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asumofwords · 1 year

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. PTSD, mentions of assault, flashbacks of assault, anxiety, anger, trauma, hypersexuality as a trauma response, possessive behaviour.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my pretty petals, here is the next chapter as promised, we are full speed ahead from here, and I may post the next Aemond POV installment either today or tomorrow, currently undecided. Please remember to read the trigger warnings before reading the chapters.

Thank you all for the love and support as always, you guys are so sweet! Makes my heart very happy.

Enjoy <3

Chapter 77: Confessions

Aemond sat in the arm chair in front of the fire in your shared chambers in silence, staring into the flames. You had both been in a daze as you were sent back to your chambers, escorted by three King’s guards.

Helaena and Lucerys had been waiting for you inside when you arrived.

Always there.

Aemond did not speak as he walked, nor did he reach out to touch you as you were walked speedily through the corridors, his hands still curled in fists, and lone eye ablaze. His anger set you on edge, and the fear you had forcefully pushed down and away, slowly rose to the surface again in the prospects of not just one of your uncles wrath, but two.

The young Prince's violet eye never left the flames of the fireplace, even as you stood in front of it meekly.

“Aemond.”

He did not reply.

“Aemond.” You said again, his gaze still not lifting from the fire, lips pulled down into a hard sneer.

Your eyes flicked down to his hands, which were fisted atop the arms of the chair, blood beginning to dry on his tightly clenched knuckles.

He needed a Maester.

Stepping away from the fireplace, you moved towards him, Helaena and Lucerys’ bodies becoming shadows behind you. Your shaky hand reached out as you whispered again, and touched his shoulder cautiously, “Kepus.”

Slowly, Aemond’s head turned to look at your hand upon his body, not reacting to your voice or touch, simply looking at it. It sparked a moment of apprehension through you, and so just as slowly as you had placed your palm there, you took it off.

Aemond’s gaze finally moved up your wrist, following the path of your arm, your neck, and then finally to your face, jaw still tightly clenched.

“Aem…”

“You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.”

You reared back as though you had been slapped.

Broken.

He watched as your face crumpled, lip shaking as tears welled in your eyes again.

Aemond was hurt.

And so he was lashing out to hurt you.

He had not changed.

He was the same as he always had been.

He was just the same.

They were all the same.

A lone tear slid down your cheek as your breath stuttered in your chest, hands curling into fists beside you.

Aemond, realising what he had said, had a moment of clarity and reached a hand outwards towards you in regret, trying to grasp the hand that was closest between you.

“I’m s-“

Dracarys.

You shook your head roughly, “Don’t.”

“Y/n, I-“

The thread of resolve that had been frayed inside of you, snapped.

“I am surrounded by vipers! I am alone in this Keep.” You hissed, the heat of anger rising with no sign of stopping. You stepped away from your uncle angrily, catching the enraged face of Lucerys as you moved, who continued to utter beneath his breath.

“Your brother raped me, and where was my husband? Off fucking his whore in Harrenhal like the dutiful Prince he so claims to be. Your mother knew and did nothing.”

Aemond looked away at the words, which lit the sparks ablaze, more anger flowing through you that you did not know you possessed, resolve feeling more frayed and distraught than ever, your body bursting with wrath.

“Aegon was inside of me, whilst you left me here. He fucked his seed into me with he hopes of a bastard.”

Aemond breathed an angry breath through his nose, face snapping to yours.

“You call me broken?" You sneered, "You took Lucerys. At night I dream of him, of his small face.” A tear slid down your cheek, “I cannot escape the visions in which you took him from me, of where I watched in horror as Vhagar tore him from the sky. I see him everywhere.” You took a step towards him, hand moving to violently jab a pointed finger at your own chest, nail pressing into the skin.

Dracarys.

Pretty petals.

“You call me broken? My mother had her throne taken from her, and my sister born still. I am trapped in a Keep surrounded by enemies. My only solace is a man who has raped me just as his brother did.”

The more you spoke, the more you could not stop the words that flew from your lips, watching as Aemond’s chest rose and fell angrily.

“I was forced to marry a man who has sought nothing but pleasure in my anguish!” You screamed at the Prince, coming closer until you stood in front of him, his face still as he watched you.

“Helaena threw herself from Maegor’s Holdfast to be impaled on spikes below, because she couldn’t bear another day. My own husband leaves me to fuck his bastard whore before the whole court, knowing that his brother would defile me! And you think me broken?”

Aemond did not answer.

“Say it again. Call me broken.” You sneered down at him.

Silence.

The only sound the crackling fire, and whispers of Helaena and Lucerys behind you.

“Am I only broken now that your brother has been inside of me? Am I no longer a toy you wish to play with? ” Tears slid from your eyes as you shook with anger.

You were furious.

You were horrified.

You were grieving, and tired, and scared, and alone.

“Tell me.” You demanded.

Aemond blinked.

“Tell me!” You screamed at his silence.

Still, nothing.

Your hand flew through the air, slapping him roughly across the scarred side of his face, the sound of the hit breaking the rooms quiet.

“Tell me.” You seethed looking down at him, his head slowly turning to look at you, blood on his lip resurfacing as your slap reopened the cut from Aegon's fists.

And yet even after your outburst, even after your demands, your screams, your cries, and the hit upon his face in which you knew would hurt him deeply, Aemond sat still, looking at you heave angry breaths, tears filling your eyes, as the side of his face blushed red from your hand.

The dam spilt over.

“Tell me.” You begged, a sob slipping from your lips.

Before you could blink, you were engulfed in Aemond’s arms, your head tucked beneath his chin as you stiffened. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you tighter, your arms stuck by your side.

You inhaled deeply, trying to dispell the tide that rose inside of you, but it was no use. The wave crashed over you, and you sobbed loudly into his chest, arms coming to grip onto his shirt in front of you.

You stood as he held you, sobbing into his robes, his grip never faltering.

You cried until you felt you could not cry anymore.

You felt so defeated.

So tired.

So angry.

Perhaps you truly were broken.

"You are stronger than you think.” Came the whisper of Aemond atop your skull, finally breaking the silence, “I think you are the blood of the mighty House Targaryen.” His chest vibrated against your face as you cried.

Stronger than you think.

Then why do I feel so weak?

“The blood of Old Valyria. Iksā se kostōba issaros nyke gīmigon.” You are the strongest person I know.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.

With a surge of anger, you pushed away from him, separating yourself from the arms that had held you as you cried.

“Then why do you tear me apart?” You sneered.

Why?

Aemond stood, hands limp by his side as he looked at you.

Silence again.

You shook your head and fled, leaving the chambers and the man inside them behind you. Moving past the guards who looked at you peculiarly, tears still running down your cheeks.

You needed comfort.

You needed solace.

You needed familiarity.

And so your legs took you to a place where you could find all three, down to the Godswood.

As your feet moved across the soft grass, you tilted your head backwards to look up at its crimson leaves, dancing in a soft breeze that swept through the Keep. Your tears flowed as you moved towards the place you always sat beneath its trunk.

Why do you punish me, Gods?

What have I done that I need to repent for?

Is this because I am acursed as a Kinslayer?

Is this my atonement?

The Gods did not answer your questions as you laid you back against the trunk, exhaustion seeping out of you and into the earth below. You wished for the ground to open up, and for you to fall through the cracks and be swallowed whole. To be done with such a life. To be numb to the pain.

I know I came here to help, but I find the strength I had dwindling. Was this how it was always to be? To suffer the sins of man? To suffer the sins of my uncles? Please Gods, give me the strength to do what I must. I am losing hope. I am losing myself to madness.

To grief.

Please.

You shut your eyes as you prayed.

Please, help me on the path I must take. Let Aegon die. Kill him for what he has done. By my hand or another. By his own hand. By wine or ales hand. By the slip of his foot, or the hoof of a horse, or the fault of his dragon.

Let the Stranger take him.

The prayers did not stop as you sat under the branches and leaves of the Godswood, praying for help, from anyone, promising that you would do anything.

To have them take Aegon.

For the war be over.

To help you.

Your eyes stayed shut, and the exhaustion that never left your bones swept you away to a light sleep, prayers following you to your dreams as you sat beneath the trees branches even there, its face blinking at you as you begged and pleaded for guidance.

But the dream was ripped away from you as the Godswood had opened its mouth to speak, and you woke to the gentle whisper of your name.

Your eyes shot open to see Aemond standing above you, looking down at you with a soft face. His knuckles were washed of the blood that had dried upon them, and there now sat scabbed cuts and pinkish bruises upon his pale skin.

His hand came out, as it had before, palm up in offering to help you stand. Yet as you looked at him, all you could think of was his last words to you.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother.

His own nephew.

Sniffing you ignored the hand, and pulled yourself stiffly to stand. Your uncle watched you, the sky around you darkened, and it was only then had you realised you had slept the entire day away.

For the first time in days, you had slept a decent sleep.

Aemond continued to look at you as you dusted down your skirts, before his chin stretched upwards and he cast his eye to the leaves above you. The crimson in the evenings light looked almost black.

You realised his lips had moved before the words followed them. His voice was so quiet, so soft, gentle like the leaves that continued to rustle above you.

“I used to sit here, when we were young…” The air around you was tense as he whispered, eye still cast upwards to the leaves he watched as he reminisced, “I would listen to you read. It was not often that I could get away from him, or your brothers.”

You kept your gaze on his face.

“It was always you.”

Aemond's gaze moved and his eye settled back on you.

“It has always been you.”

It has always been you.

The worlds curled around you like the serpent in your dreams.

It has always-

“Please,” Aemond broke the spell, “Come dine with me.”

His voice was so low, that you almost had to strain to hear him.

Your stomach clenched at the thought of food, the realisation that you had not eaten at all dawning on you. You searched his sharp features before giving him a shallow nod, and following him back through the Keep to your chambers, where the three guards still sat stationed outside.

It has always been you.

You ate in mostly silence as tension filled the air of the chambers. The maids had come with your meal and had watched you closely, waiting for you to ask or command them for something should you need it.

But you didn't.

And so to quell the pain, and anxiety, and anger that continued to turn about inside of you, you drank from your goblet of Dornish spiced wine, not honeyed Essos wine, and let the warm burning of the alcohol distract your thoughts and give you something to focus on.

It has always been you.

“Is the food to your liking?” Aemond asked, his hands lowering to the table as he waited for your response.

Your approval.

“It’s fine.” You replied, voice clipped.

Why was he asking you that?

“Is there anything that you need?” His tone held uncertainty in it, as though he was tiptoeing around you. Around your anger.

Broken.

The fire that had been tamed roared back to life, everything about him irritating you in that moment. The way he sat, the way he looked at you. The way his face bruised on one side of his cheek, the cut on his lips, the cuts on his hands.

“The mundanity of these questions aren’t going to change what happened. What you said.”

Aemond blinked once, placing the cutlery on his plate, “I don't know what you want from me.”

What you want from me.

What you want from me?

You scoffed, “Do you want me to pretend that Aegon hadn’t come into these chambers and rape me on our bed? Do you want me to pretend that I am okay with what you said to me?”

“You didn’t have an issue with pretending before.”

The sound of your hands slamming your own cutlery down cut through the room.

"If you think this marriage is anything but a political one,” You sneered, patience gone from your body, “A truce to end bloodshed between our families, you are sorely mistaken. You have been twisted into a man I do not recognise by the ambitions and obsessions of your mother.”

Aemond’s lips pursed, “Don’t speak about my mother.”

“Why? What has she done but start this war. What has she done but push, and push, and push others to do her bidding for her. What has she done but start the pieces that fell, the pieces that led to this war.” You leant forward into the table and hissed, “Her actions took your eye, not my brother.”

Aemond’s violet eye twitched, and you felt a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing his composure break.

Why were you the only one to suffer?

You opened your mouth, “You cont-“

“You betrayed me!” Aemond screamed, shooting up from his chair.

“What?”

Betrayed?

“We were close once you and I, when we were young, and when your brother took my eye you sided with them. You sided with the one who blinded me!”

“We were all children!”

“I loved you!”

The air left the chambers.

The room fell still.

The both of your chests rising and falling.

A confession.

“I loved you, and you betrayed me.” He growled, standing tall by the table.

Loved me?

Betrayed him?

“Betrayed you?” You scoffed, “And what have you done to me, hm? You killed my brother. You killed my dragon. You have taken everything from me. You have raped me, and humiliated me, and hurt me beyond repair. I am covered in the evidence of your demented love. Any love that I held for you died when I was a child.” You spat, heart racing in your chest.

Aemond laughed mockingly, “We both know that is a lie.”

You turned away from him, huffing a laugh back at him, “You think I could love a man who has attacked me? Tormented me? Haunted my dreams for years? A man who has slain my brother? Raped me?”

Your hand flew to the table and ripped up the goblet of wine, drinking greedily from it as you slowly rose from your chair, looking your uncle up and down as he stood before you, eye crazed.

“Once I had loved you,” You confessed, “You were sweet, and kind.” Your heart clenched, it ached to know that those days were gone.

“A boy who’s devotion to his family was strong. A boy who I could turn to when I needed. A boy who I grew beside and dreamt of our future together. I would have gladly wed you. But you’re not him. You’ve taken too much from me.”

“I have.”

You stalked towards him, snatching a small knife from the table beside your plate as you moved in front of him, his eye never leaving your face.

“And yet you expect me to love a monster? To forgive you of all of your sins?” You walked forward until you stood before him, your chest bumping his, neck craned upwards to look in his eye.

You rose the blade to his face, the feeling of deja-vu curling around you, holding its point to his seeing violet orb as he stood still, face unreadable, looking down at you.

You let the blade rest on his cheek sharply as he still did not react.

It made you seethe.

Swiftly you moved the blade onto his throat pushing against it, not breaking the skin.

You watched his face as you tested him.

“You think I could ever love you?” You sneered, rising on the tips on your toes to look at him, anger fuelled by the wine and all that had happened.

The knowledge that more was to come.

The knowledge that you were too trapped to do anything about it.

Aemond’s hand slowly came up to touch your elbow on the arm that was poised to hold the blade against him, and pushed it harder against his throat. Tempting you.

Encouraging you.

He held your arm steady as it began to shake, his long fingers gentle against your skin. Warmth burnt through you at his touch and you shifted your gaze to his lips, watching as his pink tongue came out to wet his lips.

You wished to tear his lips apart with your teeth.

“I know you do.” He told you, “Though you have two eyes, you still don’t see.”

The Prince watched you intently, breath caught in your throat as you felt a familiar warmth begin to pool into your stomach, desire moving its way around your body. Desire to hurt him. Desire to be held by him. Desire to feel a touch that wasn’t pain. Desire to feel hands that did not bring you terror.

Desire to feel loved.

Cared for.

Protected.

The need to be in control again.

To have control of your body.

You swallowed thickly, still looking at him as you leant yourself closer, blade pressing harder against his neck as you crashed your lips against his roughly. A grunt slipped through his mouth into yours, surprise catching him off guard as your other hand gripped onto his arm for purchase.

You kissed him intently, angrily, still pushing the blade against him as his lips sought yours.

Aemond pulled back with a hiss.

The blade on his neck had slipped, a bead of blood pooling to the surface before it began to trail warmly down his neck. You watched the blood travel down the pale expanse of his skin.

You had cut him.

You had made him bleed.

And it made you feel good.

Leaning forward, you let your tongue chase the crimson stream, letting the bitter iron liquid spread across your tongue, trailing up to the source and placing a rough kiss there. Teeth nipping the skin and relishing in Aemond’s low whine.

For the first time in days, you felt powerful.

Aemond groaned beneath you, and the blade clattered to the floor.

His hands gripped your waist and pulled you tighter to him as you nipped along his neck, teeth biting into his cut meanly. You wanted it to hurt, and as you bit and nipped at his flesh, Aemond continued to groan and whine from above.

Yet despite it all, his hands did not move any further to touch you, instead simply holding you against him.

Growing tired of his inaction you uttered to him, 'Touch me', begging for his hands on you as you continued to lap the blood on his neck, working your way back to his lips.

Your uncles hands softly held the small of your back and behind your head as he let you guide the rough embrace, your teeth biting down roughly on his lips, nipping at the cut there as you pressed your body against him, the feeling of his hardened member throbbing against your stomach.

The memories of Aegon sprung to your mind and you paused, gasping, pulling away sharply as disgust and terror wound its way around you.

It has always been you.

Aemond pulled back searching your face with a hooded eye, small patches of blood on his swollen lips and a smudged trail of the crimson on his neck.

“Zaldrītsos,” He began to utter, his hands moving away from you, to push you back.

To give you space.

“Don’t.” You blurted, “It hasn’t stopped you before.”

And it hadn’t.

You crashed your lips back against him.

It was over.

It was not Aegon.

It was over.

It was Aemond.

It has always been you.

It has always been Aemond.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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shadowviper-92 · 8 months

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A little something for the spooky season 🧹💜

#viper’s art #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #Violet #hellhound sona #hellhound #sona #hazbin hotel fanart #helluva boss fanart #halloween

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revelisms · 1 month

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It was never the performance itself that drew him in.

He'd aways been more moth than songbird; a winged thing that gravitated to light and life, to the beauty of souls reaching across the realm to become one with Those below.

He was the first, though, and so had laid his precedents: a patchwork legacy few could ignore;

That there is always a sleeve of myrrh hidden between the sticks of sandalwood and frankincense; the ashen coolness of cigarette smoke in their storerooms.

That there is greenery in the chapel windows and fresh-cut gardenias in the welcome hall, and songs of Olde sung lower than they were written, because the depth of such resonance was one he preferred.

That his brothers (the second, the third) and half-brother (the fourth) stand in off-kiltered lines, often, as though waiting for the loping strides of his pointed boots and velvet-crested shoulders.

That their congregation's siblings know his family's appointed title of Nonna more than the origin of his own name.

That Papa Emeritus the Second shuffled strangely when taking the pulpit, as though trying to fit into a misfitten pair of clothes—uncomfortable, now, after so many years spent in his brother's shadow.

That Papa Emeritus the Third often nosed into his office with coffee in hand, or chocolate-kissed biscotti, or tears hidden behind a painted smirk.

That Papa Emeritus the Fourth spoke of him kindly—of all of them kindly—no matter how they may have treated him, how they may have scorned him, their worldly forms now memorialized in stone.

Primo, in his living days, hadn't cared to worry over it.

He'd stepped down from a lifetime of rituals and tours with a joint behind his ear and a plait weaved through his silvered hair, his gnarled hands fitted with rings fit for a goddess—and he'd smiled, wry and wrinkled, lashlines creasing at the corners.

"You don't have to call me that, you know," he'd chided, when siblings bumbled over the formalities of Monsignor and Your Esteemed Grace and all else the Church had pompously chosen to title him with.

"You know what the little ones called me, mh?" he'd whisper on, winking a moon-white eye. "Rude shits. Peh! They could make the dictionary blush, my dear." And he'd lean closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, his words rumbled and silken. "Don't you worry about those other things. Just call me what you want, heh?"

So they did.

He treasured the ones who spoke his language of flowers; saw similar beauties in leaf-green eyes and petal-pink cheeks, in hair lovely as daffodils and soft as roses.

His brothers never shared the same admiration. But, then again—they did, in their own ways.

Secondo, in his nostalgia for the scent of gardenias.

Terzo, in his scuffed-heeled silence in a greenhouse sunlit but empty.

Copia, in the jewels sewn through his silks and the velvet gleaning off his suits.

Maybe from below, Primo had always kept his eye on them, with his laughter that hissed like snakes. Maybe it's where he'd always been meant to be: one again with the Aether below. A living giant, blossomed and brilliant and beautiful.

"He, eh...would have liked this, right?" Copia mumbles, wrist-deep in fresh soil, planting bulbs of bluebells in the cloister flowerbeds.

The question is meant for Sister Aris, kneeled and smiling beside him.

But in the corner of his eye, he sees a haze of shadow—a whisper of nothingness. The Bridge beyond, that he has always seen since his oath-taking; has always been.

It feels like Terzo, at first. Eyes piercing, and brow pinched, a stiffness in lips unpainted.

A soul that felt wild to him.

Wild, harsh, endless, like a cliffside gale swept over one's body. A viper-tongued beast with a fox's grin, and cleverness to match.

But the feeling warms, gradually. Not sunset-pink, the taste of incense—but violet, indigo, earthen.

A touch of soundless heels on damp earth.

"You don't have to ask, little one," Primo's voice utters over him, gentle as a prayer. And he smiles, like he'd always done. Wry, and wrinkled, and wondrous. "Of course I do." His bony hand, even if only in spirit, settles a cool touch on his shoulder. "Of course I do."

But that hand isn't there, not really. He knows it.

Just a moth-winged thing gravitated to the light.

What they all had always been.

Secondo, the pyre. Terzo, the star. Copia, the unearthed glow of Hell itself.

And Primo—

Primo had been the moonlight shining down on them. A guiding path through the night.

The hand on his shoulder pats him, softly, before it slides away.

"He would have," Sister Aris answers him.

Copia swallows, blinks, twitches a smile.

"I know," he whispers. Before him, bluebells gleam. "I know."

primo / on legacies

#the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #ficlet #cw: grief #papa emeritus i #papa i #papa primo #primo #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #papa iv #popia #writing #prose #am i off rambling about these four again #you know i am

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azsazz · 1 year

Text

Run Baby Run

Summary: Anon Request: For the vampire Rhys.. you choose 🫣

Warnings: Descriptions of blood.

Word Count: 1,603

Notes: Why vamp!Rhys kinda...🥵

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“You,” he prowls, caging you in. Hands planted on either side of your head, his biceps strain against the tight fabric of his finely pressed shirt. You can feel the chill radiating off him, cutting through the already cool night like a blade made of ice. Goosebumps break out across your flesh, but you will your body still as the spider-like shivers claw up your spine. Your heart stutters in your chest and you catch the gleam of his elongated canines glinting in the bright moonlight. “Don’t smell like the Night court, and you must not be from here because if you were, you’d know better than to walk alone at night.”

He trails a finger down your cheek, and you flinch at how frozen it feels against your hot cheeks. Your breath hitches in your throat and you press your palms into the building behind you to ground yourself, gaze slipping away from his intense violet eyes to stare at the embroidered collar of his shirt instead.

The Night Court insignia stares straight back at you.

Vampire. You want to cry, to knee him in the balls and run screaming up the streets, all the way back into the inn. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it. The lock will slide shut and you can hide underneath the thick quilt, far, far away from the monster before you, from the ones lurking in the night.

The corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk, and he nods, dropping the arm keeping you before him. “Go ahead and run, darling. Let’s see how far it gets you.”

You gulp, eyes flickering up on a moment of their own will to look at him again. He’s devastatingly handsome, straight features and dark hair pristinely cut and styled. His skin lacks the tan glow of life but if you squint you might just be able to make out the barely there color of his lips, the fangs peeking out at you.

But those eyes, rich violet and glowing with excitement. He looks ready for a hunt, as if it would be an absolute honor to chase you through the streets and hold you down as he takes what he wants from you. It makes you wonder how he might look afterwards, disheveled hair and pupils blown wide. How he’d hold you and the sounds he might make when he gets that first taste of the heating blood running through your veins.

You just wish your blood wasn’t the only thing he was after.

It all comes tumbling back to you in an instant. The thick crimson drinks at the bar, thickly coating the lips of the face drinking them. That unnatural grace they all seemed to have, twisting their hips and beckoning you towards them with shimmering eyes and tight-lipped smiles. All to hide their fangs, you realize now, knees shaking.

The smell of metal hung heavy in the air, lustful and heady, and you realize that the far couple you’d seen on your way out of the bathroom hadn’t been making out, but she’d been feeding off him, sucking the blood straight from his neck.

Your stomach roils as you try to swallow back the acid creeping up your throat.

“The people in the clubs,” you breathe. Your dress is too tight around your chest, you can hardly breathe.

“Yes,” he encourages, smile growing as you seem to be realizing just how much danger you’re in. Vampires rule the court, but he’s aware that you don’t truly understand the extent of the situation you find yourself in right now. “All vampires.”

Your brows knit together as your startled gaze meets his. He looms over you, shifting closer as your heart races in your chest. You think you hear the soft inhale he makes, know that he’s breathing in the scent of your blood by the way his lips part and he flicks his tongue against his teeth like a viper.

“But the ones in the cafes,” you stutter, mind racing, “They were eating.”

“Vampires,” he confirms, his hands sliding down the wall an inch.

“What about the ones–”

“Let me save you the time, darling. All of my people are vampires.”

“Oh,” your response is a defeated exhale. You don’t know what to do, how to get out of this situation. Surely if you were able to get away from the tall, handsome male before you, you’d wind up someone else’s dinner if all his people are– “Oh.”

He hums, grin going wicked. You watch his sharpened teeth press lightly into the stretched skin of his lower lip. “That’s right,” he drawls, “I’m Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.”

This is so much worse than you thought.

“Rhysand,” you can’t help but breathe, eyes locked on his. His name tastes like the stars, fresh and bright and it makes you want to wish.

The slip of his name from your lips makes him still, pupils dilate as something within your own chest stirs. The feelings pull the breath from your chest in a gasp. It nearly hurts, feels like your heart is being tugged from the confines of your bone and flesh. You feel like you can almost see it, the stardust he’s made from intertwining with the shimmering gold of the entity of your soul given form. They weave together like light and dark, shadows weaving themselves between rays of silken sun, tying together in an intricate pattern, his soul filling all the holes of yours and yours, his.

Rhys stumbles into you as the strings pull taut, heaving chest to heaving chest as the feeling in your chest dies down. It stings like icicles are running through your veins and this time when you shudder, it’s against his firm front, and his hands fall from the wall you’re pressed up against to your arms, steadying you.

He can’t look away from you. He’ll never be able to again, and all of the instincts that were telling him to sink his fangs into your neck and taste the warm blood against his lips are raging at him to protect. Protect his mate, looking so small before him, not a vampire, but an ethereal fae that had intrigued him from the very start. Even if it weren’t for the blood running through your veins, there had been a pull that had made him want to follow you, made him want to sink to his knees and use those fangs to pleasure you instead of taking from you. He had wanted to give, and the High Lord was usually one to receive, all the vampires he let entertain him had been nothing compared to this very moment. Rhys has been waiting for this for long enough.

“My mate.” His voice is a whisper, one of disbelief. He can’t seem to force himself to step away not because his body will not physically allow him to, but because he doesn't want to part from you. He feels like he’s been away from you for far too long, like he can breathe at full capacity again even though he doesn’t need to. For the first time in forever he finally feels warm. It has been so long that he’d forgotten it, like early morning rays of sunshine shining down on him, touching his soul.

Rhys lifts a hand like he wants to touch your cheek, but he draws away at the last second. The hungry glint in his eye has been replaced by a soft look, transforming his face completely, leaving him looking even more handsome than before, like you’re the one turned predator and can break him at any moment.

He’d let you.

Tentatively, you find his hand, taking it in your own. It’s cold and his fingers stick to your skin the way ice does in the winter. You lead him towards your cheek, brushing his knuckles softly across your rosy cheeks as Rhys watches, unblinking.

Rhys draws in a sharp breath at the gentleness in which you move. He’d wanted to ravage you before, when the bond had made its mark known, but he’d forgotten just how fragile fae beings can be. Having been surrounded by vampires and fae that had thrived off his harsh nature, it had simply slipped his mind that he was capable of such things.

“My mate,” you echo. The sweetness of your voice has him growling in response, hand slipping from yours to place over your throat, brushing his thumb against the bob of your throat in a rough, yet tentative gesture.

Your mate leans down, nosing his way across your throat, scenting the luscious blood that rushes in response to the graze of his teeth.

“Let me take you home, where I can show you how much finding my mate means to me.” He tilts his head to look up at you, violet eyes wild with desire. It turns your insides molten, heat blossoming between your legs. He’s so close that if he needed to breathe, you’d be sharing the same air. If you nod your agreement, you’ll be able to taste his lips.

That gorgeous smile reappears as he catches the flicker of your gaze to his lips and back. Rhys brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, smirking at the scent when not just your blood consumes his senses.

“Or we can stay right here and let the entire court know that I’ve finally found you?” He questions and you breathe a shaky laugh that he swallows whole.

“Take me home, High Lord,” you answer, sliding your hand into his. “Take me home, my mate.”

#rhysand #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #vampire!rhys #azsazz #acotar #acomaf #acowar

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