#well that's a debt that has to be payed in blood . | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cupofwyn · 6 months ago

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may i have this dance?⠀( l.jn )

pairing יִ،⠀lee jeno!prince × fem!reader

genre/s יִ،⠀fluff. a tinge of comedy. bridgerton period. royalty!AU. rofan.

warning/s יִ،⠀profanity. little to inaccurate representations of the regency era. being chased. overpraising of jeno's beauty (not guilty).

wc יִ،⠀10.3k

a/n יִ،⠀i might have underestimated the word count—i thought it was going to be short for a oneshot but oh well. THANK YOU FOR THE LONG AWAITED ANTICIPATION. i honestly couldn't have done it without you guys. if u liked it, i'd like to hear your thoughts about it thru reblog, comments, or even an ask! tyvm for waiting <(_ _)>

synopsis יִ،⠀it was all self-inflicted pressure when the spotlight finally turned to you as the final member of the family to experience a love story—the miracle that has been passed down from your parents down to your siblings and the privilege of love in marriage that has been jealoused upon the ton of high society. though the world might have run out of love stories available for you when your family took it all to their delight, or so you thought.

IT'S DAUNTING TO BE IN THIS SCENERY. The mere presence of the most extravagant things seen by spectators of this ballroom and the contrasting sentiments you had within it.

A rush of cold blood runs from your head down to your fidgeting fingers, though you can’t quite pick on your fingers like how you’d used to without gloves.

Everything here is tremendously uncomfortable.

After a few gentlemen who asked for your hand for a dance after conversations, to which you’ve escaped with excuses of going to the powder room, an imaginary friend calling you from afar, and many more lame reasons you could come up with, you’re back to the place where your mother left you a couple of songs ago.

All the sharp eyes that hid uncomfortable curiosity and the reoccurring implicit words that only let you converse about anything but yourself.

Inheritance and fascination about your family’s wealth and the sudden showers of compliments and two-faced flirting tactics—it was getting repetitive.

How could it be not known that the youngest daughter of the emperor's most influential and right-hand man and adviser was to debut in this season? Every man that you approached and conversed with would immediately recognize you and call your name before you even introduced yourself; the striking appearance of the marquess passed down to yours and feminized. No noble nor commoner could not recognize a child of the man whom the ruler of this kingdom entrusted and was well-endowed by every fertile land and mine.

Despite this, there was a more interesting mystic that involved not only your father but your whole family.

Love and marriage.

The oddest and rarest words that could be found together, as marriage is only ever seen as a necessity when a noble comes of age. Politics, business partnerships, and also harshly done to pay for debts, so there was no chance that marriage could turn into something romantic when it is established outside of those forms—yet bizarrely, your family is in a different light.

Your parents, the marquess, and marchioness were wed out of political convenience and yet ended up being the love match of their season, leading to their children being raised with it. Your first-born older sister’s husband might come off as someone who forcefully wed your sister to marriage but was wed out of love at first sight; your older brother with scandalous womanizer antics in the circle and yet is trying to bury the fact that his childhood friend from across our manor's street is slowly becoming the person of his desires and is oblivious that it is also reciprocated.

Love is contagious in this family, and you hate that it's a standard in your family to be wed out of it.

It is incredibly obnoxious. All you knew was that it was the oddest feeling you've seen from your family after seeing those subtle gestures of endearment they shared with their partners. There was always that softness and warmth in their eyes whenever they looked at their significant other despite them looking away.

How powerful is love that it makes a person pacify and willingly consign themselves for the other?

Perhaps you were the end of it.

Such a thing couldn't be held within a grasp of hand if you wanted it right this instance, but in every attempt for you to engage and entertain such thoughts with other gentlemen—something sparks different in their eyes.

Deceitment. They view you as a spectacle—the love that surrounded your family was their tool to win you over, and it terrifies you.

To achieve love, did it have to be this manipulative and hurtful?

Your expectations crashed down with every interaction you had with every man in this hall.

You were simply a target in their eyes.

The uncomfortable hunting gazes they shared with you and their presence alone induced such an invasive depth of cautiousness in you.

To be perceived without any control of the situation, far from the peaceful environment you had within your own confinements before you debuted. The tightness you endured from your corset is nothing more than what your chest and breathing had right now. With a frantic heartbeat and the cold pump of blood rushing into you, you don’t notice someone calling out for your attention.

“Dear?” A firm hand wrapped around your arms, and you jumped from the sudden contact until you recognized your mother's voice, disrupting the unconscious well in your eyes.

“Mama,” you replied.

“Are you feeling well? You've been here ever since I talked to the whole ton of this banquet. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Your mother rubbed your arms firmly.

“It's nothing, mama. Just the nerves.” you returned.

“So, how are things going? Have you enjoyed the evening with a charming gentleman, perhaps?” she told you with a teasing tone, beaming a smile at the view of dancing couples and the beautiful quartet's piece gracing the air.

She trusted that with your lively nature, you would talk to any gentleman without any push of encouragement from her, so she left you alone to fend for your own partner. With your pesky and womanizer antic of your brother, what would go wrong when you were left alone in your first debutante ball?

Alas, she forgot that you were a shut-in marquis’ daughter and that your brother is the exact reason why you can't continue to converse with any gentleman in this banquet. Violence and disgust were the only emotions you ever had with the opposite sex in the comforts of your own home, but to be faced with strangers and to be expected to converse well with them? Indeed, different emotions other than what you feel around your brother were reeling in—most of it anxiety.

“Oh, yes! The gentlemen are very charming and very pleasing to look at while I am dancing.” you strayed a forced laugh by the end in an unstable voice, and you coughed to clear it, now grinning to your mother's way in hopes that she'd not find you suspicious.

The marchioness heaved a joyous chuckle at herself as she looked at you proudly, wrapping her arms around yours to link it.

“I am so happy for you, dear.” she embraced you and pulled away as she looked at you adoringly, “If you're feeling more enthusiastic, I could interest you with other gentlemen—”

“How delightful!” An annoying pipsqueak cuts out mother and has snuck through you from the crowd of desperate and awestruck women frolicking at him, inducing you to roll your eyes at him—the rightful heir of the marquis-dom and your older brother, Haechan.

You were at the least thankful for his presence right now, as your mother could’ve suggested something preposterous if he didn’t interrupt.

He cheekily greeted you with a grin and bowed mockingly.

Those familiar eyes of deceit always brought a chill to your spine.

Don't tell me.

“Good evening, missus debutante. Still not up to the offer that this fine brother of yours will be your first name on your dance card?” The marchioness pinched his arms, and he winced, breaking his dashing persona as he woefully looked at your mother beside him.

“Haechan, have you no concern? Your sister is actually having the time of her life, enjoying the lining lords for her hand tonight while you have been out here, just making your chances with another set of women for you to play with.” Haechan rubbed his injured arm and formed a slight pout.

“What line of suit—” he did not finish as you immediately pinched his side, making him snap his head at you with bloodshot eyes.

“Make yourself useful and go out there. I have someone I want her to be introduced to.” your mother insisted.

“Mama, please. I don't want any of this bloody extravaganza,” you said through gritted teeth, and you likewise got a tug from your mother on your sides, her eyes wide openly glaring at you.

“Y/N! Language,” she whisper-shouted, and you mumbled an annoyed apology in return.

“I should tell you, Y/N,” Haechan spoke up, looking at you with mischief in his eyes, the corner of his mouth upturned.

“Don't you dare.” you mouthed at him.

“—A dance! A dance doesn’t really make them your definitive husband, dear sister.” he apathetically commented and crossed his arms, giving you a smug look.

You furrowed your eyebrows at him. You could even feel your ears and nostrils shooting out warm air.

“That is true.” your mother replied. “Although it truly matters who you're dancing with at your debutante gala.” The marchioness starts, and you can shoot a look at her and sigh that she's even doing her sermons at this event. “It resembles the refined attitude and talents of a noble lady. In short, it defines their role in society. For example, your older sister’s husband, the Duke of Rogan. He might be considered the tyrant who mercilessly killed a thousand of the enemy’s army last year, but he is devilishly handsome. You wouldn’t want your sister to be looked upon as with plain rigid taste in marital circles because her first dance is with someone like, well—”

“Like Lord Hopworth.” Your brother continued.

“Hm. Yes, a gentleman with a love for his horses that he only smells of stables and dirt.” Your mother helplessly agrees and fans herself in shame, discussing such gossip circle topics with her children.

“Comparing sister’s husband to Lord Hopworth…they are both in different leagues, mother. I, on the other hand, have no issues whatsoever with the man's hobbies and his reputation in the marital circle. Still, he has already danced with all the women in his family during the past three marital seasons. Might a miracle of a chance would only appear if a distant cousin would appear out of thin air or if Y/N had the wits to ask him a dance.” Haechan chuckled to himself proudly, uttering from you a gasp.

Your brother has been testing your waters ever since he joined your company, and this growing annoyance soon turns into an outburst.

“Explains why women who danced with my unwed brother for three years are still not wed by now. You're just trying hard to hide the fact that you have feelings for your best friend.” you retorted back.

“Y/N! That's crude.” your mother criticizes your sudden remark.

Haechan's eyes grow open in every passing second, and his breathing stops. In a while, he snaps his head away, half-suppressing a snicker.

“Well, look who's talking. See, mother.” Haechan started, and you could feel your chest suddenly heavy.

“I heard from the gentlemen's circle that my dearest sister kept on escaping dance offers from several gentlemen, saying that she would make lousy excuses to reject their dance offers tacitly—!” he ended with a huff. Your mother was frozen on the spot. She finally lets go of your linked arms, looking at you with disbelief.

"Mama, I can explain."

“Is it true, Y/N?” She suddenly asks with a firm tone.

“I…” You’re left speechless. The disappointing truth of your dance affairs is now out in the open, revealed to your mother. At any moment, you’re almost about to be eaten up by guilt at your attitude, especially in your debut.

While rejecting dance offers is rude, the fact that you have dismissed a number of offers from gentlemen of this banquet and have been talked about in their circle was more destructive to your family’s reputation, but most importantly, your reputation.

“Yes, I admit it,” you admitted, your eyes lowering away from your mother.

“You should have just told me, dear. There's no need for you to lie about it.”

“If I would admit it, then I’ll only place you on the burden that I’m carrying. I—” you choked on your own voice, and your eyes grew well with tears.

“Mother, I have been only looked at as an object by all the men here. I tried my best to engage in a conversation, but all that I get are harsh eyes and insincere words, and I believe it is because they only see me for what I have—what our family has! Mama,” the last word strays like a plead, and you continue with choked tears.

“I’m sorry. I need to have fresh air.” You turned your heels away and left the front doors of the palace, leaving your familial company stunned.

“Y/N!” Your brother almost followed along but was stopped by your mother, her hand placed on his arms, and she shook her head.

“Leave your sister alone for now. She needs time to adjust.”

“But Mama, she was being rude!” Haechan grimaced.

“You have to understand that your sister must be faced with expectations not only from others but herself. She must have gone through so much when I left her.” The marchioness released a heavy sigh, burdened with guilt for having left you unattended.

“Oh, what have I done to her?” she brought her head down in defeat, and Haechan rubbed her arms for comfort, unable to speak anything and partly guilty of his behavior towards you.

“Check on her after a few minutes.” your mother pleaded, but it took a few minutes before he could respond.

“Alright.”

THE TEARS IN YOUR EYES FELL STRONGLY DOWN YOUR CHEEKS AS YOU LEFT THE SCENE. Your vision starts to get blurry, and you pursed your lips in hopes that these tears may come to a halt, but you know it isn’t that easy.

Humiliating. Pathetic. Your family has finally discovered your true intentions. You knew that the only people to blame were the men you interacted with and not yourself, but in the end, you were the one who was more affected by their treatment of you. Their simplistic perception of you as nothing but the daughter of a marquess that could bring them to their own prime and financial risings to the society, and it drove you mad.

You were furious about your status, yet, at the same time, conflicted that maybe you were a bit too sensitive and could not stand your guard.

But was it wrong to be hurt? That even with these privileges, you were viewed as nothing but that as soon as you left home.

Debuting into society wasn’t all what you thought it was. It isn’t romantic nor the slightest bit magical. It is war only disguised as something pleasurable with performative beauty in one place.

You desperately tried to hold back your weeping, hiding under the garden’s fountain, not the slightest care that your dress would be dirtied with the grass you laid on, clutching your chest to ease the heaviness. You thought that the fresh air and the silence of the outside gardens could appease, though now it is only the opposite. The vulnerability that you hid as much as you could only cease to hide and break down.

What a waste. That you were just crying in this beautiful scenery.

The serene lush of green and the silence of the night, flickers of stars shining bright in the night sky, bearing witness to the presence of a distraught lady sitting alone under the water fountain.

You look up to the night sky and wipe the falling tears with your arms, another set of tears only falling as you wipe your cheeks.

But there was no time to waste, you knew. You sniffed in all your snot, removing your gloves and disregarding it as it was moist from all the wiping, and let yourself calm down, hoping that there were no further moments that you’d cry again.

Don’t try being a coward this time, you demanded to yourself, quickly huffing out a breath as you slapped your cheeks.

There was no other choice but to go back inside and dance to any man that your eyes would first lay on—no matter their perception of you.

“Let's do this.”

However, a disruption comes.

A shuffle of running feet is suddenly getting louder by any minute closer to you, and you snappily bring your head to the source, seeing a young man with jet black hair and clothes with a ruby red suit running towards you, occasionally looking behind them as if being chased.

Only one thing and one matter came to mind when you saw that scene: To run.

You wasted no time, got up from the fountain's edge, and you hit your head on the edge. You hissed at the impact, slowly standing up as you clutched your head.

“Please!” A young man's voice called out, and it was from the gentleman running towards you. “Please, hide me.” he huffed.

Before you could run away from him, the man finally reached you and immediately hid behind the bushes near the fountain.

What...what was that?

You stood there with nothing in mind and confused about the sudden role given to you.

After a few seconds, another gentleman ran towards you, and this time, you were prepared to run away.

“My lady, halt! I only have a question to ask you.” he stops a few feet away from you and bends, his arms holding onto his knees as he catches his breath.

You stop in your tracks, obliging, and take two steps back.

He fixed himself and stood up straight, a foot tall from you. A refined man with rounded slit eyes and a timid demeanor stands before you, the same age, you guessed, as the man earlier, who is currently hiding in the bushes. He plastered a kind smile, eyes disappearing as he took his barnacle from his suit pocket.

The man cleared his voice and bowed down to greet you, and you do the same.

“Good evening, my lady. I am the son of the Viscount Huang. Renjun Huang, from the House of Capri. Pardon that I rashly made a bad impression on you during our first meeting.”

You greeted back a good evening, introducing yourself and your house, bowing again, and stood up, raising your chin slightly as you carefully asked. “What of I could assist you, Sir Huang?”

“There seems to be someone I am looking for but had run away, rather—” the viscount chuckled to himself and reiterated, “My company has left me alone.”

“Have you perhaps seen a young man with this stature,” he gestured inches above his height. “Wearing a red suit and has black hair?” he finished, and you froze at your spot.

His descriptions of the gentleman he was looking for were precisely like the man you saw speeding towards you, asking you to hide him from someone, which you presume is this person who introduced himself as the son of the House of Capri, Renjun Huang.

You thought deeply, trying to recall any memory from your social etiquette classes that made you memorize and recognize the names and history of each noble family in the kingdom before debuting, as it was essential to have one before entering society.

Viscount Huang from the House of Capri. Weren’t they a family of butlers who have served the imperial family from generation to generation?

"Hmm, a gentleman with that stature has a red suit and black hair?" he nodded at your question, and you wandered off, looking around as you faked an attempt to deeply think about his inquiry when you were actually in a dilemma on whose side you should pick.

Obviously, you had no relations with both gentlemen, and only a huge silence engulfed you as your own conscience measured the rightful decision in this situation.

You gulped and looked back at the man before you and immediately looked away as you saw the desperation and that hint of insanity in his eyes, vividly seeing those dark circles beneath them.

To which gentleman do you trust and help out?

“…I think,” you crossed your arms, rubbing your arms with your hands to appease you as you thought deeply of your choice. “I think I saw that man went that way.” you nervously pointed to your left where the gates leading to another part of the castle are.

The viscount mumbled to himself that he thought right and bowed his head to you. “Thank you, Miss Y/N. Have a good evening.” Sir Huang paused for a moment and smiled gently, adding. “I also hope you are feeling well, my lady.” and he ran in the direction you pointed.

And you were grateful for the sentiment that he shared with you; as short as it was, you felt that he was worried about you. Your eyes must be so swollen from the crying that you took no care to care about your appearance to anybody else. Now you felt guilty for deceiving him.

You waited until his figure disappeared from sight as he entered the castle, and you heaved out a big exhale you had unconsciously held earlier.

You should never be left unchaperoned in another social gathering, you decided.

Though, you can only wonder. Why was the son of a viscount, the son of the current imperial butler, so hung up on this person behind the bushes to the point of chasing him?

Oh, gosh.

You might have chosen a criminal.

A threat to the royal family, perhaps?

Speaking of the devil, the bush near the fountain rustled, and you turned slowly to the bushes, quickly seeking any sort of weapon you could find, and you saw a twig. You picked it up, bent it a little, swung it around to test its firmness, and finally decided that it was good for defense as it was durable.

It is better to have one or nothing, you thought.

You suspiciously walked near it, which is the most reckless thing to do right now, but the twig you held right now gave you that foolish, courageous act. That it could give you full defense against a possible criminal.

Then comes out the man from earlier, his broad back and his clean-cut hair in your view, startling you as your shoulders jump, causing you to clutch your chest and pacify your pounding heart.

“Thank heavens.” a deep voice unveils out of the mysterious man, and he sweeps the dirt and leaves on him, soon turning to you with a troubled face.

You swore you could feel your jaw getting loose as you froze in awe of the man before you.

Chiseled face made of strong facial bones, nose perfectly angled to a degree, lush pink lips of a distinguishable cupid's bow above it, and those long set of lashes, low as it veils his dark eyes, deep yet shining underneath the yellow dim lights of the nearby lamp post around us; it's almost like the porcelain statues and paintings of the imperial ancestors from the palace has come to life—the most significant artists and poets combined to forge imagery of a rightful muse to every medium and ink that praises a divine being.

And that mole, placed under his eyes.

His eyes stare back at you, only delving you to say.

“Wow.”

“Pardon?” The man raises his brow, his lips upturned to amusement.

Your cheeks get warm, and you immediately shake your hands in the air, correcting yourself. “I mean, wow—no, I mean,” you paused and thought deeply to yourself as you looked back at him with seriousness. “I'm afraid there are no present expressions to describe it.”

The man blinked, dumbfounded, and his cheekbones started to define, soon bursting into a fit of laughter at your reaction, holding his stomach as he bent down to laugh more.

The urge to be eaten by the ground was more tempting than ever in your point of existence. You lightly smacked your lips with your hand to punish yourself for your intrusive thoughts winning before you just by the presence of this captivating being.

He finished as he calmed down, ending it with a smile as he stood tall.

“Thank you. I've never been complimented with that expression before, at least not in a first meeting—wow.” The man snickered to himself, his eyes raised to the shape of a crescent moon, and you almost melted to your knees.

The imperial court should consider banning that charming smile; you finally kept the thought to yourself.

“I am deeply grateful for your kindness, miss. I would have understood if you had chosen Sir Huang instead of me since I am, after all, still a stranger to you.” he bowed to the highest degree, his upper body lowered straight as the ground, and you nervously assumed the same greeting, stunned with this deep gratitude.

You realize that this man is still a potential criminal, and you discreetly hide your weapon (a twig) behind you.

“Why were you chased by the viscount, my lord?” you backed off a few steps from the mysterious man as you stood before he did.

“Well, if I were speaking truthfully,” he whirred lowly, trying to find the right words to reason his circumstance. “I would have been forced to enter the ballroom to which I have been warily hiding from my chaperone—I don't want to go through this dancing propaganda, you see.”

“Oh,” you relaxed a little, the grip on your weapon (still a twig) becoming less firm. “I guess I understand.” you engaged.

“You do?”

“Do what?” you looked up at him cautiously, and he walked close to you.

“You also dislike this conviction behind the dancing and the desperation for marriage.” he reiterated, adamant sparkles of enthusiasm in his eyes, still not taking a hint of your obvious nervousness.

“I don't think we're meant to talk so freely about that.” you attempted to retreat from the topic, or moreover, from him, and the sparks were lost as he lowered his eyes and he finally stopped.

“Oh. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” The gentleman begged pardon, sincerity clear in his apology, and you notice it, bringing you to look at him and shaking your head.

“No! It's just that...” you hesitated. “I believe my opinions and criticisms of society, as a lady, would be frowned upon. That's why I responded that way.”

The young man looks at you and eases, assured that you are not opposed nor baffled by the conversation's topic.

“Well,” he looked around. “We are the only people present here, aren't we? You're free to tell me things without feeling drawn back, and I assure you that I intently outcast myself from society.”

“You have such grand privileges, my lord. I feel envious of that freedom.” you professed, smiling at him green-eyed, and he shrugged his shoulders, crossing his arms as he looked far and sighed, sitting on the edge of the water fountain.

“It's not always thrilling. My siblings are wary of me because my father favors me more than they do. My father also insisted that I marry and take his stead immediately. With my escapades, I am never to be left alone again when I leave my chambers,” he shared.

He noticed the silence afterward and soon came to regret his actions again.

“I apologize. I may have overshared—”

“I also have a conflicting problem as you do, but more personal.” you also opened up, also sitting on the water fountain's edge, still keeping a good fair distance from him. “I am the youngest and the last of my family to come of age, and I feel like I am not suitable to be here. This dancing and its etiquettes.” you stopped.

He remains silent, eyes now focused on you and every meaning that is present on your face as you're looking away, noticing the tears welling in your eyes.

“If you know my family very well, then you could probably guess that I am very privileged and that everybody wants to get close to me.” you chuckled to yourself, looking down and bringing your hands in front of you, now fidgeting on the twig. “It's funny how I hate that kind of attention because that means I can easily make friends, but it's not genuine.”

The cold air breeze caved between you, and there remained silence. The man keenly waits for another word from you, but there is a look of hesitance present on yours, and before he opens his mouth to talk, you continue.

“I hate it. Everything there reminds me that I could be easily eaten up if I'm not careful, and I’m scared to take any dance offers that could possibly have a hidden motive.” you wept yet again, the warm tears now falling on your cold hands, and you wiped it away.

You say nothing. In your peripheral, you notice a white thing hanging in the air, and you look at it, seeing an extended arm from the stranger who is reassuringly smiling, handing you a handkerchief.

“Here.” the man said, and you hesitated, staring at the handkerchief.

“There's nothing on the handkerchief. I swear on my family's name. It's yours to take.” he reassured, and you felt found out from your cautiousness.

“Thank you.” you mumbled under your breath and accepted the handkerchief, wiping every tear and snot on your face.

You have never thought to receive such understanding from a stranger this evening or be listened to without any judgment and malice. This interaction is what you hoped to receive from all of the conversations of the past gentleman—to be simply heard.

The man secretly grins to himself, finding the scene endearing and relaxed as you were freely talking to him.

“...If it assures you, I experience the same thing as you do ever since I was aware of it.” he sympathized with you, and you looked up at him, finding him smiling though opposite from his eyes, pained as he looked at the sky.

“People looked at me and treated me kindly, but they secretly plot things behind me just to use me, using their closeness to me to satisfy their selfish desires or to raise their rankings. My parents were wed out of convenience just to make an heir, and ever since then, I have lived my life carefully—I rarely find people who I could lean on and depend on.”

“That's why I don't bother myself attending the dances or any party, and I just stay outside of it when I'm forced to attend one. I realized if I even find this occasion tempting to join, then I'll only add more unwanted attention to my life.” he ended, and there came again the silence, but now you're sharing eye contact.

It is comforting this silence you shared this time, pleasant and easy to bear, and you can't help but break in a smile, a stray tear coming down your cheek, and he chuckled, rubbing his nape timidly at this progression.

The mysterious man sitting far away from you had more depth now that you knew behind the charming and gleaming factors that there was vulnerability and the capability for sympathy.

Would it be too much to ask for more of him?

“Would you care to share some refreshments with me?” you confidently sat a bit closer.

“I—”

“Your Highness!” Before he could answer, a distant voice shouted, and both of you looked at the familiar figure, Sir Huang, running towards you.

“What did he say?” your eyebrows furrowed as you watched Sir Huang getting closer.

“Your High—”

“Not important.” he interrupted, now standing near you as he held out his hand. “I'm sorry, but we must run, my lady. Please take my hand.” you can't help but accept it, and the both of you dash away in the direction of the ballroom's entrance. You run behind him, completely confused by your necessary involvement with this escapade and threatened that you are also now being chased.

“What is happening, my lord!” You shouted at him.

“I know a secret passage to the ballroom. Just follow me.” he looked back at you and quickly glanced at the growing tired viscount running after us.

The evening wind was cold as it slapped across your body and created a mess out of your hair, your breathing slowly reminding you that you are not the athletic person to run away with a chasing situation and definitely not with the evening gown and shoes you are wearing. You might need to lie down on the cold floor after this inevitably.

On the other hand, the lord, who is still firmly holding your hand, drags you both to hide any block and bushes, and after puzzling the frantic Sir Huang, the both of you proceed to run, him noticeably slowing his pace to match yours from time to time.

You were starting to lose your breath, and the both of you were finally on the grounds of the outside gates of the ballroom.

“It's truly incredible how you're still not catching your breath, my lord, but may I remind you,” you inhaled in more air and wiped the sweat off your forehead while he was tensely looking for whatever he hoped to find. “I am simply not built for running. I don't even like running at all!”

He quietly shushed you, and you pursed your lips to refrain complaints from coming out of your mouth, and you noticed that he still hadn't let go of your hand.

You flushed from the continual contact, and he dragged you away from the gate, leading you to the right side of the building, where a door meant for the servants and the noticeable clinks of pans from the inside. He doesn't hesitate to open it and bring you inside quickly, walking past the servants who are startled by the sudden presence of nobles in the dirty kitchen.

“Where are we going?” Your knees still feel weak from running, and outside of the kitchen, there is a stairway that leads upstairs, to which each noble was not permitted to enter at all costs as the ballroom grounds and the gardens were the only places that one was to enter.

“We're not permitted to enter this place, my lord!” Your hand dragged him down as he stepped on one step of the staircase, and he looked at you with a glint of hurry in his eyes.

‘Would you rather be seen with me by the viscount or continue running away with me?” he probed, lowering his chin to look down at you at the end of the stairway.

“Look,” you paused to make a statement. “I don't know why I am running with you when this is not part of my concern. You can't possibly think that I would run away with someone I just met!” you exclaimed, wide-eyed as you looked at the unnamed lord, finding his suggestions reckless.

The man was stunned by your reaction, visibly hurt by you berating the connection you made after all of those conversations, and you can see it, the guilt of your outburst at him gnawing at you.

“I seem to have chosen the wrong words. My butler—” he sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “The son of the viscount rather has seen us together, and you would be the prime evidence and witness of my last presence in this event, which he would never let go of, my lady. So choose. Would you rather be with me and slowly part our ways or be seen with me by the viscount and hear rumors of us being alone and unchaperoned?” the man paused, looking intently at you as he waited for your response. You, who had nothing to say and were ashamed of your earlier response, just nodded and agreed.

“Alright.” The both of you then walked up the staircase, his grip on your hand still unceasing, and you're slowly becoming bothered by it.

“You can let go of my hand already, sir.” you said.

“Sorry.” he quickly let go as the two of you reached the second floor.

The surrounding frames of eerily familiar faces of royals on the walls urge you to avoid any eye contact with them, their faces now barely comfortable to stare and adore at, and the clanking of both of the soles of your shoes on the wooden platform floors, loud, awkward, filling up the silence that the both of you shared only heightens the apparent climactic end of this camaraderie you shared at the garden—your blunt take on how your meeting was simply empty.

You can't help but feel hurt that you haven't considered the sentimental and unexpected companionship with a man you helped for unknown reasons was the best part of this nightmarish marital circle.

The man was clearly hurt by your words earlier and he still inevitably did not leave you alone to be spotted unchaperoned alone with a man. He helped you and listened to you without you asking of him. Your response earlier was ungrateful, responding that you were bothered by it.

You bit your lips, clasping your hands in front of you as you walked behind him.

“My lord?” you called him, and he answered with a gentle hum, continuing to walk.

“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to dismiss our meeting we had at the gardens.”

He stopped and looked back as he smiled reassuringly.

“There's no need for you to apologize, miss. I have inconvenienced you after all. Our meeting earlier was certainly unexpected and troubling for you, so I understand.” he turned back and continued to walk.

After a few walks, the muffled music from the ballroom slowly got louder. The ballroom was near your vicinity, and you tried to strike up a conversation.

“Are you still not interested in dancing, my lord?”

“Not really. I'm still not interested in being on the dance floor,” he responded shortly, and you take it as a sign not to continue, but he added after a second.

“After the past two seasons, my father is determined to marry me to any woman he'd find me dancing with,” he added, and you hummed thoughtfully.

“So this would be your third season in the marriage circle?” you asked him, and he nodded.

“Indeed.”

His answer made you think deeply, slowly coming up with crafted advice in your head. “Huh,” you responded as you came to a thought, and he looked back at you, puzzled.

“What do you mean by huh?"

“I think you’re missing the point here, my lord.” you slowly caught up to his pace. “If I were you, I'd be setting up a forged relationship with another noble lady just to keep off those kinds of intrusive parents, and then we'd keep the contract for a few years at the least,” you suggested with not much thought.

“Hmm, wait. But it would also not last that much—”

“...I see.” the man replied.

To your dismay, the person chasing you might have finally found out your presence, a set of running feet suddenly getting nearer, and your companion panicked, quickly moving both of you toward a nearby narrow corner, enough for both people to hide.

“Hide in that corner quickly.” He placed you in the corner and helped to hide you, but he didn't bother to hide with you.

“My lord, you should also hide.” you caught his arm and nudged him to where you were hiding too.

“My lady.” he suddenly said, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“Yes?” you replied carefully.

“May I ask for your hand for the next song?”

“What?” you almost shouted out, and he just grinned.

“Your advice was brilliant.” he complimented, and you furrowed your eyebrows.

“I'm saying I would like to make an alliance with you. I'll ask for your hand, and you'll be the center of attention by tonight's party.”

“But wouldn't that risk me being your prospect partner?”

“Unless you'd be proposed to by a ton of suitors by the next morning, there'll be no chance of me winning, and there would be a delay in their enforcement of me to get married. Wouldn't it also be romantic to be asked by many men after dancing with a fine bachelor like me?” he joked by the end, and you scowled in reaction.

“I am not so certain with your plan, my lord. You, who I realized I am not aware of your name yet, and the noble family you belong to wouldn't possibly cause that much ruckus. Unless you are one of the royal princes, then that would make a lot of difference.” he evidently feels startled by your suggestion, and he shakes his head in denial.

“What? No—! Pfft. Why would you assume so?” he waved his hands in the air and continued. “But still, I'll make sure that I will help you feel less burdened with your situation. It's a win-win situation for both of us. At least for a while, when you don't pick me.”

“And how are you so sure I wouldn't pick you?” you answered quite quickly, and the young lord was startled, and so were you by your boldness.

The two of you spend a few seconds just staring at each other, and he breaks eye contact, looking away as he clears his voice.

“My lord, please,” Sir Huang coughed. “Please show yourself! I can't do this any longer!” he complained.

“What's your answer, my lady?” the man before you finally asked, holding out his hand, and you paused for a while, still a bit embarrassed.

Your act of boldness was unexpected of you. That plan you proposed was just a way to converse with him, but it made you look interested in your newfound companion. You just hoped that it wouldn't make both of you awkward, but that doesn't seem to be the case, as he was still willing to do it with you.

This alliance would be all in your favor. You'll finally show your mother that you have enjoyed tonight's party and won't place any more worry on her, but why would he assume you would want more men by the next morning? You don't want any flock of men by the next morning. You didn't like that he said that.

“I'm in.” you agreed and accepted his hand to shake. “This better work, sir?”

There's nothing wrong with accepting it either way, is it?

“Jeno.” He joined your hands and firmly made a handshake. “Call me Lord Jeno, my lady.”

Sir Huang still complains about his missing companion, Lord Jeno. His sneaking footsteps become louder, and Sir Jeno hid you properly for once.

“I'll show myself to the viscount, and you wait for a while until we leave. I'll see you downstairs.”

Then he left.

THIS ALLIANCE. THIS PLAN. You could immediately feel that you might soon regret agreeing to that ridiculous suggestion you made with that man. It was rebellious and certainly not fitting for someone who just entered the society. The man you agreed with has been in the season for three years, and you're barely keeping up with this hectic day a noble lady could have for just coming of age.

You waited a while after you heard no mumbling noises in the hallway and slowly got up, holding on to the wall as your knees weakened from all the running and the brief relaxation your legs had to take. You grunted as you fixed and swept your skirt clean, fixed your hair in place to a nearby mirror, peeked a little from the corners to investigate your surroundings, and left as you determined the place clear.

The music from the ballroom comes to a halt, the quartet resting for another set of music for tonight, and you start to get nervous as you encounter the stairway leading down to the ballroom.

You grumbled to yourself as you descended the stairs, questioning your actions and wondering about the identity of the mysterious man who finally introduced himself as Lord Jeno.

Everything about him exuded aristocracy, so you had no doubt that he was a noble and definitely wasn’t a criminal. But what was the deal of the son of a viscount chasing him like hunting prey? The son of the viscount whose family are butlers of the imperial family?

You almost scratched your head in this situation you've put yourself in. While you were grateful for the unexpected companionship you made with a handsome gentleman tonight, you had just dragged yourself into another complex obstacle you have never faced. More worse than arguing with your mother about your lying.

Who was Lord Jeno?

The ballroom doors swung open, and the gleaming yellow lights of the ballroom soon entered your vision. You stepped down to the final step of the staircase, near the refreshments where the people took their rest after a dance—and you attracted too much attention.

They must’ve heard your issue with accepting a number of dance offers from the noblemen, and you were gone by the following few songs when you conversed with the family you brought tonight.

People in society are quick to judge anyone who acts differently from the must-followed social etiquette you discovered. They're quick to spread words, to create a transparent wall they could ridicule anyone who is not doing the norms.

You couldn't bear but notice and catch all of the glances, and the whispered conversations shamelessly out loud in front of you, and your eyes desperately searched the room, looking for familiarity, looking for a place you could very much hide.

“Y/N!” you snapped and looked in the direction of the voice to see your brother walking towards you grumpily.

“I thought that you were outside, and I came out looking for you only to find you nowhere! Where have you been!” Haechan nagged, placing his hands on his hips as he exasperated an annoyed groan.

You looked down in defeat, not having the energy to fight back like what you usually do with him, not in this place. You could only give them another thing to talk about.

“I'm sorry I made you worried.” Haechan's gaze towards you softened, with the hands on his hips soon placed in his pockets.

Seeing you in a state where your usual reaction was to fight back was unusual for Haechan, and instead of anger and frustration, his emotions subsided into pure concern for you.

“Hey, I'm very sorry earlier. I shouldn't have told mother about your situation. It wasn't my right to do so.” Your brother apologized, and you looked up at him to see him with sympathizing eyes. You smiled knowingly, slowly turning into chuckles.

“You don't look good acting kind.” you teased, and he gently nudged you in response, shrugging off your comment.

“Shut up.” he irked and crossed his arms as he smiled by the end after the two of you shared a laugh.

“Say, brother," you said.

“Yes?” he replied.

“If a person was ever chased by a son of a butler, a known imperial butler to be exact, what does that mean for the person chased?” you asked hesitatingly.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” your immediate reply only brings him to suspicion by your sudden behavior.

“Y/N,” he started. “What did you do this time?”

You avoid eye contact with him as you start to fidget, your heart beating anxiously as you count as the seconds that pass by, observing how the musicians slowly approach their instruments and flip their music sheets on a standee.

“A man was chased by the son of Viscount Huang.” you gulped, and Haechan remained silent, pausing to come up with an appropriate question as he observed your frozen figure.

“And?” he asked.

“I made an alliance with said man.”

“Y/N,” he said with gritted teeth as he sighed in defeat. “What have you done!”

“I know, and I have my suspicions too! Alright! But I swear the person has only given me infinite kindness from the beginning…If you exclude the part that I helped in hiding him from the son of the royal butler.”

“Sweet heavens.” he places his palm on his forehead, shaking his head in distress.

“All we agreed was to have one dance, and that's it! I promise there's nothing more than what we have agreed. But listen, this man,” you stopped, looking around you, and got nearer to him as you whispered. “We might be talking about the kingdom’s prince here.” you reasoned with him, and he thought about it, looking at you still for you to continue.

“That’s ridiculous,” he commented. “There’s no way a prince would be asking you out.”

You gasped and hit him on his arm. “You know insulting me is also insulting our parents and yourself too.”

“I had my doubts.” Haechan joked, and you hit him again, earning from him a ‘hey!’.

“You have to take this seriously. This man has been acting suspiciously from the start. Look. He was chased by what I presume, his butler. I heard quite faintly a ‘Your Highness!’ when we were chased down by his butler, and he…” You looked at him, dead in the eyes. “Was a terrible liar. He had quite a violent reaction when I suspected him to be one of the princes.”

“You know, the youngest prince was supposed to debut on my season, but he hasn’t shown up ever since. No one knows his face or name.” Haechan whispered back at you.

“And when did you enter high society again?”

“This is my third, so the past two seasons ago.”

“Oh, dear,” you said as you stared at the ground from your realization. “Where is mother—”

“Lady Y/N.” An ardent voice called you from behind, and you looked behind you, and you saw your expected person.

“Lord Jeno?” you uttered his name, and upon release, the weight of the atmosphere became heavier with his simple presence alone.

And everyone notices. The notable stranger, who was never seen through the night until now, approached the debutante rumored upon and best known to reject several dance offers curtly.

“Y/N?” Haechan asked, staring at Lord Jeno.

Jeno notices your brother and bows, greeting him.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening…” Haechan wandered off, and you were wearing the same expression as he did. Bewildered. Intimidated. Awestrucked.

Shushed conversations and murmuring circles surround the both of you, but despite this, the lord in front of you is composed, poised straight, a firm hand holding out to ask for yours and the other behind him—too firm and frozen you notice. His hand shakes, and so do his eyes, looking at yours as he awkwardly smiles.

“Will you have this dance with me, Lady Y/N?” Lord Jeno asked hesitantly, and you gulped, offering out your hand to touch his, barely placed on his palms as you felt that if you touched his hands again, you’d taint him.

"Yes…my lord," you lately answered the last, not knowing how to address him. He breathed out a sigh of relief, too nervous as if there was a never-agreed-upon alliance behind this.

Shouldn’t you be the nervous one here?

Jeno leads you to the dance floor, and he is still stiff. The pressure of the many eyes is troubling him, especially since, out of his three seasons, he is officially marking an entrance into high society.

Everything he avoided was present in this banquet. Crowds and circles of people and their eyes—free to perceive him as a subject of talk.

He can barely breathe in air, overwhelmed by consciousness by the piercing stares now placed upon him, unaware of you calling out to him, and you tugged him down only to startle him, finally looking at you with anxious eyes.

You gestured for him to bend down, and he followed, whispering in his ears as if he were down at your height. “Are you not feeling well, my lord?”

The ticklish air on his ears from yours gives a ginger warmth to his ears, seconds late to answer you with a simple nod and smile, and you squeeze your clasped hands with him, giving him a feat of courage with your eyes. His heart flutters at this small gesture, the nearness of you making him feel warm but when he looks into your eyes, he notices a glint of something more to it.

Your eyes only show curiosity—more like suspicion.

“My lady, is there something you want to say to me?” Jeno asked, and the glint vanished as you shook your head.

“No. It’s nothing.” But nothing always had something.

You might already have guessed it, but you’re just keeping it to yourself.

The both of you finally take the dance floor. Jeno holds your hand and places the other one on your hips, and you place your free hand on his arm nervously. The quarter starts with the bass, plucking it, and the violin strung after, a cheery tune playing into the dance floor, positioning you both in a waltz.

There is a noticeable space that is around the both of you and Jeno notices it, giving you a sign about it.

“We're like a deadly disease on this dance floor.” Jeno joked, and you looked around you and chuckled along, too occupied by your reoccurring thought.

You reflected on the times when you interacted with him and thought deeply about the things you did ungraciously in front of him.

Well, you complained to him. Talked back at him. Held his hand. You also wiped your snot and tears on his handkerchief—a handkerchief that could possibly cost more than what a normal handkerchief is. After all, he is the prince.

Could be the prince, for now.

“Lady Y/N? What’s the problem? You’ve been staring at the air for quite a moment now. Is there any way I could help?” Jeno asked, concerned.

You don’t respond for a few seconds. “Lord Jeno.”

“Yes, my lady?” he replied lowly. Your mind only drives chaos at his tender reply.

“Are you really not one of the princes?” you ended, and his face tensed at your question.

“If I said yes…” he paused, his face softened, eyebrows brought together as he looked back at you hesitantly. “Will you avoid me too?”

Your heart dropped. Hearing him say ‘too’, only made you realize about his past situations that pained him and made you think about yourself. The memories of your interaction with him came crashing into you as you realized that you were acting and thinking the same as what he told you about the people who interacted with him. And he has probably felt lonely his whole life with this.

But with you, he felt seen and understood—just like what you felt about him too.

“No.” you immediately answered this time. “I won’t, my lord.”

Jeno doesn’t respond, only looking at you bewildered, and he smiles cheek to cheek, reassured by your sincerity.

The next dance segment pulled you near him as the strings modulated and came to a halt. He puts his face close to you slowly, moving his face on the side of your face as he whispers in your ears, the proximity of the both of you close—too close.

“That’s a relief.” you touch your ear as he pulls his face away. “I’m so glad it’s you that I met.” he said, still brimming with joy, unaware of the effect he had on you with that action.

The warmth of Jeno’s whispers remains for a while, and it’s ticklish, and for a moment, you forget the crowd watching you both, unaware of the stir that caused that simple action that took you off course too. The words he has spoken echoed through you, filling you with confusion and butterflies.

The music swells in, and Jeno gracefully leads you across the dance floor; the room is out of focus, other dancers and onlookers fading in the background as you only look at the man you’re dancing with—moving in perfect harmony.

There remains an unbroken eye contact, silence, and the strings from the instruments swarming between the both of you in glee rendition. Looking directly at a prince, you should be nervous and uncomfortable, but none of that is present in your mind. What you saw at the moment wasn’t the prince.

It was Jeno. The mysterious man that you helped and approached recklessly. The man who listened to your story with no prejudice. The man who offered his hand out to you when you were stuck in your own thoughts.

The friend you made out of this treacherous night.

As you continued to dance, you tried your best to gather yourself. You might not have heard him say yes to your question yet, but you can only wonder what it means for your future—what exactly would happen after this alliance was done and gone?

“Lord Jeno,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“Or should I say, Prince Jeno?” you asked carefully, and he chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, Lady Y/N?”

“It feels weird addressing you like this. It’s like I’m speaking casually, but I’m actually formally treating you.” you commented, and he laughed at this.

“You’re the only one who I hear calling me in that way. Even if you’re already properly addressing me,” he replied. “I much more prefer it.”

He’s doing that again. Commenting so easily about things that make you feel weak on your knees.

How can he be so oblivious about it?

“What were you going to tell me?” he asked, bringing you back to your question.

“I was about to ask about our alliance.” you finished, and he looked at you anticipatingly.

“Yes?”

“What would happen after this?” and the question comes out.

You already knew the answer to this since you had already talked about it with him. The advantage you’d have after it is his succession in making his own parents, the king, and queen, less nosy on him and going in your own peaceful ways. Though, you want to hear a different answer from him this time.

Despite everything already clear as day, you want to know what runs in his mind.

Where would this lead to?

Jeno thinks about it too.

Too hardly.

“How would you want things to happen?”

The question remains in the air and the music becomes less louder in your ears.

“I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want to wake up the next morning and be filled with other men asking for my hand.” you answered.

Oh.

Jeno remembered he said that. He thought about the moment he said that and soon came to regret when he suggested that as a situation that was sure to happen and not as a joke, not when you told him what you did at that moment.

“You?” you asked, almost like a plead, yearning to hear something different than what you were negatively thinking he would answer right now.

“Me too.”

His words remained ceaseless as they left right through him, the simple words underscored by the weight they carried. The dance continues, and your mind is racing, your heart thumping loudly as if to break through your chest.

Was it really possible that Jeno, the man you stumbled upon in such a bizarre way, felt the same wave of uncertainty about the future ahead of you as you did?

You studied his face as you slowly moved across the dance floor as the final segment came near. His expression remained calm and, when you hardly look, vulnerable.

As the music began to slow down, signaling the end of the dance, Jeno’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if he too, was reluctant for this moment to end. The quartet played the final notes, and you both came to a gentle stop, facing each other; the contact pulled away for the final bow. Applause erupted around you, but it felt distant.

After bowing, the both of you hesitantly leave the dance floor but this time, Jeno wasn’t the slightest nervous about the eyes that still remained on the two of you. Rather, he felt more clear about his thoughts and what he wanted more than what he desired in his life.

“Lady Y/N.” Jeno began, his voice low and earnest. “I do not wish to make you feel more uncertain for what is ahead of us after this alliance we made.”

Your heart skips a beat. “I do not understand, my lord.”

“If the morning comes tomorrow and you are filled with letters that ask for your presence, do not read anything that doesn’t have the mark of my family’s crest. The answer to your question you asked me when I told you about the alliance,” he paused as he smiled softly. “I hope that you are certain to choose me, my lady, as I am certain to pursue you in the future and the moment that we step out of this dance floor.”

The sincerity that spoke through his eyes was unmistakable, and you felt relieved and exhilarated. Your anxieties all vanish away in the face of his answers.

“Looks like I would only be expecting one person’s letter tomorrow.” you smiled at him and chuckled, looking at the ground as you felt timid before him.

The quartet plays another yet song, and the both of you are startled by the sudden start of instruments playing, making you look at each other and burst into laughter.

Jeno holds out his hand at you, and you tilt your head in confusion.

“What is it, Your Highness?” he snickered at the way you addressed him, the lining of his eyes prominent into a crescent shape.

“The imperial court should consider banning that smile. You’re too captivating.” This time, you let your intrusive thoughts reign, and you and Jeno laugh at your absurdity.

“Lady Y/N?” he asked, still holding out his hand and you hummed in response.

“May I have this dance?”

“Yes,” you accepted his hand. “Yes, Your Highness.”

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desireangel · 1 month ago

Text

Honey & Venom | Chapter 1

Vampire!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: In exchange for an escape from his death, the curse upon Aemond had seemed an easy price to pay for an eternal life of strength and power. But when the time comes for his debt to be collected and a mysterious illness sends you to the doorstep of the reclusive and fearsome Lord of Harrenhal's century-old castle, Aemond is faced with the other half of his soul and the agonising realisation that perhaps the cost of his salvation will also become his downfall.

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: MDNI - Strictly 18+ ONLY. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Blood, sex and horror. Gore. Dub-con elements. Very similar to a soulmate type trope. This is set centuries after the Dance of Dragons: some deviations from canon. Dark!Aemond. Aemond and Alys are psychos together. Plenty detailed mention of sex. Lots of blood. It is about 2AM; I only (briefly!) did an edit run through once :0.

Author's Note: hello! in taking a break from Dark Cherry because my motivation was on the rocks for that one, this entire series has been planned out. I seriously, seriously couldn't wait to get into this one. This chapter is still pretty introductory and in pure me fashion; it ended up very heavy on the internal happenings etc. Some things may not make as much sense just yet but trust me, it will in chapters to come!

Anyways, I hope you enjoy and please let me know of your thoughts, feelings, advice, etc etc etc. Love you all!

(p.s: check out the prologue for a bit of important background!)

Series Masterlist. General Masterlist.

The storm that had taken place inside Aemond’s veins had calmed by the third day that had passed since your arrival. His mind had cleared and he’d finally managed to satiate the onslaught of violent hunger through other means, and while there was still an empty pit in the depths of his stomach that would fill with only your blood, he had to make do with poor merchant who had lost his way on his travels.

As he sat at the armchair in the corner of the chambers he had readied for you all but centuries ago, Aemond realised that your recovery was quicker than he had anticipated. You didn’t fit well in the vastness of the bed that you lay in, lost among the sheets and cushions, your frame overwhelmed by the immensity of the room that was still one of the smallest that Harrenhal had to offer.

Three days had passed and you had yet to wake from the first sleep you fell into.

Fever had taken you for the first day and a half, quelled with the second dose of his blood that he had dripped from his wrist to your soft mouth. It was rather difficult to ensure you had swallowed it while unconscious but Aemond was familiar with such issues and had held your lips shut and whispered in your ear until your body had no choice but to swallow.

Coming back to his senses after being forced so suddenly into a foreign, all consuming need for a stranger’s blood was like a slap to his face. Aemond had never met you before today but he had known exactly who you were as soon as the Shadow had lifted from him.

The parchment in his hand felt heavier than it ever had before now. It crossed Aemond’s mind that he had no other way to be sure of who you were aside from the way you called to him just by your presence alone. He could swear that you were whispering to him, even in your slumber and in your silence, the key to his salvation and all the answers he had spent centuries tirelessly searching for. So softly and so distantly that Aemond couldn’t make out what you were trying to tell him; what he needed to hear.

Yet he could almost feel the words your body and blood wished to tell him within his own veins, burning him from the inside out in a wordless call for him to return to you or you’d both turn to dust and ashes on the cold floor.

Moonlight that streamed in from the opened window cast a soft, pearly glow on your skin. Aemond scowled at the thought of how angelic you looked despite being amidst the evil and sin that tainted the walls of this castle.

Innocent. Pure. Soft.

Out of place in his home, doomed to a fate you were undeserving of. The thought of it weighed heavy in his chest but he turned away from you, chiding himself for letting his mind wander where it was not welcome. Instead, his eye fell to the rough roll of parchment in his hands.

Red seeped through to the other side of the paper. Another curse written in Alys’ blood, words he had studied over and over since the moment she had thrown it in his face.

The price of your rebirth, my love. The debt that you owe me for all of this that I have done for you. And for the pain you will bestow upon me which I will never escape from.

The price of his rebirth had already been paid. Yet Aemond knew there was no use in reasoning with Alys Rivers. Not when he had scorned her so strongly within her mind that even upon turning her into the same powerful creature she had created in him, and even upon making her his wife, she would not speak of her curse any further.

It was of no importance until Oliver had brought you through the gates of Harrenhal. Until Aemond had been face to face with the missing piece of his soul, gazing at him with a hurricane of emotions in your eyes and balancing on the brink of your death.

Aemond wasn’t quite sure which of the villages or towns had sent you but he understood well enough that their doctor must have spun some tale of how you were not to be saved by any practitioner of the ordinary sort to direct you here. Had the doctor not upheld his end of the understanding the townsfolk had with their Lord, his little angel would have succumbed to a death far more peaceful than the one she now faces.

You stirred, rustling the sheets and grumbling under your breath about an ache in your bones. The dryness in your throat had surprised you, and before you had even opened your eyes, Aemond was sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of water held towards you. There was something dark and twisted that flashed through his gaze and he smirked, the corner of his lips raised in amusement.

The unfamiliarity of your surroundings startled you, and you gasped at the man who was beside you, jaw falling slack as you scrambled to sit up. Grumbling at a wave of dizziness, you scooted away from Aemond with a sleepy glare. You winced at the rawness in your throat, looking at the glass in his hand warily.

Something lingered in the air around him. A dark, unsettling stillness that felt like a foreboding warning of suffering and panic. Lord Targaryen, as you had realised this man was none other than the Lord that you had been lead towards, had a face that was sharp and stern. The dark eye patch and scar along his cheek did nothing to undermine the radiating, inhumane sense of beauty that had thrown you off guard upon your first sight of him.

“‘Tis only water,” his voice was deep and low yet still oddly gentle. “I’ve practically brought you back from death, sweet thing. You do not need to doubt me.”

The entire room seemed to be covered in shadows save for the bed, which was under the light that streamed in from the window. You surveyed the rest of what you assumed had become your bedchamber with caution, looking for any sign of Oliver’s presence. There was nothing.

Apprehensively, you reached for the glass and tried not to drink the water too quickly, ignoring the hum of satisfaction that sounded beside you. “Where is my brother?”

“Perhaps an Inn at one of the neighbouring villages.”

“He would not leave me here alone,” you grumbled, remembering the way he had fought to turn you around before you had been taken within the castle’s walls. Fear settled in your gut when you saw the careless shrug of the Lord’s shoulder, his eye trailing down your face and resting at your neck.

Sweeter and richer. The scent of you had tugged at his restraint from the moment Aemond had known of your arrival at Harrenhal. But as you looked at him now, wide eyes gazing at him with a sense of fear mixed with a dangerous curiosity and your lips shining from the water you had just drank, he understood that he was mistaken in assuming things would be as straightforward as he had prepared for.

“Don’t worry about him,” Aemond’s fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you and have his way with your flesh. His patience had worn itself thin over the many years of his life but this was bordering on too much.

It was as if you were sent to push him over the edge, so that he gave into whatever lay simmering under the layers of his skin, rushing through him with a primal need to sink his teeth and his cock into your perfect body. Aemond’s hand raised to your cheek, pausing in the moment that you flinched away with a gasp, before dragging the back of his knuckles along the skin of your jaw.

Another hum from the depths of his chest and he felt the shiver of your body as a result. “Lean back. Be calm.”

“Be calm?” You practically gaped at him. “Why was my brother so afraid of you? What did he see–what did you say to him?”

A scowl grew on his face at the way you bypassed his command with an onslaught of questions. Aemond swatted at your hand when you raised it to push him away, tangling his fingers into your hair and pulling your head back with a tug.

So pliable in his hands, you hadn’t fought him further than the sneer you had flashed him and it sent a satisfied rush right down to his core. All you needed to do was look at him, to be close enough so that all he could taste in the air was the homely sweetness of your blood and the deliciousness between your legs, and Aemond thought that he would be as hard as stone for the rest of his eternal life.

“Your brother is fine. I did nothing to him, he was merely tired from your travels–stop trying to scratch me. I am only trying to help you,” he smacked at your hands once again. With a swift movement, he dragged the skin of his wrist against his teeth and held it above your lips. “Drink. Just two drops. Clearly you are recovering well enough to be a nuisance already but we must return you to perfect health.”

The first small drop of warm scarlet against your mouth instantly made you gag, and you stared at him with a wide eyed shock and revulsion as you spat it back at him. It made him grunt, his frustration manifesting in a sharp jerk of the hand that had fisted in your hair.

He was feeding you his own blood.

You struggled, barely able to find the strength to form a strong fist before swinging it at him. It missed when he gracefully dodged your hit.

“What is this–”

Aemond huffed, pressing his wrist against your mouth and moving his hand from your hair to your jaw. “This is what has saved your tiny little life.”

The doubt in your mind had yielded in a matter of seconds and you had forgotten all about the fleeting thoughts of what nonsense he could be speaking of. For blood was just blood and it was no miracle cure; it couldn’t possibly be. But whatever he had been doing, it had worked when nothing else had and your body felt one thousand times lighter than it had before.

There was only a measly couple of drops that had hit your tongue, sugary and metallic, and before you could register anything, a moan had fallen from your lips. For a second, your eyelids drooped at the wave of ease and warmth through your body.

Aemond’s fingers on your jaw tightened and he had pulled you into his chest in a single jolt. Much to his distaste, his body forever seemed to act on its own accord when you were near. It was a primal instinct that was forcing him to have you, body and soul, as a part of himself. That sound you had made from the taste of him, the feeling of your lips on his skin and the soft gasps that you failed to hold back had snapped the final string of his restraint.

Blood and sex were one and the same for Aemond. His taste for depravity and sin came hand in hand with his appetite for violence and death. And while Aemond had to consume human blood to survive, it was more than just what he needed. He enjoyed the gore and the fear that he created, he enjoyed the power he held over life and death, and he enjoyed knowing that whichever poor soul had met its end at his hands had become a part of his own endless youth.

His cock was always quick to respond to the sight of blood. But this was different. For one, Aemond had never cared for his own blood. It was not special and it didn’t flow as freely as human blood did. And secondly, Aemond had never cared for much more than the momentary, physical release that sex gave him and the satisfaction of a good meal. Yet here he was, almost gagging with a new, unwelcome and frantic desire that he could not recognise.

The shift was so fast that it had you dizzy, the slight buzz on your skin from just two drops of his blood lingered as you lifted your gaze to meet his. Being so close to him that the hardness of his body was flush against your own placed a veil over your mind, expelling all thoughts to run from your head.

Amongst the arms of a Lord, held to him as if he intended to merge the two of you into one, you thought of nothing else but the loud rush of want in your veins. Still, there was a voice at the back of your mind that was screaming danger, and you winced at the harshness of his grip on you.

“I am laying here in the home of a stranger, my lord. Forgive me for my worry if it offends you, but there is all the chance that you could hurt me. Or kill me.” When you spoke, your words were shaky. Head held high, you found the will to ignore whatever force was compelling your body to unite with his in every way that it could.

Aemond hummed. “I will not kill you.”

Lie. I will tear you limb from limb and bleed you dry.

“I guess I have no choice other than to take your word for it,” you muttered, staring long and hard at the sheets that covered you. The phantom taste of his blood on your tongue was enough for you to doubt him. You would not stay here with him. “But I am feeling far better now. If you tell me where my brother is, I will leave by nightfall.”

“It is already past nightfall. And I do not know where he is.”

Curiously, it was indeed. Only upon looking towards the window did you notice that it was night. In the state that you had felt upon waking up, you could have sworn it would have been morning with the sunlight shining through the curtains. Aemond ignored your confusion.

“You are yet to recover completely.” He gave you an odd smile, tight lipped and accompanied by a glimmer in his eye. The bed shifted as he let go of you with great hesitance, standing tall and moving towards the doors. “Until then, you are a welcome guest in our home. Once you are freshened up, I hope you will join my wife and I in the dining hall for a meal.”

A hot bath and fresh clothes had done you well. About an hour had passed while you were tended to by Delya, the quiet young maid who looked to be rather uncomfortable in your presence. Delya had reminded you of your belongings that had been kept in the drawer beside the bed, your small bag squashed into the tight space. You pulled the faded blue cotton dress that you had packed. A dress that was fit for a woman of your standing, from a family not poor enough to be a part of the peasantry yet still without the sufficient riches to be nobility.

From the moment you had stepped from your bath, you noticed the complete lack of mirrors in the apartment. Strangely enough, Delya had combed through your hair and helped you get ready without a mirror, ignoring you entirely when you had asked both about the mirror and about having your meal alone in your room. By the time that she was finished, you had accepted her reluctance to answer your questions. The only words she had spoken were the directions to the dining hall. There was a long, sideways glare that she had given you paired with her grin and she all but sang her instructions.

Left, then right at the window at the end of the hallway, down the stairs and left again at the first turn. No earlier than an hour from when Delya had left you to yourself.

Even though Delya had told you to wait for an hour, the deep pangs of hunger and a gnawing curiosity had sent you out of your chamber doors after the first thirty minutes. Candles were mounted onto the walls and the silence was so intense that you could hear them flicker if you strained your ears. It was still dimly lit with whatever light there was, reflecting off of the dark walls in orange hues. You could only see a short distance down the hallway to the right, shadows creating the illusion that the path down there would lead to a never ending void of black nothingness.

So you turned left, as was the directions and let yourself admire the tapestries that hung on the walls. It would have been a grand and beautiful home had it been cared for with warmth and love. And you had the urge to discover more of it, reaching for the handle of the first door you had come across. After all, should the Lord of the Land have anything to say about it, it was he who had called you a welcome guest.

Locked. As was the next door. And the next.

With a shrug, you continued down the hallway, fiddling with the locked door handles as a pointless distraction from reaching the dining hall earlier than you were told to. But as you neared the end of the hallway, the window lighting up the final stretch with moonlight, you turned away suddenly from the doors and tapestries of the left wall.

First, you noticed the putrid, rotting scent. It made you gag, and you instantly lifted your hand to cover your mouth and nose, sleeve pulled far over your fingers. When you frantically searched for the source of it - maybe an open door, or something decomposed stuck to a spider web, there was nothing.

Until you cast your eyes to the floor, gasping and gagging once more. The drop in your stomach and a stab of fear in your gut forced you forwards, following the pool of scarlet that seemed to start only inches away from your feet.

It went on towards the end of the hallway, where it turned around around the corner to the right, away from the staircase that was to the left. At parts, it was merely streaks that had been dragged from a larger puddle of blood and left thinner stains. And at others, it pooled and settled, marred with bits of what you could only assume was flesh and fabrics.

There was a dizzying, strong flush of prickling heat that rushed over you and while it seemed like in an instant, you could hear more and feel more and smell more, you couldn’t focus on anything coherent within your mind.

A distant curdling scream that came from a man, followed by another one that cried for help pulled you out of your shock. Whoever had bled so much had surely met a violent and painful fate and you were suddenly hyper aware that something or someone had done this only moments before, right where you stood.

The trail of blood turned in the direction away from where Delya had directed but at the sound of another cry for help, muffled from distance, you turned right and followed it. Another gag, and you turned to rest against the opposite wall, hunching over and retching emptily. There was nothing aside from bile to lose in your stomach.

When you looked to see where the blood led, it stopped only a few more feet down the corridor, disappearing under a door that was left only slightly ajar.

Suddenly, upon noticing the way the door moved gently as if it had only just been opened, all you felt was a white, ringing dread. Instinctively, your legs moved to turn around and the only thing that you could piece together from your panic was to run.

You screamed the moment you felt him behind you, his presence making you yell out and your only reflex was to move forwards and away from him. In an instant you had moved towards the door, to hide behind it maybe–you had no idea, only for a strong arm to pull it shut, slamming it into your body that was now pressed tightly against the hardwood. The heels of your slippers slid atop the blood but before you could fall, a hard, strong body had caged you in.

There was dread in your body like you had never felt before and no matter how hard you gasped and panted, you just could not breathe. Again, a scream of agony and terror that was louder, and echoed now that you were forced against the door and you sobbed at the thought of what may lay behind it.

It was Aemond’s chest flush against your back, a hand flat against the wood and the other gripping your hip with a fierceness that shot a bolt of sharp pain up your side. His face fell to the valley of your neck, inhaling strongly against your skin and when you cried, struggling against him to turn and run, he growled. “Do not turn around.”

Something about Aemond was different. It was not as if you knew him before at all but there was a strange strength in his body, you hadn’t felt it when he had held you just hours ago. Whenever he was near, your body screamed at you that he was dangerous, that you needed to leave and be far away from him and this place. Nevertheless, you were drawn to Aemond amongst your fear of him.

Now, you had every urge to flee. And you struggled even more, without thinking to, pushing against Aemond as he was hardly affected by how you fought him. If anything, he would continue to force himself unbearably closer. Tears that welled in your eyes blinded you as you tried to glance to the side, hoping and praying that there would be someone who could get him away from you.

Aemond smelled woody and smoky under the sickly stench of blood and flesh. It overwhelmed everything, and it seemed like he was more animal than man with the way his chest heaved against you, and he snarled into your skin. When you grunted, shoving as hard as you can, all he did was drop a hand to push your face forward. Again, Aemond told you to stay still.

“You can try and fight me all that you wish,” he chuckled, the deep vibration of his voice against the skin of your neck made you whimper. “It will be of no use. There are many dangers among these halls and I am the worst of them. But you do not need to be afraid of me. I will not hurt you.”

You sobbed. “What have you done to that poor–”

Aemond delighted in the way that you trembled, the tempting scent of you taking his mind entirely by tenfold. It was his hopeless charge to resist sinking his teeth in the soft flesh that his tongue swiped across, the heaviness of your frightened heartbeat pulsing against his lips.

“You have no idea how divine your terror smells,” he muttered deeply, flexing the fingers that were pressed into your hip. You could feel all of him. And the hardness of his cock pressed against your backside sent a heat straight down to your core when Aemond nipped gently at the skin above your pulse point. “There is only so much of your torture that I can endure before I lose the last of my control, my dove. Nothing tastes better than fear and lust. And your body sings with both for me.”

The Shadow of bloodlust that befell him and what was left of his precious family was no stranger to Aemond. In his centuries of life after the war that had taken everything from him, he had never felt it so absolutely and so relentlessly.

For lifetime after lifetime Aemond had waited eagerly for the moment you would come to him so that he could rid himself of the weakness you were certain to bring him. Because you were here to die and in your death, Aemond would be freed of his sorrow and his torment.

Aemond had convinced himself that when the time came, that he could resist. That he had the strength to pay the price he owed easily. That if he tried enough, you would never become so important to him that losing you would mean to lose a part of himself. Thinking of it now that you were here, in his home and in his arms, it would be a difficult task.

Nonetheless, now that you were here and now that Aemond knew what it meant to need you to satiate the new incessant, uncontrollable hunger that he was burdened with, it was his cross to bear. Eventually, once your blood is free of illness and you have served your purpose, Aemond could indulge in you without consequence. There was a tug at the thought, deep in his gut and in the hollows of his chest, that he refused to acknowledge.

“What is happening in there? Is that person–did someone kill him?” You were finding it difficult to breathe. The sounds coming from the other side of the door had stopped and you turned to look at him, only for him to grunt and keep you in place.

“He came to us like this. Dying. I may be able to help him just as I’ve helped you.”

He wasn’t even trying to be convincing. There was more to what he said than just his words, and when you swallowed thickly and squirmed against him, Aemond let his lips return to your neck. The soft, tingling sensation on your skin made you whine, scrambling to make sense of everything that was happening.

It was horrid. Sinful. Disastrous. Shameful.

Here was the man in whose home you were witnessing such horror. The man who was naught but a stranger, no matter how your entire being felt as if you were reuniting with a lost part of your soul. But the way Aemond’s voice caressed your nerves, calmed you and set you into a very different frenzy was absolute and irrevocable. You were terrified in a way that you had never felt until now yet there was a thrum of desire between your legs, and your body urged you to both run away and melt into him.

“There is nowhere for you to run away to,” he drawled. Aemond’s hands were everywhere as he kept you pinned against the door with his body, squeezing your hips, the flesh of your backside and thighs. If you pushed against him, he would only breathe out a laugh muffled into your neck and squeeze harder. “It delights me to have found you like this. And while I enjoy your fear, my dove, you are in no state to be so distressed.”

You wanted to scream and scratch at him. “Who are you?”

“You already know my name. It is all you need.”

“That’s not–why did you hurt that man?” The sensitivity of your skin under his touch jostled all of the thoughts in your brain into a mess of nonsense. “This is not right–”

“Of course it is. All of this body,” Aemond couldn’t help but smother his lips into your skin, licking and sucking kissing across your neck. He yanked at the sleeve of your dress until it had ripped right off, nipping his way across the newly exposed skin of your shoulder. “All of its perfect dips and curves, your skin and everything beneath it. It was made for me. There is nothing more right, my dove, than this.”

“I don’t understand,” you gasped, arching into him when his kisses grazed a sensitive spot along your bicep. Gingerly, Aemond held your arm to the side, making his way to your wrist. “Please, I do not understand.”

A hum was the only response he gave you, sighing as he dragged the tip of his nose over the underside of your wrist. Aemond’s hips rutted forward, rubbing his throbbing cock against you in the moment that he had taken a loud, desperate breath in. You realised that he was smelling you again and turned to watch him. Quick as lightning, he turned his face away from you but placed a tender kiss to your wrist.

Red had been streaked across your arm, smudged all along the expanse of your skin. It wasn’t your own and when it came to your mind that it was the same blood of whoever the man behind the door was, you cried out. Catching a glimpse only of his chin and lips messy with the blood, the haze of arousal lifted from your mind as if someone had beat you out of it.

“Stop–stop, please,” you thrashed and thrashed, hoping it would shove him off you somehow. “Please, my Lord.”

Aemond understood what you pleaded for. His hips stilled but he kept you pressed against the surface, your wrist grazing his teeth when he spoke. “As much as I ache for you, I will not fuck you yet. Not if you do not want me to. But a taste of you is the least I deserve and I cannot deprive myself of it any further.”

There was something animalistic in the way he spoke. Something had overcome him, something far different to the version of him you experienced just before. But before you could think on any of it further, a sultry, feminine voice called for him. Instantly, Aemond had pushed you away, snarling audibly at the dark haired woman who had approached from the other side of the corridor.

You felt the relief of it instantly. But your breath still caught in your throat and you fell to lean on the door in the absence of Aemond’s body holding you upright.

The Lord’s back was turned to you and you could see the tenseness in his muscles through the billowy, bloodstained shirt that he wore. Aemond was silent, seething quietly as the dark haired woman stepped into him, her nimble fingers reaching to stroke his cheek and rest at his jaw. You couldn’t see much of her, but she was speaking to him, softly so that you couldn’t hear her.

Aemond was unnaturally stiff, a stark contrast to the softness of the woman who had saved you from something you couldn’t even bring yourself to think about.

Briefly, you wondered if she was the wife he had mentioned earlier. It would make sense if she were but you caught her eye over his shoulder before you could consider that any further. Her eyes, simultaneously cold and calculating while also kind and warm, flickered towards the direction from which you came.

At the subtle nod of her head, a sign that this was your chance to leave, you forced yourself to move. All but sprinting back down the halls that lead you here, you were surprised to find Delya standing outside your chamber doors, watching as you rushed inside and slammed the heavy door shut behind you.

More silence. But the sound of pained wails rang around in your head as you closed your eyes for a moment, catching your breath and trying to stall the panic that caused you to retch once again. The image of so much blood, chunks of flesh and torn clothes was stuck in the forefront of your mind.

It took only minutes to drag whatever furniture you could to pile it in front of the large door. There was little chance anyone could push the door open with such a blockade by the time you were done. Yet it did nothing to quell the fright and worry that you felt as you collapsed against the bed, a sudden weakness crashing into you all at once.

Sleep did not come easy. But in the rush of all that had happened, you hardly noticed that the curtains had been drawn while you were gone. They were large and heavy, and had you the strength to look behind them, you would have seen that it was already morning.

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deadly-diminuendo · 4 months ago

Text

The Ascendant Takes a Bride

an ascended astarion x fem!reader oneshot / nsfw / ~4.4k words

Summary: Just as you and your family are about to fall into ruin, you agree to marry the mysterious Astarion Ancunín in exchange for his promise to pay off all your debts. Attractive and charming though he is, you cannot help but to feel nervous about your arrangement. Some say he is a vampire. You have seen evidence that both supports and counters that claim. You are not sure what to believe. Finally you find yourself alone with him on your wedding night—and Astarion has some unexpected surprises in store for you.

CW/Tags: breeding kink, wedding night, loss of virginity, vampire bites/blood drinking, piv sex, fingering, post-game

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Or read below...

Your husband lifts you across the threshold, tearing you from the comfortable life you knew and thrusting you into a fate unknown, a fate you hope will be kind but fear will be grim.

You did what you had to do. Your family would either flourish or it would fall, and you knew your willingness to marry Astarion Ancunín would make all the difference. Why accept utter ruination when you could instead ensure the prosperity of everyone you love?

Ill fortune plagued your clan for decades—dwindling wealth, diminishing influence, a decaying estate—there was almost nothing left. Poverty was no longer a distant nightmare but an imminent reality. Your parents prayed you might escape its chokehold with a prudent match, but without a single gold coin for your dowry, your prospects for marriage were dire.

When almost all hope was lost the unlikely offer came—the affluent and prestigious owner of the castle on the hill would be willing to pay off all debts and restore your household to its former glory—if only you would agree to become his bride.

The proposal shocked you. You had been introduced to the enigmatic pale elf, but he was far from a man you knew well. Your acquaintanceship amounted to no more than a few polite but empty conversations and the occasional twirl about a dance floor. Then again you did notice how his gaze tended to follow you about the room, and you could never help but to regard him with an equally curious eye.

You were both attracted to and intimidated by him. The gods themselves could not have crafted a more beautiful man, and yet… something about him unsettled you. His grip a little too tight, his smile not quite sincere. He gave you the distinct impression of a scoundrel only pretending to be a gentleman.

And you had heard whisperings about him. They say he is a vampire. A devious, ruthless, heartless man who subsists on the blood of his enemies.

Still you were intrigued. You spent more time than you care to admit constructing and revising his biography in your mind, attempting to, but never succeeding in unravelling all his mysteries. The red irises and the sharp canines certainly supported the local gossip. Yet you’d seen him in broad daylight. You’d seen him eat real food. You’d felt the heat of his skin every time you’d danced together.

Surely the rumours could not be true.

You had a choice to make. Suddenly you possessed the power to save your whole family. Everything—everyone—depended on you and you alone.

So of course you said yes.

Determined as you were, you could never fully exorcise your doubts. Instead you chose to ignore them, to focus on all the good that could come from this arrangement. Your troubles would be over. Your family would live well. You would want for nothing.

Not to mention it was surprisingly easy to picture yourself in his bed.

But those doubts you buried did not lie dormant. Oh, no. They crept and crawled beneath your skin, festering and mutating into a dread that now threatens to consume you whole.

You cannot help but wonder: are you a saviour or a sacrificial lamb?

Either way it is far too late for second thoughts. Today you vowed yourself to Astarion. You promised him your body, your heart, your soul.

You are his wife.

Every part of you tingles with nervous energy—the expected wedding night jitters greatly exacerbated by the misgivings you feel concerning your new husband—and yet you cannot deny the thrill underlying it all.

The way he kissed you at the altar was downright sinful. The way he whispered his desire in your ear made you shiver. The way he held your hips tight against his as you danced left you weak in the knees.

He frightens you, and excites you, and—gods help you—you want him to fuck you.

You thought he might throw you on the bed and make you well and truly his the very second you were alone together. Instead he sets you down with care, ensuring you find your footing despite the bulk of your billowing skirts.

You manage a brief survey of the room—a canopy bed draped in scarlet silk, a plush loveseat in front of the fireplace, high-vaulted windows welcoming in the starlight—and as excessive as it all is in its extravagance, you find it cozy. Romantic, even. A place that might yet become your personal paradise.

Or your gilded cage. You shudder.

Your gaze falls upon the object nearest you: an ornate full-length mirror. You almost fail to recognize the woman you see staring back at you. You are the very picture of fairytale whimsy in your intricate ivory lace and your crown of white roses. You smile. To hells with your unwelcome anxiety. This is your wedding night, and you will enjoy every minute of it.

Or at least you will try.

Astarion’s reflection closes in behind yours, and you find yourself rather relieved to see that he has one. Another strike against the rumours.

You admire him in the looking glass. High cheekbones, enticing lips, bewitching eyes. Even his so-called flaws, all his wrinkles and his laugh lines, suit him to perfection.

And he admires you right back—more shamelessly than you do him—hungry eyes mentally peeling off your dress as they rake you over.

“My beautiful bride.” You melt under his simple yet sultry praise, your imagination running wild with fantasies of what bliss the coming hours might bring. You know little of carnal pleasure but your own touch. By the end of this night you are sure to know much, much more.

His hands sweep across your shoulders, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your little capped sleeves. In the mirror you catch a flash of that devious smirk, the one that hints at the rogue you think he truly is.

“Almost a shame that I have to undress you.”

Your mouth runs dry, any words you might have said forever lost in the silence.

You do want this. You want to make love to your husband. You want to learn to love him in every sense of the word.

You want to trust him.

But can you?

“May I?” he asks, one hand travelling down to the laces at your back, the other hand enclosing yours in his. Feigning chivalry all while his firm grip screams out his barely suppressed urge to tear your gown from your flesh and pin you hard against the wall.

This is it. There is no going back now. You passed the point of no return hours before, your fate sealed with two little words: “I do.”

He wants you.

And so you will let him have you.

“Yes.”

With that, his fingers thread through your laces, pulling them loose with alarmingly efficient speed. Quite the expert he must be. You have, after all, heard talk of his rakish ways. Those rumours are much easier for you to believe.

You feel your bodice loosening, though your struggle to breathe persists, the weight of this moment somehow heavier than the mass of your dress. You gather your courage to do your part, tugging off your sleeves and letting the fabric fall away from your skin, pushing what remains down over your hips. Astarion takes your hand as you step out and away from your unwieldy gown, kicking it unceremoniously into a corner. The second it is out of the way, he pulls you back in front of the mirror with a force that makes you gasp.

“Look at you,” he says, and you glance at your reflection. You are bare before him save for what hides beneath your lacy smallclothes. “You are exquisite, darling.”

His fingers dig into your skin, seeking all your soft and sensitive places, your body beautifully pliable under his exploratory touch. He gives ample attention to the delicate curve from your waist to your hips, and to the lovely heft of your breasts, squeezing and kneading and molding you to his liking. You watch, mesmerized, the self-consciousness that might have held you back fading away. His thumbs repeatedly ghost across your nipples, soft lips nuzzling your neck as he grows hard against your backside—and, gods, your cunt aches for him. Not even the graze of his sharp teeth, suspect as it is, could dissuade you now.

Lust obliterates what was left of your modesty as sweet sounds spill forth from your parted lips. Already you are falling apart in his arms and he has not yet once stroked you between your legs. “Please…” you hear yourself beg.

He laughs. It’s a hearty, almost mocking sound, but you are too far gone to mind. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” As if he could not guess. Both of you know exactly what you want. “Use your words, pet.”

“Please touch me.”

Insufficient.

“Make love to me.”

Much better.

And there is one other little thing you should tell him.

“Like no one before you ever has.”

There it is, that devilish, devastatingly sexy grin. He is pleased. Maybe a little too pleased. You again note the pointed tips of his canines, and you expect, one way or another, you will soon be devoured.

“Oh, my sweet little virgin,” he purrs, hands slipping off your smallclothes, a finger dipping inside your slick heat. Hells. A relief sublime and yet nowhere near enough. “You have been so, so patient for me, haven’t you?” Patient is the last thing you feel right now as you arch into his touch, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more Astarion. “Rest assured, my little love. I will reward you well. Grant you your every desire. Of course, I expect all I want in return.”

“Anything,” you cry, and you mean it. You waste no time contemplating the meaning of his words, nor your own. You just want to be fucked.

“Anything?” You nod and he smirks, increasing the pressure and pace as he inserts a second finger, holding you steady as you squirm. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you? All these years you saved yourself for my bed, and you didn’t even know it, did you?”

Should you be answering with a nod or a shake of the head now? You are no longer sure, your mind incapable of thought beyond imagining how glorious your orgasm will feel when he grants it to you. You eventually decide upon nodding, and you hear him chuckle.

“Adorable. The way you look, the way you sound—” He nibbles at your neck, then breathes into your ear. “And I bet you taste just as sweet.”

Your blood chills at the thought of him tasting it. A shiver runs down your spine.

No… Surely he speaks of something pleasurable. Something you have heard other young women gush and giggle about. Something you would like to experience for yourself. You let passion burn your needless worry away, writhing about as you refocus on release, your eyelids fluttering closed.

The next thing you know his hand is clutching your neck. “Watch.” You immediately obey his growled command, your eyes locking upon your own reflection, all flushed and disheveled. Gods, you look positively ravaged and you have yet to even take his cock. You glimpse his smile, a sure sign he is thoroughly enjoying the utter mess he is making of you.

“This pretty body of yours was meant to be mine, wasn’t it, pet?”

This time you know just what your answer should be. You nod furiously and he moves deliciously faster. It won’t be long now.

“Oh, and I assure you I will put it to excellent use.”

You nod again. You are certain he will. You keen as his fingers curl into you.

He grins. He knows he has you now.

“My, what an eager thing. You will be the perfect little vessel for me, won’t you?”

You agree. You would give him anything. As long as he takes care of you, too.

And he will take care of you, won’t he?

“A vessel to take my pleasure in whenever, wherever, however I want?”

You will. Gods, you will. You moan out your assent and punctuate it with his name. You will spend your life parting your mouth, spreading your legs, offering your body to fill and to fuck as he pleases. As long as he makes you come, too.

And he is about to make you…

“And to carry my children?”

You surrender to ecstasy as it wracks you senseless, clenching violently around his fingers and singing out your instinctive answer with ardour. “Yes!”

Only as the pleasure subsides do you begin to think things through.

What did he just say? What did you just say?

You knew this topic would come up eventually. It is an inescapable expectation among the nobility—sometimes unspoken, sometimes spoken very loudly—but always present either way. And yet the last thing you expected was for Astarion to speak of children right on the cusp of your consummation. You thought you would at least first get to know each other as lovers and partners before ever considering becoming parents.

Your state of shock does not discourage him. Instead he smiles wickedly as he gives your hardened nipple a pinch, sending another jolt of desire straight to your cunt. He begins rubbing your clit again, making you mewl, only to leave you whining when he withdraws. He leaves a trail of your own slick along your skin as his hand slides up to rest at your lower abdomen.

“Oh, my sweet love. I can already imagine how gorgeous you will look swollen with my child. You do want to give me a child, don’t you?”

You stare in silence though you have to admit it is not an unwelcome idea.

“You will let me come inside you, won’t you?”

Gods. Now that is an idea you welcome gladly. Something innate, something deeply ingrained within your core cries out your need. You crave it, crave to let him spill his seed inside you. You wriggle about in his arms as you picture it.

Motherhood just might suit you.

Astarion spins you around and you gaze into those stunningly hypnotic eyes. You press a hand to his chest and discover that his heart beats just like yours, its steady, strong tempo dismantling your lingering doubt. A mortal. Like you.

“I can tell you want this, darling,” he says. Perhaps you do. “Your heart races at the thought. Give yourself to destiny. Give yourself to me.”

Only one answer comes to your mind.

“Yes.”

He captures your lips in a kiss that ignites your lust and kindles your affection. His arms feel like home. Like you have always belonged to him and you always will.

You need him now.

You only manage to undo a single button of his overcoat before he lifts you off the floor and lays you atop the silk and softness of his bed. Your bed, you realize. You imagine spending many endless nights together here in a tangle of limbs.

He stands there stripping himself as you lie and watch with rapt attention, and yet you hardly know where to look—his beautiful eyes bore into you with intense hunger, his deft hands work effortlessly through his every layer, his newly bared skin tempts and tantalizes you—every part of him competes for your admiration. When he finally pulls off his smallclothes your eyes are instantly drawn to his cock, thick and flaunting his desire. On instinct you part your legs.

The sight of you splayed in invitation lures Astarion onto the bed and over you, arms and legs caging you in, lips colliding with yours, cock ready at your entrance. You roll up your hips to tease him, your lack of patience testing what little remains of his.

Your little nudge is all it takes to make the last of it crumble and he crashes into you.

You wince at the initial tinge of pain. It passes in seconds, dulled by your arousal, and you are thankful for the mercy. You succumb to the pleasure of him stretching and sinking into you, your body eager to accept the whole of him as he slides deeper inside.

“Easy, darling. I promise a little pain is worth all the pleasure.” He gives you the soothing coos and slow movements of a gentle and cautious lover—a part he plays well, you would think, if not for the tension you detect coiled in his muscles. You recognize he is a man struggling to hold back, and that epiphany has your cunt clenching around him.

Emboldened by your obvious want, he starts to fuck into you in earnest, pushing in and pulling back in a rhythm you already know will be your new addiction. At first you try to match every intoxicating motion, pushing your hips upwards to meet him thrust for thrust, but instead you find yourself squirming wildly, only able to pet him as he works. You relish the sound of his grunts and groans, how they signal his enjoyment of you, though you know you are drowning them out with your wanton moans. He does look far too in command of himself for your liking, and in your mind you set yourself a goal: you will learn how to make him relinquish that tight control.

Of course, if Astarion wants to focus on your pleasure—well, you certainly will not complain about that. If nothing else, your husband is proving to be a generous lover.

You reach up for a kiss, eliciting from him a growl that rumbles down your throat as you taste his tongue. Never have you felt this close to another person, and you long to get even closer. You touch his face, his chest, his shoulders, wanting to explore every inch of his skin as you take every inch of his cock. When you throw your arms around his back, the scars your fingertips find there briefly distract you, but you quickly decide that is a story for another time.

Experimenting a little, you pull your legs back and angle your hips, the slight adjustment to your position an even better fit than you thought possible. You squeal when he presses into a delightfully sensitive spot—and so he does it again, and again, and again, repeatedly, rigorously, relentlessly. You concentrate hard on your impending climax, your mind conjuring up an image of him filling you to the brim with come night after night.

“You are mine. Mine to treasure. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed.”

That delicious thought sends your walls spasming, your mind shattering, your entire body pulsing with incomprehensible bliss. His name bursts from your lips as you ride out the sensation, and it pleases you to know you will be calling it out the rest of your life. You have never felt better.

Still you wanted him to join you in your freefall over the edge and you cannot help the twinge of disappointment you feel when you realize he did not finish with you.

Not that you mind continuing to indulge in your favourite new activity.

He stills a moment and you stare up at him, confused, concerned, even. “I would like to try… a little something else. Take a little more from you. That is if my dearest little love would be so good as to oblige me.” You cannot imagine what he means. You must look utterly baffled because he then chuckles and asks, “Do you trust me?”

“I would trust you with anything.” The words slip out automatically and yet they come as a surprise to you. He is your husband, yes. But you barely know him. You thought you were done questioning this, but a shadow of doubt creeps back in. Something in his tone you do not like. Honey laced with poison.

Is one night of passionate sex really enough to found your trust on?

You decide it is a good start at least, and brush off the invasive thought.

He grins and turns you around, his hands all over you again, his lips planting kisses along your back, your shoulders, your neck. You let out a contented sigh.

A sharp, searing pain rips through you. You grimace. In your hysteria you imagine daggers embedded in your neck. And then it hits you.

Fangs.

You married a vampire. You let him fuck you. You let him bite you.

The first shock subsides, leaving a throbbing numbness in its wake, blood rushing out of your veins and into his greedy mouth. You should be screaming in horror, planning your escape, forsaking your vows in hopes of a return to a normal life. Instead you lean back, pliant and willing, nestling yourself against him as he holds you in his fierce embrace.

You have never known such peril and yet in the cradle of his arms you feel… safe.

You should not feel safe.

“Sweet hells,” he rasps when he stops, lapping at your wound one last time. “I have not tasted something so delectable in decades.”

This is madness. And yet a surge of pride swells in your heart at his praise. You do feel a little dizzy, a little weak—but still very much alive.

He pushes you to your knees and plunges back into you, a hand pressing you down as he fucks you into the mattress. You steal a little glance at him over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for only a second—but you will never forget their eerie, unnatural glow. You bury your face in your pillow and shut your eyes. Perhaps it is better that you don’t look. That you don’t know.

So this is Astarion out of control.

You tremble in ecstasy and in fear, still shaken by the frightful revelation, and yet still yearning to merge and meld with him endlessly. Your body begs you to bend to his will, an echo of his voice reverberating in your mind. Succumb. Surrender. Submit. So you do. You could not deny him now even if you wanted to.

You let yourself moan with abandon as his length slams in and out of you. You revel in the divine new depth this position allows him to explore and the feral sounds he makes as he drives into you faster. Bucking against him, you find yourself shaking as you reach the precipice of your pleasure.

With every pump, each more erratic than the one before, you can sense Astarion losing more and more of himself in his frantic search for euphoria. When at last he finds it, cock twitching and pulsing against your walls as he spends himself inside you, you break apart again with a delighted cry. Your final thought as he fully empties into you is a question of how long it will be before you begin to grow round with his child.

When it is done, you lie panting beneath him, logic and reason beginning to clear your clouded mind. You become all too aware of his seed seeping out of you, and the dull pangs of pain in your punctured neck. How can you just accept all of this?

Astarion settles in beside you, and taking a tentative turn, you face him, eyes catching sight of the red trail trickling down from the corner of his mouth. Blood. Your blood. He casually wipes it away as if it were no more unusual than a little spilled wine. You shiver.

You know your shock must be written all over your face. “Come,” he says, and you listen, shifting your body closer to his and giving in to his gentle caresses. When he speaks again, his expression is soft, his voice smooth. You feel a touch more at ease.

“You were so, so brave for me tonight. You need not fear what I am, love. Besides—I need you mortal. Fertile.”

A deluge of questions and concerns flood your mind, and yet that last word sends a thrill through you that shakes you to your core, pushing your worries away. Already you want more of Astarion—you want him to cherish you, to worship your being, to bring you heaven again and again. You snuggle up against him, communicating your desire with a burning kiss.

You will ask for answers someday.

But not tonight.

+++

Astarion likes to watch you.

Never has he seen a lovelier creature. You sit smiling down at the sweet baby bundled in your arms, the swell of a second child already beginning to show even through the layers of your dress. You have done your duty so beautifully well. Like he always knew you would.

He decided he would have you the moment he saw you. So like a love he lost ages ago and yet her superior in every way. The defiance he recalled and resented had long been bred out of your line, replaced with a demurity and a domesticity that made you ideally suited to your purpose. You could not be any more perfect for him.

And so he made it his mission to make you his. No doubt he could simply charm you into bed, but it was not enough to make you want him. He had to make you need him. The fools in your family had already made much progress in that regard without his interference, but the pull of a string here and there ensured your desperation.

And of course he made every claim on you he could. He wedded you. He was the first and the only to bed you. And he impregnated you so very easily. It was like you were made to be bred. What better way to declare to the world that you are his and his alone?

Your beautiful brood of children will strengthen his reign, infiltrate and influence every powerful organization, spread the Ancunín name throughout the city and the whole world. And the nobility does like a lord to have his heirs—even if an immortal will never need a replacement.

He watches as you look up. You notice him and give him that pretty smile.

You have given him so much. Even love. In him you have awakened an affection he thought he might never feel again. That he did not even know he needed.

You complete him.

He smiles back at you.

There is only one claim left on you to make, one that will come years from now, when the time of child-bearing is behind you.

To make you his bride for all eternity.

Thank you for reading!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

#astarion smut #ascended astarion #astarion x reader #astarion fic #astarion x female reader #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #bg3 fic #bg3 smut #astarion bg3 #bg3 #my writing #my fics

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miammey · 1 month ago

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Everyone's just talking about how hot Lighter is, and yeah he's attractive, but he has such a painful story and barely anyone is mentioning it??? I haven't even finished all his hangout stuff yet, but already I can tell that he's still extremely troubled by what happened in his past.

During the film we watch with him he wasn't scared of the blood and gore, mainly since there wasn't as much as expected (and he wore his glasses so he wouldn't faint), but he was scared about what one of the characters did that caused a disaster, something he relates to in a sense, saying that even if he looked calm his hands were shaking. I wanted to tell him that he can stay and calm down all he wants, give him a more relaxing movie to watch free of charge, because to me he felt so uncomfortable after watching the movie because he didn't expect it to hit so close

And don't get me started on this man's physical injuries. He's covered in MASSIVE scars, realistically, if we were to map out how they got there, he would've nearly had his arm cut off or just be cut in half. He mentioned that another reason he wears sunglasses is because of an old injury, even tho it's basically already healed he just no longer feels comfortable going out without them. He mentioned his neck and legs weren't what they once were, and judging by his backstory that's mainly because he's always fighting. He's the type to strain himself to whatever extent necessary do get the task done

He also is just genuinely so attached to his gang and so scared of losing them, but even then he stays strong because others need him to. He also saw Caesar almost die, his leader and a good friend, and yet he stayed strong for Lucy. He goes off by himself to deal with things because he doesn't want to get others in the gang involved, and he's just so genuinely earnest. He's caring and awkward and bad at hiding it, but he's still that Champion, a position he takes pride in because it means he's succeeding at protecting his loved ones, something he failed to do in the past

Speaking of the past, back to him being self-sacrificing, he went into debt and basically signed his life away to pay it off after his group all died all to make sure their families were taken care of. He knew that businessmen were greedy and there's a good chance it would take decades for him to pay them off, if he ever would, but he still did it. He described himself as a zombie back then, and only until after he got comfortable with the gang did he break out of that state

I know people gawk over attractive characters, I can't say I don't as well at times, but every time he's on screen and anything even remotely seems to upset him I just wanna make him comfortable. He's relaxed, but not comfortable, and I don't think he's been comfortable for a very long time. He says everything's in the past, but I'm pretty sure he's still trying to convince himself of that, because what happened in his past had such a big impact on his future that it's still in the back of his mind day in and day out

#sorry I just like angst #and I love characters who make easy angst #I need to blend him #Miammey's Nonsense #zzz #zzzero #zenless zone zero #zzz lighter #lighter lorenz

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ms-demeanor · 8 months ago

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if we're like, showing graphs and stuff, this is the type that i think a lot of people on tumblr are thinking of when they think about the economy.

Only one third of people with family incomes below $50k spent less than their income each month. I would guess that a lot of people on tumblr who get aggro about this topic (and the vast majority of people on r/povertyfinance, who discuss this sort of thing a lot) fall into this earning category.

Real wage increases only matter if you got a raise (one third of workers got a raise last year, which means that 2/3rds didn't - included in the economic wellbeing report linked above). Whether or not rent is outpacing wages only matters if you're not going to be rent burdened (more than a third of renter households are cost burdened in every state and 12 million rental households spend more than half their income on rent). Employment rates lose a lot of meaning when you're working multiple jobs to make ends meet (the percentage of multiply employed workers was falling in the US from 1996 to the 2010s, when it plateaued, then it started rising slightly then collapsed in 2020 and has been rising steeply since then and it's too soon to tell if it's going to go back to the plateau or keep going up).

Four in ten adults in the US is carrying some level of medical debt (even people who are insured) and 60% of people with medical debt have cut back on food, clothes or household items; about 50% of people with medical debt have used up all their savings.

Tumblr is the broke people website and yeah, people who are working two jobs to afford $900 for one room and utilities in a three bedroom apartment are not going to feel great about the economy even if real wages are raising and inflation-adjusted rents are actually pretty stable. "The Rent is too Damn High" has been a meme for 14 years so, like, yeah. Even if it's pretty stable when adjusted for inflation it is stable and HIGH.

It's hard to feel good about the economy when you're spending the last few days of the pay period hoping nothing unexpected hits your account, and it's VERY frustrating to be told that the economy's doing well when you've had to start selling blood to buy groceries.

Sure, unemployment is low, that's neat. It's good that inflation has stabilized (it genuinely has; prices are not likely to fall back to pre-inflation rates and eventually you'll likely be paid enough to reach equilibrium, but a lot of people aren't there yet).

But, like, it costs eight thousand dollars a year out of pocket to keep my spouse alive. I'd guess that we've paid off about a third of the 40-ish thousands of dollars he's racked up since his heart attack. His medical debt is why I don't have a retirement plan beyond "I guess I'll die?" So talking about how good the economy is kind of feels like being chained in the bottom of a pit that is slowly filling with water while people on the surface talk about the fact that the rain is tapering off. Neat! That's good! But I can't really see it from where I'm standing.

Inflation really is getting better. My state just enacted a $20 minimum wage for fast food workers. The Biden administration has worked hard to reduce many kinds of healthcare costs. A lot of people have had significant portions of their student debt cancelled.

But a lot of people are still having trouble affording groceries and it doesn't seem helpful to say "your perception of the economy is decoupled from the reality of the economy" on the "can I get a few dollars for food today?" website.

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feefivefoe · 22 days ago

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Yandere Aventurine with a reader who technically owned him when he was a slave.

A nobody who has no real drive in life, who drifts from planet to planet surviving on their own otherworldly luck. Honestly, you don't remember the last time you lost a bet. It's as though fate reaches its hand out to you, personally.

So when you win another jaw-dropping amount of money in a seedy, falling apart at the seams casino, it's nothing new. You'll probably give half of it to the people assisting you before moving on. These types always get pissy when they lose their rigged bets, against all odds.

The man you won is another story.

You'd forgotten he was there, honestly.

His clothing makes you grimace. It looks to be more expensive than anything you've ever owned, yet tailored to be too tight, too flashy. It can't be comfortable.

And you didn't get the key to the collar around his neck, one head tilt from digging into his skin.

Ah, you're sure your 'friends' can make do with a third of your winnings, you'd best get this guy into something that wouldn't make you want to kill yourself.

For Kakavasha, the casualness with which you treat him has his head spinning. Any attempt to be subservient, to win your favor in the way he's used to, only has you cringing. Kneeling at your feet has you all but pleading for him to stand up.

He picks at the threads of the oversized hoodie you had picked out for him.

"Next planet, we'll find a place where you can pick out what you want. But the old guy is probably pissed that you aren't still with him, so we'd better skedaddle quick."

You'd like to free him, really. You consider dropping him off at a random destination, far away from this world, with enough credits to let him get by for a good while.

But you're also worried he'd just get snatched up again. That his unique features would attract the worst on that planet to shove him back into the slave trade. You don't hide it from him, face twisting while you promise that as soon as you found a place he'd be fine, you'd leave him there.

"Hell, if you want, you can just decide not to follow me at any point. I'm not gonna force you."

Maybe it's the way he's being treated as a person again, for the first time in what feels like forever, that has him refusing. Sure, you think his eyes are pretty. Who wouldn't? But you're not using them as a reason to deny his freedoms. He goes where he wants, when he wants. And returns to you at the end of the day, telling you about what he did.

So when he enters your hotel room, separate but next to his own, his blood runs cold at the group of individuals standing over your beaten, limp body.

The marking on his neck almost burns in contrast.

Aventurine is certain you died that day, a hole in his heart at yet another debt he can never pay back. He doesn't hate his life at the IPC, it gets him by. Honestly the way he lives now reminds him of you sometimes. Perhaps he inherited your luck on the day he was taken from you.

Meanwhile, it took you a bit to get back on your feet after the horrific beating you were given. Your attackers were probably sure you'd die from your injuries, but you were nothing if not fortunate.

Your heart aches for the blond slave you never saw again, but there wasn't much you could do. Other than hope his life turned out for the better. That he never came back on that day, out of all of them.

Checking the travel options that laid out in front of you, a hum slips out of your throat.

Well, you'd be amiss not to visit Penacony at least once in your life. Let's see what luck has in store for you this time.

#i write what i have brainrot for idk #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere aventurine #i don't like how this is written but eh #get it out of my head

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another-lost-mc · 2 months ago

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Mammon reaps the rewards of a certain arrangement he has with Lucifer.

THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS | Mammon x gn!Reader x Lucifer

Content Warnings: NSFW. Established Lucifer x Reader. Prompt: Lucifer gets cucked by Mammon (by invitation/with consent). Mammon-centric POV (unreliable narrator). Mentions of gambling. Some jealousy/possessiveness and self-deprecation/angst. Oral sex (Mammon and Reader receiving); nipple play, fingering/prep and penetrative sex (Reader receiving); implied masturbation; biting and marking; lowkey scent kink. 3.3k words no we're not going to talk about it

A/N: This is my contribution to the @ficsforgaza Kinktober event! Please check out the other fics and show the authors some love for their amazing work this month.

Sometimes it starts with a glance. A brief look across the dining room table or across the student council chambers at RAD. The weight of Lucifer’s gaze is its own unspoken question, an invitation and a challenge issued wordlessly in one fell swoop. Mammon can sense the anticipation that radiates off you as a promise of what’s to come once night falls, the decadent sins that ripple through your soul and overwhelm his senses like waves against the shore. Where denying Lucifer something is like a bad habit, denying you something you want goes against everything he believes in as your first. His brother’s arrogance and condescension makes his teeth ache with the urge to draw blood; the love and lust in your eyes when you look at him makes his heart race and his cock throb instead.

This little arrangement they have has no schedule. It's uncharacteristically impulsive, at least where Lucifer is concerned, and there's probably a complex set of circumstances when Lucifer offers Mammon an invitation to join. To partake. And to date, Mammon has never refused.

Tonight's offer catches the second-born completely by surprise. Mammon is at the casino when he feels the familiar bzzzt of his D.D.D. vibrating in his back pocket. The mountain of chips in front of him is a glorious sight; he’s been on a ruthless winning streak since he walked into the casino nearly three hours ago and he’s ecstatic with the fortune he’s earned so far.

Among the Devildom elite, it's a well-established fact that the only thing more entertaining than watching Mammon in the throes of a losing streak, making reckless bets and getting more riled up by each loss, is his unrivaled excitement and infectious luck when he wins. He's in his element in a place like this, and the Avatar of Greed lives up to his name when there's plenty of coin in his pocket. Gathered around the table where he has made himself comfortable this evening, there’s a large crowd surrounding the table, eager to witness the sight for themselves. demons hoping to challenge the Great Mammon with bets of their own for the smallest chance to take him down a peg or two. Some demons get close to him in hopes that his good luck will rub off on them too. Others are simply curious to see what else this promising night will bring if they stick around to find out.

There’s not much that would drag Mammon away from the promise of an exorbitant amount of Grimm that awaits him by the time the casino closes for the night. The money he’s won so far is already spoken for: the new seasonal launch at Majolish he wants to buy for himself (and for you), new detailing and mechanical upgrades for his precious car. Hell, he might even pay off some of his debts with what's left over just to get Lucifer off his ass about it for a change.

He doesn't think twice as he pulls out his D.D.D. and swipes his thumb across the screen, breath catching as he reads the brief message that awaits him. Mammon can’t tell whether Lucifer's words are meant to be a friendly invitation or an arrogant summons. Both possibilities irk him in ways he can’t explain, but Mammon blames it on poor timing as Lucifer's tempting yet sudden proposal threatens to derail what would otherwise be a very profitable evening.

Since the very beginning, you and Lucifer both assured him that he could participate at his leisure. He had no obligations to indulge their whims, no repercussions or hurt feelings if he refused.

(He has no doubt Lucifer might find a way to punish him for his refusal later, but that threat pales to your own disappointment that Mammon knows you have difficulty hiding from him at the best of times, and isn't something he ever wants to do - not if he can avoid it.)

Mammon shuffles the dice in his hand and glances at the waiting challengers seated at the table nearby and mulls over his options quickly. He can ignore the message - try to pretend he didn’t see it - and see where his rare lucky streak takes him. Or, he can return home earlier than planned and indulge in a little bit of sin of a different variety.

It's almost embarrassing how quickly his mind's made up because he’s already getting up from his seat, waving over an attendant to cash out his winnings while placating the disappointed crowd with bland, half-hearted apologies. What he realizes later, once he stops sulking about his wasted good luck by the time he drives home, is that you are, undeniably and without a doubt, the best prize he could've hoped for tonight.

Mammon has a vague idea of what to expect when he raps his knuckles roughly on the dark wood grain of Lucifer’s bedroom door. When he got home, he spared a few minutes to shower so the stench of the casino and countless faceless demons didn't cling to his skin like sweat. His white hair darkens in damp curls at the back of his neck, and a pair of loose sleep pants hang low on his hips. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt or underwear - he won’t be dressed long enough for it to matter. After the discomfort of pulling his tight denim jeans over his erection earlier, hard and cramped inside the thick and unyielding material as he swore and fumbled with his zipper, he’s glad for the loose fabric that brushes teasingly against his bare skin now.

There's a soft patter of footsteps before the door swings open. Inside the room is dark except for a few flickering candles and the light from the hallway that spills across your face, illuminating your dark, lust-blown eyes and mischievous smile when you see him.

His vision is still spotty as he adjusts to the drastic shift from light to dark when you pull him inside the room and push him against the door, effectively slamming it shut, and his sputtered greeting trails off into a sharp curse when you waste no time tugging his pants down his thighs as you fall gracefully to your knees. Your delighted hum as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock leaves him gasping; his fingers curl around the back of your head encouragingly as you flick over the slit and lap up the beads of pre-come before you bob your head, shallowly at first and then faster as your mouth stretches around him, while his hands guide your rhythm without pushing too forcefully.

His cock grazes the back of your throat, muffling your moans when you pull back teasingly to lave over the slit and lick the underside of his shaft just to swallow him down again. Your fingers curl around the base of his erection where your mouth can’t reach, pumping him with the same rhythm as your mouth sliding up and down his length, and it sends him spiraling towards his release. It’s fast and desperate and perfect. His own desire echoes in the wet, worshipful look in your eyes when you glance at him from beneath your lashes, the way your free hand strokes his hip and caresses his thigh and cups the warm, heavy weight of his balls as you urge him closer to the edge.

He can smell your own arousal permeating the air and knows it's probably staining the flimsy fabric of your underwear. He fantasizes about pushing aside the sticky fabric with his fingers - or perhaps ripping through it with his fangs - and then he finally comes with a hoarse shout, with the phantom taste of your cum on the tip of his tongue as he pants your name between deep, shuddering breaths. When he blinks the haze of his orgasm from his eyes, the sight of you kneeling at his feet and palming yourself through your clothes, lips dark and shiny with spit and eyes begging him for more, is nearly enough to completely unravel his self-control.

He lifts you into his arms and carries you effortlessly across the room before dropping you onto Lucifer’s oversized bed with a heated grin. You crawl up the mattress and lay back against the soft, dark sheets as he kneels on the edge of the bed and crawls over you, kicking off his pants and baring his fangs in a smirk. He's already half-hard eager for more; his cock hangs heavily between his legs, bobbing between his belly and your thighs as he positions himself over you, and smearing the first drops of his renewed arousal across your skin.

Subtle movement across the room catches Mammon’s eye, and he wonders how he nearly forgot Lucifer’s presence. It’s not unusual for Lucifer to observe quietly while Mammon takes you apart for his viewing pleasure. Mammon’s actually grateful for his brother’s silence most of the time because he can pretend it’s just the two of you, the way he would prefer, but this is the next best thing.

(He tells himself it’s not pathetic to crave these moments with you that he’s allowed to have, when the only other alternative is not having you at all.)

Mammon ignores the tall shadow in the periphery of his vision, with its sharp smirk and blood-red eyes, as he peels off your clothes, tugging off your shirt first followed by your sleep pants and underwear.

(Wet, just like he knew they would be).

He leans down and one slow, soft kiss turns into many, filthy and deep and all-consuming. The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of lips and tongues grazing each other, punctuated lightly by thready moans and contented sighs. He can taste a hint of blood when he sucks on your bottom lip with too much enthusiasm and kicks you with one of his fangs. He licks across the cut in apology before slowly sliding down your body, eager to make it up to you in other ways.

He drags his mouth along your jaw, nipping down the column of your throat and littering your neck and collarbone with red marks shaped like his mouth, indents of his teeth that are likely to bruise by tomorrow, and presses you into the sheets as he slowly eases down your body.

(He hopes the fresh spritz of citrusy cologne he applied before coming here overpowers the barely-there traces of spice and smoke from the cologne that Lucifer wears instead.)

Gooseflesh follows the trail of his greedy hands and mouth as he continues his ministrations. He flicks his tongue across your nipples and rubs your chest with his palms, smoothing his hands over the curve of your belly before easing them gently between your legs and prying them open so he can settle comfortably between them. One lube-slicked finger works you open, dipping inside with shallow thrusts, scissoring gently to stretch you wide enough to take his cock, and he exhales hotly between lazy kisses along the tops of your thighs. His eyes glance upward and drink in the delightful arch of your back as your legs gently lock him in place as he alternates pumping three thick fingers inside you with the devilish curl of his tongue so he can taste you too.

He could stay buried between your legs all night, knuckle-deep and mouthing at your arousal, but each moan and broken gasp of his name shoots through him from the tinted tips of his hair all the way to his toes, and it’s all he can do to control his own lust and resist the urge to rut against the bed. He might only come once more tonight, and he’ll be damned if he spills himself over Lucifer's thousand-count-sheets instead of inside you (where he belongs).

Usually when Mammon fucks you, he likes to see your face. The way your desire for him shines in your eyes, how your skin warms with sweat and flushes from his attention. He hoards all those reactions to think about later when he misses you and jerks off to the memory of your body pressed against his, opening up and falling apart like he’s the only one in the world that gets to see you like this.

As he holds himself above you, balancing his weight on his hands while he kneels between your legs, he glimpses your arm thrown across the mattress, fingers stretched out towards the corner of the room where Lucifer watches from the darkness. You haven't said his brother's name, but the silent plea is just as visceral, and Mammon tugs your hands above your head and pins both your wrists down firmly, but not enough to hurt. He growls deep in his chest, eyes narrowing slightly in warning, but you squirm beneath him helplessly, urging him to keep going. It turns you on when he gets a little jealous and no matter what he says or does, you know that he won’t hurt you.

For the first time tonight, Lucifer makes a noticeable sound at that little display - an amused huff of laughter that adds a hint of embarrassment and shame to the desire coiling deep inside of Mammon. He knows Lucifer can probably feel the indignant flicker of pride along with the waves of greed and lust that overwhelm him. It’s natural that their sins feed off each other - that’s part of what makes this so damn good for both of them. But when Mammon risks glancing at his brother for a moment and expects Lucifer is watching his display of jealous insecurity with an arrogant sneer, something like approval flickers in his crimson gaze instead.

The moment of pettiness and mutual understanding passes, and Mammon shakes his head and refocuses on the task at hand. He shushes you even as you wriggle your hips and rub yourself against him, trying to coax his cock, slick with lube and dribbles of pre-come, into your stretched and eager and very empty hole. The angle’s not quite right but the faintest bit of pressure of his tip catching the rim before slipping past, over and over as you whine and tremble in frustration, is enough to disperse all his self-deprecating thoughts so all he sees and hears and wants is you.

Your voice cracks pathetically when you beg him to please, please, please fuck you already, and he’s nearly undone by the sudden heat that envelops him when he digs his fingers into your hips and finally pushes inside, firm and deep in one smooth thrust. He holds himself steady even though every spark of white-hot pleasure ricocheting through his body is practically screaming for more, to take what you offer him so willingly and consume you until there's nothing left.

He waits patiently for you to adjust. His meticulous prep beforehand still doesn’t compare to the way he stretches you open with his cock. It’s a sight that leaves him breathless every time and he can't help but stare greedily, transfixed as he moves deeper inside you, inch by tantalizing inch, until he's fully seated and has claimed you for himself. Only when your trembling legs tighten around his waist and your nails dig deep into his shoulders and scratch down his back, giving him a dreamy smile and a nod, does he finally start to move.

He starts with a few tentative pumps of his hips but he has no patience for slow, drawn-out lovemaking tonight. It feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a knife with a lit fuse deep in his gut that’s already close to bursting. Usually he teases you with slow, languid strokes, alternating deep and shallow thrusts, drawing back and holding himself still before burying himself to the hilt over and over again.

Tonight there’s no no finesse, no tenderness, no teasing games to see which of you breaks first. His body moves with purpose, fueled by raw power and the lust that clouds his mind. He fucks you hard and deep, and he can’t hear the creaking springs of the mattress over the sharp thud of the headboard that bangs against the wall from the force of his movements. He leans forward and braces himself on his forearm so he can sneak the other hand between your bodies and stroke you clumsily with his fingers to help you finish when he does. He knows he’s not going to last long, not with the quick, rough snap of his hips as he fucks you.

(Lucifer's presence, still cloaked in shadow in the corner of the room, makes him feel more sensitive and exposed - but he senses his brother's own desperation as Lucifer's greed swells too, reverberating in the sin he knows so well, and part of him is grateful that they're both hurtling towards the edge of lust-fueled madness, together.)

When you come, it's with a shaky moan beneath him. The pulsing heat tightening around his cock sends Mammon hurtling towards his own release. He rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm with lazy, stuttered thrusts.

(A deep groan and a soft curse resonates briefly in Mammon's awareness, the only indication that Lucifer must've brought himself to orgasm watching you both fall apart in his bed.)

After fucking his cum back inside you, as deep as he can until he’s too sensitive and has to pull out, Mammon enjoys a brief sense of primal satisfaction that he’s left a trace of himself behind, one that’ll hopefully linger long after he’s gone for the night.

He kisses you again, gentle and sweet, and helps you settle on your side before getting up on wobbly legs to find something nearby he can wipe you clean with. He’s not completely surprised that Lucifer’s already approaching the bed with a warm cloth for each of you. Mammon who wipes his hands and the wet patch of hair around the base of his cock gingerly before using the other clean towel to wash carefully between your legs. Afterwards, he tosses both of them towards the laundry hamper nearby. It's a good effort, but a miss - the messily rolled-up cloths land on the carpeted floor with a wet little plop.

(He's worn out and his hands are still trembling slightly from the exertion, but he's not about to tell his brother that.)

Next, Mammon busies himself looking for his sleep pants among the rumpled pile of discarded clothes on the floor and wonders how Lucifer can still look so prim and proper in comparison. As he tugs his pants up over his legs, he looks closer at his older brother and feels vindicated that he's not nearly as unaffected as he pretends to be. There's a faint sheen of sweat beading along his brother’s hairline and greying temples, and a healthy pink flush colours his cheeks. The only hint that Lucifer lost control of himself at some point during the proceedings are his slacks that sit low on his slim waist, unbuttoned and unzipped, with a glimpse of silky black boxer briefs peeking out through the opening.

They don't exchange useless pleasantries at the door except for a murmured good night and Mammon's lazy wave over his shoulder as he spins around and waltzes back to his bedroom. He flops down in his own bed and breathes deeply, enjoying the tingly afterglow and scent of your arousal still wafting off his skin. He looks thoroughly fucked with sweat-slicked and messy hair from your fingers running through it. The bite mark in his left shoulder, your effort to muffle your cry when you came, and the scratches in his back sting and ache deliciously when he rolls around in his sheets and drifts off to sleep, weary and so utterly content.

(If he wears a sleeveless shirt tomorrow that shows off the crescent ring of teeth bruising his shoulder, it's no one's business but his own.)