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thekinslayed · 11 months ago

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Humble Servant

summary | Working under the service of king Aemond Targaryen, you were eager to attend to his every need.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x servant!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! oral (m), heavy voyeurism, unprotected sex, aemond is in his medieval fuckboy era, squirting, book!aemond-leaning, oral (f), KING AEMOND 😮‍💨

wordcount | 4.2k

note | trying to fight thru the writer's block but this writer's block got hands 😵‍💫 but it won't stope me from being at the forefront of the Aemond's Got Bitches agenda!!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider graphic is from this website)

As the smoke cleared at the end of the dragons’ dance, Aemond the Kinslayer emerged as the sole victor of the tumultuous war. A brother scarred and poisoned, a half-sister eaten alive, a mother driven to madness. It was clear that the Iron Throne was his to claim. None else was suited for it more than he. His prowess was proven, his wit unmatched, and his dragon indestructible. The one-eyed Targaryen managed to subdue the ravenous Wolf, had the Sea Snake sue for peace before driving his sword through his heart, and sent the pretender’s younglings to forge their chains at the Citadel. With no other forces questioning his claim, Aemond One-Eye made himself King.

No other Targaryen had come into this much power since Maegor the Cruel, though history would find it befitting for such a cycle to propagate with him.

You were there for it all. From the taking of little Jaehaerys’ head, the return of a burnt king, to the fall of King’s Landing, you were there. The history books would not write your name down in its pages, no, you held no part in it. You were merely a shadow, a humble servant whose head hung low in the presence of nobility. It had always been this way, and it always will be.

It was a curious thing, wasn’t it? The better part of your lowly life had been spent in the Keep’s walls, just like any other royal, yet you were as significant as a fly on the wall of their lavish tapestries. Where they feasted on the finest game and freshest berries, you ate what was left on their plates, bones and all. Though despite it all, you dared not question your station.

Any semblance of importance to your name came when you had been tasked with attending to the king’s chambers. The first steps you had taken towards the royal apartments made your tummy feel fluttery, nerves jittery with a rambling agitation.

Despite his status and authority, there was little fuss under the new king’s service. He was clean, tidy, a man of good manners. Aemond let his servants do his work when needed, spending most of his time out of his chambers anyway. And on the off-chance you managed to be in the same vicinity, he would only spare you as little as a blink, or a low grumble of instruction. You were invisible, while he was the center around which your day revolved. Such was the order of things.

It had become customary to keep your head low and your hands busy despite the king’s presence. Be it while he supped, read, or entertained his lady guests.

The one-eyed king, once a prince, used to be such a stickler for propriety. While Aegon II was known for his ways of women and wine, Aemond was of honor and pride. Such things were beneath him. Until he became king.

With the heavy steel crown seated upon his brow, he’d let himself indulge. Many a woman was invited to warm his bed, be it a servant, a noblewoman… or a bastard witch, according to some. With his power came his freedom from inhibition and the caging rigidity of his self-control. With his glory, Aemond Targaryen had become gluttonous for the ways of the flesh.

“Keep movin’, lass,” Magda grumbled, balancing a hot bucket of water on her hip. This was the last trip of waddling up the stairs to Maegor’s Holdfast for the night, heaving pails for the king’s bath. He liked them particularly hot, fresh off the boil with steam billowing off the copper tub. You, Magda, and two other girls made haste to finish your work, equally eager to be done for the day and to escape the loud thumping coming from the king’s private bedchamber.

“This one’s a loud one, ain’t she?” brown-eyed Ilya snickered, busy with pouring Dornish herbal scented oils into the steaming bath. High-pitched oh, oh, oh!’s sang in rhythm with the bedframe’s pounding, echoed by an occasional deep groan that penetrated through the wooden doors separating the solar and the bedchamber. The lady’s voice only grew higher in pitch, like a wolf howling into the night. This must be the red-haired Tully you passed in the halls, or the Lannister from the feast, you weren’t sure.

“Must be getting fuckin’ ripped in half,” said a grumpy Magda, clutching her back as she bent to pick up her pail. Her words pulled a giggle from the girls, who continued their work as usual. You weren’t particularly unbothered like the rest of them, with the hairs on your neck raised from such a scandalous predicament. You strained your ear to hear more of the deeper, manlier grunts mixed into the elevated moans, cheeks steadily warming when you did. It made your gut feel swarmed by something inexplicable, your fingers tingly. You wondered what could it be that made the lady scream so loud in the king’s bed. Jon the stable boy certainly hadn’t made you howl as such on that one regretful night, with both of you dazed from many cups of mead. It was no passionate affair, rather, a blind stumbling in the darkness that ended with both of you rolling in the hay. Sure, it was alright, but it didn’t make you cry out like a banshee. It made you curious.

With the last pail of water tipped into the tub, you followed the other servants out of the king’s solar. As the door behind you closed, you heard another one open, and it had taken all of your might to keep your head from turning to catch a peek at the silver-haired man.

You really thought yourself better, immune to it all, but you just couldn’t help yourself. Being at an arm’s width of the king’s proclivities had started to bother you, made your blood run hot the moment you stepped foot into his door. It had you seeing him in a different light. His scar and threatening aura may have once frightened you, but it allured you now. With his silky, waist-length hair and that trim waist, he was beautiful in ways that made you question whether he was a real being, or rather one of the Valyrian gods come down on to soil. His prolific skill with a sword was now written into song, but his strength in other endeavors was starting to make itself known. He must be one hell of a man to have all these women singing their songs of pleasure every night in his bed, and your curiosity had grown into a towering beast impossible to endure.

Maegor’s tunnels were less of a secret than the Targaryens ought it to be. The silver-haired royals weren’t the only ones wary of the passage, some servants and staff alike were privy to the winding paths that led to the ins and outs of the Keep. Years of work had granted you such knowledge, and on one restless night, you found yourself taking the sharp corners that led to the royal chambers. You had been dismissed for the day only an hour past, but an itch in your heel had you turning around and slipping into the dark passageways before anyone could see.

It seemed you were not the first to find yourself in such a place, evident by the holes poked into the thin plaster of the king’s bedroom walls, somewhere in between the ornate carvings of his bedframe’s headboard. Some other invisible soul had stood where you did now, curious for a single peek.

These might have been from Aegon II’s time, or Jaehaerys’. Certainly not Viserys I’s.

You couldn’t tell if it was the red-haired Tully girl or the golden Lannister. Your position granted you only a view of her lower half, and in between her thighs, was a head of silver hair. The girl was squirming like a worm on his bed, legs messing the linens you had smoothed out just this morn while a hand gripped his silver tresses.

“What did I say?” you heard the king speak. Just barely, with his face still buried in her cunt. The grip on his hair was released, dainty hand disappeared into the periphery to presumably grab onto the sheets instead.

He didn’t like his hair touched. What a shame.

The sight was utterly debauched. Silver tresses swayed as he nodded his head to run his tongue down her slit, which pleased the woman, evident from the mewl that echoed through the night air. Her sounds could equal that of a mistress in the Streets of Silk, and you wondered how a proper lady could know how to moan like that.

You could see his cheeks hollow and relax rhythmically as he sucked, and sucked. Something in your belly flipped in a fluster, and your core started to tingle, as though you could feel the phantom licks of the hot, wet muscle prodding into your center. Despite better judgment, you stayed stuck on your feet, thighs starting to rub together the longer you watched.

Supple thighs turned dimpled in his large palms. For a second, you could almost feel its warmth, trailing from the back of your thighs to wrapping around the span of your neck. The ache in your cunt was slowly becoming too much to bear, tears of slick leaving your skin damp with need. You clenched your skirts in your fists, fighting back the urge to lead them to your heat.

The lady was humping the king’s face now, and my, what a sight it was. His aquiline nose would surely make for a good seat to slide your nubbin on back and forth. Gods, what a lucky woman. You haven’t even caught a glimpse of his handsome face once, still ardent in his efforts to devour her whole.

You caught the way his fingers replaced where his tongue had been, his focus shifting onto her pearl. This drove the lady to near madness, her voice rising just as the other one did. With his hand steadily scissoring in and out of her, thumb drawing circles on her pearl, the one-eyed king straightened to his full height. It was then a gasp that escaped your lips before you could stop it, but remained unheard against other sounds of the night.

His cock stood erect in attention, flushed red in the amber glow of the candlelit room. It slapped against his taut, sculpted abdomen. He was chiseled in places you hadn’t seen any other man could be. Striated, sinewy muscles that flexed with every movement.

By the Seven, this man was a god.

Your knees nearly buckled the moment he grabbed hold of his cock. His stroking was soft compared to the erratic thrusting of his other hand into the woman’s cunt. Her hips lifted off the mattress and her back arched like a cat. Mewls were turning into sobs as she teetered on something tremendous. Your palms were sweaty, as was the back of your neck, and your chest started to heave beside your comprehension. What was he doing to her? She sounded like a woman possessed. It was clear he had an intent for his sheer intensity.

The answer came in a shower of clear liquid coming from her core, splattering on his muscled abdomen. The king looked as triumphant as he did in battle, an egotistic smirk dimpling his elegant face. Your eyes widened in shock. Never have you experienced something like that, or have even heard of it. This man might be an actual sorcerer… or a god.

“That’s a good girl,” he praised her. His low drawl buzzed straight into your gut, and the unanswered tingle in your own cunny had become impossible to ignore. With the image of what you had just witnessed fresh in your memory, you scurried down the steps back to the servant’s quarters.

The ache in your arm come the morrow would hinder your scrubbing of stone tile, but your desire would be temporarily satiated… multiple times.

Huffing, you dusted the last of the king’s books on his shelves. You moved to wipe down the various items around the chambers— dragon figures, the brass Seven-Pointed Star by the windowsill, keepsakes that held slivers of who he was. You made quick work of starting the fire next, he would want the hearth going by the time he supped. As you kneeled before the fireplace, throwing in the fresh-cut wood the woodsman had brought in, the door to the royal solar slammed open.

An angry king storming into the room had you by surprise, jolting straight to your feet to give an ungraceful curtsy. Your heart hammered thunderously at such a sudden startlement, though it failed to cease at the realization of being held alone with the one-eyed king. He eyed your trembling form, a lone gaze so sharp that it rendered you unable to hold your chin up.

“Y-your grace,” you stuttered, tongue slippery with nerves. “I-I am starting on the fire, my king. It would only be just a moment.”

With a mere grunt and a wave of his hand, king Aemond left you to do your work. He was grumbling under his breath, small fragments like ‘lot of fools’ and ‘insipid questioning’ barely audible to your ear. You suspected the discussion with the Small Council hadn’t gone well. It only took little to subject the king to anger, this you learned in your time under his service. What may ticked him off could have been something of such little consequence, though, with His Grace, it never was.

With a fire successfully ignited, a pleasant warmth began to spread into the space. Satisfied, you lifted yourself off your knees, brushing the flecks of ash from your skirts. You would have to clean that come morn.

Having completed all the work needed before supper, you quickly gathered your basket of items, willing yourself to ignore the man sat with his legs splayed open as he pored over the newest parchments. After heaving the bin onto your hip, you turned to leave with another respectful bow.

“Wait,” he suddenly spoke, stopping you in your tracks.

Wide-eyed, you swiftly turned to look at the silver-haired Targaryen, whose good eye was now lifted from the letter and, oddly enough, directed onto you.

“My king?” you asked. “Was there anything else I may do for you?”

He was silent for a moment, calculating gaze merely stared back at you. The tips of your ears warmed in an instant under the foreign light of his attention. You swore you saw the corner of his lips lifting, but it returned to his feline pout in a blink.

“You forgot something.”

His words caught you in a stupor. You looked at him in confusion, unsure of what he meant. It didn’t help that he looked utterly ravishing with the embroidered leather doublet he wore. He looked the best in black.

His good eye glanced to the floor at the dirtied rag left at the foot of the table, the realization hitting you embarrassingly late. “Oh! Forgive me,” you expressed, quickly placing your basket back onto the floor to grab the forgotten cloth. Your skin prickled when his eye followed your every step, staring as you bent over to retrieve the rag.

“How long have you been a servant of mine, girl?” he asked, taking you again by surprise.

“Since the coronation, your grace,” you answered, gripping the fabric tight as you forced yourself to keep your composure in your king’s presence. Aemond merely hummed in response.

“You must know all of what I need then? What pleases me and what does not? It is the least I expect for someone serving me for this long,” he questioned, tilting his head with a raised brow. You nodded your head meekly, the entirety of your face warming, though clearly not caused by the fire.

“Magda has taught us well, your grace. Whatever else you require of me I shall be happy to fulfill,” you informed him, an eager glint in your eye that earned you another hum from your king.

“Good,” he said. “On your knees then.”

Your mouth gaped like a fish, caught in shock at the sudden command. Incoherent stammers were your only response, baffled mind unable to make sense of such progression. “Your grace? I—“

“You asked me what I require of you. Would you deny your king of his needs? I do not like repeating myself, girl.”

Dropping the cloth back to the floor, you made your way in between his thighs, descending onto your knees. You stared, wide-eyed like a doe, as he studied you under the tip of his nose. Long, wispy lashes moved with his every blink and it was then you realized the gods may have some pity on you after all. The cheap linen of your skirts was crumpled into your sweaty fists, breath shuddering when he started to pull on the laces of his breeches. Time moved all too slowly. The thumping in your chest started back up while you waited in anticipation.

The breath hitched in your throat couldn’t be helped when his large, calloused hand pulled out his cock. It was pretty, even more appealing up close despite still being half-mast. With a hold on his base, Aemond nodded his head at you in urging.

Gulping down your nerves, you took his slowly hardening tip into your mouth. He had a certain taste about him, a slight saltiness, perhaps bitterness, but hardly unpleasant. Slow, steady bobs of your head stiffened his length into full arousal. From his pubic bone, Aemond’s hand traveled to the coif on the top of your head, pulling the linen away. Freed locks cascaded over your back, a warmth settling on your occiput as your king gently guided you up and down his shaft. You hollowed your cheeks when you took all of him in, earning a good grunt from your king.

“Must not be the first cock you sucked, then?” he mentioned, smooth voice taking on a rasp. With your mouth full, you could only look at him under your lashes. Surely, the king had no intent to hear about young Henry and the afternoons you spent messing about in his father’s shed back home. You may be out of practice, but you were eager to please.

The reason for his sudden interest baffled you. Had you known, you would have taken the time to make yourself presentable. You were coated with a sheen of sweat after having worked all day, your clothes were a mess, and Hells, you hadn’t so much washed the parts that needed to be washed!

Your bobbing soon took up a faster pace. You kept your hands still glued to yourself despite wanting to grasp at his muscular thighs, barely remembering his preference from the other night past. He seemed to be pleased, much to your delight, with his head thrown back over the edge of his seat and his good eye closed shut. Filled with renewed courage, you directed your tongue back to his tip, while your hand stroked the rest of his shaft. The sounds you have yearned to hear soon floated into your ear, soft grunts leaving his grace’s lips. A particularly ardent lick over his cockhead had his length twitching in your hold. It filled you with pride, as well as a budding desire bubbling in your tummy. There was no doubt your cunny would be wet with slick if one took a peek. It had started shedding its tears of arousal the moment your knees hit the floor.

All too sudden, the one-eyed king pulled you off his cock, ordering you to lose your smallclothes. You had done so in haste, nimble fingers tugging on the ribbons before he hoisted you onto his lap. From then on, you were at his mercy. He speared you onto his cock with no hesitation, bouncing you up and down swiftly. There was no moment spared for you to relish in the sensation of your king breaching your walls, though you found you had little complaints.

You were starting to understand how he had all those women crying out for him in his bed. He was all-consuming, ravishing every bit of you until you were reduced to nothing but putty. He rendered you witless, out of body. You moved by his accord, rode him the way he liked. Before you knew it, lewd sounds soon began to spill from your lips, sounds you had never heard yourself let out.

“M-my king…” you mewled.

“Wet like the fucking whore you are,” Aemond groaned, delivering a smack to your rear that made you squeal.

With his face closer to you than it ever will be for the rest of your life, the urge for a kiss couldn’t be helped. You dipped your head to chase his lips, but he turned his head to the side with a grunt. Firm hands soon pulled you off his lap, turning you around.

The new position had his cock reaching even deeper into your walls. You held onto the armrests of the seat for dear life, struggling to keep up with the brutal pace your king demanded. The plump flesh of your arse met his hips in a wet smack, the sound filling the vast, quiet room. Years of working on your feet blessed you with strong thighs that held you up with every bounce.

Never in your wildest wishes did the fruit of your labors include getting fucked by your king. Was this what your life has amounted to? Would this be the only moment where you were granted a sliver of value in your measly unimportance? Shame should be what you felt, but you hardly had room for it, not when your king’s cock felt too good.

It was evident he was nearing his end, and you were barreling straight towards yours. His grip shifted to take hold of the crooks of your elbows, using you for leverage to lift his hips to meet yours. How deeply you wished to catch a glimpse of his blissed-out face, but that would mean displeasing him. You couldn’t afford to do so, not when you were teetering on the edge of your pleasure.

Your release sneaked upon you with no other forewarning. You came with a loud cry, spilling all over his length. If Aemond held any regard for your high, he made no show of it, continuing to drill into you to chase his. The tight spasming of your walls pulled harsher grunts from his lips, and harsher thrusts. Soon enough, he was pulling out of you, painting your lower back with his spend. Thick, pearly royal speed dripped down onto your rear, warm against your flesh. Without any other moment to waste, the king pulled you off his lap, dismissing you with a breathless huff.

“That will be all. You may take your leave.”

“Where the hell have you been? This food’s about to get damn cold and I don’t need the king throwin’ it back in my face because of you!” Magda berated, rightfully angered with your tardy arrival to the kitchen. You were out of breath from rushing out of the king’s chambers, cheeks still flushed like a ripe berry.

“Sorry, Magda. His grace’s requests held me back,” you apologized with a sheepish smile. The secret to your special service to the king would have to remain a secret, a blissful encounter you were sure to look back on with satisfaction.

The older maid regarded you with a displeased look, before pointing to the dishes needed to be brought up to his grace’s chambers. “Just as long we keep the pretty boy pleased, aye?”

The heat in your chest returned at her words, settling into a tingle in your fingertips. You smiled at her, eyes glinting with an eagerness that almost made the head servant raise suspicion. There was no doubt what you would do to keep your king happy. With his satisfaction, came yours.

“Aye,” you responded, nodding in agreement.

In the days that followed, you worked with an enthusiasm akin to the spark you had when you first arrived at the Keep. You spent time ensuring every nook and cranny was spotless, the king’s boots properly polished, and his bath rightfully steaming the moment he requested it.

It would soon prove to be a foolish endeavor, but you held out hope for him to call on you once more. Perhaps he would take you on his bed, just like he did with other women. Such hopes were crushed when your king barely spared you a glance, just like he always did. In your boldness, you had even tried to meet his eye on the off-chance he came into his chambers while you were there, which earned nothing but a sharp scolding from Magda. His last exchange hadn’t even been filled with any words, but merely in the form of a steaming cup of moon tea and a few silver dragons awaiting you in your quarters.

Soon, you were reduced into a shadow once more, a figure unseen in the king’s eye. Your excitement wearied down into a dismayed chagrin, yet still, your part never changed. It was all a cycle, you realized. And with the arrival of a comely Baratheon girl into court, you were back to ignoring the pounding in the king’s walls.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #not yet proofread!#aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader

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prythianpages · 8 months ago

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Hopelessly Devoted | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader x Azriel | You're hopelessly devoted to Azriel, suspecting he’s your true love. Meanwhile, Eris is hopelessly longing after you. aka Eris being your mate but you're too infatuated with Az to notice.

warnings: slight angst, reader being a bit delulu

*also disclaimer that I am no expert in astrology and my knowledge is usually what I gathered from friends or tiktok so if I'm wrong, please correct me but do it nicely pls bc I am sensitive lol*

a/n: I wasn't sure whether to include Az or not in the pairing but I liked the idea of leaving this fic up to your interpretation. Anyway, happy reading! <3

As you entered the Night Court’s observatory, you traced your fingers along the edge of the great celestial map laid before you. You could feel the soft hum of magic beneath your fingertips, still smell the faintest hint of sage–a remnant of your father’s last ritual here. For centuries, your father has served as the Night Court’s astrologer. He’s guided and advised High Lord Rhysand and on occasion, Keir, the steward of the Court of Nightmares.

Above you, constellations and planets danced across the domed ceiling, the stars gleaming as though they were ready to whisper secrets just for you. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, and placed a palm flat against the massive zodiac wheel etched onto the floor. It began to glow, a warm golden light tracing symbols of the zodiacs and planets.

“Stars above and stars below, reveal the path I seek to know,” you quietly murmured.

The markings on the wheel shifted in response, aligning and realigning with clicking sounds, the warm golden light following. Then, your own chart had appeared, shimmering above you. It was a translucent web of stars and planets connected by silvery lines. You’ve read your birth chart many times, become so familiar with it that you knew it by heart even.

But tonight, you needed the extra reassurance. So you looked up, watching as the planets moved slowly. Your heartbeat a little faster as you spotted Jupiter making transit through your seventh house. The promise of growth, abundance, luck and most important of all, love filled the air.

You slipped a small vial from the hidden pocket of your cobalt blue dress. The words Love Potion No.9 gleamed on the glass, the dark red liquid swirling. It was the enchanted perfume you’d bought from a witch last week—a little love potion designed to make you irresistibly alluring to your soulmate.

You felt a bit foolish, seeking a witch for guidance on love of all matters. Witches were frowned upon in the Court of Nightmares, after all. But impatience had finally nudged you to venture beyond the court’s dark mountain and into the surrounding forests, in search of someone who could help.

“Seek the one who walks between light and shadow with a mask of cool indifference, where fire meets the edge of night. There your heart shall find its match,” she had told you as she handed you the enchanted perfume.

Her words had only confirmed what you had been suspecting for years, centuries even.

Azriel was your soulmate.

Azriel, the very embodiment of cool indifference, wore a mask of stoicism in the Court of Nightmares, just as High Lord Rhysand did. But his hazel eyes always seemed to burn with a hidden fire. And when you were alone with him, away from the cold nobility of the Night Court, Azriel would let that mask slip, revealing a kinder side that laughed and smiled with you. He was your friend and not only did he literally walk among shadows, he wielded them. It had to be him!

And then, there was your birth chart. Your seventh house lay in Taurus—a sign ruled by Venus. With Venus positioned in your twelfth house, everything pointed to the idea that your future soulmate would bring your happiness and pleasure. And since you met Azriel all those years ago during a counseling your father led, happiness had been an emotion you'd grown more familiar with.

The stars couldn’t have given you a clearer message!

There was a flutter in your stomach as you approached Azriel. The two of you had been stealing glances at one another, as you usually did anytime you found yourselves in the same place. He looked as beautiful as ever. As dreamy as ever.

Though your High Lord and High Lady had moved to the center of the ballroom for a dance, he had stayed by the dais. “Hello,” you greeted him with a small smile.

Azriel turned to you, that mask of his slipping for just a brief moment to smile back at you. He took the extra wine glass in your hold, murmuring a small thanks. He turned his head back to the dance floor, attentive to his High Lady’s whereabouts. But he shifted closer to you, the coolness of his shadows caressing your bare arm and you couldn’t help but wonder if the perfume was working.

“You look nice,” he commented.

“Thanks.” A blush rose to your cheeks. You’d taken care to match your dress to the exact shade of his siphons. And he noticed. “So do you.”

“I wear this all the time.” Azriel replied drily, referring to his usual Illyrian leathers.

“Yeah, I know.” You cursed yourself inwardly for the awkward response, then shifted closer, leaning toward him. “Do I smell to you?”

Azriel paused, his shadows brushing close, as if curious themselves. “No,” he said after a moment.

“Oh.” Disappointment seeped into your voice despite your best efforts, and his gaze shifted to you, a hint of a frown in his brows.

“Do you want to smell?”

There’s a teasing edge to his tone, a subtle quirk of his lips. You shook your head, letting out a small, nervous laugh. "No. I just wanted to know if I smelled any…different…,” and then, in a much quieter tone, you murmured, “to you.”

Azriel considered your words. He looked to you in what seemed like permission. You gave a nod of your head and he leaned in, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You smell the same to me.” At the breath you let out, he quickly added: “which is good by the way. You smell nice.”

“Oh, okay,” you smile, albeit a bit awkwardly, the flutter you had felt in your stomach earlier twisting into a knot.

“Y/n, is everything alright?” Azriel asked softly.

“Yeah, I just thought—” You stopped, not sure how to explain without sounding foolish. It wasn’t like you could admit to feeling disappointed over the lack of reaction from an enchanted perfume you’d spent quite a fortune on. Especially when he was the sole purpose for it. Had the witch scammed you?

Azriel waited for you patiently, concern flashing in his eyes. Maybe the perfume hadn’t worked, but the stars and planets had never led you astray. That still had to mean something, right?

“I’m fine.” You finally said.

“Are you sure?”

The way he was looking at you had warmth creeping up your neck and settling deeper in your cheeks. “Yeah.”

A single shadow curled around Azriel’s ear and in the blink of an eye, his head turned. Your gaze followed his, to where Rhysand and Feyre were standing. Rhysand sent him a slight nod and with a sigh, Azriel returned it.

“Sorry, I have to go.” Azriel said, quickly downing the remaining wine from his glass.

You held out your hand, offering to take it for him.

“Thank you. I’ll be back. Don’t have too much fun without me, alright?”

“I’ll try not to,” you replied.

You watched Azriel disappear into his shadows before turning away from the dais and making your way to the refreshments table. You were eager for a refill on your glass. Perhaps a little more wine would help ease the sting of disappointment. But he’d said he’d be back, hadn’t he?

As you scanned the room, you noticed your father in conversation with one of Keir’s sons and your mother eyeing potential suitors for your older brother. As an elite warrior of the Darkbringers, he had no shortage of admirers, and it was only a matter of time before your mother secured him a match—perfect or not.

You suspected you’d be next on her matchmaking list, so you busied yourself with small talk among familiar ladies. Conversations were always a mind-numbing, the ladies your age exchanging beauty tips that centered around the male’s eye or fawning over this season’s most eligible males. Which this season just so happens to be your brother. Gross. If only they knew him the way you did….

Second to him was Bret—or some equally uninspiring name. A Scorpio, of all things, which clashed miserably with your chart. Not that it mattered. You had no interest in any noble of the Court of Nightmares. Or any male here. Most, if not all, were cruel and narcissists, only viewing females as child bearers and nothing more.

There was a reason why this court was burdened with the title “Nightmares.” And to marry someone from here would mean never waking up from this darkness. No stars to light your night skies, only endless shadow and despair.

So, you’d taken fate into your own hands. You’d turned to your birth chart, hoping the stars would lead you somewhere beyond Hewn City, beyond this never-ending nightmare. And they had. They led you to believe it was Azriel. Azriel, who was not only honorable and single but also, technically, part of the Court of Dreams. He’d been your friend for centuries, seeing you for who you are rather than an object or prize like most males here.

As you sneak away from the conversation, you bump into something–someone. Behind you, a deep voice huffed a low, mocking chuckle. “Easy there, librarian.”

You could recognize that voice anywhere, could recognize the heat radiating from him. It pressed down on you, leaving you simmering with irritation.

“I’m a libra, not a librarian.” You bit out. It hasn’t even been a minute and already you were exhausted by the searing presence behind you. “And besides, to you, it’s Lady Y/N.”

When you turned, you found Eris looming over you. His amber eyes gleamed with a familiar, infuriating mischief. He gave you that signature smirk of his, the one that made his sharp features all the more arrogant. “Such a harsh tone. Hardly fitting for a Lady.”

Your gaze hardened into a glare, only to have it stray toward a movement across the ballroom. A flicker of shadow caught your attention, and your heart gave a small, hopeful jump as your gaze softened. There he was—Azriel.

He had returned to the ballroom…but he hadn’t returned to you…

Eris raised a glass to his lips, amber eyes flicking lazily between you and Azriel. “Disappointment doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not disappointed.” You muttered hastily.

He gave a scoff, his smirk widening with dark amusement. “Please. I can practically feel it.”

“Liar,” you shot back.

“Azriel said he’d find me again and unlike you, he’s a male of his word,” you continued, not sure why you were telling Eris this. “He’s…”

Your words trailed off as you watched Azriel, who stood next to Nesta and Elain. He laughed–actually laughed!-- at something Elain had said, shadows absent from his frame as his focus remained solely on her. You couldn’t miss the soft smile playing on his lips, nor the warmth in his gaze. Did he do that with every female he knew? You thought he reserved that just for you…

The bubble in your chest slowly deflated.

“Keep dreaming,” Eris huffed out. He seemed to take special pleasure in your reaction. It prompted your cheeks to flush but this time, with irritation.

“Oh, go away, you prick,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?" he replied, leaning closer, his sharp gaze burning into you. You missed the flash of longing in his amber eyes, too focused on Azriel. Or the way the words that had been on the tip of his tongue faltered as your scent suddenly overwhelmed him, his breath hitching slightly.

"You smell.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled absently.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice gruff and pupils flaring. “You smell different tonight…good...”

You blinked, barely processing his words. Was he actually being nice to you? In all the years you’ve known him, he’s always had snark remark after snark remark for you. The way it would roll smoothly off his tongue always left you wondering if he’d rehearse them for his visits to the Court of Nightmares.

You fidgeted, fingers grazing your wine glass as you cast a hesitant glance back at Azriel. Your chest tightened as he remained engrossed in conversation with Elain. Turn around, please. But he hadn’t even looked your way once.

Eris stepped in front of you, drawing your attention back to him. His gaze roamed over you, your dress. He took in the shade and he knew why you had chosen it–and for whom. "You know," he said, his gaze lingering on your face. "Red suits you far better.”

“And there he is, you’re back…”

"I’m serious. This—" He gestured to your gown with a slight grimace, his fingers brushing the silk fabric in disappointment. "This color washes you out. Red would bring out the color of your eyes…”

Your jaw clenched but you remained silent, refusing to admit that his words stirred something within you. Eris was insufferable, arrogant, and yet you couldn't deny his eye for detail. He, after all, was always dressed impeccably in the finest Autumn attire. But you would never give him the satisfaction of admitting he might be right.

His smirk widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Do you want to know another thing?”

“No,” you said immediately.

But he leaned in anyway, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re hopelessly devoted to a male who doesn’t even look your way.”

Your mouth opened, brows furrowing in protest, but he went on. His smirk softened, fading into a half-smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes, dimming the fire that usually burned so brightly there. And then, in a much quieter, reluctant tone, he murmured, “And I am no different, it seems.”

"But…" You stammered, resisting the urge to steal another glance at Azriel. "He does look my way…sometimes.”

Eris’s smile faded, his expression tightening. A flicker of pain crossed his face. So brief, you almost thought you imagined it. "You’re delusional.”

“And you’re insufferable.” You scoffed, heart pounding.

“Better than being a fool.”

The mocking tone was there but the usual sharpness had been softened by a strange, subtle sadness. Was this… pity?

You swallowed, lifting your chin defiantly. “The stars wouldn’t lie to me,” you said, though the conviction in your voice wavered. “He’s the one for me.”`

You met his eyes then and Eris held your gaze. His amber eyes warm and molten, the intensity of his stare prickling at your skin. An unsettling flutter erupted in your stomach, rising to your chest. A feeling you quickly dismissed when you felt something cool brush against your arm.

“Is he bothering you, y/n?”

Eris scoffed at the sudden presence beside you. It sickened him to see that sweet, adoring look on your face, the triumphant gleam in your eyes as you looked up at Azriel. The sight made Eris grit his teeth. His instincts roared at him, the fire in his veins was scorching.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, realizing both males were waiting for your answer. “No,” you said but the way you shifted to stand behind Azriel said otherwise.

Azriel’s gaze hardened as he looked toward Eris. “Stay away from her,” he seethed.

A low growl rumbled from Eris’s chest as he took a step forward, his amber eyes flaring with rage. Though not as tall as Azriel, he seemed to tower over him at this moment. His teeth flashed as his lips curled into a snarl. “I do not take orders from bastards like you.”

Azriel’s wings tensed, threatening to unfurl and the movement of his shadows quickened. Like a storm ready to unfold. But before it could, you placed a hand on his arm. Right over one of his glowing siphons that seemed to be growing hotter and hotter, daring to match the fire coursing through Eris’s veins.

“Az, don’t,” you told him gently, not wanting to draw any attention to the three of you. You felt his muscles ease under your touch, his shadows brushing over your hand in agreement.

Eris’s gaze dropped to your hand on Azriel’s arm, his expression darkening into something unreadable. He exhaled sharply, turning his head as though trying to shake off whatever thought had crossed his mind.

When he looked back, his features had shifted into his usual cool mask, that infuriating smirk sliding back into place. He looked right at you.

“When you wake up from this deranged dream of yours, come find me.”

You watched him, feeling a strange, unwelcome tug in your chest as he turned to leave. Perhaps, one day you’d realize that the enchanted perfume you had bought was not a scam.

And that the male you searched through the stars and planets for was not the one standing beside you, but the one who’d just walked away.

a/n: sorry if you're not a libra, I just thought it'd be funny for Eris to purposely say reader's sign wrong as he knows astrology is a huge influence on her.

[series masterlist]

[Eris masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #acotar fanfiction

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sunderwight · 4 months ago

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Random thought but:

Those wide-brimmed pointy hats that witches and wizards are often depicted wearing are for traveling, right? That's what the brim is for, to protect from the sun and other elements. But the pointy part is probably ceremonial -- historically speaking most conical hats are often worn by priests or nobility to signify rank or role.

But sometimes in fantasy settings, wizard hats don't have the brim. But witches almost never lose the brim.

This indicates to me a shared origin between wizards and witches as traveling practitioners of magic. Which makes sense! If you only get a few magical people in a community, either because magical talent is rare or because it takes a lot of study to pick it up or both, then most magically inclined people would probably be in high demand. Which would mean that there was a lot of call for them to travel around and provide their services to place too poor or remote or unlucky to have their own resident magical practitioner.

But gradually, a divide begins to occur. Formally educated magical users are of course most commonly found in cosmopolitan regions (big cities) and can afford to stay in one place for a lot longer. Perhaps even exclusively, if the community is large enough to support them! So as more great cities establish themselves and also establish things like larger and better-funded academic institutions, a class of non-wandering magic user begins to grow. This group, i.e. wizards, signal their greater access to formal education and to wealthy patrons by dropping the brim from their hats. They keep the conical shape and height, to denote status and rank, but they get all bougie about the brim. Other attempts to flaunt success among wizards emphasize the lack of need to travel for work, such as building magnificent magical towers, positioning themselves in the courts of nobility, or building entire academic institutions dedicated to the study of the arcane arts.

Meanwhile rural communities still require the services of magically inclined people, but can no longer afford to entice wizards away from their status-defining sedentary lifestyle. Thus another class of magic user (witches) begins to define itself by their continued existence and work outside of major population centers. Since witches still travel and live in the countryside, their hats keep the brim, because they still need it to protect them from the elements.

This also explains the gender differential. While magical talent probably doesn't operate on the basis of gender, classism sure does. Girls born into wealthier families are often slated for marriage alliances and encouraged to treat formal education as an opportunity for husband-hunting, rather than actually becoming adept in or engaging with the professional use of magic itself. Which doesn't mean that none of them do it anyway, but there's probably a more marked difference between women who become wizards and men who do. Especially as wizards become more preoccupied with social status, and thus more likely to gate off access to certain levels of education, so that only either the extremely wealthy or the extremely talented can get at them. If a girl's family doesn't want to go to all the trouble of paying for a full education or compelling a skilled teacher to take her on, her options for pursuing it on her own are probably quite limited.

Meanwhile out in the sticks, magic users are such rarities that gatekeeping on the basis of gender is frankly too impractical, especially considering the degree of utility magic has for saving lives and livelihoods. It's just not that feasible to give a shit about the gender of the spellcaster who is saving your entire sheep flock from a bad case of bluetongue, or holding up a barrier that's keeping a recent landslide from burying your house, or getting the ghosts out of a local well that you'd really love to be able to actually use.

So over time witches become associated with women, even though it's more that they've got a 50/50 split whereas wizards heavily favor men. In the way of things, this actually become a self-fulfilling prophecy over time, because men who develop magical aptitude see witchery as "women's work" and are more likely to try and save up and move to the city to learn "real" magic, or else try and differentiate themselves from female witches by creating their own distinctions between what they do and what women spellcasters do, carving out particular areas of focus to be the masculine fields of magic.

This would probably create even more distinct classes of magical users -- the male witches who still do the usual magic work in rural regions but don't like to be called witches, and so do something else to distinguish themselves in an equivalent of stamping a No Girls Allowed sign on their door (warlocks?), who probably still keep the wide brim on their hats but perhaps ditch the pointy part in a middle finger to the elitism of wizards (and also to ensure they're less likely to be mistaken for witches), and the magically talented people who make their way from the country to the nearest cities to try and join the wizard class. Though this group is more likely to struggle due to a lack of social or financial clout, and probably has to depend way more on having enough sheer natural talent to draw the eye of a benefactor (sorcerers?). Most of them would be men too, because of increasing social attitudes that men were just better at this "type" of magic would mean that women would have a harder time getting backing, but there would probably be some who were ambitious enough to nevertheless go for it and then end up in a related-but-still-gendered category of their own (sorceresses?).

Because classism, it seems likely that these underdog country-to-city spellcasters (probably also joining in with impoverished but talented locals to the metropolitan areas too) don't get the pointy hats unless they manage to actually succeed in being absorbed by wizard establishments, but also don't keep the brimmed hats because those are associated with being a bumpkin. They're hat-less, or else wear a completely different style. They probably also get a bit of a shady reputation because there are a lot of predatory institutions that scoop up magically talented individuals who don't know how to navigate the relevant social institutions, and then basically embroil them in debt or whatnot in order to exploit whatever magical talent they have for whatever profits are to be gained.

Of course you probably also have the opposite class of people, i.e. formally trained magic users who decide that trying to rub elbows with kings and rich people is stupid, and take their training to go off and save villages from mudslides and such instead. They're basically witches again but with a fancier pedigree, but of course coming from the outside of it they lack the community knowledge to navigate regions as well and also now there's this split from the Boy Witches Who Won't Be Called Witches, and probably what counts as Girl Magic gets very regional, so what jobs you do or how you go about casting spells has an irregular impact on what the locals will call you if you aren't a woman. If you're a woman you can probably take the witch label without as much issue. But since the fellas started as wizards, then, they more likely still call themselves wizards in the face of all this, but the big city wizards do NOT want to be associated with them (unless they do something really impressive that they can share credit for), so there has to be a new category for them (hedge wizards?) to differentiate from proper wizards. Anyway they wear the big brimmed hats again, because that's just practical. Whether they wear tall ones or not probably varies between individual and regional implications about it.

So. Yeah. Magic user hat politics, with bonus gender nonsense.

#long post #witches #wizards #wizard shit #magic #world building #fantasy #sword and sorcery #do warlocks wear cowboy hats?#all those fancy fantasy charts that are like here's how you determine spellcaster class based on how you cast spells #meanwhile I'm out here knocking shit off the table like no you fools it's the hats

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seresinhangmanjake · 10 months ago

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Becoming His

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x concubine!reader

Summary: Feyd chooses you as his concubine

Notes/Warnings: Smut (but not an overwhelming amount), so 18+. Possessiveness (ownership of other human beings and whatnot). It changes from third person perspective to second person, so i’m sorry if that irritates some people, but I just thought that it expressed the feelings of the story better, considering the tonal switch. This is based on a request. Sorry if there are typos.

It can be read as stand-alone, but it goes along with the following fics: His, Don't Touch What's His, and Only His. This fic takes place before any of those.

Words: 2400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd was sent for peace. The Baron sees use in House Wallach and very specifically instructed his favorite nephew to arrange a deal. With House Wallach’s planet producing items of value, the Baron would not attempt domination over their world in exchange for those items. That seemed fair—as fair as the Harkonnens get—but if one party fails to deliver, consequences follow. Sometimes, that means the taking of other items of value.

They aren’t prisoners of war—they can’t be considered such when war did not actually occur—but they’re close enough: women taken from their home planet after their leaders failed to protect them, leaving them weak and vulnerable and unprepared for what their new lives will thrust upon them. For the first time in their blip of existence, they are a foreigner's property; the most humiliating of circumstances for women of their status: three high-ranking handmaids, the live-in bene gesserit, and the daughter of their Lord and Lady. And Feyd has to choose one.

“It’s within your right,” the Baron tells him. “And expected. To turn them away without taking one for yourself would be a showing of weakness.”

Feyd scans each one. He supposes they’re all appealing in their own ways. The handmaids were raised to obey, an ability Feyd would have them exercise often. The bene gesserit has knowledge beyond her years. And the benefits of owning an heir of a Great House can be summed up by title alone.

However, they have their faults as well. The handmaids aren’t particularly beautiful, and as they stand there, shaking, huddled together, with their eyes down and chins tucked into their chests, Feyd finds them grossly undesirable. If he wanted a mouse, he would take one of his own servants.

The bene gesserit, regardless of appearance, is a witch whose most vital loyalty will belong to the Reverend Mother and her followers before House Harkonnen—a traitorous snake in the making. He cannot have a woman in his bed that he will be unable to trust.

The one remaining, the Lady, she’s fearless. He can see it already in the set pout of her pretty lips. He doesn’t like fearlessness; it’s disrespectful, potentially disobedient, but at the same time, she encapsulates everything else he could want: a face he doesn’t hate to look upon, to say the very least; nobility, a reminder that he claimed something invaluable to an entire planet; and perhaps most intriguing: she’ll be a challenge—not easily torn down—and the more he looks at her, the more the others fade into nonexistence.

Feyd steps closer to her, drawn in by delicate features, and waves of hair, and luscious curves.

“This one,” he says.

With those two words, a spark shoots across her irises. Her knitted brow soothes. Her mouth, now unburdened by the weight of the pout, twitches up in the corners. There’s a hint of a dimple in her right cheek that is there and then gone, taken from him before he can fully understand why his heart thumped at the sight of it.

“Fine,” the Baron replies.

Commanding his guards, he says, “Rid of the others,” prompting gasps and tears of fear, and even Feyd is unsure what will become of them. Slaves? Entertainment in the arena? Perhaps his uncle will let him feed them to his pets.

To his servants, the Baron says, “Clean her up.”

And to his nephew, he says, “She’ll be brought to you later,” just before two small Harkonnen women take her by the arms and lead her away.

—

He thought all afternoon of the noises he would soon be forcing from you. The yelps, the squeals, the cracking from your grinding teeth. Everyone’s flesh makes a unique sound when sliced open, and he imagined what sound your flesh would make. The masterpiece your face would be after your tears melt your makeup he’d be proud to claim as his work.

But then his servants bring you to him. They push you through the door and position you in front of him before skittering away, and in the silence they leave behind, Feyd can only detect his own heartbeat.

He liked you in the pinkish-toned clothing traditional of your house—it made you stick out amongst the darkness surrounding you, like uncorrupted sweetness in its last moments—but in Harkonnen black, you’re something else entirely.

He’s read of goddesses and angels, deities and divine spirits lost with those who once worshipped them, and he always wondered how such beings cultivated mass devotion without the consistent doling out of immense pain. But he gets it now. He understands the draw of the ethereal.

After minutes of staring, his eyes feel dry, scratchy; he needs to blink, he needs to close his parted mouth, but he can’t, nor can he form a coherent thought separated from the way your hair frames your face and how the silk cascading down your body doesn’t do a perfect job of hiding everything underneath. Touch. He wants to touch. Run hands over soft skin. Press his lips to–

He stops himself. That’s wrong. He is meant to sink his teeth into you. He should be digging his nails into flesh, draining blood, staining sheets, licking tears from cheeks like the men before him have done to their concubines.

She’s yours, so train her well—that’s what his uncle said, and Feyd knows for a fact that the Harkonnen method of training a woman is devoid of anything but pure torture. Harkonnen training is rough, crude, brutal on the body and mind to break someone down. Only the strong build themselves back up into warriors—like he did—and concubines are not meant to attempt that feat.

“Am I going to stand here all night?”

Your voice sends a chill down his spine, yanking him out of his head. He finally blinks. As his eyes meet yours, he swallows and says, “Do you want to stand there all night?”

“Not particularly,” you tell him. ��And I don’t think your servants spent hours fixing me up just so I can take post like a statue at the foot of your bed.”

He wouldn’t mind a statue in your likeness, actually. He’d feel a lot less conflicted if he had two of you at his disposal; one for what a concubine is meant for, and one unaltered from the way you are right now—no pain in your eyes, no quiver to your lip, no marks marring your skin.

“They did not,” he confirms.

He pushes off the desk he had been leaning against and uncrosses his arms as he steps toward you, stopping just before colliding with your body. Your head tilts back, and he knows he is supposed to smirk at your powerlessness; his eyes should be pouring with the promises of a painful future, but he can’t access that otherwise always-accessible emotion. The hatred is not quite there. The vile pool of black sludge that has resided within him from the moment he pierced his mother’s throat with a blade has started to drain because of the doe eyes that stare up at him.

“I’m not scared of you,” he hears, and for a second, he cannot tell if the words came from your mouth or from his. But you don’t reply, so that must be his role.

“It's stupid not to be scared of me.”

“Maybe,” you say, your head cocking, “but you don't look at me like you want me to be scared of you.”

That right there—he should kill you for that. You see too much. He wonders if you see his thoughts as well. He doesn’t need a woman with eyes that see more than what is tangibly in front of her.

Instead of his body operating on its own, he has to force his hand to wrap around the neck of the threat before him. But five seconds of the delicate column in his grasp goes by, and then ten, and then fifteen, and his fingers have yet to squeeze any tighter. Surprise is etched onto your face, but it’s different. It’s not the look of a woman suddenly in a vulnerable position. By the way your eyes trail from his face to bicep to forearm, it’s more like you’re shocked that his touch is as warm as it is, as if you expected the paleness of his skin to mean hot blood does not course through his veins.

Tentatively, your hands reach up until your palms are cupping his cheeks. He can’t bring himself to jerk away as your tongue slides out to wet your lips and you rise on your toes. You gently tilt his head down to yours, and then you brush your mouth over his.

Feyd’s lungs tighten in his chest as you do it again. The hand around your neck slides into your hair, holding your head in place so he can take more, kiss harder. But it’s not long that he’s devouring your taste before he comes to his senses and shoves you away.

“Stop that,” he spits, his brow drawn. “I did not tell you to do that.”

Your teeth trap your bottom lip. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Lay on the bed,” he says, then quickly adds, “On your stomach.” It’s better that way. If he isn’t focusing on you, your eyes, your lips, then he won’t be distracted from his own pleasure.

You don’t hesitate to do as he says, and you walk past him to the mattress. He doesn’t turn to watch you shed your thin gown, fearing what the combined vision of face and bare body will do to him, so he works on removing his own clothes, facing you only once he hears the shifting of the coverings on his bed.

Your arms are bent, hands overlapped under your head as you wait for him to join, and after taking in the curvature of spine and the dip in lower back before the swell of bottom, he does, settling behind you.

He doesn’t know where to start. There’s so much to take in and he does his best to memorize it all until, eventually, he lets his palm slide up the center of your back. When it causes you to shiver, he rips his hand away.

“It wasn’t bad,” you tell him. “I’m fine.”

Feyd hums in a manner intended to come off much more displeased than it does. He didn’t ask if you were fine, and a scolding is on the tip of his tongue for even suggesting the idea, but the piece of him that knows he would’ve stopped if you had said the opposite keeps the words from reaching past his throat.

Feyd tries once more, this time placing his hand at your hip for purchase as he guides himself inside of you with the other. With great effort, he swallows his gasp before he falls forward on clenched fists that press into the mattress on either side of your breasts.

You’re warmer than he expected. Tight and slick and warm, and amidst the sensations that take over his entire being, he somehow manages to find enough clarity to question the normalcy of your body.

Harkonnen women aren’t warm like this. Warm, yes, but your warmth is more comforting, more engulfing. He’ll feel an unpleasant chill when he removes himself from you and so decides it might be best to stay right there inside of you for as long as he can. But after he hears the little sound you make through the ringing in his ears, he doesn’t know how much longer that will be.

He pulls out slightly and then pushes in, and he receives another of your sounds, louder this time. Your hips lift an inch off the mattress, pushing back into his. He thrusts again and his brain fuzzes. When he shoves in deeper, you yelp at the spot he hits and he loses his mind entirely, left with the sole desire to see how many notes he can get you to sing for him. He finds there are many more, and as you continue to belt out a chorus along with each of his movements, he suddenly thinks: fuck everything else. Fuck the things he is supposed to be doing to you. Fuck the lessons he is supposed to be teaching you. Fuck the training that is supposed to be putting you in your place. He needs to see you.

Your head lifts and you look back at him as best you can when he leaves your body. “Why did you st–”

“Turn over,” he demands with heavy breaths.

“What?”

You’re not fast enough. His hands firmly grip your hips and he flips you onto your back, spreading your legs and stuffing himself back inside of you. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter. Your mouth stays perfectly parted as you reach over your head to tighten your fingers into the pillow.

That’s exactly what he wanted, and that’s all it takes to shun his cares for anything other than the way you look beneath him. His chest meets yours and he darts his tongue out to lick the bottom of your upper lip before capturing your mouth with his. You kiss him just as much as he is kissing you. You touch him as much as he is touching you. Your legs wrap around him, taking everything he has until his hips stutter and he’s coating the walls that are milking him with each pulsating squeeze.

He pulls out with ragged breaths, body falling beside yours, and as you both stare at the ceiling, his mind finally clears with the sudden realization that what he just did might’ve stolen some of his power and handed it to you. You know of the Harkonnens’ cruelty—everyone does—but what he gave you was not that, and he cannot allow you to get the wrong impression.

“You're mine,” he reminds you. “I own you. You follow my orders. Don’t irritate me. Don’t speak unless I am the one speaking to you. You go where I tell you to go. You do what I want you to do. And don’t get any ideas that you’re not disposable to me.”

Minutes pass in silence, but then you say, “What happens if you end up liking me?”

That question hits him right in the gut. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what the fuck happens if he likes you more than he already does. It won’t do him any good; he knows that.

His back teeth clench. “I won't,” he says. “So don’t ever ask me that again.”

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler #dune 2 #feyd rautha fic

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thisgirlnamedblusy · 4 months ago

Note

Can you do one where reader is a 5th lord and also used to be in a relationship with Donna. Their breakup was pretty nasty between them and the tension is always thick at meetings or anywhere else but reader is still in love with Donna. One night reader decides to go Donna to talk but then it turns to makeup/hate sex and they decide to get back together.

P.a thank you for your Donna stories I love your writing so much!

Yesss!!! I'm sorry about the delay!! Thank you for your request and your support!!! I hope you like it, anon! Sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))))

I can't hate you

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem, 5th Lord! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Minors DNI, fluff, angst, Donna being Donna

Word count: 6,890

Summary: You knew she hated you, but you still love her...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!!I love you all!!!

“Damn,” you lamented, pushing away from the table and sinking onto the couch. “Great, a meeting is just what I needed.”

The afternoon light streaming through the window was sad, or so it seemed. Everything had seemed sad and empty since that day.

Living in that village couldn't be synonymous with joy and jubilation, but at least you saw some meaning, some harmony in the snow, in the black birds crossing the cloudy sky, in your own existence.

You never asked for mercy, pity, or salvation from the monotonous life you lived. Your family left a long time ago, leaving only the memory of their past. They were nobles, yes, charged with protecting and caring for the forest that kept the village a secret from prying eyes.

You'd heard stories of nobility, of a renowned family name associated with you, but you always knew that it wouldn't guarantee you a better life, at least not in a place like that. Of all that was once your family, only you remained, isolated in what was once a mansion, and now only partially habitable ruins.

You were happy; you didn't need help, but still, you got it.

Mother Miranda saw something in you, something she herself had overlooked for the past 20 years, something that, according to the witch, the Gods whispered to her. Well, you weren't particularly happy in your solitude, and the winter cold would eventually kill you.

How could you have refused the hand she offered you?

As in many fictional stories, it wasn't unconditional help; it was a pact with the devil, a silent agreement that would take much more than your soul. You remembered the pain, the sensation of watching life slip through your fingers… You remembered the Cadou writhing before entering your body.

Then, the light came.

As if it were a religious scripture, you rose from that old stretcher, disoriented but radiant, much stronger, different…

(Y/N) had died, but from her ashes Lady (Y/N) was reborn, a new servant of Mother Miranda, the Fifth Lord. Your family's noble past influenced the priestess's decision to include you in the village's decisions, to add a picture of you to the altar of the old chapel.

If it hadn't been for your family's past… what would have become of you?

You preferred not to answer that question.

A gift from the Gods, or so Miranda called the subtle changes in your appearance. Yes, you would remain 20 for the rest of your life, paying a price: marks on your face that resembled the roots of a tree, which you would make sense of soon after.

Around your dilapidated home, flowers began to bloom and the orchard began to bear fruit long before its time as well as the trees seemed to move, to twist as you passed by them. That was the power your new status gave you, the price of eternal life, and the tireless duty to protect the village and maintain the loyalty to Mother Miranda.

The Fifth Lord, the youngest of all, but not the strangest. Unlike your new “siblings”, you decided to use your gifts to help the poor villagers you had once been part of. Destroyed crops, infertile lands, vermin that fed on the labor of others... These began to be your responsibilities, and thanks to your skill, you managed to make the local inhabitants thank the Gods and Mother Miranda for their survival.

You tried, for a weak moment, to relate to your old friends like before, but nothing was the same, nor would it ever be. The excessive respect and fear towards you were unbearable, and you soon understood that your place in that world of darkness had changed irrevocably.

Of course, the rest of the Lords accepted you without question, teaching you your duties, accompanying you on this new path in your life. But as the years passed, those people you once feared became friends, almost family, as Miranda liked to say.

Everything would have been perfect if you hadn't fallen in love with one of them, with the lady in black who gave you nightmares as a child, the ventriloquist, Donna Beneviento.

The cold felt much more piercing than usual, and part of your young personality reproached you for not having given the priestess an excuse to avoid that meeting.

You knew Donna would be there, faithful, but cold as ever. The villagers bowed and greeted you respectfully, but your head was far from the road, right next to her, remembering everything you had experienced together, everything that had happened between Lady Beneviento and you.

But this wasn't the time to remember, but to act, to pretend that nothing that could alter the status quo in which the five of you lived was happening, nothing that could disturb the peace, the control that Mother Miranda had over you.

“(Y/N), it's been a while,” a seductive voice echoed off the stone walls leading to the underground cathedral. It was Lady Dimitrescu, the most senior Lord, and the one who enjoyed being so the most.

“Alcina,” you greeted politely, earning one of her dark smiles.

You knew she was speaking to you, that she was saying something, but you didn't listen. Your eyes fixed on the figure sitting at the back of the room, the black figure who had once been your beloved, Donna.

Your heart stopped for a moment as you walked to your seat, one next to hers, as if fate were laughing at you.

“Donna,” you sighed in a timid greeting, trying not to tremble, not to remember anything that had happened in the past few months and to appear serious and authoritative, something truly complicated when your senses recognized that scent of lavender, that scent that brought back so many memories.

The lady in black didn't move, although you knew that behind the black veil lay a gaze fixed on you. The fabric danced as she turned away from your gaze, denying you even the slightest greeting.

“Don't talk to us, silly,” the Angie doll, Donna's faithful companion, rested on her lap, directing those harsh words towards you. “You silly, silly…”

“Hi, Angie, you look well,” you said, making an effort to separate the doll from its owner, to make a distinction between doll and woman, believing maybe that way you wouldn't feel so hurt.

“Shut up, tree-hugger,” the doll replied as the lady shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What part of I don't want to talk to you don't you understand?”

“Ugh, okay,” you said, slumping into your seat and crossing your arms as you vaguely nodded to the rest of your siblings, who seemed very attentive, too attentive.

“Welcome, children,” Mother Miranda said, extending her arms at the altar, giving a silent start to that awkward meeting. “Reports.”

One by one, you gave reports of your work, of your discreet lives to the priestess. Surely she cared about nothing but knowing that no one would betray her. Sometimes you feared her, other times you hated her.

Over all those years, you had felt many things for Miranda: admiration, affection, fear... but it didn't take long for you to know her true heart, to discover that Mother Miranda only cared about Mother Miranda.

Of course, you weren't the only one with that point of view, something that made you befriend Heisenberg, but it was irrelevant. No matter what that woman looked like, she had given you those powers, eternal life… You should be grateful, right?

“Why don't you sit somewhere else? You're making me nervous,” a husky whisper reached your ears as the lady next to you moved.

It had been so long since you'd heard Donna's sweet voice that you jumped, a smile crossing your face before your brain could interpret her hurtful words. You opened your mouth to answer, but shook your head, sighing.

“Sorry, this happens to be my spot,” you said in a sour tone, a tone that was totally different from what you really felt, but that your pride couldn't suppress.

“Sciocchezze, you have much more room on that side,” Donna replied, looking away, as if looking at you was painful for her too.

“I'm not going to get up from my spot because it annoys you,” you whispered, with a haughty look on your face. “You should move instead.”

“No”

“Fine, then don't complain,” you said with a wry smile. “Shut up, you're not letting me listen”

“Are you telling me to shut up?” the lady in black said with a gasp of surprise. “You?”

“I don't know why you're surprised... Oh, of course, you were usually the one who has that right, weren’t you?” you quipped making the lady clench her fists in her lap and the Angie doll giggle discreetly.

“Chuidi il becco, I don't want to hear or see you, you're annoying me,” Donna protested, turning her head away from you again, visibly nervous, just like you.

“You started it,” you said in a satisfied whisper, ending this absurd argument, the last thing you needed. “If I'm annoying you that much, sit down there.”

“I'm not moving from here,” the dollmaker stated. “This has been my seat longer than you've been alive.”

“Well, we have a problem then,” you challenged, raising your eyebrows and crossing your arms, pretending to listen to Miranda again.

“Mannaggia...” the lady hissed, shifting in her seat, cradling Angie so her laughter wouldn't attract attention.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” the doll mocked, reprimanded by her owner, who moved as far away from you as possible.

You groaned and shook your head again, breathing increasingly ragged, nervous, and tense.

“…that's why we must make the villagers...” Miranda's speech entered your ears, but all you could think about was the lavender, Donna, that woman you once loved, and who was now just a stranger to you.

“By the way, stupida,” the brunette whispered again, leaning towards you mockingly. “You left a dress at my house, that pretty dress I made you.”

“Hmm,” you murmured, not paying much attention to her. “I'll go get it.”

“Don't even think about coming near my house,” Donna replied, her knuckles white from the pressure. “Don't bother trying to get it back. I burned it in the fireplace.”

“Great, how mature of you,” you said amused, with a sarcastic smile.

“Ladies... I can't believe it,” Miranda's voice sounded much closer, her tone warning, a warning, like her gaze, directed at you.

You both lowered your heads, realizing that every eye in the room was on you. Your argument hadn't been as discreet as it seemed.

“I'm sorry, Mother,” you whispered, bending down to show regret.

“You're like little girls,” the priestess complained, her gaze piercing and menacing. “If you're done arguing, may I continue with the meeting?”

“It was (Y/N)!” Angie shrieked, pointing at you accusingly with a nasty squeak. “She's bothering my Donna!”

“Gods...” Miranda whispered, resting her fingers on her temples.

“What? That's a lie,” you protested, standing up from your chair. “Mother Miranda, I...”

“Silence! Stop acting like irrational teenagers and pay attention... You're exhausting,” the witch shrieked. “Do I have to act like a mother? You, (Y/N), sit over there,” she ordered, pointing at the bench Alcina was occupying.

Growling and giving Donna one last furious look, you obeyed, ignoring Angie's taunts, who seemed pleased with her absurd victory.

“Mm, dear...” Alcina murmured when the tension dissipated, lighting a cigarette. “How long are you going to keep this up?”

“What? I didn't do anything,” you protested, paying more attention to Miranda to avoid another reprimand. “She's the one who...”

“What a pity,” sighed the lady in white, shaking her head. “You two made such a lovely couple...”

“Yeah,” you said dryly, unable to avoid glancing sideways at the lady in black, who seemed, only seemed, to be doing the same.

“You tarnish the name of love with your childish behavior, my dear. Can't you give each other a second chance?” Alcina whispered, much more discreetly, taking advantage of Miranda's distraction with Moreau. You shrugged, not taking your eyes off that black veil.

“I'd love to, but it's impossible. She... she doesn't want to listen to me,” you confessed, revealing that those feelings you had for Donna were still there, that they had never left.

“Poor Donna, I still don't know what you did to her...”

“I didn't do anything,” you protested immediately, clenching your fists in the same way as your former lover. “It was all because of her stupid jealousy.”

“Um, of course, your lack of patience with someone like her had nothing to do with it, right?” the lady in white chided you, pretending to listen to the priestess.

“Uh, it’s not...” you said, frowning, but falling silent when Miranda's gray eyes fixed on you again.

“Well, there's always a place in my castle for a beauty like you, my dear, but I wouldn't want to take away from Donna what she considers hers; that would be very wrong, wouldn't it?” the lady of the castle suggested, making a blush spread across your cheeks.

“I wish she would still consider me hers,” you murmured in an imperceptible tone, feeling a pang of pain as you looked again at your beloved, who seemed to be ignoring you.

“Then do something about it, my dear, before your stupid arguments upset Mother Miranda any further. I couldn't bear to lose you both.”

After what felt like an eternity, the meeting came to an end. Of course, you didn't hear any of Miranda's words; all you could think about was your feelings. Maybe Alcina was right, and it was time to fix this mess.

You couldn't think of anything else. You dreamed of Donna, you thought of her every moment, of the day you could feel her skin against yours again, the day the whispers of love would once again flow from her lips.

“Donna, wait,” you said, grabbing the lady who passed in front of you, holding her in place.

With a furious gasp, Donna pulled away, scorning your approach, making you swallow your pride and your words sound like a plea.

“Lasciami,” she whispered, turning her back on you while Angie made mocking gestures in your direction.

“Oh, come on, I want to talk to you and...” you insisted with that pathetic, pleading tone, chasing the lady outside.

“I don't want to talk to you, do you hear me?” she said in a cold tone, causing the rest of the Lords to look at you curiously as they walked. “You're lucky you're a Lord, and that my powers don't affect you.”

“Are you threatening me?” you asked incredulously. “Donna, please, I just want to talk.”

“I have nothing to talk to you about,” the lady said, ignoring you again and starting to walk away.

“Donna…” you sighed, exhausted, watching her figure disappear into the snow.

At least she'd talked to you, and that was much more than there had been in the last few weeks, but it wasn't enough.

When you met Lady Beneviento, everything was different. Donna was a strange woman about whom you'd heard terrible rumors, but she was still intriguing, interesting.

Your skill with plants had formed a kind of bond with that strange dollmaker, working together on an experiment, on Mother Miranda's orders. Until that moment, you believed what the villagers said about her was true, but little by little, you discovered that those claims were far from reality.

Donna was sick, yes, her mind had been damaged since birth, and it worsened after losing her family in a terrible way, but… But the word "monster," with which your old friends defined her, differed quite a bit from what you could see.

Intelligent, elegant, sweet… Those were the adjectives your mind formed every time you saw her, spent time with her. Her shy laugh became an addiction for you; her hands were the only thing you could think about when you returned home.

Like a romance book, a movie that spoke of an impossible love, that curious friendship you developed became a need as pressing as breathing. You discovered the true woman hidden behind that black veil, the beautiful woman that was Donna Beneviento, learning about her concerns, her story, her tastes…

Afternoon tea was almost obligatory, and a wide smile spread across your face as her voice seduced you with beautiful words, with a honeyed accent that stirred your whole body. Donna was sick, yes, she had problems, but you were always there to solve them, to calm her madness with words of affection, with love.

And finally, you managed to see her face, the beauty hidden behind that horrible black cloth. The deformity that adorned her skin was a trifle compared to the delicacy of her features, the brilliance of her single eye.

She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

Then, one day, a day you couldn't remember since time ceased to have meaning for someone immortal like you, your lips tasted the softness of hers, melting into a kiss, a first kiss of love.

You thought love wasn't meant for someone like you, but you were completely wrong. No one stopped you from loving each other, no one stopped two Lords from finding solace in eternal kisses, in promises of love, of affection, in nights of passion.

She used the flowers, you made them grow. If it weren't for your sad past, you'd think you were always destined to be by her side. The roots that ran through your face were a reflection of her scar.

Everything was perfect; your life was full of love, affection, lavender... But it didn't last forever. A few months after leaving your old mansion and moving in with her, the problems began.

You knew her madness, her sick mind, but the more time you spent with her, the more evident her problems became.

Your duties as a Lord still existed, and that included visits to the castle and the factory. Being a sociable girl, you always offered to be a sort of messenger for Mother Miranda, and you never paid attention to it. Donna did.

You knew about her jealousy, even before a romantic relationship, but it reached limits that became unbearable. No matter how many times you said nothing had happened at the castle, that the three Dimitrescu sisters were just playing at seducing you.

Donna never believed you, and that began to take its toll. It was the beginning of the end.

An argument, an absurd argument, led to the end of the love of your life. You tried to reason with her, but you couldn't, and that drove you to despair, forcing you to do something crazy: to leave the Beneviento estate forever.

Your breakup was widely reported in the village and among the rest of the Lords. No one said anything at first, but you could feel their glances, their accusations that you were the one to blame. Donna never spoke about it, but as time passed, the tension seemed to grow even more intense.

That meeting wasn't the only one in which Mother Miranda had to reprimand you; there were many more, many Masses cut short because of the lady in black's irrational hatred for you. It was an increasingly untenable situation, and the worst part was that you had always, always loved her, and you continued to do so.

“I don't know how to dance; I'll be terrible at it,” you said nervously, taking the hand she offered you.

“Relax, tesoro, I'll show you," she whispered, gently grabbing your waist, moving you to the rhythm of a beautiful song.

The memories continued to haunt your mind when you got home; the flowers that adorned your old mansion were beginning to wither. All of nature seemed to take pity on you, and you couldn't, and wouldn't, do anything about it.

“Hey!” you protested, wiping the flour from your face. “I thought you were going to teach me how to cook!”

“It was Angie,” Donna said amused, starting a flour fight full of kisses, laughter, love, passion...

“Shit, Donna,” you complained, clutching one of her many love letters that she sent you through her doll, one of those small joys that always waited under your door.

Your thumb ran over the ink, the elegant handwriting of those old-fashioned letters in a language you didn't know. Sadness affected the trees, the plants; your heartbeat seemed like echoes of a better time, one where her lips could soothe any sorrow.

“Alcina's right,” you murmured to yourself, folding the note and putting it in a small box filled with all those painful memories. “I can't forget her, I have to do something.”

It was risky, but you had to try.

The dark forest shuddered with every step you took toward the path, as if aware of your intentions, of the love you hoped to feel again. You had to talk to her, try to reason with her sick mind so she'd understand that you loved her long before you met her, before you kissed her, and that you would always do.

“Okay, let's see...” you said to yourself when you arrived at the waterfall mansion, wondering what you would say, what words you would use in your defense. “No, not that...” you denied, going down the front steps, unable to concentrate.

The sound of the water brought new memories to your mind, clouding your judgment even more, making the idea of returning home sound better and better in your head.

“I don't know what I'm doing. She'll never forgive me,” you whispered, rubbing your eyes, going back down the steps. Maybe the next day you would try again.

A beam of light stopped your steps, along with a creaking sound you knew too well. The mansion door opened slowly, forming a dark figure in the snow, a terrifyingly recognizable one.

“(Y/N)” Donna's voice reached your ears, causing you to turn around, going completely blank.

“Donna...” Was the only thing you could say, nerves preventing your voice from coming out naturally. “Donna, I... How did you know I was here?”

“Fiori...” she whispered, crossing her arms and turning around.

“Flowers?” you asked confused, to which Donna stopped, turning her veiled head and making an unexpected gesture for you, one that seemed to indicate that you should follow her. “What...?”

“Are you just going to stand there? Vieni,” she demanded when you didn't respond.

“Fine,” you said, shaking your head and following your former lover into the mansion.

Everything was just as you remembered. The musty smell brought memories back to your mind and the portrait on the stairs stirred your nerves, sending a familiar warmth over your skin. You felt at home, but the most painful thing was that it never would be again.

“There,” the lady murmured, pointing to a vase in the entryway, one with flowers that shone brightly, as if they had just sprouted. “Those flowers were dried, and their revival could only mean one thing: that you were nearby.”

“Oh,” you nodded, rubbing your hands together. “I guess knowing I was coming kept you from kicking me off your property, huh?”

“Hmm, I've had a few minutes to get ready,” Donna replied, crossing her arms. “I guess you're here for your dress.”

“I thought you burned it,” you whispered cautiously, studying the posture of the woman in black, approaching slowly.

“No,” she said, her voice cold and dry.

“Um, okay... erm...” you stammered, scratching the back of your neck, unsure of what to say, how to bring love back into those walls. “Donna, that's not necessary,” you said, approaching her, ready to remove the black veil, something she rejected by moving away from you.

“Don't touch me,” she growled, making you grit your teeth.

“Oh, come on, you're a beautiful woman, Donna. I've told you a hundred times. Do you really have to put on that hideous thing to talk to me?” you said, trying unsuccessfully to push the black fabric away.

“You also told me you'd never leave me,” the woman replied, moving further away from you, her tone spiteful. “You lied to me, (Y/N).”

“Ugh,” you gasped, opening your mouth but unable to find the words. “I wish I could talk to you like two normal people. Do you think you can do that?” you demanded, insisting, finally managing to pull back the black fabric and see her beauty once more.

“Lasciami!” Donna squealed, her one eye shining, red from crying. “Have you come to humiliate me?”

“No!” you squealed back, pushing the veil out of her reach. “I came to talk to you, Donna.”

“Parlare? What do you want to talk about, (Y/N)? I have nothing to talk to you about, I told you... give it back to me,” she demanded, reaching out her hand, starting a pointless fight over the veil.

Patience...

The lady of the castle's words, those accusatory ones, made you give up, returning the veil to Donna just as the situation was starting to get out of hand.

“Ugh, you're insufferable,” you protested, shaking your head as she pondered putting her veil back on. Finally, she decided to leave it, even though her gaze hurt you, the hatred in her eye piercing you mercilessly.

“So, why did you come to my house? To tell me how insufferable I am?” she asked ironically, dropping the fabric to the floor and kicking it nervously.

“Ugh, can't you forget your stupid pride for a moment? I'm the one who's come to talk to you,” you complained again, chasing the lady, who seemed to be comically running away from you, around the mansion. “Unbelievable, now you're running away from me?”

“Do you think I would run away from someone like you?” the lady said, a sinister smile on her face, leaning against the dining room table. “I could have you throw off the cliff, (Y/N)”

“That's funny,” you said haughtily, walking toward her in a petulant manner. “I'm not some villager you can manipulate at will, Donna. We're on the same level, remember?”

“Hm, I don't know what Mother Miranda saw to name you a Lord,” Donna murmured in a low but arrogant tone. “You would have been better off as a concubine of the castle.”

��And you would have been better off as the lunatic dollmaker you were before Miranda took pity on you,” you replied, hurt by her words, slightly regretting it, but standing your ground, taking a breath. “It's absurd, Donna, it's absurd that we continue arguing like this.”

“No, (Y/N), or rather, Lady (Y/N),” Donna said, raising her eyebrow. “You are Lady (Y/N), I am Lady Beneviento. You better respect me.”

“Yes, of course,” you said in a mocking tone. “Excuse me, Lady Beneviento, but you didn't call me that way when we were making love, remember?”

“Oh, you mean before you betrayed me? Stupida...” the lady hissed, clearly offended by your comment.

“I never betrayed you,” you whispered in a dark tone, glancing sideways at some plants that seemed to be ruffled by your nerves, making you take a deep breath and try to relax. “I've told you every way I could, but you never listened.”

“You mean you lied to me every way you could,” Donna corrected.

“Ugh, you're...”

“Hey, you two!” Angie interrupted the argument, comically walking over to the dining room table. “Will you all just shut up? You're annoying!”

“Get out, Angie!” you shrieked in unison, causing the doll to flee in terror.

“How dare you address Angie in that tone?” Donna snarled, approaching you and grabbing the collar of your dress. “Show more respect. You may be a Lord, but you don't want to make me angry.”

“Mm, I know,” you said, removing her hand from your clothes with a gasp, but remaining calm. “I know you, Donna, better than you think.”

“Congratulazioni, (Y/N)...” she hissed, pulling away slightly, but maintaining a furious glare.

“Yeah, whatever,” you sneered, straightening your clothes. “Oh, where did that Lady (Y/N) go? Who's disrespecting me now?”

“You don't deserve my respect, stupida; you betrayed me, you cheated on me!” the lady shrieked, stamping her foot again, echoing off the mansion walls.

“I never cheated on you! You were the one who imagined it all! You and your stupid paranoia!”

Donna fell silent, but soon after, she laughed mockingly, nervously, shaking her head.

“You still have the nerve to deny what happened at the castle. You're bold, I'll give you that,” she murmured, turning her back on you with a tired sigh.

“Nothing happened at the castle,” you said, lowering your tone as well, approaching the lady slowly. “Nothing happened between Daniela and me.”

“I saw the way she looked at you! How she tried to seduce you!” the lady in black exclaimed, turning around, making you back away again. “I may be sick, but I'm not blind, (Y/N).”

“You only saw what you wanted to see, Donna,” you said, trying to calm down, trying not to get intoxicated by the lavender. “You know exactly what those girls are like. I'd never...”

“You'd never what?” she interrupted, without moving away from you, facing you directly. “You'd never leave me?”

“If I left, it was because you didn’t listen to me,” you defended yourself, easing the argument a bit, but maintaining the same tension. “It was impossible to reason with you.”

“You broke my heart. I guess I should have made you a hot bath to clean your filthy body, filthy with your betrayal, vero?” she said in a sour tone, leaning closer and pointing at you.

“You still think I cheated on you,” you said, unsure if it was for Donna, or for yourself. “You never trusted me, Donna.”

“How can I trust you?” the lady asked, waving her arms wildly. “You're... you're a beautiful girl. Everyone wants you. I-I can't stand the way they looked at you, wanting to taste you, to steal your warmth from my body.”

“You're beautiful too,” you said, bringing your hand to her cheek, a gesture she, of course, rejected with a sad moan, looking at you with a moist eye. “And that doesn't mean I think every person who comes near you wants to sleep with you, Donna. Your jealousy was completely irrational.”

“Irrational... che divertente...” she whispered, frowning, unable to meet your gaze. “That stupid girl tried to kiss you. Do you really think that's irrational?”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, seeing some light in that dark argument.

“I'm not one of your dolls, Donna. I can act on my own, you know?” you stated, your voice confident. “Did you not think for a moment I'd pull away?”

The lady in black hesitated, speechless, and quickly approached, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you into a passionate, unpredictable kiss, but one that gave you the warmth you were missing.

“Donna...” you sighed, placing your hand on your assaulted lips.

“See? You haven't pulled away,” she said with a satisfied smile, leaning back on the table.

“Sure I haven’t,” you said, moving closer again. “I haven't pulled away because... because I wanted you to kiss me.”

“I don't believe you,” Donna whispered, your lips very close to hers again, her eye closed and a tear running down her cheek.

“I don't need you to believe me, just for you to kiss me again,” you sighed, now attacking her lips, kissing her passionately, letting yourself be carried away by that spark her accusatory kiss ignited in your heart.

“You just want to... tempt me,” she said among kisses, grabbing your waist, your dress, your face... running her fingers along the roots of your cheeks while your tongues played tirelessly, reaffirming how much you had missed each other.

“Did I succeed?” you asked, amused, moving your hands to her black hair as your bodies danced, wanting to mingle.

“No,” she said, pulling away so she could unbutton your dress, gasping at the effect of her teeth on your neck, her hands beneath your clothes.

“Whatever you say,” you said, shaking your head as your fingers played with the buttons of her black blouse and your leg was manipulated by her nails digging into your skin.

There were no more words, just kisses, just hands roaming over a body they thought they'd lost. The caresses of her soft hands on your skin made you moan, deepening your work on her lips as your legs unconsciously moved toward the sofa.

“You're disrespecting me,” Donna accused you among gasps as your playful hand pushed her onto the sofa, while hers pulled your body to rest on top of hers, your legs on either side of her hips.

“Good,” you said contentedly, cupping her partially exposed breasts, pushing the black fabric of her blouse away from the perfect view of her skin.

She looked at you, but couldn't suppress the instinct to devour you again, to move her hips with yours in a hot, tense dance filled with hate, love, and passion.

“Y-You've always been the weakest Lord, (Y/N),” Donna said, pushing you down from her body as she ripped off your bra with her hand, positioning herself on top of you, dominating you.

“That's not what I think,” you whispered, biting her ear, causing her to protest with a moan as you squeezed one of her now-exposed breasts, throwing the fabric that protected them across the room. “I bet you're dying for me to do it.”

“You're dying,” she accused you, hitting the couch as your hand slid up her skirt, touching the soft skin of her legs, making her even more nervous. “You tricked me into being at your mercy, and it's the opposite, (Y/N).”

“Mm, I suppose you're saying that because you're on top, right? I know it's not what you like, Donna,” you challenged, placing one of your legs between her thighs, making the lady in black falter, shivering at the contact. “I think you like being at my mercy...”

“Maybe in your dreams,” Donna said, moving quickly to remove the friction and tearing off your underwear with a sharp tug, sinking her hand into your already damp folds. “But they're just dreams, (Y/N)”

“Donna...” you moaned helplessly as her slender fingers skillfully ran over your body, circling your clit, making you lose your composure, forcing you to moan.

“Così bagnata...” the dollmaker whispered, sinking two fingers into your entrance without warning, still looking at you, letting you know she was in charge. “Now you realize what you lost.”

“Oh,” you moaned, fighting to keep your legs from moving too much from the contact, pulling the brunette into a sloppy kiss as she worked her fingers inside you, caressing your walls, curling when she knew you needed it.

“Are you enjoying this, stupida?” she asked, pulling your hair angrily, but not hurting you, forcing you to nod, to focus on her when in reality, you were too immersed in the pleasure you were receiving.

“Shut up,” you said after a deep moan, forcing your body to calm down, making Donna giggle with satisfaction, speeding up her work between your legs. “Have you been practicing since I've been gone?”

“Stupida...” she hissed, tugging at your hair again, sinking her teeth into one of your nipples, making you cry out in pleasurable pain coupled with her almost perfect movements. “I can feel you, (Y/N). I know you're close…”

You shook your head, but your face and your moans were unable to deny her words. Your hips bucked with every movement Donna made, and your lips claimed hers wildly, biting, licking, devouring everything within reach.

Sooner than you would have liked, ecstasy hit you, making your entire body tense, wrapping your walls around her fingers as you cried out in pleasure, squeezing your body against hers, kissing that wonderful lover you had.

“Just like I said, weak,” Donna whispered, sitting up and removing her fingers, forcing you to taste your orgasm, your pleasure.

“Do you think this is over?” you threatened, crawling across the couch before pushing the lady in black back and pinning her with your legs. “No, Donna, this has only just begun.”

“Dare to lay a hand on me...” the lady hissed, as your lips began to caress her skin, your nails scratching her legs, and your ears ignoring her words.

“I won't lay a hand on you,” you said, amused, tugging her panties down her ankles, keeping a firm hand on her chest, making her eye flutter closed.

Your teeth scraped the skin of her thighs, and her hands seemed erratic, tugging at your hair with barely any strength. Your mouth moved up and up until it reached its destination, her wet, intoxicating scent you soon tasted.

“Cazzo...” Donna protested as your lips brushed her skin, as your tongue mercilessly traced her folds, circling her clit, absorbing, enjoying every shy sound her mouth made.

“You're so wet... you're delicious, Donna,” you said in a moment of lucidity, leaving hatred and anger aside, remembering how you enjoyed her body, how you enjoyed nights of passion with her.

“Bugiarda...” the lady accused, pushing your head towards her again, forcing you to continue savoring her essence.

“Am I a liar? Well, then you won't want me to finish you,” you said amusedly, switching your mouth for your hand, stimulating the brunette in a way you knew was irresistible to her.

“If you stop, I'll kill you,” she said in a dark tone, pulling at your hair with a furious look, embarrassed by the pleasure your lips were giving to her.

You pretended not to want to kiss her again, to make her taste herself, to realize there was still something very strong between you. You doubted if it would have served any purpose.

“You can't kill me,” you said, stimulating her clit again, looking over her body, analyzing her expressions of pleasure.

“I advise you to use your mouth for more than just talking, stupida... it's not good for you to defy me,” she told you, pulling at your hair, burying your head between her legs.

“You can't kill me because...” you said, stopping again, caressing her delicious wetness with your fingers, inserting them slowly in her eager walls, making her moan shamefully. “… Because I know you still love me.”

Without waiting for a reply, your tongue ran over her wetness again, forming a subtle rhythm with your fingers, making the lady in black lose control of her language, whisper words you didn't understand, and moan uncontrollably.

“Sto...Sto per...” she said, pushing you away before her back tensed and her thighs squeezed your head tightly, feeling the embrace of her insides, the explosion of pleasure you could feel on your lips.

Neither of you said anything after that. There weren't a word of love, just silence as the two of you dressed slowly, unsure of what had really happened, how that involuntary act of passion had occurred.

“You've got what you wanted, you can go,” Donna said, buttoning her blouse and tucking her skirt into place, without looking at your face.

“You don't understand, Donna, this isn't what I came for,” you said, covering yourself in the same way, walking behind her.

“Oh, you came to talk, didn't you? And get fucked... that's what I've always been to you,” she said in a bitter tone, pushing your lost bra against your chest. “Go, per favore...”

“Donna, please, don't... don't make it so difficult,” you protested, chasing after your elusive lover again. “If you think I'm that way, you don't know me.”

“I thought I knew you... I thought I knew you, tesoro," Donna murmured, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I-It's of no use pretending to hate you. I'd like to hate you, but I can't.”

“Then don't hate me, my love...” you sighed, cupping her face in your hands. “We were both wrong, but...”

“I was wrong about you.”

“Ugh, Donna, please… Stop being so stubborn and listen to me,” you insisted, wiping away your tears as well. “I never, ever cheated on you. I rejected Daniela as soon as I could. That day I just wanted to be back with you. Every time I left, I wanted to be back with you, with the woman I loved and... and still love.”

“You... do you still love me?” she asked, with a different look, gently grabbing your wrists.

“Every day that passes without you is hell, Donna. Eternal life isn't worth it without you,” you confessed, making Donna lower her head. “And I know you feel the same.”

“Io... Io..." she stammered, blinking erratically. “Th-those things I said while we were making love, I'm not… I'm not like that.”

“I know…” you sighed, very close to her lips. “I would have preferred for you to love me like before, to hear you whisper in my ear while you take me…”

“Sono d’accordo,” she sighed, caressing your face, the roots of your cheeks, brushing back your hair, sticky with sweat.

“You agree? Do you mean about sex?” you joked, making her smile as she shook her head.

“No, tesoro… Eternal life is hell without you,” she whispered, before placing her lips on yours, in a different way, salty with tears.

“Let's try again, Donna… I love you.”

“Please, amore mio…”

#donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader #re8 donna #re8 village #oneshot #requests

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