw and victorious, as his fingers claw at your skin and his savage drive accelerates, sending a seismic pulse of pleasure from your spine that consumes your very being.

You are submerged in him, lost in the cavernous depths of his body and the ferocity of his desire, with no relief in sight—only the all-consuming, suffocating sensation of being utterly possessed, merging with his primal force and burning need. Your voice shatters again, this time into a sound that is neither a plea nor a command—merely the cataclysmic release of every pent-up desire reverberating in the charged space between you. The air trembles with your mutual, raw surrender.

He silences your cry with a searing, possessive kiss, his mouth crushing into yours with an intensity that declares him your absolute master. As his rhythm spirals into a chaotic, unbridled tempo, you realize that his own self-control is crumbling, mirroring the uncontrollable passion that engulfs you both. In that fraught moment, he is as lost in desire as you are, and that mutual surrender propels you both deeper into a swirling maelstrom of pleasure, pain, and primal need.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rasp cutting through the haze, demanding to see your raw, unguarded desire as he prepares to seed you with his essence. His pace falters, growing erratic as both of you crest toward complete dissolution, his fingers digging deeper, his breaths raspy against your heated skin, all building to an orgasmic crescendo that threatens to shatter your resolve.

"Say it," he growls, his voice stripped down to its most elemental edge. "Tell me what you want."

With a voice raw from desire, you break the silence, every syllable dripping with unabashed longing: "Your seed. Your child. Fill me."

That declaration shatters his restraint; his last grip on control snaps, and his movements become wild and desperate, discarding any semblance of rhythm in favor of raw, unfiltered force. He captures your mouth in an insatiable kiss—a declaration of conquest that swallows your cries as his pleasure explodes, threatening to overwhelm you both. You melt into him, body and soul, as every muscle convulses in a fevered embrace, pulling him further in a perfect, feral union.

With a guttural roar echoing off the ancient stone, Daemon pushes you beyond the point of return. His body rigidly melds with yours as his fingers mark you with bruises while pulse after pulse of his seed floods deep inside you, a scorching, undeniable imprint of his desire. The exquisite overwhelm of his heat and raw power fills you completely; his body trembles as he releases, forehead pressed to yours, murmuring your name with the fervor of prayer and salvation.

For endless moments, you remain joined, trembling in the aftermath, your bodies slick with sweat and desire. The world slowly reassembles itself around you as your heartbeats slow, but nothing seems as real or as vital as the weight of his body against yours, the lingering heat where you remain joined.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare of artifice, a raw intimacy that feels more profound than the physical joining of your bodies.

"It will take," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your sweat-dampened skin. There is certainty in his voice, a conviction that brooks no argument. "Our blood is strong. Our line will continue."

His hand slides between your bodies to rest possessively over your lower abdomen, as if he can already sense the new life that might be forming there. The gesture is both tender and fiercely possessive, a dragon guarding its most precious treasure.

You let your head fall back against the stone wall, your chest rising and falling with each labored breath. You close your eyes, savoring the weight of his palm against your skin, the imprint of his body still throbbing within you. The ancient blood of Valyria sings through your veins, harmonizing with his, creating a melody as old as dragonfire itself.

"Yes," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name. "It will take."

Your mind is crystal clear, filled with utter conviction—a knowledge that blazes as intensely as the fires that consumed your house. The union of your bloodlines feels inevitable, inscribed by the same ancient magic that bound your ancestors to dragons. His seed is inside you now, potent and alive, seeking the perfect fusion that will perpetuate your lineage.

Daemon's breath comes in rough, heavy bursts against your neck, gradually steadying as his body recovers—but still he remains wrapped around you, refusing to yield even an inch of space between your bodies. The intensity of the moment lingers; the shared heat, the raw physicality of his passion, keeps you both locked in place, savoring the powerful aftermath. His lips brush your ear, your temple, pledging an intimacy that transcends mere words, and his arms tighten for a moment before he finally pulls out. As he sets you down on shaky legs, you feel his semen immediately begin to drip down your inner thigh. It is a visceral reminder of his possession, and he does not let it go unclaimed.

Daemon drops to his knees before you, his hands clamping over your hips with bruising strength to keep you steady. His thumbs dig possessively into your soft flesh, spreading you open as his mouth descends, and the heat of his breath scorches against your exposed core. There is a certainty in his movements, a confidence that none of him will be wasted. "Not a single drop goes to waste," he rumbles, his voice resonating against your skin. A moment later, his tongue sweeps upward, licking up his cum and your juices in one deliberate stroke.

The sensation is so surprising, so intensely erotic that a ragged moan escapes your lips. Your fingers thread through his hair, unsure whether to press him closer or push him away from the overwhelming sensitivity. He decides for you, his grip tightening as he feasts on the mixed evidence of your fucking, groaning against you as if savoring the finest delicacy. When he finally stands, his mouth is shiny with your combined fluids, his eyes heavy with renewed lust.

"You taste like us," he says, his voice a deep rumble that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your hyper-sensitive body.

Without warning, he lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weigh nothing. You allow yourself this moment of surrender, resting your head against his shoulder as he carries you to the bed that awaits across the chamber. The furs are soft beneath your back when he lays you down, a stark contrast to the unyielding stone that has left marks across your skin.

Daemon follows you down, his body covering yours like a living blanket of heat and muscle. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing gently across your cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes your heart ache with its unexpected gentleness. After the savage claiming against the wall, this shift in his touch is almost disorienting. His gaze sweeps over your face, searching, memorizing, his expression raw with an emotion that transcends mere desire.

"Wife," he breathes, the word heavy with meaning, with possession, with promise.

In that single word, you hear everything—the weight of your shared blood, the responsibility of your line, the fierce protection he offers, the claim he stakes. You reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath your fingertips. This close, you can see the flecks of indigo in his eyes, the subtle variations in the silver of his hair, the thin white scar that cuts across his left eyebrow.

"Husband," you answer, and your voice carries the same weight, the same claim.

His lips capture yours again, softer this time but no less consuming. The kiss deepens, languorous and exploring, as if you have all the time in the world. His hands move with deliberate slowness now, mapping the contours of your body, learning you inch by inch. The urgency hasn't dissipated—it has merely transformed, like dragonfire banked but still smoldering, ready to ignite at any moment.

You arch beneath him, your body still sensitive from his earlier claiming, yet already hungry for more. This is what the blood of Old Valyria demands—insatiable, endless, consuming. Your hands trace the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

"Again," you whisper against his mouth, a command rather than a plea.

His answering smile is predatory, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Greedy," he murmurs, the word a caress against your skin. "But I would expect nothing less from a true dragon."

His mouth traces a burning path down your throat, lingering at the pulse point where your heartbeat races beneath his lips. Every touch is deliberate, a stark contrast to the frenzied claiming against the wall. This is a different kind of possession—slower, deeper, more thorough. His teeth graze your collarbone, marking you with gentle bites that send shivers cascading down your spine.

"I will give you everything," he promises, his breath hot against your skin. "Every drop. Every heir. Every kingdom."

Your body responds to his words as much as his touch, a liquid heat pooling between your thighs where you're still slick with his seed. His hand slides down to cup your breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak until you arch into his touch, seeking more. His fingers find you impossibly wet, your body still quivering from your first release yet already desperate for more. The combination of your arousal and his seed makes his entry effortless as he slides two fingers deep inside you, curling them against that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

"So responsive," he murmurs, his voice dark with approval. "So ready to be filled again."

Your hips roll against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. There is no shame between you now, no hesitation—only the raw, primal need that pulses in your shared blood. His thumb circles your sensitive bud, drawing tight, deliberate patterns that have you gasping his name, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders.

When he finally withdraws his fingers, you whimper at the loss, your body clenching around nothing. He brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight is obscene and intoxicating, a visual representation of how thoroughly he intends to consume you.

"Turn over," he commands, his voice a velvet rumble that brooks no argument.

You comply, rolling onto your stomach, the furs soft against your sensitized skin. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, kneading the firm flesh, spreading you open to his gaze. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet there is power in your surrender—in knowing that this man, this dragon in human form, craves you with such intensity.

He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hardness nudging insistently between your thighs. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a ragged whisper as he positions himself at your entrance.

"I want you to feel me for days," he growls, his hands gripping your hips, raising you slightly to align your bodies. "So that every step you take, every breath, reminds you of who you belong to."

With one brutal, powerful thrust, Daemon slams into you, filling you so completely that you lose all sense of the world around you. A hoarse, involuntary cry tears from your throat as he stretches you, deeper than before, claiming every inch. The angle is intense, searing, and your muscles clench instinctively at the invasion, already on edge from the relentless sensations. Your fingers dig into the furs, desperate for something to ground you as he starts to move inside you with a punishing rhythm that leaves you gasping for air. His body is a heavy, solid weight on top of you, his chest smothering your back as if he intends to merge with you entirely.

He fucks you with ruthless purpose, with the unyielding strength of a dragon laying claim to its hoard. Each thrust is a declaration, a physical vow that will not be denied. The sheer intensity of it has you teetering on the brink of another climax, and you hear yourself whimpering, half-formed words of need slipping past your lips. Nothing else matters but this—the firestorm he ignites within you, the raw, visceral connection that makes everything else fade to insignificance.

His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, and each exhalation sends a shiver coursing through your body. One arm supports his weight beside your head, the other snakes between your damp bodies to cup your breast, thumb grazing your hardened nipple in time with the pounding rhythm. The friction of the furs, the unrelenting force of his thrusts, the way his fingers press into your flesh—it all becomes a maelstrom of sensation, drawing tight, unbearable coils of pleasure in your core.

With each violent thrust, you feel your own climax building, impossible to hold back. He drives into you harder, deeper, slamming you into the mattress with an intensity that feels as if it will tear you apart. His lips are at your ear, his growls vibrating through your body, too caught up in his own fierce need to offer even an ounce of mercy. Every second brings a fresh onslaught of sensation, the friction and fullness pushing you to the brink again and again.

The world shrinks to nothing but the feel of him inside you, the relentless pace, the overwhelming pleasure building to a fever pitch. It is too much, almost painfully exquisite, and you know you are lost. Your nails rake down his arms, a silent plea for more, for everything.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with exertion and need. "Tell me what you want from me."

You turn your head, cheek pressed against the furs, words spilling from your lips without thought or hesitation. "Your seed. Your child. Your empire." Each declaration punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that makes you see stars behind your eyelids.

His rhythm falters for a moment, a groan torn from his throat at your words. His hand slides from your breast down to your stomach, splaying possessively over the flat plane where his child might already be taking root. The thought of it—of your womb quickening with his seed, of your body changing to accommodate the heir you'll create together—sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, a silent demand for more.

His teeth graze the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. "Mine," he growls, the word vibrating against your skin. "Every inch. Every breath. Every drop of your blood."

The possessive claim ignites something primal within you, and you feel yourself tightening around him, your body responding to his dominance with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. The coil inside you winds tighter, tighter, hovering on the edge of release.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice hoarse and strained. "Come on my cock.”

The command itself is enough to shatter the last of your restraint. Your climax crashes through you with devastating force, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that tear a guttural groan from his throat. The intensity of it steals your breath, your vision, your very sense of self as pleasure consumes you entirely. Your body convulses beneath him, every muscle drawn taut as the sensation radiates outward from your core, setting every nerve ending alight.

Daemon doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm with relentless determination, prolonging the waves of pleasure until they blur into one continuous, overwhelming sensation. You're barely coherent, reduced to gasping sobs and broken pleas as he drives you higher, refusing to let you descend from the heights. Your vision swims, tears of raw sensation blurring the world around you as your body surrenders completely to his relentless possession.

His rhythm grows erratic, his breathing harsh and labored against your ear as his own release approaches. His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, holding you in place as he drives deeper, chasing his pleasure with single-minded intensity. You can feel the tension coiling in his body, the slight tremor in his powerful thighs as he reaches the precipice.

"Take it," he groans, the words barely human. "Take all of me."

With one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he floods your already-slick channel with another hot rush of his seed. The sensation of his release triggers another aftershock within you, your body milking him instinctively, drawing every drop from him as if your very existence depends on it. He collapses against your back, his weight pressing you deeper into the furs, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

For long moments, neither of you moves, too consumed by the aftermath of pleasure to do more than breathe. The world slowly reassembles itself around you, the distant sounds of the castle filtering back into your consciousness. Your bodies remain joined, his softening length still buried inside you, his seed trapped deep within your womb. The thought sends a fresh shiver of satisfaction through you—the knowledge that even now, life might be taking root, a new thread in the tapestry of your ancient bloodline.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, his body heavy and warm against yours, the drag of skin on skin making you shiver despite the heat still lingering in your blood. He doesn’t speak, just moves with uncharacteristic care, pulling you with him as he rolls onto his side. His arm locks across your waist, solid and unyielding, anchoring you to him as if he would not suffer even an inch of distance. He does not withdraw. He stays inside you, buried deep, the stretch of him a slow, aching throb — both relief and torment. You are full in every sense, body trembling with the aftershocks of being taken, claimed, worshipped. And still, some part of you aches for more.

His lips press to the back of your neck, a breath of warmth, a kiss that lacks the violence of earlier and carries something quieter. Gentleness from Daemon is rare. When it comes, it feels more dangerous than his rage. It feels real.

“You are magnificent,” he murmurs, the words rough and low, colored by exhaustion, possession, and something deeper that trembles beneath the surface. His hand slides from your hip to the softness of your lower belly, splaying wide across it, as if he can already feel the beginning of something there. His palm lingers with weight and meaning, fingers pressing into the flesh with unspoken promise.

“Carrying my seed. Bearing my name.”

Your breath catches. Not from the words, but from the way he says them — like a vow. You turn your head slowly, limbs still heavy, and find his eyes in the flickering glow of the fire. They are dark with satisfaction, shadowed with something fierce and unreadable. The silver of his hair clings to his temples in damp strands, tangled and wild, and there’s something feral in the way he looks at you. Like he would tear the world apart to keep you like this.

“Our name,” you whisper, voice hoarse but steady, your eyes locked on his.

Something in him stills — not in anger, not in resistance, but in reverence. And then he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours, as if to say yes. As if to say always.

[lotuzies]

VAMPIRE REALITY 𖥔 pinterest tour

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ hello! you were just now invited to come and take a look into the reality where blood tainted fangs are more than just a myth. where one's biggest nightmare is another's purest love.

note: this is much better viewed in light mode

── .✦ overview :

O1. louise 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ let's start with the basics, the star of the show — me! louise virelli-sanguis, daughter of lord lucien & lady seraphina of valora. my enchanting, almost hypnotic beauty is enough to strike through anyone's heart. now, talking about the actual face claim (@/lavbackpack on ig), she was the perfect choice! we are actually quite similar in terms of our features, so i felt like it wasn't too big of a change.

O2. boyf 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ ultimate heartthrob, park sunghoon, the famous figure skater of the human kind. we met at a festival held in virethia, my birthplace, where the bond and harmony between vampires and humans is celebrated. he was wandering around, presumably lost, until he stumbled into me. love at first sight never felt so real, so right.

O3. poki 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ my child. pets are common between vampires, such as black cats, owls or even bats. most black cats living in virethia are the ones neglected in the human world, that's why they're most of the feline population here. poki, the one gifted to me around 150 years ago, has been my trusted companion ever since.

O4. closet 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ obviously, i am entitled to the best (and biggest) selection of clothes. cutesy outfits in dark color schemes for casual outings, grand show-stopper beautiful dresses for important ceremonies or parties, silk pajamas for a feather-like sleep and statement accessories for some spice.

O5. weapons 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ some of the vampiric population volunteers to go on certain missions on the other side to ensure virethia's safety (and wealth). due majorly to boredom and lots of convincing from my friends, i decided to join this group of people. obviously, i don't own all of those weapons — as i prefer scythes and sickles — but the pictures are an illustration of the most commonly used ones by my teammates.

O6. belongings 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ things one would definitely find if spent enough time rummaging through my bedroom. lots of make up, books and my diary, fuzzy stuffed animals, accessories, candles, perfume bottles... all things you'd expect a cliché teenage girl to own.

O7. valora 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ valora, the land ruled by house sanguis is, for me, synonym of home. the most populated town, city of innovation, where the founders of virethia once resided. it's a gleaming city, really, bustling markets, massive factories, the oldest of monumental structures and wonderful workshops where revolutionary ideas come to life. think something close to... dark london streets.

O8. elysium 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ the true beauty of virethia is the foundation of elysium, land ruled by house caelum. elymians are known to value art in its every form, such as painting, sculpting, philosophy, etc. ethereal gardens, opulent palaces, art galleries and libraries here and there, all places any artist could gather inspiration from. very similar to the streets of rome.

O9. noctis 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⊹ the eery land of noctis, ruled by house mortis, also popularly known as "the scary ones". full of secrecy involving everything about dark and sometimes forbidden magic, it's landscapes are the closest to what humans mostly assume as the place vampires would live — towering black spires, haunted forests and shadowy lakes accentuated with a thick and misty atmosphere.

── .✦ final notes : i love love loooove this reality with all my heart!!! and even though it was a pain in the ass having to use my laptop to make this post (stupid photo limit), i still really enjoyed this whole process. let me know if u want me to make my pinterest boards public if u need inspo/visuals for a similar dr (this is still a wip tho, i'll def add more pins and sections in the future). anyways, thank u if u reached this far! byebye & go shift ! ><

[sarawritestories]

DarkSide of Prythian WIP

Here are some quotes from some of the requests for the Darkside of Prythian "series" I'm working on! Thank you all who submitted a request, my sweet, unhinged little Readers 🤭 I'm going to try to post one of these request once maybe twice a week some of these I imagine are going to be Loooooonnnng so bear with me as I work through them! Alright, enough rambling below the cut is the goods! These are subject to change once I get deep into writing but a treat none the less!

Content warning: Our leading ladies are all tied down and / or silenced in some capacity In these sneak peeks. There is mentions of slipping drugs in food and alluding to mind control.

I Can See You

Stalker Az X Fem Reader

You were the most beautiful creature the shadowsinger had ever seen. Even with tears sliding down your face; your panties stuffed in your mouth held in place by a shadow wrapped around your head. The Spymaster wouldn't want to disturb your neighbors after all. That wouldn't be Polite.

And Azriel was always polite.

You Belong To Me

Dark Cassian X Mated Fem Reader

You tugged at the bonds, keeping you in the chair when rough calloused hands gripped your cheeks tightly, "You are my mate, You belong to me." You whimpered as he placed a chaste kiss on your lips, "By the end of the week, you will accept the bond." He whispered as he released his grip on your face and scooped up a bite of food with a fork. You pressed your lips together, not wanting to accept any food from the general. "You need to eat," he tried to reason. You shook your head, and frustration coated the male's features as he quickly pinched your nose. "Open." He commands with a lethal calm that caused a shiver down your spine that you did what he asked. Not wasting a second, he placed the utensil in your mouth and began to feed you.

The food was delicious. You hated to deny it, but you were so hungry you didn't think twice about whether your fated mate laced it with anything.

To Be Mine...Forever

Dark Azriel X Reader (Rhys' Sister)

Azriel smiled at you, his eyes had a dangerous look to them as his hand grazed down the lace of your gown. Your wedding gown,"You are a vision, in white, my love. I'm sure the heir of Autumn would have loved you in it." You cried out muffled as he had wrapped your veil through your teeth, not wanting to hear your protests. The chains on your wrist rattled as you tried to lunge for him. He gripped your face, "Don't be a brat, I'm freeing you from the lowley confines of the Autimn court. You were never meant to be there. To be with him." He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead as your eyes brimmed with tears not finding comfort by his touch, "You were meant to be mine... Forever." He pulls the veil from your lips only to seal his lips to yours.

My Best Friends Girl

Dark Rhysand X Azriel's Mate (fem Reader)

A hand clamped over your mouth, jolting you awake. Your eyes met familiar violet ones as Rhysand pressed a finger to his own lips. "Shhh shh shh, It's only me, baby." He whispered, and your heart rate slowed to a normal pace. Your eyes shifted over to the Illyrian beside you. Azriel still sounded asleep in your bed, though his shadows were swirling, trying to wake him up. "Look at me, Pretty girl." Your eyes moved back to your high lord, his hand still around your mouth. "I'm going to take you away from here. Would you like that?" Would you like that? Your body screamed that it was wrong? Though your mind kept repeating:

Stay with the High Lord he will keep you safe.

Rhys, knowing your pretty little head was heavy nodded it for you with the hand pressing down on your lips, accepting his offer to steal you away, to free you. To keep you safe.

SongBird

Modern Mafia AU Cassian X Fem Reader

Cassian's men strapped you to the leather chair, and you struggled to no avail as the leather straps cinched your skin to the chair. The man had a smug look on his face as he sat at the stool a sucker in his mouth, a tattoo gun in his gloved hand. Your breathing became labored. "What are you going to do with that?" You asked.

He pulled the candy out of his mouth and smiled, "Claiming what's mine, My sweet Songbird." You opened your mouth to protest, but instead, the sweet taste of cherry hit your tongue as Cassian shoved the sucker he was eating in your mouth. You instantly closed your mouth on the candy as the sound of the machine rang through the room, and he began tattooing your outer thigh.

Not caring that he was writing, "Property of Cassian," permanently on your skin, you simply hummed thinking about your love for cherry flavored things.

[of-nyon]

Missed valentines as an excuse to post this thing from the WIP folder so I'ma post it anyway. Some silly starrod G1 soulmates AU I have no idea what I'm doing with, but I did have the first part written up for ages.

No sooner than they were back at the Nemesis did the complaining begin.

“Why did you call the retreat, you buffoon?! We were winning!” Starscream demanded. Of course he was one of the first few back – despite his complaints, he'd been in hot pursuit behind Megatron the second the retreat command was issued. Never let it be said that Starscream was slow on the uptake.

Megatron turned. Water cascaded off him – it had unfortunately rained on the way back – but at least he got to watch the tempestuous seeker's expression flit from disgust to surprise when he saw just what had made his leader decide to call the retreat.

A small pink, red and yellow mech, nearly but not quite a mini, was held between massive grey arms that could easily snap the light speedframe in half, should Megatron so choose. He was bearing an Autobot symbol; none here would care.

“And what is that?” Starscream asked, nose scrunching as though in reaction to a foul odor. Other mechs began to arrive, grumbling and shoving at each other and shaking themselves off. What were a few extra puddles to a sunken ship prone to flooding, after all.

“Walk with me,” Megatron ordered his snake of a second. “You'll appreciate this being private later.”

“Yes, I'm sure the telepathic mind-readerwill never find out about this,” Starscream drawled, just as Soundwave touched down with a squalling casseticon in tow – Frenzy, unless the twins had switched paintjobs again – but Megatron had given the seeker enough. He was now curious, and so he followed, flicking his wings to shake droplets of water all over the floor as he did so.

---

Safely inside the spare, mostly empty office he had put aside for this exact reason (namely, conversations with Starscream where there was a high chance of things being thrown) Megatron turned as Starscream entered, the door slowly groaning as it automatically juddered its way closed.

Time, rust, water pressure, salt, and general lack of repair had not been kind to the once-gleaming warship.

“So what's with – that?” Starscream asked again, hands on his hips. Megatron glanced down at his captured Autobot, the red helm crumpled from where Megatron had struck him to knock him out.

A glancing blow, not a killing one. Not all Autobots could claim such luck in an encounter with Megatron. Nor could this one: it had not been luck that saved him.

“Sit down,” Megatron advised. Starscream glared, but stepped lightly to the oversized swivel chair and plopped himself in it, likely imagining himself with all the regality of a lord on his throne.

“This one interrupted my fight with Prime,” Megatron said. Better to just be out with it. “I took the little fool hostage. When Prime demanded I let him go, he called him Hot Rod.”

The reaction was immediate. Starscream's helm shot up, fury blooming ruby-red in his optics. “How do you know that name?!” He demanded, springing to his feet. “You've been spying on me!”

“I – you told me yourself!” Megatron exclaimed. “You don't remember? You were hopelessly overcharged–”

“And you took advantage of me?! Even Soundwave has the decency not to pry into the matter of other people's sparkmates!”

“Ah, so you confirm it, then.” Megatron looked down at the pathetic bundle in his arms, almost as pathetic as when a fumbling, drunken Starscream's failed late-night assassination attempt turned into a sob story from the wretched seeker about a sparkmate he was convinced didn't exist, and if he did, he was probably an ugly grounder anyway, what kind of an awful name was Hot Rod.

“I never said that! I never confirmed anything, you rust-heap!”

Megatron shrugged. Either way, this was not about to be his problem. “Then claim him, or don't. I thought I was doing you a favour, Starscream!” Annoyed but not entirely surprised at the outcome, Megatron hefted the little Autobot in Starscream's direction.

Who promptly danced two steps back, knocking his back legs into the desk as the bot uselessly hit the floor with a clang. Starscream stared in mortification, apparently coming to terms that this was real.

“Fine. Reject him, and I'll take him to the brig. He's quite young. Doubtless Prime will be at a disadvantage in negotia-”

“Get out,” Starscream hissed suddenly, wings flaring outwards as he crouched down over the fallen Autobot.

Megatron knew a warning display when he saw one. He wordlessly made his exit, waiting impatiently for the door and squeezing himself through at the earliest opportunity.

Whatever the outcome, it was hopefully something he could hold over Starscream's head in the future.

---

Starscream didn't move for a long time, his venting sounding harsh and loud in his audials as he remained crouched over the little Autobot, awaiting some sort of trap or trick. There was no movement, just the hum of internals as he stared his unconscious opponent down, mapping out every detail with his optics.

What a pathetic mess, he thought sourly, eyeing the half of the Autobot's face that had been caved in with a sort of dour unenthusiasm. Trust Megatron to literally dump this on him!

And yet.

...and yet he realised too late that he'd been too taken by surprise by this whole thing to block out any annoying interlopers on the trine bond, and -

“Hey Star what's up, you feel really upset? Did something happen?”

-and now Skywarp was here, the faint crackle of ozone heralding his arrival as he nearly stepped on the Autobot, unheeding -

“Watch where you're walking, you oaf!” Starscream snapped, reaching out to drag at an Autobot-red arm on pure instinct -

Frisson. Static shivered up his frame at the contact. Skywarp blinked, slowly looking down as Starscream snatched his hand away.

“Uh, what's that.” Skywarp cocked his head like a confused turbofox. Starscream slumped from his crouch on to his knees.

“A present from Megatron, apparently,” he grumbled, absently shaking out his hand like he could flick away the static crawling through him. A coincidence, surely.

“Megatron got you a pet Autobot? How come??” Skywarp demanded more than asked, hand on his hips.

“He's not a pet,” Starscream muttered, looking away.

“Aw, Star, c'mere.” Skywarp knelt down, and Starscream didn't resist when he gingerly put his arms around him.

“Wow, you're out of it,” Skywarp commented, pulling back to look at him critically, then back at the Autobot, then back to Starscream, and decided more physical contact was the best course of action.

Then, over the trine-bond:

:TC, get in on this! We're hugging!:

:What?: Thundercracker's reply was distantly confused.

:Hug time! Right now! Star's letting me hug him!:

:Where are you? I only just got back.:

Probably spent his time enjoying the building storm like the weirdo he was, Starscream thought morosely as they both felt their trinemate's presence hurrying their way. It didn't take long for the door to heave open, revealing Thundercracker, who stopped and stared at the scene before him.

“Oh yeah, and Megatron got Starscream an Autobot?” Skywarp said as an afterthought. “Not my problem. Get over here, TC.”

“Starscream, what's this?” Thundercracker asked as he stepped far more cautiously around the fallen red lump than Skywarp had. Starscream huffed. It wasn't like he could just not tell them forever. Skywarp would be too annoying about it, for one.

“Megatron claims,” he said, meeting Thundercracker's ruby-bright optics, “that Prime called this one Hot Rod.”

There. He'd said it out loud. No magical, thooming response from the heavens or the pits below, just two trinemates staring at him, one much faster on the uptake than the other.

“Wait, Hot Rod's real?!” Thundercracker exclaimed.

[the-inkwell-variable]

author ask tag

thank you so much for the tag, @the-golden-comet! ooh this is gonna be fun!

i'm going to focus on my current wip, Why Should I Be Careful? I'm Going To Die Anyway! because it's still very much in the planning stages (despite how much I'm writing for it) and I have Thoughts

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'll be honest, I haven't really thought that far ahead. I suppose, if there is a lesson to take from WSIBC?IGTDA!, it might be that you should always chase your goals and desires, and screw what other people think. Maybe put a little more thought and planning into yours than Aura does hers, though. I mean, she almost dies due to her recklessness. Don't be like Aura.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

Well, it's a zombie book - I love zombies, in case you can't tell - so the world is an amalgamation of zombie stuff I love. The zombies are based off of the Train to Busan zombies. This is a self-insert mess, so I'm using the town and people I know in the town as location and characters. Little tropes here and there that I love in movies and books alike. It's just a big chimera of stuff that I grab from stuff I remember and shove into it. It definitely needs polish when it's done, but I'm having a blast so far, so I'm'a keep doing it :3

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

Uhhhhhh this is a tough question. Right now, Aura is trying to make it to Roger's Grocery Mart to save her girlfriend, but most of the time, she's just trying to have a good time in the zombie apocalypse and hopefully not die. She does eventually grow into a character that (mostly) thinks things through and takes other people's situations into account, so I suppose the lesson is "the world doesn't revolve around you - be kind and helpful to others"?

As for what I'm trying to achieve... mostly, to be honest, I just want people to pick up my book and have a good time reading it. I want to write a zombie book because it's my passion and because there aren't enough zombie books out there. I guess I'm trying to inspire others? To show them that you can survive an impossible situation if you work hard and think things through?

How many chapters is your story going to have?

The only time I've written a full-length book (sorry, the only two times, forgot about Zero: ALPHA), it had about twenty-odd chapters. Z:A had...uh...thirty? That was a long time ago and I sadly no longer have that draft. This one is going to go until it's done. Hopefully more than thirty though!

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I have no idea where I'm going to post it. I'm torn between Draft2Digital (originally Smashwords) or Substack. Thing is, I'm really bad at marketing and keywords and all that technical stuff that goes into publicizing, so I'm really hesitant to share it at all. I'm the type of person that gets absolutely morally devastated if my own self-inflicted goals aren't met, and I'm not sure if I can handle that kind of crushing heartbreak with this one lol

So yeah. Might publish, might not. Unsure right now.

When did you start writing?

My dad set up a Windows 95 computer for me in his office, his old one, and taught me the basics of using it. I was five, about to turn six. I immediately sat down and wrote a story about unicorns. I've been writing ever since.

I didn't start writing fanfiction until I was thirteen and had just binge-watched Lord of the Rings for the first time. We don't talk about those works. They were awful.

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

Write it. Oh it's cringe? Who cares? Write it. Oh, it's a rare pair? Write it. You're worried people will hate it? Fuck the haters. Write it. Writing is about having fun. Writing is about pouring your soul onto the page. Writing is about getting those ideas out of your head so they don't drive you insane. It's about reaching that one person that finds your work and loves it. Even if no one reads it - you still accomplished something. You still wrote it. And no one can take that from you.

I have so many writers in my follow list. Uhh. I have no idea how many are still active, so I'm just going to tag who I know and hope for the best lol

@idyllicocean, @keeping-writing-frosty, @bloodtiesnovel, @asher-writes, @kitswrite, @theink-stainedfolk, @karkkidoeswriting, @lavender-gloom, @orphanheirs, @aquixoticwrites, @alinacapellabooks, @marlowethelibrarian, @flock-from-the-void, @dyrewrites, @storycraftcafe, @writer-imagination, @toragay-writing, @inseasofgreen, @stephtuckerauthor, @thatndginger, @finickyfelix, @eternalwritingstudent, @drchenquill, @paeliae-occasionally, @the-golden-comet, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @watermeezer, @goldfinchwrites, @winterandwords, @badscientist, @clairelsonao3, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @leahpardo-pa-potato, @mjparkerwriting, @rowanwriting, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @emelkae, @rita-rae-siller, @rebelxwriter, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @stesierra, @francineiswriting, @sunset-a-story, @chauceryfairytales, @hollyannewrites, @jaydenswaywrites, @captain-kraken, @violets-in-her-arms-writes, @romy-thewriter, @pure-solomon, @writingmaidenwarrior, @koiwrites

go, go follow them. they're all so good and make my timeline glow.

[thescrapwitch]

WIP Word Train

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @queerofthedagger Thank you! My word is HOME (which is very fun considering I've been working on some fics with that as their theme)

H - This is Not a Second Chance (Celebrimbor gets dragon-amnesia post-fall of Nargothrond and gets found by his father and uncles; canon still happens after that and I try to make all the readers cry)

He did not know what that word Tyelpë meant. Could only hold the dog and shake as that one order - run, run, run - began to fade away, leaving him empty and hollow. “Help,” he said, the word a cracked whisper. The word choked with smog and burning and terror that erased every thought. He held tight onto the dog as he spoke. “Help.”

Time after that turned into a blurr. There were hands that lifted him up. Gentle, careful of his burns and scratches, cradling him close. More words, some in a language he understood and others in a language he felt that he should know but could not remember. The dog left when he was placed onto a horse. He cried but did not know why. 

Had he run far enough? Had he been caught? 

“Easy, Tyelpë,” said the moonlight-haired elf. “We’ll be at Amon Ereb soon. Just hold onto the horse and trust me to lead, all right?”

He said nothing. The elf’s words fell on him like snow: cold, making him shiver, disappearing through the gaps in his mind. 

O - Oh Sing, Defiant Stars (all SoF survive the kinslayings but Maglor gets amnesia at Sirion and still does a twin kidnapping; very NOT canon-compliant)

One hand was made from metal, glinting like polished brass. The lord, Lindir guessed, from how everyone else backed away or bowed to him. The leader and the one who would decide how best to hurt him. 

But the lord’s hands, when he reached out, only ghosted over Lindir’s shoulders. “Laurë,” he said again, that strange word.

Should he bow? Lindir had not bowed for the orcs no matter how much they kicked him, but they had been servants of Morgoth. These were elves - but they were also murderers. The words stayed stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, dumb and shaking, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn’t look at the red-haired lord, or the beautiful horses, or the bright, eight-pointed star that decorated the deep red banners. His heart ached. His head screamed, as though something deep within the back of his mind was trying to tear it apart. 

“Bring the healers,” ordered the lord. He may have said other things, but Lindir could barely focus on his words.

M - To Haunt These Golden Halls (Maedhros searches and grieves for his lost brother; Maglor misunderstands and thinks he's happier without him - happy ending don't worry)

Maglor said nothing, could only stare up at his brother, drinking in the sight of him. Centuries upon centuries had dulled his memories, tarnishing the image of Maedhros. Now, there he stood, alive again, and there were a thousand things Maglor wanted to say. 

I missed you, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time. That I threw it away. I was right to throw it away. Do you forgive me? I’m sorry I was not enough to keep you in life. Please say you forgive me. Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyo, I missed you. 

His mouth stayed locked shut. 

Would Maedhros yell at him now? Chase him out of the garden? Welcome him and kiss his forehead, like he had when Maglor was small and woke up from a nightmare? He tensed and waited. 

But Maedhros only stared down at him and said, “What is your name, stranger, and what are you doing at my home?”

E - Little Crab in the Big City (Fëanor forgets his crab son in the Valinor shopping district and so Maglor and Bilbo go on an adventure together. Maedhros is never trusting his father to babysit ever again)

Even Aman, with all its power, could not prevent a mortal mind from slowly breaking down. Or so Gandalf had sadly warned him. 

The crab scuttled a little to the left and then a little to the right, giving Bilbo a few more clicks of his claw. Above their heads came the cry of a bird - a seagull, perhaps, though Tirion was far away from the coast - and the poor thing hid behind Bilbo’s leg. 

“There, there, do not fear. I will not let such a well-mannered creature such as yourself become dinner.” Bilbo held out a hand. “A busy street such as this is no place for someone so easily trampled. Would you care to travel with me?”

The crab let out a series of fast clicks, eagerly scurrying forward. Carefully, Bilbo lifted him up and placed him on his shoulder, wrapping one long end of his scarf around the crab to keep him warm. 

“Excellent. It has been far too long since I’ve had a companion on an adventure.” Bilbo opened up his notebook and readied his pen. “Now then, where was I? Oh yes…”

Tagging, with your word being CRAB: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @beatles4ever65 @thelordofgifs @camille-lachenille @whovianofmidgard @leucisticpuffin @awwyeah107 @veilder @starspray and anyone else who wants to. No pressure, of course!

[thievinghippo]

First line/page WIP meme

Tagged by @aldisobey and figured why not? This fic is called 'a tangled funeral pyre' and will focus on the consequences of Rook attempting the lichdom rites forty years after the events of the game. This first section is a flashback

Tagging anyone else who wants to join in! I would love to see the cool stuff you're all writing! :D

#

“She’s keeping something from me.”

“Emmrich…”

Emmrich can only drop his head at the disappointment he hears in Myrna’s voice. Which is the last thing he wants to hear during their monthly tea. For almost twenty years now, since the defeat of the elven gods, they’ve met for tea in Myrna’s apartments in the upper levels of the Necropolis.

“Rook is allowed secrets, of course,” Emmrich says, staring at his hands. It’s not as if he doesn’t have any secrets himself. They are not his, though, but those of the Necropolis. Things that only the liches are allowed to know. “But in almost twenty years, she’s never deliberately hid something from me.”

The last few days… Her aura is different, somehow. There’s a nervousness he hasn’t seen from her before, not even before Teardrop Island. Something is clearly worrying her and the fact that she hasn’t confided in him breaks the heart he no longer has. All he wants is to be a source of comfort to her for the mortal years she has left.

“Have you considered inquiring about the change?” Myrna asks. She takes a sip of tea then places it down carefully on the saucer. “I will admit, I did sense some sort of distraction within Rook when we went to the theatre the other night.”

“And it was such a good production of The Tyrant of Minrathous,” Emmrich muses, thinking about the one of the many plays, songs, and novels that have been created about their adventures defeating the elven gods all those years ago.

“Speaking of that night, did I notice correctly that you’ve aged your glamour slightly?”

Emmrich tightens his grip on his cup of tea. While he hasn’t drank anything since lichdom, if the cup is hot enough, he can actually feel the warmth in his bones. Somehow, that warmth is a small comfort that he’s treasured, considering he’s lost so many others.

“Only five or so years. Rook believes that I should just let her catch up to my glamour. Maybe someday.” A day he refuses to let himself think about. He never allows himself to dwell on the fact that each day is one less he has with her.

“Why not have your glamour match her age? Truly, I was surprised you did not when you first crafted one.”

“Oh I very much considered doing just that,” Emmrich says, thinking back to those nights when he debated on his glamour, even when so many other pressing duties awaited. “If I recall, I believe I decided on changing my age would be cheating.”

Myrna simply tilts her head and takes another sip of team. “Cheating?”

If Emmrich still had an eyebrow to raise, he would raise one now. “My dear Myrna, I know Vorgoth would have mentioned the conversations we had about my insecurity regarding my age and my relationship with Rook.”

To her credit, she nods instead of trying to deny it. Vorgoth really is the worst gossip in all of the Necropolis. “I might remember hearing a thing or two.”

It’s that moment Emmrich senses something deep within the Necropolis. A sudden tremor that only a lich would have the ability to sense. He places his teacup onto the table and focuses. He looks to the beating pulse of the Necropolis itself and feels a pull.

“Myrna, please accept my apologies, but I am being called to a pressing matter.” 

Emmrich stands and focuses his energy, trying to see exactly where he is meant to go. The uncreatively named Lich Hall, down in the deepest recesses of the Necropolis. Where only the four unliving lich lords have access.

Four lich lords and any member of the Mourn Watch who has discovered the first step of the journey to lichdom.

Suddenly he can look back at Rook’s aura with perfect clarity.

[nausikaaa]

Six Sentence Sunday

thanks for tagging me @thewholelemon @bookishbroadwayandblind @leithillustration @forabeatofadrum and @roomwithanopenfire @run-for-chamo-miles!

sorry for posting so late, but i just got done writing. i started at midnight, and now its half five... but i wrote 3000 words! i'm now almost at 94K words, which is just... insane.

it means i'm not going to get my EGF fic finished in time though, sorry! back to languishing in the wip folder.

i wrote some of Deidamia's POV for the first time tonight, so here's some of that!

Oneiros was gone, Patroclus was gone, Achilles was gone. Pyrrhus was all I had left; my wild, angry, hurting boy.

I closed my eyes and raised my hands in supplication. "Lord Apollo, I beg you, pity me and protect my son."

I had never recieved the god's acknowledgement, no matter how many offerings and sacrifices I made. This time, all I offered were my tears, and I hoped they were finally enough to appease the god I suspected had long abandoned us.

Deidamia was Achilles' wife, the mother of their son Pyrrhus, and in some myths, another son, Oneiros, who was killed by Orestes (who also kills Pyrrhus eventually. Deidamia should be allowed to rip him apart with her bare hands honestly.)

according to Seneca, Deidamia was incredibly young when she had Pyrrhus, so my Deidamia is very concerned with preserving her son's childhood. unfortunately, Apollo doesn't give a damn about her and actively hates Achilles, so he gets Helenus to tell Odysseus bring the boy to Troy. there, he does... a lot of war crimes, tbh.

Madeline Miller's The Song Of Achilles really relies on Pyrrhus being utterly irredeemably evil, and that perspective has coloured his fandom portrayal for a long time. people are slowly starting to warm to him now (shoutout to @neoptolemid @dilfaeneas and @kyleesarthell for being his some of his biggest advocates) but it's still an uphill battle. i don't plan to sidestep the atrocities, by the gods, i will rehabilitate this boy's image. he was a child soldier with big boots to fill, give him some grace!

tags/hellos: @cutestkilla @prettygoododds @bookish-bogwitch @youarenevertooold @that-disabled-princess @noblecorgi @orange-peony @larkral @confused-bi-queer @aristocratic-otter @artsyunderstudy @alexalexinii @hushed-chorus @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @martsonmars @meanjeansjeans @j-trow-95 and @blackberrysummerblog. i know i need to catch up on you guys' wips, i'm hoping to find the time tomorrow!

also, no new lambs, but have a cute video of the little guy! we're expecting the next ones this coming wednesday.

[lorelilly]

sorry you're feeling down <3 are you reading anything currently? (i'm reading real life by brandon taylor rn, so good!) what authors inspire your writing?

also, anything you're willing to tease from upcoming wips?

Right now I’m reading Faebound by Saara El-Arifi. I haven’t really read much in the Romantacy genre, but I heard people online saying this book was ACOTAR if it was queer so I’ve been giving it a shot and it’s pretty good so far.

I think what typically inspires me to write fanfic though is other good fanfic. I just finished reading Sweeter Than Honey by @followingthebutterflies7 (omg amazing please go read it) and I’m currently reading Bound by Winter by @and-claudia and The Only Reason (I Stayed Here) by @ephemore (which are both currently in progress but I’m loving where they’re going). I also frequently go back and reread older fanfics I love. It doesn’t even have to be from the same fandom. My favorite AO3 author is surveycorpsjean who’s written A LOT of really good stuff (mostly for My Hero Academia and Haikyuu but for tons of other fandoms as well).

As far as teases from upcoming WIPs, I just posted a snippet from my next chapter of All This Potential last week. And while that is my main focus right now, I do have a couple other short things I’ve written the last few months so—anyone care to read some of my Shourtcer idea that I may or may not ever finish? It’s an AU where Shayne and Spencer are competing in the rodeo circuit as bull riders and Courtney is a farrier.

What’s under the cut isn’t nsfw but it is just a little spicy.

Courtney stands in front of their full length mirror, pressing down on a weird ruffle in her dress that just won’t lay flat. She briefly wonders if she’s got time to iron before he gets here and then immediately scoffs at herself. Spencer isn’t gonna care about what her clothes look like. He’s most likely coming over to take them off her anyway. That’s why she chose this dress in the first place, a simple denim number that buttons all the way down. Just thinking about it makes her palms sweat.

Despite the mirror, Shayne still manages to sneak up on her, his reflection magically appearing over her shoulder while she’s lost in thought.

“Nervous?” he asks like it isn’t obvious. Courtney tries to shrug the question off anyway. “We don’t have to do this,” he adds on, and Courtney turns around to face him.

“Do you not want to do this?”

Shayne swallows heavy and takes a breath.

“I—I love you,” he says like it’s an answer. And because they’ve been together for so long, because she knows this sweet and wonderful man inside and out, it is.

“Shayne, baby, I love you too.” She slips her arms around his neck. “This doesn’t mean we aren’t in love anymore. I know you still love me. Do you know that I still love you?”

“Yes,” he says, and when Courtney looks deep into his eyes, she believes him. She nods once firmly and then lets her arms drop.

“I want to do this. I want—“ I want him, she thinks. Lord help her, but it’s true.

Shayne nods a couple times like he’s shaking out some final nerves of his own and then finally smiles at her softly. He spins her back around so she’s facing the mirror, hands gripped loosely around her waist but already starting to move up and down, casually feeling her curves.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, placing a kiss to her neck. And god she’s so keyed up already that just the kiss is enough to make her shiver. Shayne doesn’t miss it.

“He’s not gonna know what hit him,” Shayne says with an even wider smile and Courtney feels some confidence come back to her.

“Same to you,” she says.

Shayne’s not wearing anything fancy, but it doesn’t take much in her opinion. Even in some light-washed denim and a white t-shirt that hugs his biceps, he’s already everything anyone could possibly want.

His arms tighten around her middle, hugging her close until she can feel the start of something pressed against her lower back. Seems like she’s not the only one who’s keyed up already.

The sound of the doorbell startles them both.

“Speak of the devil,” Shayne mumbles.

They reluctantly pull apart and head downstairs to greet Spencer. Shayne’s little pep talk has Courtney feeling so much better, but she still feels unprepared for the sight that greets her when she opens the door.

Spencer’s in a pair of dark jeans, probably the nicest ones he owns by the look of it, with a dark green and blue plaid shirt and a simple bolo tie. He’s not wearing a hat, and it actually looks like maybe he’s run some kinda product through his hair to accentuate his curls.

“Hey,” she says, voice sounding too much like a sigh for her own liking.

“Hey,” he says back. “I uh—“ His hand comes up from by his side, holding out an honest to god bouquet of flowers. “I wasn’t sure what’s proper for a situation like this. But my mama taught me to never show up empty handed so-“

Courtney takes the flowers from him, a brightly colored assortment that reminds her of springtime, and tries not to bite her lip when she smiles.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Nothing for me?” Shayne teases over her shoulder.

Courtney barely contains her eye roll at the obvious prod. Everything’s always been a competition between these two and she’s not sure why she thought tonight might be any different. But Spencer isn’t thrown for a second. He quickly reaches forward towards the bouquet, pinching a carnation off its stem a couple inches beneath the base, then steps closer to Shayne and slowly slips the flower over the top of his ear.

“There. Pretty as a picture,” Spencer says in a low voice and Courtney coughs to hide her laugh as a blush spreads across Shayne’s cheeks. Point, Spencer.

“Well come on in before you let all the AC out,” Courtney says, breaking the moment and ushering Spencer inside.

They all meander their way into the dining room where Spencer looks surprised to see the table set. It’s nothing ostentatious, just three white plates with some plain napkins and cutlery set out. But Spencer looks at it like she’s done something amazing for him.

“You’re cooking?” he asks towards both of them.

“Chicken’s on the grill right now,” Shayne says. “And Court’s got veggies roasting in the oven.”

“And some of your bread,” she says to Shayne.

“I don’t know if I’d call it my bread-“ he says like he’s nervous to own up to it in front of Spencer. But Courtney’s having none of it. If he’s gonna be their—or more like, if they’re planning on inviting him into their—well regardless, they’ve gotta start being honest with each other.

“I would.” She walks over and gives him a short but firm kiss on his cheek. “You’re the one that got this new sourdough starter to work after my last one died while we were away.”

“I’m sure it’ll be amazing,” Spencer chimes in, making both of them turn to look at him. “I mean, I don’t think the golden boy over here is capable of doing anything less than perfect.”

Shayne pulls away from her and scoffs in Spencer’s direction.

“If I was perfect, I would’ve beaten you in Cheyenne,” he counters.

But Spencer just throws him that smile, the one that’s somehow boyishly charming and also unfairly seductive.

“But where would be the fun in that?” he teases. “Nah. You losing to me sometimes just makes you more perfect in my book.”

Shayne huffs out a noise somewhere between amused and frustrated then turns away.

“Gonna go check on the meat,” he says, but Courtney can see his flustered face before he makes it outside and closes the patio door behind him. Two points, Spencer.

[holy3cake]

WIP Word game!

Rules: You get a word and share a sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that starts with each letter of your word.

I was tagged by the lovely @thelettersfromnoone and @lord-aldhelm so I guess I'm doing two words ehehee! I've got BREAKING and DARKEST! I'm going to use In His Father's footsteps for this one! :)

B- “Brother, it has been so long! Did you not miss me?” The lady pulled away, cupping Aethelstan’s startled face. 

R- “Rise, Osbert of Bebbanburg. I accept your Oath.” Aethelstan stated grouchily, as though he’d been offered a bowl of rotten slugs.

E- “Edmund, Hild, go to Osbert. I will send guards to release him.” Aethelstan smoothed down his shirt and shook his hair out of his eyes, rapidly running towards the door.

A- As he trudged behind them, Osbert wondered if Aethelstan had protested against the idea, or if he’d accepted it graciously.

K- “Knowing that it will not make up for your losses in any way, I am contributing 100 pieces of silver to every family here. As well as this, I have sent for 50 men to bring stone and provide help in repairing your walls.”

I- It was an outfit fit for a princess, but she wondered if Aethelstan really saw her that way just yet.

N- Nobles and Royals like had gathered in the lustre of the room, their vain and haughty nature magnified in the magnificent burn of forty candles.

G- God help me…_______________________________________________________

(I've focused this one on Turketyl!)

D- “Darling, God designed my body to only take the pronged penises of strong men, not the petite holes of blushing ladies. Alas, Herluf and I haven’t humped. Yet.” Turketyl sighed deeply, shaking his head.

A-  At first, he’d assumed that Aethelstan had run away to have some sordid affair with the Dane in question.

R-"Rise up, O judge of the earth; repay to the proud what they deserve!" As Lord Aelfgard started to cough and splutter, the scent of arid acid filled the room, creating an odour pungent enough to make Turketyl vomit, but he swallowed down the lumpy chunks in favour of exposing the Ealdorman’s gooey insides.

K- “Do you care for him the way he cares for you, Lord King?” Turketyl cupped his face, observing his pink cheeks. (I couldn't find a sentence starting with K, so I chose a word instead lol!)

E- Even as a man of God, Turketyl couldn’t exactly pinpoint when he’d entered into his hotbed of pure, unadulterated sin.

S- Stepping a little closer to the bars, Turketyl felt a strange urge to comfort this stranger.

T- Their exchange was purely transactional, but he rather enjoyed toying with the Ealdorman. That was his own secret, and he wouldn’t share that with anyone, not even God. 

___________________________________________________

I JUST REALIZED I NEVER ADDED A NEW WORD FOR TAGEEEEES AAAAAAA. Okay if I'm not too late, your word is FATHER

No pressure tags (apologies if you've been tagged like 5 times haha): @grinningkatz @lancedoncrimsonwings @book-and-music-lover @synintheraven @errruvande

@waterfallsilverberrywrites @bilbotargaryen @thenameswinter99 @persephones-journey @whitedarkmoonflower

@paula-in-dreamland @kingslionheart @fabiochampioraro @ripmyfictionalfriends

[saintvainglorious]

10 Best Black Sails Fics I Read in 2023

In honor of Black Sails' 10th anniversary, here's a list of my top 10 favorite Black Sails fics I read in 2023, in order from shortest to longest. Most Black Sails fic rec posts I've seen are now around 2 or 3 years old (though not all, bless @jaynovz and your #jay's esoteric rec lists tag) so nearly half of the recs in this list spotlight newer fics. It's amazing to see fantastic fics still being written and updated years after the show ended - y'all are keeping this fandom alive!

I didn't read that much Black Sails fic this year, comparatively speaking, so I'm sure there's plenty of newer gems that I missed. All the fics in this rec list are Silverflint unless otherwise stated.

1 - Gone To Port Royal by Apetslife (G, 3k) - a delightful oneshot from Gates' POV where they all go to a pirate afterlife. every scene is perfect. endlessly re-readable and never fails to make me smile.

Definition of Valhalla 1: the great hall in Norse mythology where heroes slain in battle are received 2 : a place of honor, glory, or happiness: heaven

2 - i’ll be seeing you by youatemytailor/@annevbonny (NR, 19k) - this is THEE post-canon Silverflint reunion fic. the anguish, the rage, the quiet jokes, the tenderness, it's all devastatingly in-character. particularly the chapter 5 climactic unspooling leaves me in awe upon every reread.

Silver is out of his chair and across the room before he knows it. He has a grip on the barkeep’s shirt before he knows it, and he’s pulling him up, hauling him eye-level, only to head-butt him to the ground again. The barkeep’s mouth is thrown open in a wail, but there’s no sound, Silver thinks, no sound at all, save for the blood rushing in his ears as he looks at the other man on the ground, watches him roll to his side with a groan. Flint, Silver thinks, and nothing else. It beats around the knife in his gut like a drum. Flint. And then Flint is looking at him.

3 - The Dark Lord Proprietor by Amiril/@runawaymarbles (M, 19k, Silverflintham) - a fuckin hysterical supervillain AU. Thomas has amnesia, Flint is pining, Silver tries to get them back together. what could go wrong? could not stop cackling.

A year ago, James Flint was in a stable relationship and was within spitting distance of taking over London. Now he’s single, with a dubiously loyal henchman, a lairmate determined to learn his every weakness, and a Secret Past with the new supervillain on the scene. And thanks to a new government program, it’s all a race to the bottom.

4 - the cross dimensional nassau bar of getting izzy hands laid by FortinbrasFTW/@fortinbrasftw (E, 19k ~WIP~, Flint/OFMD Izzy Hands) - a Black Sails OFMD Flint/Izzy Hands crossover. the very best kind of smut-as-character study. funny, gripping, and endlessly re-readable.

The first thing Izzy realizes is he looks absolutely fucking furious — which yeah, alright, fair enough. He’s got shorter ginger hair. A beard like Izzy’s but kept neater. Earrings like Izzy’s but worn simpler. Bleeding like Izzy but, well, maybe a bit less. And he’s handsome. Izzy realizes it suddenly and slowly somehow all at once. Bit like a bloody painting even. The kind you saw up on walls in rich folk’s houses. Only, well, no painting had eyes like that, did it? You’d have to be mad to keep a painting with eyes like that in your home. They were bright and clear and looked — honest-to-fucking-Christ — ready to set the whole damned world on fire. Izzy's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night takes an interesting turn thanks to a completely different sort of pirate captain.

5 - frail and fragile bars by Ajaxthegreat/@francisthegreat (E, 21k) - Silver realizes, post-shark date, that he's in love with Flint. an instant, iconic fave fic. SO many delicious scenes and quotes that live rent free in my head. just read it, you won't regret it.

“I think you fuck,” Silver says. By which he means, with great intent: I think you are human. I know you are human. I see you.

6 - the whole estate of mortal man by Amiril/@runawaymarbles (T, 43k) - Creature Silver AU where he'll grant wishes in exchange for souls. first read this fic in 2020 and cried. reread it this year and cried again. the nature of the AU intersects so cleverly with Black Sails' themes, and the end result is devastating.

Silver has a limited memory, an unlimited lifespan, and a need for human souls. He spends months trying to buy Flint’s.

7 - our feast is but beginning by x_etoile_x/@etoilesombre (E, 55k) - Flint teaches season 1 Silver how to cook. they're definitely not dating. no, really. this writer writes dialogue so in-character that it cuts like a knife. features sensual cooking, Flint being a queer mentor for Silver, fun genderfuckery, and Them Being Real Tender.

Flint should walk away. Silver can figure out how to feed the men, it isn’t his problem. But roasting a pig is so easy, and when was the last time he had a hand in creating something rather than destroying it? Anyway, what else is he doing, with Billy taking the crew in hand with such annoying competency? He absolutely does not think about why he is reluctant for this interaction with Silver to end. “Go get another pig,” he says before he can reconsider. “Do exactly as I say.”

8 - With Strange Aeons by Amiril/@runawaymarbles (M, 60k, Silverflint + Flinthamilton + Jackanne) - Came for the Silverflint, stayed for the Silverflint but also for holy fuck Jack and Anne are sent to Savannah and break out of there with Thomas to battle literal Cthulhu. How can you NOT read this. I don't typically read Flinthamilton, but by god Thomas is amazing in this.

After the disappearance and presumed death of Captain Flint and Long John Silver, Max smuggles Jack and Anne to Oglethorpe’s plantation. Thomas learns that not only do the three of them have a friend in common, but he is not the only one whose dreams are haunted by a strange city and a terrifying name. Meanwhile, Flint and Silver try to escape an island trapped in time, impossibly built and impossibly old. Along the way they’re forced question reality, each other, and themselves. And in his house in R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

9 - The Salt and the Sea by x_etoile_x/@etoilesombre (E, 60k) - a between season 2 and 3 recovery fic. i still remembered months after reading that chapter 4 in particular left me undone. a harrowing journey into the ruins of post-leg loss Silver's mind, plus exquisite hurt/comfort.

John Silver was always able to make the best of a situation. If this particular situation had started to feel complicated, well, a vast fortune ought to prove clarifying. Whatever he might have imagined he’d seen in Flint, the reality was they had used each other. And he had been set to walk away on top. Except now he couldn’t. Now he was trapped.

10 - the straight walk home by vowelinthug/@vowel-in-thug (E, 73k, Silverflint + Jackanne + Maxanne + Billy/Vane) - A western AU and one of the best long fics in the fandom. Excellent comedy, amazing AU twists on our favorite characters, found family vibes, nail-biting action, and a fucking fantastic climax. Also, I can't believe this fic got me invested in Billy/Vane.

Let me tell you a story, about a vaquero named Vasquez...

[wajjs]

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

Sladejay, fantasy, arranged political marriage, past Jayrose:

"You have to admit," he quickly adds, patting down his vest as if to get rid of imaginary dust (there's none; for all of its lack of proper lightning, the library is immaculately clean), "it is a novel sight, you wearing a skirt." When she smiles, she offers no softness. “It is also a novel thing, seeing you getting married to my father.” He cringes. “You know I didn’t—” “Have a choice?” Rose finishes for him to then scoff, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the spine of the book closest to her. “You also used to be a better liar.” “It’s not a lie,” Jason swallows drily, flexing his hands for lack of a better thing to do with them, feeling as though his clothes are suddenly much too tight, “I wouldn’t lie about this. Not to you.” The look Rose levels him with is cold enough to freeze his blood. “There is always a choice, Jason. Just like you didn’t choose to run away back then, you’re now choosing to sacrifice yourself. For someone who won’t even say thank you.” Faint noise travels through the only window in the library, and in the silence that grows after Rose’s words it can be heard more than clearly. There is a party going on out there, taking advantage of the day of sun and clear skies, so unlike the one of his arrival. That party is also why he’s here, trying to find solace in the only things in his life that have never disappointed him. And, he guesses, said party is too the reason for Rose to have come looking for him, dressed in the finest of fabrics, adorned with glimmering jewelry, face painted to both entice and intimidate. Both things he knows she does more than well. Jason clears his throat, stepping out from the crevice between shelves he had found all for himself. “I wanted,” he says when they’re closer still, close enough that he can whisper and she can hear him. “I did want to say yes to you.” Rose turns around, though not fast enough for him not to see the unguarded and pained expression on her face. “Lord Wilson is waiting,” she tells him as she starts to walk towards the exit without needing to check if he’s following. “Time to say your vows.”

[theproverbialpen]

Hi!... It's me!... Again! 😁

I just couldn't stop thinking about both "The bottom club" and "son of the sea" from the wip thingy

Would you be so kind as to tell us what they're about?

(Ofc you don't have to talk about both... Unless you want to 👀)

LMAO you're the cutest, ty for the flowers dear 💐

Okay soooo let's do this one by one, shall we?

Son of the Sea - This was originally going to be the title of the fourth installment of The Siren Saga, but I think I'm going to use it as a chapter name instead. I can't really reveal much because it would be a heavy spoiler (though, I'm sure you could guess a plot point or two based on the title alone), but I can share an excerpt from what I have planned as the first chapter:

“Ah, that’s much better. Now, I believe you had a message for me to carry, hm?” You’re still dizzy, but you right yourself as best you can and clear your throat. “Yes, Lord Hermes. I would like to reach Lord Poseidon, He of All Waters. I request his presence as soon as possible” “Oho! So the rumors are true? Uncle really has found a new favorite mortal?” You’re shocked. “I-I wouldn’t go that far, Lord Hermes.” “Mmm, but you’d go far enough to throw together a haphazard offering to ask me to reach him?” Hah, got em. “What, is your lover not answering your calls?” “I-!” Exhale. “My prayers as his servant are for his exaltation alone, whether or not he responds to them is not important. But this is an urgent matter.” “Okay, okay—whatever you say, darling, I’ll go let Uncle Poseidon know you’re looking for him, on one condition.” “What is it, Lord Hermes?” “You tell me what makes this matter so urgent, of course!”

I am so excited to write this little shit, I swear. Gotta a whole lot to get through first though, alas (but more content for y'all).

----

The Bottom Club - Well... um... so I wasn't originally an EPIC author... My first work was actually called Life is in Redemption and it...may have been an OC x Lucifer Morningstar fic...

In a futile attempt to hide my shame, I'm putting this one below the cut LMAO

AD - Angel Dust | V - Vaggie | A - Aira (my OC) | L - Lucifer AD: And so I said! If you’re gonna have that attitude with me, you can suck ya own dick, sweetheart. V: Ew, but…deserved. Good on ya, Angel- C: Vaggie sweetie! Have you seen my bow tie? V: Check the top left drawer on the vanity, dear. You always put it away there when you’re too tired. C: Ugh, you’re the best, thank you!!! AD: ……..…So she tops, right? A: *spits out drink* Angel. V: I- I, wha- um A: *glares* AD: What??? Listen toots, from one bottom to another: game respects game. I’m more of a power bottom myself, but I can get behind the more cutesy shit too. A: Angel Dust. V: *sputters* I- I am not “cutesy” AD: Oh come on! It’s a compliment! Everyone loves the whole ‘blushing like a virgin’ thing, that’s like top tier fantasy content! A: Anthony. AD: Oh piss off, Ai, you’re just bitter you’re not in The Bottom Club. V: The what? AD: Yeah, Fizz and I started it. And you, doll face, are the latest member. V: I am not- A: Can you stop speculating about Vaggie’s sex life without her fucking permission?! AD: Ooh, okay, Your Highness. You talk to the short king in bed like that? A: Fucking excuse me? AD: Come onnnn, the military discipline, the maternal instincts, the quiet confidence—it’s a Dommy Mommy cocktail! Wait, do you peg him? A: I will end you a second time- L: Hey! Apple Crisp! Take a selfie with me! A: Wh- No, not- not now, Luce. L: Oh come on, it’s for Levi—he said he and Phoebe were cuter than us. A: Amor, I am not getting into your petty- *cue the camera on Aira’s unamused face, Lucifer grinning ear to ear beside her* L: Aira, dearest…smile for me? A: *sighs* 🙂 L: Theeeere we go. Good girl. A: Lucifer-! L: *little peck* Thaaank you, sweetie, love you see you later! A: … V: … AD: …well I’ll be damned. Welcome to The Bottom Club, Ai~ V: *blushes* A: *groans*

Sigh. I've rereading LiiR and man are we thankful for author growth 😂😭 Still contemplating coming back to it, we shall see lol