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sugoi-writes · 7 months ago

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In Every Sense - Part 2 to Scent Kink!Alastor x Reader

It's heeeeerrreeee~ Here are some warnings: we get some internal monolgues of Alastor hopelessly trying to seduce you, oral (f!receiving), light man-handling, begging, and some really just... absolutely raunchy filth. Please enjoy~ (please note, this is still overwhelmingly inspired by @hazelfoureyes so please please GO READ HAZEL'S CONTENT. IM BEGGING YOU. ITS SO JUICY)

Right. Where was he? Oh yes... this mess.

Alastor straightened himself out quickly, mess of his clothing and floor included. Your clothes, however, were discarded to his bed... probably never to be washed again.

After he freshed up, his eyes scanned and paused in his armoire mid-search. His taloned hands brushed against a silk top... not one of his preferred fabrics, but one he could certainly pull off. His fingers danced on it a moment more, before deciding it was worth changing it up.

Black, lattice-patterned top and tailored, wine red trousers... simple, but classy, right? As he tossed around the idea of a belt, he decided to skip that step. It would make the process of settling between your sweat-covered thighs take an eternity too long. That is... if he didn't devour you first.

Alastor threw his casual fit together, opting to keep his pointed, black dress a part of the ensemble. But should he try boots...? Would that be too much? Maybe it would be easier to kick off...?

He wondered over to his personal liquor cabinet, pouring himself a whiskey. He needed to get a pep in his step and to still his rambling thoughts. Though he usually preferred to take things slower, savoring the bite of liquor on his tongue... He instead took it as a shot, hardly reacting to the harsh intake. His shoulders hunched, huffing as he turned to look in the mirror. How ridiculous he must've looked...

Hair disheveled... eyes half lidded. His hands were sweating, the loose blouse serving as a juxtaposition to his too-tight pants. Maybe his shirt should be tucked? No, that'd look stupid without a belt...

How strange it was for him to fret... at least, fret over impressing another person. Moreover, trying to impress someone he pined for. He almost loathed the way you made him feel, and how his core seemed to clench everytime you walked by... but, there was no room for doubt now: he would make you answer for his obsessions tonight. Surely you would take responsibility, wouldn't you...?

Alastor's head shook, before he opted to tuck half of his shirt in. He saw this often in modern fashion, targeting the front corner of the shirt to show off or bring attention to his thigh and... well-- downstairs.

He quirked a brow, intrigued with this look. It was... messy. Not the neat-and-narrow hes accustomed to. And in a way, he quite liked it. Maybe with the disheveled top, your eyes would be distracted enough to be drawn below the belt...?

Hah, what a pun. It doesn't work anymore if you don't have a belt, right?

Alastor chuckled, absolutely tickled by the thought. Alastor pulled out a wine-colored blazer, which perfectly complimented his pants. Can't be too prepared for the hellish night, right? He paused, walking over to your discarded top again for one final sniff; one final tease before the real thing. He shuddered at the thought, already feeling a light twitch coming from below.

With a resolute nod, he walks out from his room, heading towards the lobby. Maybe you would be retired for the night? Maybe he could catch you before your evening shower... He sought you out, his nose steering the way as his thoughts swam with visions of you. He would have you tonight, he thought, his hands summoning and twirling his microphone with a prideful flourish.

You hadn't known how it got to this point. You hadn't known how much liquor both you and Alastor had drunk, round for round... but, Alastor's plan managed to work. He caught up with you, just before you were retiring for the night... and now, you did manage to head to bed... just the wrong one.

You yelped as you were slammed against his bedroom door, hands flying to grip the collar of his shirt. The passion of his kiss made you weak, his own knees buckled. Your sounds mirrored the other's, hips rolling in tandem as the heat between your bodies danced and mingled with one another. Alastor was already getting carried away, hands grabbing at everything he could touch... your cheek, your ass, your waist... He needed more. He needed you to be absolutely bothered and sweating.

Alastor pulled away, licking a long, wet trail from your collar bone to your ear. You trembled as ghost-like kisses were placed along your jaw, pleased sigh his reward. Your head tilted back and to the side, allowing better access to the longing demon.

"Ahh-- Alastor!"

His name fell from your lips, bruised and hanging agape as your breath came out in labored puffs. Alastor groaned, eyelids fluttering as he inhaled once more. A shaky sigh soon followed, making your thighs clench together. He licked at the sweat that ran down your neck, swirling his tongue before kissing there again.

More... he needed more of this.

No words were exchanged as his lips wandered lower, your clothing coming down and off with his lecherous journey. You could only cradle and grab at his hair, trying to slow or stop his descent when he would kiss a particularly gratifying area... but your eyes widened as his kisses lingered on your lower abdomen. Your eyes met his candy apple reds, swirling with lust and intrigue.

"Mon cher, I simply cannot bear to wait... I must have you." He couldn't contain his raspy sigh as he took your pants off, sliding them down your trembling legs. You'd be lucky to have these clothes back after this night...

Once you were bare before him, he kissed at your mound, the smell of your hormones and sweat making his brow furrow with desire. His eyes nearly rolled back into his skull as you moaned, nodding feverishly," I-I... I don't-- fuck, Al... Don't stop..."

Al looked firmly at you, mouth hanging open, but not coming closer. You huffed, trembling as your cheeks flush.

"... Pl-please... keep going... I want this."

Alastor smiled up at you, toothy grin absolutely drunk with adoration as he lowered his head. He spread your legs apart, arms moving to lift you. You were pushed up until you sat upon his shoulders, suspended a few inches off the ground. You were shaking at the realization of how powerful he was; how easily he was able to sustain you with just his shoulders. It was a strength that made your abdominals clench in anticipation.

The moment his tongue ran up your slit, you saw the light, eyes widening from the feeling of his warm muscle. Alastor grunted as he started to gently lap at your core. Finally: something that distracted him from how divinely you smelt...

Now he had a new muse (and problem) to keep him up at night... the taste of your arousal.

Like a man starved, he began to lavish you earnestly, hands trapping your thighs around his head. He showed you no mercy as his tongue alternated between stimulating your clit and delving into your relaxed hole. You convulsed with his minstrations, one hand stabilizing you against the door while the other gripped an antler for deer dear life. You soon found your hips rolling into his face, his nose brushing your clit with every thrust. Your head collided with the door as your moans transformed into animalistic whines and huffs, unable to control the ravenous sounds he tore from you. Alastor wasnt any more refined, hungry like a tramp in heat.

His expression shook and strained with pure bliss as he took you in whole: touch, sight, sounds, scent, and taste. This truly was the thing that he needed most; to seek you in your entirety. He knew now that he needed to own your body by ways of physical desire and passion... something he only became keenly aware of recently.

Now, even if your soul would so pretty under his grasp... this seemed to outweigh that desire. This was the ultimate way to both have you, and for you to tie a metaphorical leash around his neck. He hadn't fully realized it, but he was completely and utterly yours, and after this display, you'd surely have him the same way...

His dignity be damned. You were too sweet to resist.

You held his fringe out of his face as Alastor groaned with every flick of his tongue, vibrations sending your nerves into overdrive. His movements, his reactions, and his blatant obsession with your scent had you seeing stars. You ground your face harder into Alastor's obedient tongue, forcing his inhales to be rapid and short. Had he breathed any harder, one would speculate he was panicking. But ahh, what a way to die again, but by your thighs and eager cunt...

"Sh-Shit-- Alastor I'm-- fuck, y-you're too-- Hah!"

Alastor's cock twitched and strained, unable to be freed as your noises grew in tempo and pitch: you were nearing your climax.

Yes.

Yes, cum on him; cum on his face.

He wanted to see your mouth hang open in a silent wail, riddled with ecstacy. He wanted to feel your legs snap his neck from the force of your grip. He wanted to taste the arousal on his tongue as it multiplied. And most importantly... he wanted to be fully engulfed in your scent as your cunt rode his tongue... At this rate, he would be making another mess tonight.

He would never wash his shirt again, aware of the cum dripping down onto the collar of his dress shirt... a notion that nearly made him squirm. Maybe he could convince you to let him keep your outfit, as a token of tonight's debauchery?

He had no more time to think as your orgasm overcame you. Both hands held his antlers as your frantically ground into his mouth, practically suffocating him as you sprayed his jaw with your release. Alastor could only take it, choking and sputtering but absolutely living in the moment. His eyes were fully rolled back, schelaras devoured by a deep, pitch color.

When oversensitivity started to make you quiver, you pulled away, utterly satisfied. Your hands went to smooth out Alastor's scrunched-up hair as he panted. You gave it a playful ruffle, apologetic for your behavior. You smile breathlessly down to the overwhelmed demon, about to thank him... Then, a shrill scream is ripped from your throat. Alastor's seering, hot tongue is on your clit again, hands digging in to the plush of your thighs.

"Mmph... more-- Please, let me have more, cher... need it-- need you!"

You whined as Alastor's pleas fell unto eager ears, head lolling. Alastor's tongue began to awaken a new vigor in you. You were more than happy to please the starved man below you... Maybe next time, you'd tie him up in your clothes, leaving him unable to do anything but take your passion, in every sense of the word...

#alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #alastor fanfic #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel fic #radio demon #alastor radio demon #ANYWAAAAAYYYYS hope this made you squirm too!#hahah... hah. i need an ice bath

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 months ago

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This is a 2002, $1.795M home in Eden Prairie, MN. It has 6bds, 6ba, and the Lady of the House went absolutely berserk with wall stencils. They are everywhere. $1.8M and it will cost thousands of dollars in paint to get rid of all the damned stencils. You gotta see this. And, of course, there will be the people who love to disagree with me and will say they love it.

We begin in a nice sunny great room with lots of light, a center fireplace and 2 lovely staircases.

Very nice.

And, then, after a trip to the craft store, stencil-mania is born. It begins in the lovely family room with a beautiful glass-enclosed fireplace and big sunny windows w/a view of the deck.

And, it naturally makes it's way into the dining room.

It's running thru the beautiful kitchen. This is lovely- I like the cooktop enclosure and the cabinetry.

Ahhhhh! It's in the half bath!

I'm sure the hubs said, "Don't you come into my office w/those things."

So, it progresses to this bath. I love the armoire and the sink cabinet. Very different.

And, it moves thru this bedroom, like the creeping crud.

Plus the en-suite.

Leave no stone unturned, not even the laundry room. The red is nice against the white.

I can't stop! Lemme get some of the upper landing.

Somebody stage an intervention! They're in the primary bedroom.

The lovely modern en-suite and the dressing room next to it. The cabinetry in this home is really very nice.

This blue guest room must be awaiting its turn.

But, the en-suite is done. I like the blue in here.

There's this room. Such a cute bedroom, too. I do like the contrast in this room. I would keep it.

And, this bedroom w/en-suite. It's all the gold I don't care for.

Also this main floor bedroom and en-suite.

Here's a bar- nice backsplash, and look at the pineapple mural on the fridge.

Then, I guess this is supposed to be a rec room, but they have it formally dressed with the obligatory stencils.

Nice wine cellar.

And, don't even THINK of stenciling the beautiful garage.

Lovely multiple decks in the back, plus a large patio with a fountain.

Gazebo- love that. 1.13 acre lot. I think they're selling, b/c there's nothing left to stencil.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/19115-Vogel-Farm-Trl-Eden-Prairie-MN-55347/58595641_zpid/?

#stenciled house #mc mansions #modern architecture #houses #house tours #home tour

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azsazz · 1 year ago

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Bloody Knuckles and the Songs of Death (Part 5)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Reader is everything that Azriel is not. Opposite feelings but equal death in the end.

AKA: Half a rewrite of chapters 43-47 of ACOWAR where reader is now there as part of the Autumn Court, excited to meet Azriel. The other half are my own ideas.

Warnings: Major themes of death and torture, ACOWAR spoilers (previous parts), blood, gore, mentions of abuse, (eventual) smut.

Word Count: 1,796

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part 3) (Part 4)

Notes: I forgot how much I bloody love this one 😉

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The alliance doesn’t start well.

Without your ability to assure the others that Beron will come around and join their forces, your word means nothing to the rest of the High Lords.

You’re shown to a room for the night, and are left alone. There’s a platter of food to graze from, sitting on the table. It’s filled with luscious looking fruits and hearty meats to match. There’s a shining bottle of Dawn’s finest wine and a pair of glasses sitting next to the silver platter, as if it were more than just you alone tonight in this larger than large suite.

It’s all well and fine for you, though, because you are finally away from the clutches of Beron.

As if he knows that you’re thinking of him, the hatred for the male that’s kept you prisoner for so many years, the bargain mark on your forearm begins burning in reminder. You tug up the sleeve of your deep chocolate leathers with a hiss, watching as the palm shaped burn mark flushes red with heat.

Beron always likes to assure his bargains with a handprint. You’ve seen enough of them to go around, even if the High Lord commanded to mark you in a place that could be easily concealed. Backs of necks, biceps, even the occasional palm print across a cheek are all of the marks you’ve seen made by the Autumn Lord.

Gritting your teeth, you snag the bottle and a couple of berries, eating them from your palm as you stride for the armoire. Slugging the bottle on one of the sweater-lined shelves, you strip the clothes from your body, breathing in a sigh of relief from the constricting leather. Your arm still burns with the remnants of your master’s reminder, as it always does, and you hope that the drink and the cool breeze of Dawn will sate your warm skin.

It’s not the burn you yearn for, that heat of a body beneath you while you wring their life in your hands.

The whisper of silk slides graciously across your skin, smooth and soft as you slip the nightdress over your head. The creamy lavender color matches the skies, you notice as you snag the bottle of wine by the neck and move towards the balcony.

Stuffing the rest of the berries in your mouth, you shove through the heavy wooden doors, pausing on the threshold as the dawn breeze blows the hair back from your face, caressing your hot cheeks.

You don’t know how you’re to convince the other High Lord’s that Beron will join their ranks, don’t know how Eris will convince his father of doing the same. They’re weary of you, that much is obvious, left behind in the wake of the royal family's disappearance like a stray pet.

They don’t know how true that statement is, you think as you glare down at the mark adorning your otherwise unmarked skin.

The cork of the wine pops with an ease that settles you some. You could only wish that it were the cracking of bones splitting through flesh, hot blood seeping between your fingertips, down your throat like you crave. Your body thrums with need, death calling to you like a lost lover.

You choke down a sip of the wine, hardly tasting it as you shove the thoughts from your mind. There was a reason Beron had enslaved you to him, trapped you beneath his will, because of your powers, your bloodthirsty nature. You sought blood and despair, missed the way it coats the back of your throat, embedding itself into the prints of your fingers and beneath the curve of your nails, the scent clinging to your body for days.

You itch.

The alcohol is a comforting burn as it goes down, warming your belly, but it will only continue to ignite that yearning within you.

There’s no chance to slip from the palace, lure someone into your bed, a peregryn perhaps. Surely one missing from this luxurious court would not be missed, or maybe, at the very least, they’d let you cut them open for a taste.

You won’t even kill them, you don’t think, wanting only to bathe in the feeling of a soul on the cusp of death, clinging desperately to life, teetering on that oh-so fine line. It’s the final moments that you crave. The threat of death that makes you feel alive.

You sigh, rubbing your eyes with your fists furiously, as if you’re trying to erase the thoughts from your mind. Your power roils, trying to slip out on the breeze that drifts by, but you lock it down tight, shoving the bottle to your lips again as you greedily drink it back.

“Careful now,” a voice startles from behind and you choke. “That bottle was sent for two.” Deep red wine spills from your chin as you whirl around, searching for the voice.

But there is only darkness…that is, until it shifts, the gravelly voice ripping through the silent night like a death knell. One that makes your spirit stir.

You’re entranced by the way Azriel emerges, as if made from the shadows themselves. His skin gleams beneath the rising moon and his golden eyes glow with fire in the dark. Night-blessed, you realize as he steps closer, darkness sliding from his skin as if he controls its icy tendrils himself.

“What are you doing here, shadowsinger?” you ask, keeping your voice level as you swipe the drink off your chin with your arm. Some has splashed down your front, making you look freckled with blood, the way it coats your lavender gown. You catch him staring.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He can tell himself it’s to spy for Rhysand all he wants but he knows it’s not true. He’s intrigued by you, wants to know more about your power and how you’d so easily stopped him from snapping Eris’ neck. How you’d slipped past his guard with no resistance and why your eyes lit up at the sight of his blood.

Azriel is drawn in a way that he can’t stop. Like blood to a heart or the sun to the moon. It’s dangerous, him being here, but he can hardly control his feet as they move closer to you, his body aches to be in your presence.

“What are you?” he asks, forcing himself to halt a few feet away from you. His wings are pulled taut behind his back, claws curved inward and backlit by the moon. They make him look like a prince of Hel, horned and handsome beyond belief.

You eye him wearily, even if you do have to crane your neck back so high it hurts to look up at his towering figure. You clench the bottle of wine tighter in your hands so they don’t reach out for him, to wipe that still gleaming bead of blood from his split lip.

“There is no name for what I am,” you answer simply, “And if there is, it isn’t one I have heard in a long time.”

The corner of his mouth pulls down in a frown and you watch eagerly as the wounded skin tugs. You don’t realize you’re licking your lips until his golden gaze flickers down to watch the motion.

You stifle the burning sensation creeping up your cheeks, taking another swig of the wine to wet your suddenly dry mouth.

He moves a step closer, and you follow in response. You can’t stop staring at each other, only a breath away from each other now, drawn together by an unknown force, cold and warm death meeting again after so long apart.

“Where did he find you?” he wonders, voice a whisper of shadow, as if he had not meant to speak it aloud.

“You think that the Night Court is the only court that holds a prison?” You purr, taking his hand in yours. Azriel does not pull away, if only because he understands how easily you can slip into his mind and wreck him…more than you already are, at least.

His heart aches in his chest but he likes it. Likes the way you caress his scars, looking at them as if they aren’t something to be embarrassed about. Your fingers are warm, and they feel delicious against his own, cold skin. He can see the way that your eyes light with fire as you stare at his torn knuckles and his throat bobs when you fix your gaze on his from lowered lashes, your pink tongue poking out to lap tentatively at his split skin.

It’s difficult not to react to the shiver that crawls down his spine.

Your hand around the neck of the bottle loosens as the taste of him bursts across your tongue. It’s shadowy freshness coats your mouth, awakens your soul as you swallow it down. His reflexes are quick, snatching up the bottle before it crashes to the ground. He necks the bottle back and you watch the bob of his throat as he drinks, a long line of red slowly dribbling down the tan skin of his neck. You shove closer to him. You want to lick it from his throat.

Your power flares, reaching out to him on a sharp exhale. There is no holding it back.

“Deep beneath the oldest oak in Autumn, buried beneath centuries of roots and earth, there is a prison,” your voice is soft, caressing his wet skin, and his breath is trapped in his throat. His fingers don’t twitch to reach for Truth-Teller, instead he wants to reach out, brush the hair from your face, slide his hand behind your neck, and tug you into him roughly, pressing your burning body flush to his night-cold one.

“I saw the way you looked,” he says hoarsely, as if he’s straining to keep whatever darkness lurks within him, clawing its way out to you, at bay. “When Feyre held Beron hostage with her power. That look in your eyes…you’re no longer a prisoner beneath the Oaks, but prisoner to him now, aren’t you?”

You swallow roughly. A curt nod is all you can muster in response.

“You want him dead?” Azriel asks, golden eyes pinning you beneath his stare.

“Yes,” you admit, voice so quiet as if the wind itself will carry your admission all the way to Autumn.

The sweep of his feathery hair brushes your brow as he leans in. Your heart leaps in your chest as if trying to rip its way out of your body to meet his as he lowers himself flush, hot against your frozen body.

His answer is a promise of death, tingling against your lips as he draws himself down to you.

“So be it.”

#azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel/reader #azriel angst

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huramuna · 1 year ago

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the calico bastard - chapter 2.

aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) previous part | next part

summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.

warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter.

wordcount: 2.3k

a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!

wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE

Ser Daunton knocked on the door, “Your grace, your… serving girl is ready.”

Alysanne shuffled next to him, settling down the errant puff of her dress. Once, twice, thrice.

“Enter,” Aemond’s voice rang out from behind the chamber door, “Only her— thank you, Ser Daunton.”

The grizzled soldier gave an almost imperceptible sigh, looking at Alysanne. “Good luck, lass.” he spoke quietly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in almost an apology.

She took a deep inhale of air, nodding her head. She pushed in the heavy oak door, struggling slightly. The old hinges shrieked, begging to be oiled or tended to— it's how most things in Harrenhal fared. Screaming for care, for more than desolation and decay.

But that was a part of the curse of the castle, wasn’t it?

She closed it behind her, not daring yet to look in the room. It was warm, the soft crackling of a fire were the only sounds in the room— besides a tapping. An errant drumming, as if in impatience.

It was Aemond, knocking his forefinger and middle on the wooden arm of the chair facing the fire. The taps seemed to time with the rising beat of Alysanne’s heart.

“Well? Are you going to stand there all eve, girl? Or mayhaps, do your job.” he said, a tinge of agitation.

She hummed a nervous agreement, walking to the armoire, where she grabbed a decanter of wine and a goblet.

The red liquid poured and poured until it reached the rim of the goblet, to which she presented to Aemond. She didn’t dare look at his face, her eyes downcast at some imperceptible point, wide and unfocused.

Despite her best efforts to not look directly at him, she saw the corners of his mouth, which usually rested in a smug grin— not out of happiness or glee, but perhaps superiority— twist into something of amusement.

Amusement— amusement? Why was he amused? Surely nothing was funny. Mayhaps she looked humorous to him.

“Have you ever poured wine before?” he asked then, taking the goblet from her with one swift movement, sipping from it.

She shook her head, looking at the cup— it was practically overflowing. “No.” she answered, squeezing her hands together, the nail of her thumb sinking into the soft flesh of her palm.

“That is quite obvious— you should never fill it to the top,” he said, perking a brow, “Unless, you’re my brother, of course.” he added, almost as an afterthought. Something that earned a half-hearted sniff from him, as if he couldn’t even laugh at his own joke.

Alysanne’s eyes came up further now, landing on the soft curve of his lips and the cleft of his chin— she didn’t make eye contact, but was coming increasingly closer to doing so.

“I will keep that in mind, my grace,” she murmured.

He stopped, putting the goblet aside, “It's ‘your grace’,” he corrected.

“… your grace,” she parroted, sinking her nails deeper into her palm. She felt her chest heat up in a familiar feeling— embarrassment.

“I can’t fault you— your father must’ve not taught you a thing,” he continued, leaning back in the chair, “Do you even know how to read, hm?”

She puffed out her lip indignantly, “Yes— I know how to read,” her voice taking a dangerous edge. She caught herself, biting down on her cheek, “your grace.”

Aemond shifted, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “Look at me.” he asked, commanded, rather.

Alysanne bit into her cheek until she tasted blood, lifting her head shakily. She hated looking people in the eyes— it was too vulnerable, as if she were a sheep showing the soft of their belly to a wolf. It felt as if they could read her thoughts and use them against her, as if her own sight was weaponized against her.

Their gazes finally met, violet eye to violet eye— Alysanne felt her heart stop, clenching as if an icy fist was closing around it. But then it stopped, her chest stilling as she zeroed in on his lone eye– she thought it quite curious, they had the same shade of violet. It was the color of a sun bleached lavender flower, piercing.

He had put his eyepatch back on, as well, his sapphire gem eye no longer on display like it had been in the courtyard. Her eyes glazed over the jagged scar jutting above and down his otherwise smooth face. She felt her eyebrows knit in a slight confusion.

“I don’t wish to scare you— or any lady, for that matter,” he said then, his voice taking on a softer tone– a soft voiced dragon is still a dragon, the fire quelled to ashes for a moment or two– the right corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

She caught that, too. People may think her to be simpleminded and dimwitted, and mayhaps she was in some ways, but she noticed things that other people did not. She knew when to watch without being watched herself.

“You shan’t scare me,” she replied, her hands finally unclasping, “I’ve seen much and more horrid things than a sapphire eye.”

Another twitch of his mouth, and an impalpable, brief knit of his brow, “Hm.” he hummed, taking another sip of the overfilled wine glass with one hand, his other resuming its tapping on the arm of the chair.

She looked away for a moment, taking in the decor and surroundings of the room– this was Lord Simon’s room previously– but his things had been cleared out quickly. But she still felt his ghost, wheezing and coughing as he usually did.

When she turned back to Aemond, his hand was extended– he was offering her… the wine glass? Her brow furrowed.

“I won’t drink this by myself, you poured enough for two people– so you shall reap the consequences of your mistake, hm?” he hummed again, “It isn’t bad wine, I will give the Strong lord that much.”

She stepped backwards, as if remembering that she was too close. “I don’t drink wine– it's an unfit… privilege for someone like me,” she grumbled, giving a half-hearted excuse. The truth was, she had never had even a drop before. As far as vices went, she was more inclined to consume sugary treats rather than alcohol, which to her experience, made people act like moldering fools.

“Come, drink. Drink to the health of the King, or mayhaps the memory of Ser Simon, your kin, was he not?”

Alysanne ground her teeth together, staring an indignant stare right into Aemond’s remaining eye. She took the goblet, moreso, snatched it– and took a sip, a rather big one. She had expected it to taste like the juice of sweet fruits, perhaps like the runny filling of a cherry pie, or a compote of blueberry and raspberry. She regret her choice right away, her body screaming at her to expel the disgustingly tart and acrid liquid.

This seemed to amuse the prince, the corner of his eye crinkling in mirth, “You want to spit it out, don’t you?”

She nodded vehemently, begging for silent permission to retch the imbibement from her mouth.

“Swallow.” was all he said.

She glared at him, feeling as if her eyes were bulging out of her head, her throat was burning from keeping it in her mouth, the sting of the alcohol worming its way into any nook and crevice it could find. She shook her head in disagreement.

“Swallow.” he said again, standing up now. His form towered over her, even more so than before, their difference in height about a foot.

Reluctantly, she did so– the soft of her throat bobbing as she swallowed the wine. She felt sick to her stomach, backing up farther away from him. “Y-you suffocate me, too close, too close,” she grumbled under her breath, inhaling and exhaling to try to quell the unease rising in her body.

And yet, he didn’t relent– he stepped closer, until her heels were being warmed by the flames in the hearth, her back pressed to the chiseled stone. He loomed over her like an oppressive force, stealing the oxygen from her lungs, growing his own fire by stamping hers out. “Do I scare you, bastard?” he asked then, his breath warm and tinged with the scent of the wine, as was hers. His arms boxed her in against the fireplace.

“You’re too close, dragon– do not touch me,” she hissed, “Why do you insist on snuffing out my flame?”

Then, his hand went to her face, encapsulating her chin and jaw with just one palm. He was speaking– something garbled and unintelligible. Her eyes glazed over as the sounds of the fire faded, the blood rushing to her ears. The sides of her vision blackened for a few moments– before flashing images came over her.

“You’ve lived too long, uncle.” Aemond spoke, mounting Vhagar with practiced ease.

“On that, we agree.” Daemon responded, already saddled on his bloodwyrm, the ancestral sword Dark Sister strapped at his side.

It was all gnashing teeth and flames spewing, the cries of dragon, both human and not, echoing. They were in the sky, over the expanse of the God’s Eye, locked in a battle of claws and scales.

The straps, the straps– Aemond, Aemond, the straps– Alysanne felt herself screaming– why was she screaming? Why was she here? Why did she care about their fate? Why– Aemond, unstrap yourself–

Her cries felt like wails into the void, like shrieking underwater and not hearing a thing– Daemon was already unstrapped from the saddle, he was ready, positioning himself for a strike.

Aemond saw what Alysanne saw, too late– he was fumbling with his own rigging, undoing the leather bindings of the saddle, and when realizing that wouldn’t work, he reached for his sword– too late. Too late.

Dark Sister plunged through his eye– his sapphire eye, the sharp tip of the blade coming out of the back of his head, his sickly screams snapping to an end, in a synchronization with his dragon, the mighty and ancient Vhagar, named after a God– all four of them plunged into the depths of the God’s Eye, sinking down, down…

Alysanne closed her eyes, opening them in succession once more, blinking once, twice, thrice– she was back in Harrenhal, back against the hearth. Aemond, who was still very much alive and not skewered through the head, was looking at her, or through her– his brow furrowed in concern. Concern? Yes, surely, concern– and not the concern of a dragon– but mayhaps a person.

A person who had seen something before like this. He was murmuring something, not realizing that she had regained consciousness.

“Helaena… Helaena…” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Helaena.”

Helaena? His queen sister, Helaena? Alysanne had heard of her before– of course, how could she not– The eccentric and odd queen, a fascination with bugs– now grief stricken and unresponsive after witnessing the murder of her son, Jaehaerys. They say that Helaena always muttered to herself, incomprehensible rhythms, poems– it did sound quite familiar, didn’t it?

Alysanne forced herself to let out an audible sigh, as if to snap out the prince from his reverie– to act as if she had just woken up. She felt like she had witnessed something she shouldn’t have– a moment of vulnerability from him when he thought no one was looking.

She felt his posture go stiff and rigid, his breath blowing atop her head through flared nostrils. “Can you stand?” he asked, his steelheart grip on her not relenting just yet.

“... think so,” she murmured, looking to that far-off point once again, trying to detach herself from the situation.

He then let her go, slowly, steadying her for a moment to make sure she wouldn’t fall over like a broken doll– before stepping back, back, back to the far end of the room.

His hand was at his chin, the other at the side of his head, the scarred side. His fingers were looped under the strap of his eyepatch. His jaw was set in a rigid line, his knuckles turning white from exertion, a vein popping at the side of his head– the unmistakable image of pain.

Not just an emotional pain, but a physical pain.

“... you’re in pain.” Alysanne murmured, forgetting herself, forgetting the situation– forgetting who she was– all she could see was his pain, not just now, but in her vision– or mayhaps, her delusion– the heartwrenching, stomach churning wail of Aemond as Dark Sister pierced his skull–

A small fraction of that affliction haunted him now. At her voice, he turned to her, his lip twitching more, just like before. He looked like the cornered animal now– even though she wasn’t in closer proximity– his violet eye narrowed to what looked like a slit. He was the very image of an animal with a broken leg, snapping and gnashing at those who got close.

“Leave. Now.” he grit out, his hand now clawing at his eyepatch to take it off, “LEAVE.”

Alysanne didn’t wish to test him any longer– a cornered animal would bite, and he was on that verge. She picked up her skirts and promptly left, bursting through the heavy wooden door and slamming it behind her, most likely waking the ghosts that flitted through the halls.

Only when she reached her room– her closet– she took a breath, ripping the corset and kirtle from her body, leaving her in the silken shift. Her hands worked doubletime to unbraid her hair and let it flow down in waves before her fingers sank into the tresses at her scalp, gripping tightly, attempting to ground herself in reality and not spin out of control.

What had just happened? What exactly did she see? When would this happen?

And what could she do to stop it?

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