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arabellasleopardcoat · 2 months ago

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One Thousand Ships (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: Epithets have a funny way of growing out of control. Thankfully, your husband has a way of seeing you for what you are, and not the myth attached to your name. Or, the nightmare of being coveted by a Targaryen Prince skips a generation or two, but you are never safe from it. Thank the Gods Cregan is more sensible.

A/N: Requested. In which you get to play Helen of Troy while being completely normal. Enjoy. (Blame my thesis advisor, who called me Molly Bloom. I am in a classic's mood)

Warnings: Mature language, period typical repression, mature themes. Canon typical violence. Lots of Cregan fluff.

YOU REMEMBER A story you had been told once, about a girl. A girl so beautiful, her father had made all those who vied for her hand promise they would aid her future husband in a possible war if they were not fortunate enough to marry her.

A girl whose beauty was enough to start a war, for come a few years later, a cruel, wicked man, had taken her from her home. And the bannermen had answered the call from the husband, and started a war so terrible, it must have lasted thirty years.

You had never been that girl. You weren’t beautiful enough to start a war, no, but you were beautiful enough to end it. Or perhaps, it had been the fact you had not been in the room when the terrible thing happened. Maybe that was enough for Aemond.

Your betrothal to him had come after weeks of tense negotiations, screaming matches, and near maiming between the two warring mothers. In the end, it had been your grandsire’s pleas for unity among the family what had settled the matter, deciding the two of you would wed before your next nameday.

For a few blessed days, it had seemed like war would be avoided. Your marriage to Aemond would sideline the biggest weapons of the Blacks and the Greens. Verminthor would not be able to go against Vhagar, the Greens had thought, when his rider was married to hers. The same logic had prompted the Blacks to agree to the betrothal.

In hindsight, it had been a doomed effort from the very start. Both sides had celebrated, thinking they were winning a hostage, yet who was winning in truth, only the Gods knew.

Not you, you now knew. You had been getting the shortest stick from the deal. You just hadn’t known.

It had all come crumbling down when your grandsire died.

You hadn’t been in the Red Keep, nor had Aemond been in Dragonstone when it happened. That had been the first mistake of the plan. The second? Aemond had grown too attached to the thought of wedding you.

As soon as your mother heard of Aegon’s coronation, the betrothal went out in flames. Secretly, you were relieved. Aemond had unnerved you when you had visited the capital. He was not the shy, kind boy you remembered, but a vicious man.

When you heard you were instead to go North, and wed Cregan Stark, your first thought had been that at least, if you had to choose, you preferred him. He was much kinder.

It was, of course, not the first thing anyone would think of Cregan Stark. Some would call him honorable, and some would call him cold. A truer King of Winter there had never been, for he had executed his uncle and sent his cousins to the Wall. Nor was there a man as oath bound as he, who had rallied his banners for your mother’s cause for a promise that hadn’t even been his.

So who was Cregan Stark? Honorable or cold and cruel? To your four-and-ten-year-old self, he was kind and brave when no one else had dared to be.

It had been your nameday and you had been terrified. You had never been one for being the center of attention, too self-conscious of your head of dark hair and brown eyes for it. When you were little, you had been the kind of girl who hid in her mother’s skirts, and was called adorable. You had grown up aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and did not like it, so you had learned all your curtsies and managed to behave politely enough to blend in with the crowd.

But there was a man who had never overlooked you. You were his favorite, much as Jace was Harwin’s and Luke was mother’s and Joff was Laenor’s. You were Viserys’.

So for your four and ten nameday, to mark your transition into womanhood, your grandsire had chosen to celebrate by throwing a ball with every single highborn in the realm in attendance.

No expense was spared. Your grandsire commissioned a beautiful blue gown for you, supposedly in the Velaryon colors. But the fabric is Arryn blue, and it looks suspiciously like one of the late Queen Aemma’s dresses. It was the most grown up dress you had ever owned.

Your mother had cried when she had seen you in it. Your grandfather had praised your beauty.

Despite how young you had been, you were already aware of the schism inside your family. You had grown up surrounded by cruel japes about your hair color and eyes, and how strong of a lady you were. And even if you had been blind to it, you also had the dubious pleasure of overhearing a row between Alicent and Viserys about this very feast.

You had been at the first fitting of the beautiful gown, and eager to show your grandfather, when you had heard them arguing about the prices of the silk.

“I will have no expense spared! It’s her four and ten nameday. She is blossoming into a young woman, she deserves to have a special celebration. Rhaenyra had one just like..”

“What about your other daughter, Viserys?” Alicent’s words, harsh and cold, had cut even you, who were eavesdropping from the hallway. Suddenly, it felt as if you had swallowed a block of ice. That intense was your dread.

Helaena had turned four and ten the year before, and her nameday had passed without any sort of celebration. An older you would think of this moment, and realize this was a pivotal moment for Alicent.

But at the moment, the only consequence that had mattered to you had been that Alicent had been spitting mad, and that she had forbidden either of her sons from asking you to dance. Or even approaching you.

She had let her displeasure be known, loudly, during the whole week leading up to your nameday, and when the music started playing during your feast, both Aegon and Aemond had remained firmly seated by their mother’s side.

No one else dared to ask you to dance. Not when you were sat at the right of the King, crowned by a circlet more proper for his heir than the second born of the Princess. You were too high ranked for a simple lord to come ask you for a dance, and the only men who were close to you remained either willfully sitting or blissfully oblivious.

You remained seated, feeling the minutes drag by, and so did everyone else in the hall. No one could take to the dance floor if the hostess herself did not open the dance. You betted that your mother had not had this sort of trouble in her youth. You didn’t even want to look at her, worried she might order your brother or her husband to take you for a spin. How embarrassing would that be!

Your face began to heat up, but you forced yourself to relax the tense line of your shoulders. The song was coming to an end. Jace looked at you, from across the table, and you resigned yourself to the embarrassment of dancing with your brother, for it would surely be worse to remain seated.

Yet, as he was starting to stand up, someone intervened. A boy appeared by your side, offering you a hand.

“A dance, my princess?” He was very tall, and surprisingly good-looking. His eyes were a deep, dark gray that looked almost black, and his jaw square. Despite being around your age, he had already shed all the awkwardness of adolescence, shoulders broad, and the barest hint of scruff in his cheeks, though he kept himself cleanly shaved.

He was dressed in less elaborate clothes than the rest of the guests, though no less expensive. A direwolf was embroidered on his doublet. Stark. A future Lord Paramount was nothing to scoff at, and by the superior look your mother was giving Alicent, she knew it.

“Of course.” You beamed at him, taking his hand. His was warm against yours, and slightly rough. Calloused.

“You look very beautiful tonight.” He offered, politely, as he led you around the room. “I like the color of your dress.”

“Velaryon blue.” Though that was being generous. The color was more of a faded light blue, closer to gray, that matched much more the Arryn’s coat of arms.

“We match.” And when he spins you, he lifts his arm, showing you his sleeve, in Stark gray.

“So it seems, my lord.” Then, more quietly, as he lifts you, making something flutter in your stomach, you whisper. “Thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank me for.” The boy smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It makes an embarrassed flush come to your cheeks.

“You know there is. For the compliment and…” You lower your head, not wanting anyone to read your lips from a distance. But before you can voice anything more intimidating, the boy cups your jaw in his hand and softly tilts your face up, so you meet his eyes.

“There is no need to thank me for taking the chance to dance with a beautiful maid.” He says, no hint of dishonesty in his voice. “If any, I am thankful.”

“You are? Why?” You say, confused.

“That all these southrons are too cowardly to approach you.” You laugh, and he joins you, loud and clear. This is the memory you hold on to, when you begin your ride north, heart in your throat, and terrified of what Aemond might do next.

WHAT CREGAN REMEMBERS about you is not how good of a dancer you are, or how beautiful you had looked in your pale blue gown.

He remembers, instead, the day before, when his father and him had arrived to the capital. They had ridden hard and fast, racing each other with reckless abandon. They had left Winterfell with plenty of time to spare, but both of them loved horses and could never resist the thrill of a good hunt, or in this case, race.

Too much wolf’s blood, his mother had said when she still lived. Too much to keep still, too much for settling down.

Cregan doesn’t know it yet, but this is the last time he will get to have this sort of fun with his father. But currently, he is young, and wild, and still free of the burdens of lordship. So they race, and he runs, and they make it to the capital with two full days to spare.

On the second day, Cregan decides to go exploring. He has always been curious about dragons, having grown on the stories about Good Queen Alysanne, and her visit to the Wall. Of her beautiful dragon, Silverwing, and how she had refused to fly over it, fearful of what laid beyond it.

Being a Stark, and knowing the secret he knows, Cregan is convinced the dragons have to have some sort of superior intelligence. Or a way to sense magic. As a boy, he believed them to be able to sense evilness, but at the more mature age of four and ten, he now realizes they can stand evilness, otherwise Maegor would have never ridden Balerion.

So, he decides he must visit the dragonpit. It isn’t as straightforward as just walking up to it. The dragonkeepers won’t allow him to stay or visit the dragons if not authorized by some Targaryen.

“Ah, young Lord Stark.” The King says, when Cregan finally catches him, near the small council. He seems rather harried, what with overseeing the preparations for the feast, ruling, and his sickness. Cregan would feel bad about asking him, but he has seen neither hair nor hide from any other member of House Targaryen. The Queen and the Princess seem to be having a terrible row, and their respective households have wisely made themselves scarce. “I hear you wish to ask something of your King.”

“Your Grace,” Cregan bows, as straight as he can. His father has always said that poor posture makes one look like a sycophant instead of a man properly paying his respects. “If I may be so bold, yes. I wanted to see the dragonpit.”

“Most lords never wish to be near a dragon. Why, my own lady wife is terrified of them!” The King isn’t paying much attention, more preoccupied with deciding between two sets of cutlery that look nearly identical to Cregan. He gestures for a servant, and hands him one. “This one.”

“I… I have always enjoyed hearing stories about Good Queen Alyssane and my ancestor, Lord Alaric Stark.” And his words seem to be the right ones because King Viserys finally turns to look at him,

“Yes, stories about your ancestors. A noble pursuit for a young man. It will make you into a fine lord.” The King smiles at him. “You may visit Silverwing, if you so wish, from a distance. I wouldn’t have my granddaughter's nameday sullied by your death.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cregan bows, and hurriedly exits the room, uncaring if his bow is a bit sloppy. He is meeting dragons today.

Cregan rides to the dragonpit. In there, the dragonkeepers eye them with suspicion, despite the guard that King Viserys had sent along with him to grant his permission. He is led to Silverwing’s enclosure, and the dragon is magnificent, honoring her name with wings made of a shimmering gray. He has heard she had once resided in the isle of Dragonstone, but it is no longer the case.

It unsettles him a bit, seeing her chained. It doesn’t seem right that a creature as regal as she is chained. Not when she blinks at him with what are clearly intelligent eyes.

Before he can have a stare-down with her, the dragonkeepers pull him back. Silverwing grows agitated, struggling with her chains. Has Cregan upset her?

“Worry not, Lord Stark. This happens every time….” One of the dragonkeepers yells, as they retreat into another cave and emerge in the center of the dragonpit once more.

“Every time? I read she was sweet-tempered.” At the look of disbelief in the dragonkeeper’s face, he quickly amends it. “For a dragon.”

“She is. But she worries when her mate parts from her.”

“Her mate?” The only response he gets is the dragonkeeper pointing towards a bronze dragon, as big as Silverwing, getting ready to take flight. Verminthor. The Bronze Fury.

Some other dragonkeepers are removing the chains from him, and he barely notices, enraptured by a small figure at his side. Cregan looks in their direction, curious. From this distance, he cannot tell if they are a her or a him. They wear riding leathers that render them almost shapeless. It is only when they get on the saddle, in an agile little jump, and their long braid sways, Cregan notices they are a woman.

A girl, more likely. Around his age, considering her lack of curves. She has to be strong, to be able to jump like that as if it were nothing. She looks impossibly tiny on her dragon’s back.

Cregan approaches slightly, as far as he dares. There is a barrier between him and the dragon, but he can still see clearly. When Verminthor takes flight, he expects to see a frightened expression on her face. He would be frightened if he were she.

Instead, her face only shows a fierce joy, teeth bared, braid whipping with the wind. Fearless, despite being only a tiny speck in the dragon’s back. Alight as she is, she is the most beautiful woman Cregan has ever seen.

Cregan will not think of you for many years, but when he does, Aemond’s obsession will seem reasonable. The girl atop the dragon, brave and fierce, is the sort to grow into a woman you start a war for.

THERE IS SOMETHING scary about a man’s obsession. Something scarier than deranged love letters, something that inches more into the realm of your husband’s lover murdered at your wedding. Something that begins with you liking the attention at first, and ends in nights spent looking at the ceiling, wondering if you had prompted him to do this terrible thing.

Your hands still shake when you think of it. You remember sitting with Daemon and your mother, through a tense meal after they quarreled during the council meeting, when the Maester had come rushing, face pale.

“A raven, for the Princess.” And you and your mother had attempted to rise, much to Daemon’s amusement. Then, your mother had remembered she was the Queen and sat back down. You had fought a smile then, unknowing of what was to come. “It’s… It’s a serious matter. I think all of you should read it.”

The three of you had sobered, and you had reached for the letter, confused when the Maester had passed you a small bag.

Then, you opened it, your mother reading over your shoulder, and both of you had stared at it in horror.

“What is it?” Daemon had said, impatiently opening the bag. Your mother fell to her knees. You howled.

On the floor, the pieces of one of Luke’s jerkins laid, bloodied.

“… I offer you the chance to finish this senseless quarrel. Come back to King’s Landing. Honor our betrothal. Swear fealty to the true King and make your mother… Bah!” Daemon had yelled, grabbing the letter and angrily throwing it to the hearth.

But instead of agreeing, your mother’s expression remained pensive. Daemon and you exchanged a glance.

“Nothing has changed.” You said, voice firm. Despite it, you could feel your nerves threatening to choke you. What if your mother was thinking of doing as Aemond said? You knew she would never allow him to live, not after Luke, but you also knew that now that she was Queen, and she was looking to preserve the decades of peace she had inherited from your grandfather. She had to think of more than just what would please her. Even if revenge would please her much more. “We knew this was a possibility, that Aemond would insist on honoring the betrothal. Was it not the very reason I did not ride out as my brothers did?”

It had been. Your mother and you had argued fiercely over it, but at last, she had convinced you of the dangers of capture and the need to keep Verminthor, the biggest dragon the Blacks had, close by.

“Nothing has changed.” Daemon agreed, his face showing how troubled he was at your mother’s blank expression. If he, who had known her since she was a little girl, couldn’t decipher her thoughts, there were reasons to worry. “Except for the fact that you might have to ride North sooner than expected.”

“Sooner?” Your mother echoes, hands turned into fists. You can tell she is burning with anger. You wonder if her tears have frozen, as yours seem to have. Your horror is too great. You do not dare look at the scraps of fabric laying on the floor.

Had Luke told Aemond the betrothal no longer stood? Used that fact to taunt him?

Had it been your fault?

“I do not wish to face Vhagar here. Nor brave the attempts to kidnap her. We need to move her out of his sphere of influence. Right now, as she is, she is useless. A liability. As long as she is here, they will keep trying to get in. We cannot risk it.”

At that, your mother begins to cry in earnest.

You would never know the answer to your questions. They had died with Luke, and you didn’t intend to be around to ask them to Aemond.

“It’s decided, then. I ride North in the morrow.”

“I’ll toast to that.” Daemon agrees, lifting a goblet. “May you win us a full army, with that face of yours. Whatever enchantment you put on that Targtower, let us hope it works on wolves too.”

Your mother laughs. It echoes, a hollow sound in the dining room.

THE EVENING THE princess is supposed to arrive, Cregan is miserable. He has spent the last two days placating his lords, and is in no mood to placate you. Yet, he knows someone has to tell you, and no one is better suited for the job than your betrothed.

You make your entrance in the back of Verminthor, the myth of your beauty leaving Cregan wholly unprepared for the woman who rides him. You are not a Valyrian Empress come to life, nor are you closer to a goddess than a woman. Instead, on his gardens stands a normal woman, dressed in beautiful finery, and riding a dragon, but normal nonetheless.

It isn’t what he had pictured at all, and it throws him a bit off balance. It is probably why he dares approach Verminthor, slowly, and help you dismount.

Cregan feels a vague amount of fear, like one does when faced with staring down a cliff’s edge, or at seeing knights joust. He is too numb and underwhelmed to feel anything more. His mind is slow, still stuck on the fact that you are not some otherworldly beauty that leads men into madness, and hence, perceives you as a normal lady needing help to dismount.

“There has been a decree.” He starts, without even introducing himself. Cregan might still be shocked by how normal you look, but he is not dumb enough to startle the dragon, so he reaches slowly for your waist. It is good that he rids himself from this fear, he rationalizes. If he is about to live with a dragon, he cannot eat him, “From Prince Aegon.”

You smile at him, not out of genuine happiness, but politely enough. One of your hands goes to his shoulder, steadying yourself. Cregan can smell the subtlest hint of the perfume you have applied to your wrists, and it makes him wish he could bury his nose against your pulse point. By the Gods, you smell divine. Good enough to eat.

“What does it say?” You ask, and there is something in your manner, something so unique, so bewitching, Cregan understands why this mythos has grown around you, making you into a figure larger than life.

“That you are betrothed to Prince Aemond, his heir.” Cregan cannot help himself, his lips begin to form a smirk against his will. There is no humor in it, only bared teeth and wolf. He hates when someone dares stake a claim on something that is his. He hates even more being made to look the fool.

One only has to look at what happened to Bennard Stark to know it.

Your face, kind and sweet, takes a sharp dive towards confusion. There is some rage against Aemond in your expression, but you mostly look puzzled, brows furrowed together, mouth half open.

“His heir?"

And telling you would be distasteful, yet again, so it is marrying another man’s betrothed. Cregan isn’t about to let it stop him.

“Apparently, your mother or stepfather ordered the murder of a child.” Cregan lifts you slightly, aiding you make your way down to the floor. Standing on the snow, you look surprisingly small.

“Ah.” You tilt your head to the side. You pat your dragon’s back, as if telling him to settle, and the great beast takes off. Your expression remains carefully blank.

“And there is more. The High Septon has said that any man who doesn’t marry under the light of the Seven will be excomulgated, the marriage null.” Cregan adds. That had been the truly enraging news for his lords, who despised any southern trying to tell them what to do.

At that, though, your demeanor changes. Your shoulders lower, as if protecting yourself, and you pull back. You remind him oddly of an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, ready to bite off its own leg to free himself.

“Alicent.” You mutter, rattled. “They knew where I was headed. A spy?”

“Or common sense. I am close to your age and far enough that they would never get you. I suppose we will be very happy being heathens together.” Cregan offers you his arm, and you take it, laughing a little. You still seem fearful, but it is a start.

“Daemon will love it.” You smile, as the both of you advance towards Winterfell. “He married my mother in the Valyrian tradition.”

“My lords are in an uproar. They intend to see the wedding through if only to spite those… cunts.” Cregan isn’t one to speak so crassly out loud, not to a lady he has just met, but he has an inkling that it might make you feel more at ease.

He is right. You tilt your head back and let out a loud laugh, attracting the eyes of all of those in the courtyard. When happy, you light up, going from ordinary girl to extraordinary. Suddenly, Cregan sees it. You are as beautiful as a woman as you were as a young maiden. And it was this beauty, this presence that would rally the northerns behind you, not the beauty of your physical vessel.

Men had loved King Viserys, because they had seen themselves in him. They, too, suffered from ailments, they too, had wives who never smiled and daughters that were the light of their lives. They felt his guilt, his fear, his hopes. They loved his beautiful daughter, the Realm’s Delight, and they loved his first granddaughter, the Winter Princess.

“Then we marry soon.” You decide, and Cregan smiles. He knows he can make this work. Your myth would launch a thousand ships, and your charisma would keep the northerns strong in their oaths.

“As my Princess commands.”

YOU HAD A complicated relationship with desire. As a young girl, free from the confines of your reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, you had thought it to be something not quite real. Something that the writers of the novels you were not supposed to read because they were not age appropriate, made up to add spice to them.

Desire, you thought to yourself, was something out of romance stories, and not something that happened in real life. Your early years had been spent looking at two people who loved each other, yet you never saw your mother and Ser Laenor exchange charged glances or anything more than friendly touches.

Then, Lady Laena and Ser Harwin had died. And you had discovered that desire was a destructive force, that consumed everything it touched. Not in a good way. In the most terrible one. Taking away fathers and mothers who dared want things. Then, Ser Laenor had died, and Daemon was wed to your mother, confirming you that desire was an evil, terrible force.

When you had flowered, you had forced yourself to avert your eyes from all the boys around you. You never dared look at any pages, nor to your uncles or any young lord, less that terrible feeling poisoned you from the inside out and led you into disgrace.

Disgrace, Alicent said, was the circumstance of your birth. You did well by not imitating the promiscuous ways of your mother, and not bringing dishonor to your name. Perhaps your obsession with never, ever, having a lustful or dishonorable thought had been what had caught her attention and made her argue so vehemently in favor of betrothing you to Aemond.

And yet, for all your avoidance, you could not beat nature forever. It was known that bastards were supposed to be treacherous, lustful creatures, and you weren’t foolish enough to believe your dark hair came from your non-existent Baratheon heritage.

The first time you had ever desired a man had been the day after your nameday feast. Most of the guests were too deep in their cups, or busy nursing the aftereffects of a night of revelry and indulgence, so you had decided it was the perfect time to go for a ride without anyone gawking at you.

If there was something you despised, it was to be gawked at. And lately, it happened way too often. You no longer were a child, who was by that very fact protected from the poisonous whispers at court. Now, you were a Lady, and hence, fair game for all the snakes residing in the Red Keep.

As you had been walking on the courtyard, you had seen him. Lord Stark. The kind boy who had danced with you when no one else would, and had turned what could have been a miserable night into one that had made you feel truly special.

His back was turned to you. He held a heavy practice sword, much bigger than the one Jace used when training. He was clearly proficient with it, his form much more precise than your brother’s. His tunic clung to his upper body thanks to the sweat, and highlighted his muscles.

Mesmerized, you stopped in your tracks, simply watching him run his drills. There was a strange feeling in your stomach, something warm and sirupy, that nestled there and set you alight, yet left you confused with how unfamiliar it was.

Then, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, exposing his defined stomach and the trail of dark hair that led down to his breeches, and you could finally put a name to it. Your cheeks began to heat up, your eyes widened. And you stood there, as if struck by lighting, as the terrible, evil feeling bloomed in your chest. Desire.

You had not forgotten that memory. Not years after, when Aemond’s desire threatened your very life, and not right now, when you feel the eyes of Cregan’s lords on you, and hear them mutter about how they are about to find out soon enough why they called you the most beautiful woman in the realm.

THE DAMN SONG begins playing after the main course is served, and Cregan can feel you freeze next to him. You have eaten little to nothing since your arrival, face set into a grim determination that reminds him too much of himself after learning of his uncle’s betrayal. But when The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown begins playing, your spoon freezes on its way to your mouth.

His men are impatient. They had been told tales of your beauty ever since hearing of your betrothal to Cregan, the myth around you building and building with each desperate attempt made by the Kinslayer and his family to stop this very wedding. No man would go to such lengths for a woman unless he loved her madly. And why would a man love a woman such, if not for her otherworldly beauty?

When faced with the fact that you were comely enough, but common, they had decided there had to be something under all those clothes that had driven Prince Aemond to insanity. And they decided, apparently, to see for themselves.

Had you not been so frightened, Cregan would have allowed it to go on. When he had married Arra, she had gleefully partaken in the bedding, even joining the group of women tearing at his clothes. Arra… The thought of his first night as a wedded couple made Cregan’s heart ache. He shook his head, attempting to clear it.

There would be no such a thing happening tonight. For starters, the conditions of that night had been much different. Arra had been a northern woman, and had known most of those inside the hall her whole life. None would have dared disrespect her, and their interest had been vague, knowing she was to be the woman of their lord.

You were a stranger, and the guests were a mob waiting to pounce on you, far too interested in divesting you of your clothes. Arra would have punched anyone who dared touch her inappropriately. Because she could. Her station was different from yours. A Princess wasn’t afforded the liberties a woman from the mountain clans was.

As a foreigner, you didn’t have the respect from his lords that Arra had enjoyed. It didn't matter that your dowry was bigger than the one any other maiden could boast about, including a giant dragon sleeping just outside. Northerns distrusted outsiders, and you would have to earn their respect not by your prowess as a dragonrider, but as Lady of Winterfell.

Cregan knew if he allowed them to grope you now, they would never respect you. And you would never forgive him, frightened out of your mind as you were. You needed to feel safe, after spending the last moon feeling everything but.

He gets up from his seat, and raises a hand to silence the hall. His lords obey immediately, even the drunker ones. The minstrels take a bit longer, but they, too, fall into line.

“The Princess is in mourning.” Cregan says, voice firm. “There will be no bedding tonight. My wife and I will retire to our shared chambers, and that will be all.”

“But, my lord, the tradition…”

“Such tradition was born in the South. And we are not southrons.” Cregan glares at the man that dared speak. “We did not wed under their Faith, nor do their laws hold any sway here. I will not let them dictate what I do between the sheets either.”

And at that, there is some laughter and cheers. Cregan smiles to himself. Trust the northern pride to get him out of difficult situations.

He sits back down, and gestures for the music to resume, and for everyone to go back to eating. The musicians start again, with a much more appropriate rendition of The Winter Maid.

You look at him, dark eyes wide.

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, voice pitched low.

“There is no need to thank me. We do not frighten women here in the North.” A flash of pain crosses your face, perhaps thinking of the pain you have endured thanks to this blasted war. Carefully, giving you ample time to move away, he places his hand on top of yours. “No one will hurt you under my roof. No one. Much less me.”

You bow your head, half shy, half coy. When your gaze lifts to meet his, Cregan is struck once more by how beautiful you look when you smile.

When the time comes for both of you to retire, Cregan tucks you firmly by his side, an arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. He keeps his steps hurried, avoiding the lords who have had too much to drink and glaring at the ones who are sober. He manages to reach his chambers without anyone attempting to grope you, though the cheers and vulgar remarks cannot be avoided.

Once inside, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders loosening, before you take one look at the bed and freeze again.

“I won’t take what isn’t freely given.” Cregan tells you, sitting down on it to take his boots off. “I have no need of it. I have my heir.”

“I… I want to.” You whisper, softly. Your face grows a deep, dark red. “But I can’t. Not tonight.”

And Cregan smiles at you.

“Not tonight.” He agrees, easily. Only fools live of hope, he thinks, but most men turn into fools when in your presence. He can forgive himself for it. “But someday.”

You blow the candle on your bedside, and Cregan does the same in his. In the absolute darkness of his chambers, he can hear the soft rustle of clothes as you undress, taking off the cloak he had wrapped you in and the wedding gown. As he works on taking off his tunic, he imagines how lovely you must look, flushed and shy as you remove your clothing, baring your soft skin to the night’s air.

The thought of getting into bed with you, half naked, makes his groin throb. He has to think of many unpleasant things to calm himself, as he lies down on the bed. The mattress dips, suddenly, and Cregan can hear your letting out a nervous sigh.

You begin struggling to find a comfortable position to lay on the bed, trying to touch him as little as you can. Occasionally, Cregan can feel the brush of a foot or an elbow. The bed is not so big, after all.

Yet, he remains laying still and silent for what feels like an eternity. Only when you settle, miles away from him, the sounds of merriment still coming from outside the chamber, does Cregan reach out.

“Wife.” He whispers, as one might whisper a prayer.

And your reply by reaching out a hand to touch his, a bit slick from your nerves, but soft and smooth in his calloused ones.

“Husband.” There is such want in your tone, that Cregan wonders who taught you to make yourself small, so others could feel big. Who taught you to hide who you were, what you yearned for. He wishes he could go meet them and punch them right on the mouth.

No one would ever dare utter an unkind word to you here. Cregan would make sure of it.

“It isn’t wrong to want.” He tells you, as he gathers you in his arms. You tense at first, but come morning, you are cuddling him back.

“A LETTER HAS arrived.” The Maester announces, his face grave. Your stomach twists. For a second, you are back in Dragonstone, dining with your mother and Daemon. Opening the letter that will tell you of Luke’s death in the worst possible manner.

It makes you sick. Sick enough that nausea blooms and you are forced to rush out of the hall and end up throwing up on an empty flowerpot. As you retch, you can hear footsteps after you. The Maester and Cregan, no doubt, have followed you outside after your hurried exit.

You feel a vague embarrassment over being seen in such a way, but it is quickly tempered by the relief of feeling a cold hand bracing your forehead and another holding your hair back. Cregan. You would weep with relief, were it not the fact you are too busy emptying your stomach.

When you finally cease your retching, Cregan hands you a handkerchief to wipe your mouth, polite as always.

“Are you alright?” He asks you, and when you nod, shakily, he takes your arm and turns towards the Maester.. “Come, join us. You can tell us of the letter while we take a walk through the gardens.”

You allow Cregan to steer you towards the exit. Perhaps he is right, and the cold air might do you good. Soothe your nerves. Besides, staying in the hall was only reminding you of that terrible night. A different setting might make it easier to bear.

The Maester looks startled. Spooked. It only confirms the acid brewing in your stomach that these are bad news. The bile threatens to overwhelm you and makes you gag again. You cover your mouth with your hand.

“If the Princess is pregnant, it would be best if she didn’t…” The Maester starts, yet he is sharply interrupted by Cregan.

“She isn’t. Now read the letter.” Both of you turn to stare at him, at the fury in his expression, so out of character for your husband. He has never been one for such displays of temper, his anger much colder and harder to provoke than with simple words.

You know you are not pregnant. Here is a secret: To this date, Cregan and you have yet to consummate your marriage. Not for a lack of desire on his part, or even in yours, but thanks to how fearful you are of your own wants. Cregan has been endlessly patient with you, never once pressuring you, and slowly, you had been conquering your fears.

Now, the two of you could kiss for hours, with clumsy devotion full of promises that couldn’t yet be fulfilled. No longer did you tremble out of inherited superstitions that told you that loving each other would be courting misfortune. Instead, you shook from desire and pleasure, from each of his attempts to approach you, hands searching and retreating like waves. Slowly, each of your anxieties was being replaced with unashamed wantonness, and each of your fears with soft caresses only Cregan could give you.

He often told you there was no hurry, that the two of you could love each other at the pace you needed. With one heir already, Cregan had the luxury of waiting. And he was such an honest man, each time he reassured you that he wasn’t mad at you and wished to only make you happy, you believed him.

Hence, he couldn’t be angry at what he perceived to be a dig at his manhood or his inability to bed you. What bothered him was something else.

“I am not pregnant, Maester.” You say, squeezing Cregan’s arm to comfort him. “Just, the last time I heard those words…”

“It is something similar, I am afraid.” The Maester offers the letter to you, and you grasp it. The first thing you notice is that it is addressed to you and not Cregan. The second is that you know this handwriting.

My dearest Princess,

It is with great concern I read of your union to that savage. But fear not. If you come South, and your mother surrenders, I shall forgive your transgression. To avoid sullying your reputation any further, I encourage you to not dare consummate it. Your marriage is not a marriage in truth, you have been deceived. The Faith of the Seven doesn’t recognize such a thing. I shall free you and restore your honor, wedding you under the true light of the gods.

If the brute that is holding you doesn’t let you go, I, Prince Aemond Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, rider to Vhagar….

“What a cunt.” Cregan says, reading over your shoulder the numerous threats made to his person. “I dare him to try.”

It startles a laugh out of you, even if a few tears run down your cheeks.

“Promise me to not go South?”

“My men shall march, but not I. Not without you.” Cregan whispers, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “I am not foolish enough to believe myself able to face Vhagar without a dragon by my side.”

“Good.” You smile at him. Suddenly, everything doesn’t seem as bad. You trust his ability to keep you safe, to keep his oaths. And it makes something delicate and warm fill your chest.

It doesn’t make you forget about his fit of temper, though. You ruminate on it all day, as you go through your tasks. When night comes and Cregan kisses you with more desperation than usual, you have your answer.

“I do not want to lose you.” He whispers, holding you tight against him as if you were about to turn into melted snow and slip between his fingers at any time. “I want you to stay here. Forever.”

You hug him back, tightly. It hadn’t been about masculinity, or a perceived slight. His first wife, Arra, had died in childbirth.

“I am not going anywhere.” You tell him. “Aemond will not get me, nor will childbirth. My mother has given birth seven times, six of them without any danger.”

“We don’t need more children.” Cregan grumbles, sounding like a whining child. You look up at him, splayed over his chest as you are, and smile.

“No, we don’t.” You agree. Once, you had thought you needed to have his child to secure a place at his side, but no longer do. Perhaps it would be good to have one in case Cregan dies, to ensure you do not get sent back south, yet you do not intend that to happen. You will protect him until your death.

Any man trying to kill him will find himself face to face with Verminthor. He has grown lazy here, the exercise might even do him good.

“You needn’t worry, husband.” You say, as you begin to kiss a path down his neck. “There is always moontea.”

And Cregan laughs, and it is the loveliest sound you have ever heard.

“TODAY’S LESSON…” The Septa braces herself, trying not to cry out at the sudden turn of the wheelhouse. Northern roads are like that, she will soon learn. Unfortunately, Arya thinks, she has yet to give up on educating them.

Arya hopes it happens soon. She is much more interested in playing with Needle, rather than listening to her prattle about proper behavior and ancient history.

“I know that story!” Sansa interrupts the Septa, excitedly. It makes Arya pay attention again because Sansa never interrupts their Septa. “It’s so romantic! The dance of the dragon started because they were fighting over her. The Winter Princess. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, betrothed to Prince Aemond by her evil relatives when everyone knew her true love was Lord Cregan!”

“That’s not how…” The Septa starts, and for what has to be the first time in her life, Arya agrees with her.

“Father!” Arya shrieks. “Tell her that is not how it happened.”

Her father doesn’t answer. It is a rare day in which he chooses to ride in the wheelhouse, and by the look on his face, he seems to be regretting it.

“All the songs say so!”

“That it started because of her?” Arya says, in an acid tone. She blows a raspberry in Sansa’s direction, loud and disrespectful. “You are a fool. I think her mother was more worried about the fact Aemond had murdered her son. And that the Greens were usurping her.”

“If she had married Prince Aemond, there would have been no Dance of the Dragons.” Sansa corrects, smugly. “They say Aunt Lyanna was her very image.”

“Nonsense! My aunt was a Stark, the Winter Princess a Targaryen.” Arya contradicts. “Besides, if I had a dragon, I wouldn’t want to marry some boorish prince either.”

“But Aunt Lyanna must have been the most beautiful woman in Westeros too.” Sansa protests, looking very upset by Arya’s words.

Her father flinches.

“Enough. I do not want to hear another word about the Winter Princess or dragons, or Cregan Stark.”

“But father, Lord Cregan and her were the most influential….”

“I said enough, Sansa!”

The wheelhouse falls silent after that. Even the Septa shuts up. Arya looks at the scenery pass her by and thinks it’s lovely to be right. She sends a few superior glances to Sansa, less she forgets it.

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pomefioredove · 3 months ago

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Hello! Could I have a chocolate, #1, with sprinkles and whipped cream please? <3

mwahmwah rollo

order #1, chocolate with whipped cream, sprinkles

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ when it's over

summary: with a reader whose been traumatized by magic tropes: royalty au, hurt/comfort characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not yuu

The royal party had been nothing but problems, problems, problems. Poor Rollo, the diligent Student Council President, the very soul without whom this entire event would cease to exist, had run himself ragged.

Of course, nothing went right.

First, the royal procession was late. Not by a few minutes, not even by an hour, but by the time that lunch had gone cold and the crowds with it. Rollo had simply never seen such disrespectful tardiness, and he had to suspend his personal welcoming of the Night Raven College students to attend to the royal party.

Then, the play that had been arranged in honor of the visiting sovereigns was interrupted, and then the festival was pushed up by an hour, and then it was almost evening and Rollo's headache had not gone.

He sniffled into his handkerchief. He wasn't crying, nor was he sick, but his nose was wrinkled so tightly it made his voice nasally and noxious. He, not an aide in his dutiful place, should have welcomed the Night Raven students. He had wanted to see what he was up against tonight.

Rollo stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket. No matter. There's still time.

The royal party, that of a distant place he had no interest in outside of the lecture hall and the library, would be kept entertained by the festivities. There was still much drinking to be done. Rollo could slip away for ten minutes to attend to the Night Raven students, and no one would notice.

He hadn't taken one step.

"Excuse me? Monsieur Flamme, was it?"

He stops at the meek epithet. Too polite to be a Night Raven College student.

"Yes, that's right. May I-" he hesitates as you come into the light. The youngest of the visiting family. "...Ah... It's you."

Adorned in the finest cloth of your countrymen, eyes sparkling. You had addressed him in the language of Fleur City, which tells Rollo that you're educated. Enough, at least.

"You should be enjoying the fireworks with your friends. Is something amiss?"

You hesitate. He really does not have time for this. The evening bell is set to ring in an hour.

"...I was hoping you might find me somewhere to sit. I feel unwell,"

Wonderful. Rollo smothers a sigh in his handkerchief, and then leads you into the school.

The soft gray light of early evening, cast through the arched windows and past the strenuous pillars, is naught but a reminder of how little daylight Rollo has to spare.

"...Unwell, you say," he repeats, prodding into the soft silence. Rollo knows that you must have had plenty a place to sit, and if you were truly "unwell", as you had put it, that one of your many aides or servants would attend to you. But you went to him. Why?

"...I am moderately versed in medicine. What are your symptoms?"

He lets you into the student council room. The heavy oaken door thuds shut.

"Oh..." you say. And nothing more. Rollo raises an eyebrow at your silence. Caught in your own lie?

He gives you his arm, as a good man ought to (if only he were a good man), and helps you into a seat.

"...Just a bit lightheaded,"

"Hm," Rollo hums. "Too much to drink?"

"Oh, no, never. Not with my... you know," you say. "It was only... a lot of noise. And light."

Rollo sympathizes with that. It was those Night Raven villains who had set off those fireworks, wasn't it?

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you'd like. I apologize for the... er, commotion," he mumbles. "...It was not planned."

"Wasn't it?"

"No," he says, sternly. "I would never... ahem. The students of Noble Bell conduct themselves with more restraint.

...Especially around a dangerous thing like magic."

You almost smile. "You don't play with matches, then?"

"We don't stick our fingers in fire,"

He stands against the wall beside you, studying your posture and pose. Not so tense anymore, he notes.

"...I see," you say. "Well, that's a relief."

Is it, he wonders. "You didn't enjoy that disgus... that... display? Everyone else seemed to."

"I'm not really a fan of magic,"

It's not easy to surprise Rollo Flamme. He's a man of diligence, of devotion. He plans his days, weeks, months, years to perfection, never leaves an end loose, a thread dangling.

This surprises him.

His eyes widen.

"...I see. Is your family not..."

"Mages?" you finish. "I'm surrounded by them. But I'm... not, no."

He is suddenly not so worried about the Night Raven College students.

"...And you don't care for it? Magic?"

Your posture, your pointed toes and proud shoulders, shudders, like a candle flame in wind. Rollo hasn't seen that before, but he's felt it.

"...Not really. I've had some..." you begin.

"Experiences," he finishes, folding his hands. "I understand."

It's getting darker. The Bell, his Bell, will need him soon. But he can't leave you. His heart won't allow it.

His mind will.

"Stay in here, for the rest of the evening. I'll come for you when it's over," he does not specify what "it" means.

You nod, eyes wide, warm (or is that just the effect of the fire?) the color of flame dancing against your skin. Rollo hesitates. He sets a hand on your shoulder and presses his fingers into the soft flesh, as if to confirm that you're real, that you'll stay.

"I'll come for you," he repeats.

And with more determination than he had even that morning, Rollo heads for the bell tower.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #rollo flamme x reader

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astrogre · 2 years ago

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Astro Observations 1

My first Astro observations post, I would like to confirm that my observations are the niche ways in which a placement may manifest, it is the way I’ve noticed it in others, the people around me, celebrities, myself and in my studies. It is not the doctrine wide broad way the placement occurs for everyone.

Venus in 10th house natives tend to be well known for the person they may date. They tend to date people that really match them physically and can have their relationships idolized by others. The sign it’s under can show what their partners may be known for. This is also a common placement for celebrities because the interest from others in your love life increases your public image, making you more desirable and of interest to everyone including agencies/record labels, they will see your influential potential and love that. Even if you guys don’t date anyone people may have someone in mind who they think matches you or others can just look at you and wonder what your “type” is. Your love life in itself is of interest to others.

Eg. Chris Brown, Johnny Depp, Jimin, Victoria Beckham, Kristen Stewart, Billie Eilish, Kanye West.

Another way Venus 10th housers may manifest is they may have crushes on renowned key figures from history like JFK, Alexander Hamilton, Stalin, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe, royal monarchy literally any people of historical significance. (Saturn influence is long lasting and for Venus to be here it can make natives romanticise powerful historical figures)

Pluto 3rd housers can dominate the conversations they have with others so much that they don’t let the other person have their own opinion.

Capricorn Chiron in 6th house makes people feel worthless and terrible if they haven’t been productive for a day, these people don’t like to be lazy, it makes them feel inferior. They put a lot of pressure on themselves to produce and their day routine may be their greatest pride.

10H stellium always have career plans, they like to advance their CV and career prowess for fun, always taking up opportunities. Especially if sun is here.

12H stellium always posting the weirdest stuff that others don’t understand but it has a unique vibe to it that just feels “right” at the same time, they may have this aesthetic that feels eery but overtime enjoyable and something to look forward to because of its uniqueness. I have a 12H stellium friend and they always post pictures of weird random abandoned places with crocs and dirty teddy bears laying in the middle of them. At first I thought it strange but overtime, I look forward to what monstrosity of visuals they will bring next. 12H really does bring out things never seen before. 🤔

Venus in 1H makes you look very feminine, you may style yourself in a feminine manner or have a naturally feminine appearance. Eg. Leo Venus in 1H May have very beautiful feminine looking long hair.

1H Libra Mars has a similar effect as Venus in the 1H however these natives have a hint touch of masculinity, are rather playboy, Casanova and can have a big ego. Think of Flynn rider from tangled. Very pretty boy.

People with 12H Capricorn placements may procrastinate or find difficulty in bringing the planets in there into reality and get frustrated at themselves for it. It’s similar to the planet being in retrograde E.g a 12H Capricorn moon not being able to fully show or act on the way they feel in their head. Look at the house of where Saturn is in your chart to find the topics and how you can bring the energy of your Capricorn 12H planets out.

0 degrees for any planet or asteroid means that you embody that planet/asteroid and its sign in its most pure authentic form. It can make you the epithet of that placement.

Lilith Square Asc makes someone not able to escape looking like a bad boy/girl it always comes out in their appearance without them intending to. They don’t want to present themselves in a way that looks scandalous but at the same time a part of them is and they can’t escape that. It’s like an energy. They’re dynamic and free, they like what they like and that shows in their face and appearance. They also can’t change things about themselves to please others even if they wanted to.

Jupiter 1H usually have big features, like a glossy kind of look to them. It may be big eyes, flushed face, supple puffy skin, wide nose or just have an abundant looking face. I’ve also noticed they tend to have a squared shape face with rounded edges. E.g Hailey Beiber, Abraham Lincoln, Gerard Butler, Aishwarya Rai, Niall Horan, Ashton kutcher, Whitney Houston, Cristiano Ronaldo

Also this is completely random and not astrologically backed up but whenever I think of Jupiter 1H I just think of clear gleaming skin. Perhaps it is backed up astrologically as Jupiter blesses and brings luck to the house it’s in and it being in the 1st rules a natives appearance. Anyways when I think of Jupiter 1st house I always imagine that they don’t need very much makeup they have this glow to them already that cannot be copied.

Virgo ASC style and dress themselves in a way that’s unique for them, for an example they may always have a signature accessory that they wear that only they understand why it’s so important to be worn. E.g. can be a headband, jewellery or hat. They may also be consistent in the way they look, they don’t tend to have “bad days”. In my personal opinion I find Virgo rising men the most attractive. But beauty is in the perspective of the beholder.

Speaking of which, my unpopular opinion is that I don’t believe that a sign or planet can make you more beautiful than another sign E.g like how people say Venus, libra and Taurus is an indicator of being beautiful -I just think that each sign personifies beauty in a different way. In my eyes I see Libra and Venus beauty to be feminine and attractive, but I find Pluto Scorpio beauty to be alluring and intense, magnetic, like Phantom of the opera, like an enchanting vampire that resides in the shadows. I also find Uranus Aquarius beauty to be far more entrancing, striking and even as if the native looks like their from a game fantasy novel or a manga protagonist. I don’t think we can just say “having Venus prominent makes someone more beautiful than others”, perhaps conventionally but not universally. Planets and signs of the first house can show us HOW the beauty is made manifest. It being of Venus, libra influence just kind of makes it feminine or conventionally attractive like butterflies or roses rather than intense or of large magnitude (unless making aspects to magnifying planets like Jupiter)

Aquarius moons can feel a lot of emotions but they’re very good at holding it in. People say that they don’t feel much because the nature of Aquarius being detached however I’ve also seen it occur in a way where the Aquarius moon native may pretend they’re not hurt or sad so that they can keep it pushing and force this happy facade so it hurts less but in reality their just burying the pain deeper. They are kind of avoidant but it makes you feel sorry for them because even if you try to comfort them they don’t even acknowledge the pain themselves so it doesn’t make much of a difference.

Jupiter in 6th house always have action packed days, they spend their days with joy and have a really good time. They usually have their dream day to day life. They’re your one friend that is always doing something interesting, fully booked and loves it.

Jupiter 8H are never strapped for cash, these natives can just be very lucky in getting money from others. Especially if in harmonious aspects with sun, Pluto and Venus. If aspects are negative native still doesn’t worry much but may find that people are a little more hesitant to giving or Jupiter 8H native doesn’t want to ask for it.

Mars 1H makes someone want to work harder on their body by going to the gym, may want to look more manly, aggressive.

Jupiter conjunct moon in 7th house makes you a very passionate lover, anyone who is in a relationship with you can always feel excited and you excel in relationships.

Mercury conjunct ascendant can make someone always think about their goals, plan their next move. They use their minds to get what they want from life and can talk about the principles they apply to themselves which can make them look rather intelligent to others. Can also make someone appear very youthful, not only in appearance but their mannerisms too. Like a dimply smile, blushing and shaking their head when complimented. An animated response.

Moon opposite asc, tends to make a person unable to think clearly when emotions are involved, especially when it’s related to topics in the house your moon is in, like you can look a little mentally unstable here 💀 because your emotions that you show can drastically change from 0-100. moon opp asc also can have a person go against what they want, their principles and approach to life, the opposition forces them to deny their feelings existence in order to act in the way they believe is best. You can even care more about your image than the themes of the moons house.

E.g 7H moon opposite ascendant can make someone care about their image in the relationship, display an image of nonchalance when in reality they’re very protective of their partner. The feelings from their partner and their relationship can be irresistible and make them at times abandon their vices and plans for themselves

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whencyclopedia · 3 months ago

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Lagertha

Lagertha (also spelt Lathgertha or Ladgerda) is a legendary Viking shieldmaiden known from Saxo Grammaticus' early 13th-century CE Gesta Danorum. In this work, written in Latin and concerning Danish history, she is the first wife of Ragnar Lothbrok, a legendary Viking king said to have lived during the 9th century CE. Contrasting with the prominent role Lagertha plays in the ongoing Vikings TV series, where she is portrayed by Katheryn Winnick, the Gesta Danorum is the only historical source that even mentions her and ties her in with the more broadly-known Ragnar mythos, making her more of a footnote within his legend rather than a core element. She makes for a bold footnote, though, and an interesting character in her own right; brave and skilled, she is twice responsible for ensuring victory for Ragnar in battle. Although classical concepts of Amazons underlie Saxo's warrior women, his stories are rooted in the Old Norse traditions known from medieval Icelandic literature. Specifically, Lagertha herself may have been inspired by the Norse goddess Thorgerd, local to Hálogaland, Norway.

The Gesta Danorum

Saxo sets the stage for Ragnar and Lagertha's meeting by describing how the Swedish King Frø has slain Siward, King of the Norwegians, who was Ragnar's grandfather, and has publically humiliated Siward's female family members by putting them in a brothel. Ragnar, having just succeeded his father Siward Ring (Sigurd Hring or Ring in other Ragnar stories) to the throne of Jutland in Denmark, hears of this and is obviously not pleased. Coming to Norway with vengeance on his mind, Ragnar is met at his camp by some of the women who had been scorned, dressed up in male attire and ready to join him to hunt down the Swedish king. In the ensuing successful battle, it is one maiden in particular who stands out to Ragnar; he even goes so far as to attribute the victory to her might alone. This is, of course, Lagertha, who is described by Saxo as

…a skilled amazon, who, though a maiden, had the courage of a man, and fought in front among the bravest with her hair loose over her shoulders. All marvelled at her matchless deeds, for her locks flying down her back betrayed that she was a woman. (IX).

As if the fighting skills of the legendary warrior were not enough to set Ragnar's heart aflame, he also hears she is of noble birth, so he instantly starts courting her long-distance by sending messages to her home. Saxo tells of Lagertha feigning interest and basically leading Ragnar on while she sets up an advanced defence system around her house in the Gaulardal valley (in present-day Norway): a bear and a dog stand guard on her porch, ready to tear her would-be lover to pieces. When Ragnar travels to her home thinking he is in for an easy win, he meets the guardians who – although a surprise to him – prove no match and fall to his legendary skills, one speared and one strangled to death. Lagertha becomes Ragnar's prize, and in their subsequent marriage, they have two unnamed daughters as well as a son, Fridleif.

Three peaceful years Ragnar spends in Norway before unrest in his own Danish kingdom calls him back there. At this point, Saxo's account turns to more familiar waters when it comes to the Ragnar legend. He introduces King Herodd of Sweden – known from the main source on Ragnar, The Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok, as Herruð, jarl of Götaland in Sweden – whose daughter Thora has been raising a bunch of snakes who grow out of control. Herodd offers his daughter's hand to whoever can rid them of their slight problem, and Ragnar,

…changing his love and desiring Thora (…), divorced himself from Ladgerda; for he thought ill of her trustworthiness, remembering that she had long ago set the most savage beasts to destroy him. (IX).

He fashions the characteristic hairy trousers that give him his epithet (Loðbrók means shaggy- or hairy breeches), leaves his son Fridleif in charge of his men and goes to fight the snakes alone. Afterwards, his mission fulfilled, he marries Thora.

Thora is a well-known, core element in the various Ragnar stories, and Lagertha here thus features in a sort of prologue. However, this is not the end of her involvement in the story as laid out by Saxo. She remarries and is later asked by Ragnar for aid in his squabbles in his homelands. Not only does Lagertha agree to this and offer 120 ships "to the man who had once put her away" (IX), she herself once again plays a decisive role in the battle. When hope is wavering, Ragnar's son Siward is wounded, and all seems to be lost, Lagertha turns the tide:

Ladgerda, who had a matchless spirit though a delicate frame, covered by her splendid bravery the inclination of the soldiers to waver. For she made a sally about, and flew round to the rear of the enemy, taking them unawares, and thus turned the panic of her friends into the camp of the enemy. At last the lines of Harald became slack, and Harald himself was routed with a great slaughter of his men. (IX).

Saxo ends Lagertha's character arc on a brutal note. He states that when she came home after the battle, she murdered her husband with a spear-head that she had hidden in her dress, usurped his name and began ruling in his stead. For this episode, she is denounced by him as a "most presumptuous dame" (IX).

#History #BjornIronside #Denmark #EmmaGroeneveld #WHE #[#]

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knight-a3 · 4 months ago

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Heavenbound AU

Hazbin Masterpost

Lucifer the Fallen Angel; the King of Demons; the Scapegoat

There is a lot of lore and history to go over with this one. Let me teach you a thing or two about the bible!

Notes under the cut.

--Design notes--

Between dolls, snakes, apples, circuses, ducks, etc, there were just too many motifs/thematic elements to shove onto just Lucifer. So, I streamlined and distributed. Lucifer is goat themed, Lilith is snake themed. Charlie is a mix of the two. I also use this to partly to imply that "the Devil" is not solely Lucifer. But humans mistake various different demons as one character. Lucifer is just the one who gets blamed for everything. That's part of why he's a goat; he's a scapegoat.

Goats: There was a Jewish practice during Yom Kippur to place sin onto "scapegoats" and release them into the wilderness to basically rid the people of their sin. Specifically, they were sent to "Azazel", meaning "remove from or separate from god", which refers to a desolate place.

Goats as a demonic symbol comes primarily from pagan influences rather than the Bible. I had a couple goats before settling on sheep instead, and they're just silly guys. They're not evil.

Apples- I reduced this because I think it would be more fitting for Adam and Eve. Both ate the fruit, and it didn't make them evil or anything. Also, the fruit is never stated to specifically be an apple. That only happened due to how language evolved. But I still like how his coat kinda resembles an apple core...so it can stay.

Doll- I know Charlie is meant to resemble a porcelain doll. And in canon gets it from her dad. But I don't really understand why, so I took it away from him and gave it to Lilith, since she was created and placed on earth like a doll.

King- He does not have any real authority beyond his power as a fallen seraphim. It's basically a prison, and even Lucifer is caged. Nobody bothers to respect him. So the "crown" on his hat resembles a gate or cell bars.

Ducks- I never understood the choice to associate Lucifer with ducks. And thematically, I can't really justify it. He can still like ducks, I guess. But it won't be a design motif.

Full demon: Since I'm committing to his goat theme, I figured he could have multiple horns instead of wings. He lost his wings when he fell. As an angel, his symbol was a star. As a demon, it got flipped upside down to represent a falling star. That's the pentagram. In images of the satanic goat, it often had the pentagram on its forehead, so I included that.

Angel: I want angels to look more human, so that's that.

--Wings: Seraphim are described as having 3 sets of wings. Rather than deal with all that or even try to figure out the anatomy of that, I just gave them three sets of primary feathers, which sort of imitates the 6-winged look but is easier for me to wrap my head around and draw. Also, "biblically accurate angels" aren't as biblically accurate as you think.

--Halos: I have a specific idea for how angel halos work, but I plan to get to that in a different post. For now, just know that seraphim have two halos for a reason.

--Star: A pentagram is an upside down star. It represents the fall of the morning star. So his angel symbol is a star.

Name: Helel, Lucifer, Samael

As an angel, his name was Helel, then the elder seraphim renamed him Samael after he fell, so they could pretend they're different people. He took on the name Lucifer himself after his fall.

Helel: Helel is the Hebrew word that was translated as the latin word lucifer. Helel means "shining one", while lucifer means "light bringer" or "morning star"; lucifer can also be a verb that basically means to light a match.

Lucifer: Instead of translating the word into an English equivalent, Helel was translated as the latin term, lucifer. The word lucifer is used only once in some translations of the Bible, found in the book of Isaiah, but not as a name. Lucifer was often used as an epithet for the "star" Venus, and was used to represent pride because it rose and fell before the sun. Hence why lucifer also means "morning star". In Isaiah 14:12, The king of Babylon is being called the morning star as it falls from heaven. The capitalization of lucifer was possibly a misinterpretation by the translators.

Samael is, in some Jewish stories, the husband of Lilith. So I found a way to use all three names(Helel, Lucifer, and Samael). It means something along the lines of "severity of god" or "poison or venom of god". It is also not in the Bible.

Backstory

(Feb 21, 2025- changed the flame color to blue instead of red for lore reasons. Updated title lines.)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel redesign #hellaverse #lucifer morningstar #heavenbound au #a3 art #fanart #digital art #character sheet

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undercoverangell · 5 months ago

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“your godlike wife” they even have matching EPITHETS are you KIDDING ME

#finally getting around to finishing my reread. theyre so married its nauseating.#the odyssey #odypen #i know its not like a full epithet. ie its not . ‘godlike penelope’ but.#odysseus #penelope #like COME ON. first odysseus running in the iliad being described with allusions to a woman weaving #and now penelope is being descrived as ‘godlike’ which is an epithet commonly used for odysseus #whats next? THEYRE MARRIED??

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historia-vitae-magistras · 24 days ago

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Thinking about how the revolution was Alfred's coming of age. Thinking about the family Alfred put out of its misery when he walked out of that saltbox house in New England one night in 1775. What if the night he leaves is silent. No screaming match because even all the money Arthur has invested in his education can't sever the ties that bind. He can argue and convince as natural as breathing. It doesn't matter. These ropes can only be cut with the steel of arrogance and anger. He has a destiny. Arthur and Alfred both know it.

He is the boy's father, after all. He plucked him up from stolen shores and saw steel ships and the sun itself weaponized in the eyes of his boy. He was made for more. No one knows what 'more' means. But more than what he is now, a collection of colonies gobbling at a continent none of them have right too.

So instead of a fight, Alfred leaves in the dead of night. He's packed some things, ammunition made of his toy soldiers, food, clothes. Alfred pours his brother, still slight as a sapling from the last war, a much stronger cider than the usual they drink with dinner. And Matt drinks. Alfred will never forgive him for that, not really. For sleeping soundly on that night of nights, when he so rarely did otherwise.

There is no special meal, no real goodbye. It is a night like any other. When he is sure father and brother are asleep on opposite ends of the house, Alfred rises and gathers his things. He stands in the doorway of his father's bedroom, some childhood urge wanting to wake him. But for once, he is silent.

He takes one last look at the outline of his father's body in the the bed, in the exact position he remembers from boyhood. From being held safe just there, against his chest, in the circle of his arms. His father has done his job. A piss poor job, maybe. But he has grown to manhood.

And so he leaves. He goes into the world. Destiny, he thinks, at his back as strong as wind in sails. Meant for greater things, named for the only king England ever crowned with the epithet of 'the great.'

He will meet dawn on his feet. Matt will be little more than he was when he was signed away and the death of this family began. Arthur will be proud. He'll change his mind, if this was a decision. He never said it out loud, if he let Alfred leave that night. But there are his boys favourite books wrapped in the spangled sailboat tapestry that hung on his Elizabethan boyhood bedroom no one but Arthur could have put in his pack. Whatever family that existed is dead, or maybe only sleeping, drunk on cider. Alfred sheds the title of brother and son easily. Arthur sheds the title of father easier than he thought he could. Like a coat that needs repairs, left to hang in the wardrobes hook until there is time to mend.

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #arthur || stone set in the silver sea #matthew || my country is winter #its feels o clock apparently

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madamealys · 7 months ago

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Imagine Aemond seduces you.

(+21)

***

You and Aemond are friends for a very long time. In fact, you know him since the day you were admitted to Princess Helaena’s retinue. At first you and him didn’t see eye to eye—both of you were shy and silly, as most toddlers are. Then something started to change… whatever that was neither of you can tell even to this day, but it is probably that books have something to do with it. After all, both of you always liked to read.

As years begin to pass and you and him start to grow, affinities flow and now here you are. You’ve become his trusted friend, probably the only one worthy of such a privilege. Specially because you tended him when he needed the most—that day where he lost an eye certainly played its part.

But now… as your curves become more visible and reinforced by the gowns you wear, as you gladly share dances with Princess Helaena, Aemond has come to realize that he doesn’t like when you are the center of others attention.

Oh no. He wants to keep you to himself.

Possessive by nature, he cannot conceive losing the only one he trusts to a stranger—that he’s heard his mother already planning to marry you off has annoyed him and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Then… then maybe an idea, a selfish idea comes to his mind. If he ruins you, then no one else will want you… thus you’ll be his to keep. What he doesn’t know is that this game may be deadlier than he knows.

For you too have been noticing what a handsome prince he’s become, how strong he is, every inch a desirable match. But due to your position, regardless of the nobility running in your veins, are you a proper match for a royal liege? To shut these unwelcoming thoughts, you opt to live far from this reality. So you flee to your books.

It is in the gardens that he finds you. Reading in that secretive spot that only he knows, little surprises him that you are there. Aemond stops for a moment to admire your heart shaped face, with so angelical and delicate features that earns the epithet of innocent.

The mere idea of corrupting you, kissing your red-ish lips and running his hands over your breasts and your womanhood already make him feel warm inside. He’s always wondered what’s like to have you crying out his name… and to think he fucked a whore the other day thinking of you is almost blasphemy.

You are lying down in the grass, believing to be unseen. Today you’ve picked a book that rather writes in improper details the ways a knight treats his damsel.

And then his hand runs over her waist, fingertips grabbing every piece of skin, moving to cup those firm, loose, round breasts that…

“What are you reading there?”, Aemond’s voice comes out as a whisper, and he’s very amused by how startled you are.

“N-Nothing”, you are quickly to sit and hide the book.

Aemond is now sitting at your side and you’ve noticed suddenly that his shirt is partly open. You blush before looking away. He’s so close to you now that you can smell his scent and something about this proximity makes you wet.

And yet you are forced to repress your desires. Again.

“Aemond, don’t”, you snap at him for trying to get your book.

“Come now, you have nothing to hide from me”, and here he flashes you a seductively smirk when holding your gaze. “We have no secrets, do we?”

Seeing how crimson your face is, Aemond is now assured of his influence over you. In a moment of weakness he thus grabs the book and when opening the page you’ve been reading, he quickly raises his eyebrows.

“My Gods, Y/Nickname. And here I thought you were such a holy creature”, now he’s sitting closer to you like a snake surrounding its prey. “What has come to awaken you such sinful thoughts?”

“You cannot accuse me of it when you have been fucking whores, Aemond”, you know you cannot hold your tongue longer and the unexpected sincerity makes the prince smile genuinely at you.

“Y/N….”, and gently he makes you look at him, his longer fingers holding your chin as he gazes very indecently at you. “I fuck them thinking of you. For I could not conceive the mere idea of being worthy to your affections.”

You freeze before the confession and whilst you are chewing its meaning, Aemond starts to kiss your neck slowly and softly all the whilst his hand slips to your waist.

You shiver, unsure what to do. You tilt your head to the right unconsciously, then when looking for his eyes, you say:

“I am unworthy of you, my prince. But you know I’ve always been attached to you. Such attachment has grown to…”

You leave a moan out of your lips when he bites your neck gently, and you find yourself in the very happy spot of the protagonist of the book you’ve been reading.

“I am ruining you”, he warns you in his husky voice, as his right hand begins to pass over your breast and then quickly going to the skirts of your gown,lifting it so he caresses it over your thighs. “Do you understand me? You will be…”

And his voice is cut by the moment you turn your head and kiss his lips. The clash of it dissolves every tension at last and makes his domineering presence almost irrelevant by yours when you took the courage to pursuit his lips.

Tongues now mix together, pairing perfectly and intently, until that is his finger finds way to your core.

“Aemond”, you moan out his name the way he wants you to.

“Sopping aren’t you?” He hisses at your ear, making you aroused as he pumps his finger inside of you. “Dripping wet. Scandalously horny for me.”

When were limits crossed? When innocence was so swiftly corrupted? You have no answer for this question and you find no resistance to be pulled from his embrace.

Yet it is so tender to experience his touch, to be under his skillful fingers.

“My little wench”, he groans against your ear, biting your earlobe, pleased to detect in you the exact reaction he’s been dreaming. “Mine and mine alone.”

You throw your neck back against his shoulder, digging your fingers to his thighs as you spread your legs further.

“Oh Gods! Aemond!”, you cry out loud, wishing he could just take you there.

And he sees in you, the moment your eyes meet and your gazes lock, how reciprocal is this lust, this desire, fueled by something deeper. Aemond wraps his free hand around your neck, going faster in his pull-in-and-out finger, twirling it around your clitoris and before you know when you’re about to scream, levitating your heavy legs, he kisses you passionately.

Though he burns with you, his manhood dripping wet in his pants; though he moans with you, feeling your juices, Aemond is patient.

“Trapped you are in my nest, princess”, says he, so seductively that you pout.

Aemond smiles and when the heat cools down, you dare to break any barrier… You kiss him slowly and he is surprised to read in it the deepest longing of his heart which is to love you the way a wife deserves to be loved by her husband.

However, the wayward prince is not ready yet to profess his feelings.

You try to act in a nonchalant manner when, days after he fingered you just as he explored your naughty sentiments towards him, you don’t spot him at the court anymore.

You dance and smile because it is best to play the rules of court than being so open about it, as you’ve been instructed by dear Helaena. But it is so difficult.

So damn difficult.

Tonight you are in your private chambers, which are sided with Princess Helaena’s. You are wearing only a line nightgown and you are warm, too warm in fact.

Just as you toss away the blankets and begin to stroke yourself, your nipples unbearably hard at the thought of your mischievous prince, a knock on the door scares you out.

Blushing, you are about to leave your bed when y the door opens. You fear for yourself but the candle lights the unexpected visitor. It’s Aemond.

“For the love of Gods! Why coming out in this wolf hour, Aemond?”

“I see you are angry at me for disappearing”, he muses it rather amused, much to your consternation.

Aemond steps forward and what he sees making him ache for you. He spots these full large breasts underneath the line nightgown and how it shows your well shaped legs.

Fuck.

But he keeps composed.

“Apologies, dove. I’ve been busy.”

You fold your arms, not minding how a breast slipped out of your lose nightgown as you do so.

“Busy? Busy doing what? Chasing after your whore?”, and suddenly you are angry and far from sleepy.

“I quit with it”, he whispers under his breath, gently leaning his body over yours, his slender fingers running over your thighs.

“Please”, you try to flee out of his touch, but his firm grip prevents you to. “Aemond…”

“My sweet Y/Nickname…”, he whimpers so sensually that you find yourself aroused. “Come here. Don’t play coy with me.”

“I don’t play… coy with you…”, you speak in short breath as he starts to remove your nightgown and knocking your pride so easily. “Aemond!”

“Yes?”, the prince bites down your lip, eyes locked still as he places his hands over your shoulders, going down to your breasts. “So good to me. My lady.”

You moan so hotly that Aemond struggles to keep himself under control. Eyeing you like a hunter about to capture his prey, his slender fingers take time in cupping each breast, caressing it slowly, playing with your nipples until they harden under his touch.

You throw your head back, spreading your legs almost unconsciously as you are invaded by a lascivious sentiment too strong to be repulsed. Aemond side smirks as you subdue to him easily, the way he’s always wanted.

“Aemond”, you moan his name out like the devoted mistress you are, eyeing now at him with utmost desire. “Aemond…”

You’d gladly explore his body had you known how, so almost moved by instinct your hands go to his chest and slowly go down his belly and…

“No. Not now”, he whispers, stopping you right there even if he has an erection. “Wait.”

And then he lies you down, moving his body to match with yours. He lifts his nightgown and you feel the tip of his erection so close to your entrance. Aemond smirks as you rub your womanhood against his, desperately needing him, forgetting every moral as he overpowers you.

“My lady is in need, uh?”, the prince bites down your bottom lip before kissing your jawline and going to neck. As he leaves traces of kisses in your skin, he begins to mumble very dirty words that make you shiver.

When his tongue finally gets to the tip of your nipple, you moan loud in desperation.

“Aemond, this is torture!”

“Torture is, my dear, to be daily tempted by your presence and never be able to fully enjoy you”, then he turns his head only to capture your gaze. “I fucked a whore because I wasn’t certain of how you felt for me.”

As a response, you grind against him. Aemond smirks.

“Possessive now are we?”

“Aemond Targaryen, don’t you dare.”

“I have not finished with you yet”, and here he slides a hand to your core, groaning as he feels your inner walls so soaked. “No other woman possesses your virtues nor shares your vices. No body is a temple like yours is, and fuck… I want to fuck you so good. I shall never let any other man to owe you.”

And as you roll your eyes, he finally does what he’s dreamed of doing: sucking your nipples. It is when desperation has turned this private room dangerously loud.

How can it be when his tongue so eagerly pursuits each hard nipple, biting it gently all the whilst his fingers fuck you nice and… fast? Aemond smiles as you enjoy this sinful pleasure, and though he wants to make you as naughty as he is, he needs still to do something first.

His lips move now to your belly and, still not letting go of his fingers inside of you, his eyes are now looking for yours. The transformation is almost complete. And you know you are ruined.

But it doesn’t feel any wrong. On the contrary, you realize this is better than your wildest dreams.

One sweet smirk of his is enough. Aemond has you. Aemond possesses you.

And when his tongue runs to your clit… you are damned. He buries his mouth to your womanhood, eating you out like no other—if yet you’d dare to draw any comparison. No other man has been the center of your desires and lusts. No one but him.

His thirsty mouth drinks your juices as his hands slap your bum and dig their fingers right to your skin. And you ride his face, wet and horny, belly completely out in the air if yet it is possible to say so.

You bury your nails in the sheets, legs beginning to levitate. You burn, your chest is heavy, your belly is with butterflies. You try to shut your moans, but something inside you wills to break free, wills to be let go.

And so suddenly you arch your back and you pull a pillow to cover your face all the whilst Aemond holds your legs and drinks a river pouring to his mouth as you shake not once, but possibly thrice.

Only then he lifts and removes the pillow out of your head.

“Aemond…”, you don’t mind rules, you want him, you pull him for a kiss, tasting yourself in the process.

“Fuck”, he groans.

The kiss is slow and with different tons that Aemond knows he should part. Reluctantly as it may. But when he does so, when darkness embraces the emptiness provoked by a sudden separation, he knows not that you are planning to get in his trap.

***

It is afternoon and the castle is empty. At least only partly since the prince has been tasked in guarding it on behalf of the king. These are trying times and tensions are managing to keep Aemond separated of you. But this is the opportunity for you to ascend once for all and reclaim him for you.

Dressed in a very tight and sensuous green gown, your hair is let loose in two separated braids. Aemond has noticed how you’ve been turning many men’s heads which only fuels his jealousy. So he retires earlier to the office, where he can discount his frustration at work.

But what is he surprised when seeing you are already there? And dressed in such a way that he’s automatically aroused.

“Y/N.” His voice comes out colder than intended.

“Aemond”, you walk to his direction. “You fucked me in many ways and now am I nothing but a dust memory? Do you think I am Alys Rivers?”

He at least has the decency to blush. Leaning against the table he cannot look at you for a moment.

“So you’ve heard.”

“Indeed”, and you stop right in front of him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Y/Nickname…”, he sighs, when looking at you, seeing a little too late where this is going. “I could never play with you.”

“I am too proud to be messed with. So…”, and here you start to touch him. Aemond is surprised, gasping as you unlace his pants and pull out his hardened manhood, feigning a confidence that he knows you lack. “What is going to be?”

Aemond is also aware that you are his weakness. He cannot look away of your breasts and not remember the night he suck each nipple and the sounds you made. He cannot forget the taste of your pussy. And he cannot fight the urge of being pleasured by you.

As you stroke his cock up and down, Aemond realizes he’s been trapped.

“Y/N…”, he moans.

To his frustration, you stop.

“What?”

“It’s me or her.”

Aemond blushes again. He didn’t count on your bluntness. But he doesn’t need to think too much either.

“You. My little wench.”

It’s when he’s surprised again by you. He didn’t count on how naughty you’ve been this entire time. He corrupted you, and the thought in fact pleases him.

So you stroke him good before sliding to your knees.

“Fuck me”, you smirk at him. “I know you want this.”

“So good to me…”

And dominant as he is, Aemond now regains the room. He lets his pants being completely pulled out before sliding his cock right to your mouth. And the sensation is so good. He holds your hair and caresses your face as you engulf his large length. Aemond guides you, but you are so naturally good that he sometimes forgets himself.

“My Lords”, he groans. “Fuck! Ah! Fuck me, Y/N! Yes, my lady! So good to me! So naughty, my little whore!”

All these dirty names make you wet and when your eyes meet, when he pulls your hair firmly , when his length reaches your throat and defies your self control, both of you know nothing ever will be the same.

It’s so good to feel his power, you want to be fucked, you want to be ruined, but so far… all you have is… his seed.

And thankfully it is well spent for a few minutes later, you two are almost caught by a very distressed Queen Alicent.

Aemond marries you following the old rites of Ancient Valyria. It is only then you are finally deflowered.

To feel his cock straightening inside you before pumping almost to your uterus is too good to be true.

“My beautiful wife”, he whispers in your ear, holding you near as he fucks you nice and slow. “Finally mine to claim.”

“Finally yours to belong.”

With legs now wrapped around his waist, you instigate him to go further. Now holding his face whilst two bodies tangle as one, you know this couldn’t be different.

As each smiles, a soul recognizes the other.

“My very half”, you whisper in between moans as you kiss. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my lady Targaryen. Mine own lady wife.”

#aemond targaryen smut #Ewan Mitchell smut

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phyx-m · 14 days ago

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Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 41: The Taste Of Sweet

Content warnings: Sukuna POV, Sukuna is rough but also gentle, oral (male receiving), deep throating, praise/degradation kink, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral/anal fingering (female receiving, reader is on her period), Sukuna’s extra mouths, brief rimming (both), loose 69 position.

Chapter 40 | Chapter 42

Down and down and down he watches you go, until all that’s left is your figure, kneeling before him. You, surrendering to his subjugation. You, peering up at him with those eyes that haven’t quite begun to glisten for him yet.

But he can remedy that.

“Undress,” he orders, thumbs hooking into the ties at his waist, while his lower eyes trace the faint beat of your heart as it climbs into your throat.

Badum.

Oh.

Badum.

Nervous?

Badum.

How sweet.

Badum.

Then again, after everything you’ve endured, maybe it isn’t nerves at all. Maybe it’s something far worse. Especially after those gentle, almost reverent words you gave him earlier. Admitting you don’t see him as a wretched thing.

Soft, pathetic words.

Like the soft skin you’re slowly revealing for him now.

Afternoon light trickles in through the shoji door, and your obi slips away. Hands gliding along the length of your kimono, your hardening nipples part the panels first, then your breasts, your stomach, your navel. Hips. Thighs. Legs.

Everything.

All for his pleasure.

Nostrils flaring, he inhales as you hold unbroken eye contact and take your slow time to spread your knees wide enough to show him your cunt. Blood slides into his cocks. They twitch and ache before he tugs where his lower hands rest, breaking them free from his loosened hakama, and in a moment, both your garments are piles together on the floor.

“Come closer, snake,” he smirks arrogantly, while his upper hands slide his haori from his shoulders and gestures with his lower right to the space directly at his feet. “Crawl.”

While you may have grown stronger, and you may be gaining his respect. It’s still where you rightfully belong.

Beneath him.

Only, you don’t come to him right away. You look at him, flash him an expression that says otherwise. Playful and swaying your body slightly like you have every fucking right to do so and looking at him like that.

That look.

Badum.

Right in your throat.

“You’ve gone from my Lord to husband to nothing of importance. Do you expect me to call you Master now?” you ask sweetly, cheekily. Testing him.

Cocky brat.

Who the hell do you think you are?

“No,” he sneers.

Yes. You are becoming.

Just as a snake sheds its own skin, you’re learning.

“Maybe I should have you call me your god, given how your body suddenly seems so eager to worship.”

Why was that? What changed? Was it because of what he said, telling you that you were worth all of it?

“If we’re looking for proper titles…” You tilt your head slightly, eyes dragging over him. “What about King?”

“King?”

He bares all his teeth at you. You lift a slow brow and now he knows you’re fucking with him. He can tell. And he gets it. Understands why that epithet came to mind. It’s the one people speak of, even if he never claimed it. Just like the others. Too many to count.

“Would you prefer Emperor or Tyrant?” Your gaze drops blatantly to his twin cocks jutting from the thatch of dark hair. “Something fitting to match that grand, oversized ego twitching between your legs?” you muse, eyes wandering back up to his, and you almost smirk.

Energy beats hard against his ribs.

Now you’re begging for it.

He should fuck you to teach you a lesson. Should fight you to teach you a lesson. Hurt you to teach you a lesson. Make your body memorize the strange shape of his until it can’t forget who it belongs to. Could do so much more to you.

Proper things.

Darker things.

Everything.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growls, extending his lower left hand and wiggling two fingers expectantly.

There’s a pause.

Another heartbeat. Harder in your throat.

Something’s shifting between you two. It’s growing wrong. And for a moment he wonders what might have happened if fate had twisted that night differently and he’d entered the Kasai compound only to kill you alongside your expectant mother and that bitch of a sister. It was only by some anomaly that stayed his hand and all that fire, or maybe it was just those damned eyes looking up at him now that did it.

It takes a moment, but within the vast confines of his chambers, you begin to crawl slowly across the floor, eyes locked on his, dark blue gloves on, and nothing else.

It’s unfamiliar, but he feels his pulse sliding through his body with longing. Feels it in his teeth.

Terrible. Rotting woman.

You draw closer, and as he looks down at you, he catches the sway of your backside, the kind of movement that makes him want to sink deep into. Listen to you moan and whine and scream.

When you arrive, only to kneel at his feet and look up at him like that, his mouth flattens into a hard line.

“How was that, my King?” you ask, giving him an acidic, sultry look from beneath your lashes. “Did you enjoy the view?”

His upper lip twitches in irritation. He doesn’t entertain your stupid, bullshit of a challenge with a response.

A step, and he plants one heavy foot beside your right knee, then the other, caging you in, making sure you’re right where he wants you. This is always where he wants you. His upper left hand drops, loosely wrapping around the thickness of his lower cock, while the top one, flushed and leaking, gives a lazy twitch against his stomach.

“Open,” he hisses with a cruel smile as his lower right hand finds the back of your head and fists a handful of your hair, tight enough to hurt because he hears the sharp breath you suck in but sees the way your eyes light up for him.

He’ll never get used to that look.

“Let’s see how much more you love swallowing me,” he purrs, dragging his thumb across the slick crown.

Looking up, heavy-lidded, eyes on him, your lips part.

“Were you not satisfied earlier?” you ask, glistening wet tongue peeking out eagerly, wanting and waiting to accept what he has to offer. “If so, I suppose I’ll just have to try a little harder.”

His top lip twitches.

Again.

Terrible woman.

Looking down, Sukuna gathers both shafts in his left hands, stroking them lazily, while your gloved fingertips trail down his legs, then find and brush gently along the tattooed rings encircling his ankles before gliding lower, tracing over the arches and tops of his feet. The new sensation disarms him, but he pushes through it as a bead of precum wells at the tips. Guiding your head forward, he drags the slick head of his lower cock across your lips and your tongue flicks out, tasting him with a lick before he pushes deep inside your mouth and you eagerly start to suck.

Red eyes swallow into black.

He basks in the sight before him. You. Kneeling. Mouth full. Head bobbing. Taking him inside like you were made for this.

“Filthy slut,” he groans deeply as you clench wetly around his girth and he starts thrusting hitting hard into that lying mouth over and over and over until your head starts to jolt with every push.

Not that he’s any different. His punishment just takes a different form.

Mainly in you.

In, then out. The underside of his cock drags across your tongue before pushing hard into your throat, making you gag, your throat convulsing around him. Hissing quietly, he holds it there until you choke. Then he pulls back, giving you a moment to gasp and find air while the hand tangled in your hair shifts, thumb sweeping along your jaw in a gentle stroke.

“Breathe, little flower,” he mutters, gaze holding onto you. “We’re far from finished.”

Licking your swollen lips, you exhale before looking up at him.

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper.

Brow twitching, he smirks, then grips your nape and pushes in again. Settled in deeper this time, he thrusts again and again while his lower eyes watch as strings of drool gather at the corners of your mouth and soak the hair at the base of his cocks.

“That’s it.” His voice praises you.

His thrusts turn sloppy. His upper length slams against his abdomen while his wet balls bounce with each movement, slap against your chin, then draw up tight. Gripping you firmly, he halts your motion and holds you in place, throat stuffed, sputtering around him. You look up, and the sight alone is obscene with his cock lodged only halfway inside your throat, your hands attempting to grip at his muscular thighs, breathing ragged, the thick veins decorating along his shaft pulsing where spit clings and glistens.

You squint. Blink.

No tears yet.

But soon.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your face pressed to his hips. His ass flexes slowly, rolling forward to nudge in deeper, while his thumb drags lazily along your jaw. Sweat begins to gather between your skin, slicking the space where you meet.

“This right here,” he goes on, grinding in a slower roll, “with one of my cocks filling you out, and you naked on your knees… is where you bel—”

Sukuna’s muscles seize.

His voice cuts off into a hissing growl as you suddenly push forward with a gaping mouth, taking him deeper, tighter. Caught off guard, his slitted brow pulls down, and the maw on his stomach splits open with a low rumble, smacking its lips. Your eyes go heavy and satisfied, and you keep moving, lips working steadily along his shaft, rapturous and hungry, bobbing your head back and forth, gaze fixed on him, back curving as he slides in with every stroke.

And three women at once couldn’t compare to you.

Not to this.

Not to the years of denial.

Nothing compares to your body or your tight little holes gripping him. And you, the daughter of the man he hates, are the sweetest thing he’s ever laid his hands on. He knows the bastard would be writhing in his grave at the sight of you here, on your knees. His dutiful girl, taking him so willingly, so eager to please something like him.

Something you apparently don’t think is wretched…

Peering up at him, you blink again, eyes beginning to shine, then choke.

Sukuna fists your hair tighter. He yanks, panting hungrily as his hips flex once more, before pulling you away by the roots, denying you anymore, forcing a gasp from you as saliva drips to your chin and down to your chest, some landing on your thighs. Mouth open and eyes wet, you make a frustrated sound.

“Tch. Greedy.” He shakes his head before widening his stance and stroking himself with both left hands up and down. Slowly.

“Now spit. Get it soaking wet.”

The room seems to grow hotter as you lean back with the smallest amount of hesitation that he nearly misses.

“What?” he chuckles. “Getting nervous now? Or is that your stubbornness?” The fingers still tangled in your hair shift, loosening just enough to play with the strands. He coils some around his thumb, feels the texture, then tucks others behind your ear. “Because after the way you touched me for the first time, and how nicely you behaved on my throne, I figured you liked this.”

When his voice turns mockingly soft, you shoot him a haughty look.

Tilting his head, Sukuna musters you.

It’s something he hadn’t noticed before, but perhaps your stubbornness has a simpler root. You’ve likely been manipulated for most of your life, and now, away from all that, your mind is yearning for something it’s never truly had. The freedom to choose. Even if they’re dumb, petty ones.

They’re still yours.

“I’m just surprised someone like you would want to keep wearing my spit,” you reply, lifting your chin.

Tension pulls through the split of his four arms.

He grins.

Slowing the stroke of his hands, he sinks into your space, giving you no room to back away. Guiding his lower cock toward your mouth again, he brings you closer with a gentle push of his palm at the back of your head.

“I think…” he whispers, with dark eyes, “you underestimate the things I truly want.”

The swollen tip nudges your bottom lip.

“And what are the things you truly want?” you breathe against his sensitive skin, lips parting softly, you lick and swirl your tongue around him. Sukuna groans, dragging the head crudely across your cheeks, smearing it along your jaw, brushing the head beneath your chin, making you pant while his lower eyes catch you clenching your thighs together. Eyes back up, he slaps it lightly against your mouth as his upper hand rises to cup your face, tilting it up just so.

He wants to see you.

“Spit for me.”

As if his words and actions unchain something in you, your gaze sharpens. Jaw working back and forth, you collect saliva, then chase down his cock and spit harshly, eyes locked on his. Almost smiling. Enjoying this as much as he is.

Warmth rolls down his skin, and he pumps both shafts again from root to tip, collecting and spreading your glistening wetness over the lower one first, then switching hands to coat the upper one.

He slows.

Then he pauses and goes still.

As if dissecting every sliver of your being, his face darkens.

“Now it’s my turn,” he hisses.

Bending over you, Sukuna grabs your throat with his lower right hand, only gently, only rough enough, only because he chooses his grip with care.

Fingers and hand sliding higher, he rests them below your chin then tips it up as he leans closer, towering over where you kneel. With his thumb hooking beneath your bottom lip, he eases your mouth open so your tongue presses out. Face dipping lower, his tattooed tongue meets yours. He licks. Heavy breaths turn chasing, heat drawn out of each other’s mouths, and he brushes and curls around it, swirling slowly, making your breath catch before he pulls back just enough to spit directly into your mouth.

A moan escapes you.

His expression washes in one of arousal, eyes growing heavy at your sounds, at the sight of his spit pooling on your tongue, at how openly you enjoy it and how easily you let him inside you.

“You really are something tainted,” he murmurs, pressing your mouth shut with his thumb, then tracing your jaw with a knuckle. Waiting. “Swallow for me, soft heart.”

Like his, your eyes heat, and your throat works. When you open your mouth again, it’s gone.

“Good girl.”

Leaning in, his thumb brushes along your cheek and down to your neck, passing over the scar that sits there, raised in the shape of teeth. He doesn’t know what possessed him at the time to leave it, only that some irrational desire demanded it, and now it’s etched into your skin forever.

“How did it taste?” He flattens his hand to cup the side of your neck. “Good?”

Pressing into his touch, you settle under it like it’s a thing you’ve come to crave. He frowns. Four eyes wandering, they fall to your lips, not out of lust, but a thing smaller that shouldn’t exist.

“Yes,” you say honestly with a stare that feels endless. “From only the bits and pieces I’ve tasted and touched... I enjoy all of you.”

At your words, his jaw tenses. Nostrils flare.

Something splits.

That is a truth.

You give. He takes. You kneel. He feeds. You accept. And he fractures.

“Mhn. Then, indulge me.” Gaze pulling from yours down to your bare figure, his hand slips away as he leans back to his full height.

Your eyes trail over him, thinking, contemplative before you nod.

“Good. Open,” the King of Curses commands in a breath.

Hands braced on his thighs for balance, you lean forward as he stands above you. Lips stretching wide around the bottom tip, you take him in. Sukuna feeds the length of his cock fully into your mouth, guiding you forward with a firm palm at the back of your head. He starts slow, easing in so the crown bumps the back of your throat, then pulls back. When he pushes in again, his girth glides smoothly through your spit, sliding across your tongue in wet, steady pumps, every stroke pressing deeper, nudging the back of your throat before the pace shifts, becoming rougher. Harder.

He starts to pant heavily.

Your eyes start to water.

A sadistic grin curves his lips when he sees the glassy shine.

Planting his feet wider, one slightly forward for better leverage, his right thigh crowding up beside your face, his hips roll into you with renewed force. Teeth suddenly bared, chin lifted, he fucks your throat viciously while looking down at you, his breath breaking into heavy grunts and snarls on every inhale. Finally, a tear falls free, taking its path toward your chin. He slows his pace just enough to watch it fall, returning to slower presses, and you lift your right hand from his thigh to swipe it away with your glove.

“Don’t wipe it,” he hisses.

Pressing a thumb to your damp cheek, he drags it up toward your cheekbone, not to clean it, but to smear it, pushing the wetness deeper into your skin.

Your hand drops.

He smirks, fingers threading back into your hair as his hips drive forward again.

His cock squelches into your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing more tears to bloom along your lashes before they spill over.

“Lovely,” he coos.

You look up at him, giving him that look he’s been waiting for, the kind of unbearable vulnerability that only he gets to see.

“There they are. Those glittering eyes I’ve been waiting to see.”

Staring down, watching his cock slide in and out of your throat, watching how devoted you look when under his strain, tears running down your cheeks, mouth opened, worshiping him. He suddenly wants something else.

A taste far sweeter.

Slipping you off him, your body leans back and hunches. Sukuna gives you a moment before he steps forward, gripping you under the arms and lifting you upright. Little tear-stained tracks mark your face. You’re wobbly and dazed, which makes him chuckle before his lower hands settle on your hips to steady you, keeping you from stumbling. Then his upper right hand presses to your sternum. One finger is all it takes to force you back.

“Now what?” you whisper, breathless, as he guides you toward the raised futon.

“Now?” His eyes turn playful, thumbs circling the skin on your hips. “I’m going to keep using you while I devour that tight spot between your legs.”

A dangerous look crests behind your eyes. Tilting his head, he watches the spark a moment, guiding you backward through the room until your calves bump the edge of the futon. Then he grabs your waist and, hoisting you up easily, he tosses you down.

You land with a soft, pitiful noise, hair tangled in places, legs flung up, arms sprawled beside you.

Leaning down with a smirk, he catches your left thigh with both upper hands, strong fingers pulling and maneuvering you closer so you’re flat on your back, head facing him, feet stretched away across his sheets. His lower hands hover there, then drop. Eyes fixed on the way your tits rise and fall, he sees the tightness of your nipples, the way arousal has settled over your skin like heat.

He wants a taste of you there. Craves it. Demands it. Runs his tongue across his canines in thought of it.

Wants to press his mouth as close as possible to that muscle inside your chest and feel it pounding beneath his teeth and tongue. To hear your breath and moans from that close. Feel your pulse against him. To let you know he could so easily tear it from you and crush it if he wanted.

And now, with the way you’re looking at him, he knows you want to be touched.

Eyes flaring, Sukuna steps forward, sinking a knee firmly onto the futon, reaching for you.

His brow creases.

He stops.

He hasn’t touched you like that since that one hellishly warm day in August, when he first led you to the shrine. Since he tore open that hideous wedding kimono. When he let you go and watched you fall onto the forest floor. When he stood over your unconscious body without a single drop of concern for you.

Humiliated you.

Violated you.

Hurt y—

Quiet.

Mind addled with incessant chatter, his upper lip peels back across one canine.

Your chest keeps rising and falling, waiting for him.

He watches it.

Up.

If anyone ever did that to you…

Down.

His thoughts circle endlessly.

Up.

He’s never named it.

Down.

But he knows.

Peeking up at him from where you lay, you meet his gaze with a questioning look.

Instead, he places his hands on your waist and easily slides you back into a better position, then crawls over you onto the futon.

The sheets pull taut beneath your back as his weight settles, one knee bracing on either side of your chest and the other mirroring it. His head dips low between your legs, breath warming your skin. He plants his lower elbows beside your hips, palms pressed into the bedding to hold himself up.

You’re so much smaller than him. Fragile.

And yet, not.

Upper hands moving to your thighs, they drift forward, sliding along your skin. Goosebumps rise where his fingers pass over your knees, down your shins, and lower still. He makes his way, trailing along your ankles and bringing his fingertips to the arches of your feet, brushing lightly over your toes.

You twitch. Squirm.

“Don’t,” you warn, your body vibrating under his, trying not to laugh.

Smirking, he cocks his head, waiting to see if it will break free for the first time.

It doesn’t.

“And why not?” He begins to idly walk his fingers along the top of your right foot, one after the other, the way a spider might crawl across bare skin before sliding up to your ankle.

“Because,” you seethe through gritted teeth, flinching when he flicks a toe on your left foot, “just, don’t. Or at this angle, I’ll kick you in that infuriatingly beautiful face of yours.”

Sukuna stops.

“What’s that?” His cocky smirk splits into an even wider grin while his upper eyes drift to the fading mural on the wall above. “Beautiful, huh?”

A pause follows.

“No…” you mumble, the word muffled against his skin, muted by the way he cages you in with his size.

Fingers retreating from their torment, he feels your body flush in a fresh wave of heat, flooding to your skin as if suddenly embarrassed by your own damn words.

He flicks your left shin hard, making you hiss out in pain.

“All right, yes!” you croak, voice rising, betraying you. “Maybe?”

The King of Curses scoffs.

“Lie and kick me all you want, you little shit.” He hooks his fingers around your calves, engulfing them in his massive hands. “But for now, I’ll hold you down and fuck your throat the way I want.”

Slowly, as if conceding the smallest point, he parts your legs, watching as they glide like water over the dark safflower red sheets, revealing your pussy, laid bare before his eyes.

“Nice and deep,” he purrs.

More heat rises under his fingertips, spreading throughout your body.

Oh?

Looking down, he finds your face tilted back, lips parting.

“Fine,” you whisper.

Your spine arches and your breasts strain toward him.

“Give them to me.”

“Perverted bitch,” he chuckles lowly.

One of his lower hands leaves the futon, wrapping tightly around the base of his upper cock as he guides it to your mouth. You open willingly, and the first push is slow—the tip disappearing past your lips. He watches as more of the veined length follows, dragging across your tongue before pressing against the back of your throat. Midway down, your throat tightens around him, and he groans, eyes fixed on the way your neck begins to shift. Then he pushes the rest in. The full length vanishes, and from this angle, he watches intently as a thick bulge forms, stretching a deep line down your throat.

You muffle a moan, barely swallowing it as he settles in fully. A second, rougher groan rumbles through his chest at the sight and the pressure.

Hot and tight.

He thrusts once, then pulls out. His hand shifts to his lower cock, guiding it forward to take the other’s place.

Another thrust. Wetter this time. His balls press against your nose, heavy and warm. Another bulge swells in your throat, followed by your needy whimper beneath the weight of him.

Then he pulls out again.

His upper cock slides back in with ease.

A harder thrust.

You both moan.

Out. Then in.

He takes his time gagging you, holding it deep until your body spasms around him.

Then out again.

You’re soaking wet now, strings of spit stretching from your panting mouth to his cock before they snap, only for the upper one to slide back in smoothly. He continues to alternate between both, rolling into you in slow, wet squelches, each pass hitting deeper and more intrusive, choking you sweetly beneath him. Droplets of spit patter onto your chest as your hands trail up to the backs of his thighs, massaging there before settling on his ass. Your fingers dig into the flexing muscle, pulling him down with a subtle nudge, urging him on.

“Fucking whore,” he snarls, feeling the desperate tug of your hands. “Look at you. Wanting me to use you like this.” With a notch forming between his brow, he begins to thrust faster as you pull harder, the futon shifting beneath you, fabric rasping and wood flexing under his weight. “Wanting me to use your mouth like this.”

A moan breaks from you, and his lower eyes see your cunt clenching around nothing.

His dicks slide in and out faster, and every time he pulls away he hears you gasping, feels your fingers gripping him as tightly as possible, like you never want him to stop. Like you need him that badly. The muscles in his stomach flex on each downward thrust into your mouth, strands of pink hair peeling away from his head to hang low on his forehead as sweat covers him. Upper eyes wandering to your spread thighs, he lowers his head and the tip of his nose hovers above your pussy before he leans in to brush it against your soft folds.

Eyes shut, he inhales the smell of your soaked cunt.

It reminds him of spring and morning dew collecting on grass. Of all the gardens he’s had planted here over the years. But beneath all that, there’s something else. Copper.

Saliva floods his mouth.

His eyes peel open.

There’s the soft trace of blood inside your folds.

“Oh,” he purrs, abruptly tilting his hips and pulling his dripping cocks from your mouth. Head hanging, he smiles down at you. “You’re bleeding.”

Silence stretches for a long moment.

He angles his head along the length of your sweaty body, lower eyes crawling up your torso, between your tits, to your face, watching as your expression shifts into one of recognition.

“Wait… what?” you ask, lifting your body up toward him.

“I said you’re bleeding.” His grin turns into something vicious as he lowers himself back between your thighs.

Your body stiffens.

“W-wait, I didn’t realize my cycle had begun,” you hiss tightly, squirming back and forth while your gloved hands push into the underside of his face in a poor attempt to get away. “Don’t use your mouth there! It’s unclean. I should have—”

“Shut up,” he grunts, splaying his lower left hand across your abdomen, holding you in place.

Tch. Unclean.

What did you truly know of being unclean?

“Fool.”

The ruined side of his face drags against your inner right thigh, scratching lightly as he presses in.

“I want to taste it,” he whispers, leaning further, his tongue and the tip of his broad nose nudge against your pussy lips making you gasp, toes curling.

It’s too delicious not to.

“You shouldn’t,” you pant nervously to him. “Please.”

“Quiet.”

Sliding his upper right hand away from the futon, he pushes it between your thighs.

“Besides,” he hums arrogantly, “if it aches, this will soothe it.”

His thumb and index fingers find their way to either side of your folds, where he presses and spreads you open just as his head moves down and his tongue dips into your wet cunt.

“Sukuna!”

Blood and sweetness spill into his mouth.

He groans at the taste and the sound of his name sobbed from your lips, your body arching off the sheets, thighs trying to close around his head. He pushes them open with his upper left hand, pinning your legs apart with his elbow. He doesn’t stop. Licking and sucking, he buries his tongue deeper before dragging it up to flick against your clit while his lower right hand slides downward, knuckles running across the futon, flesh shifting as a mouth forms in his palm. He guides it beneath your backside, and a second tongue presses to your crease. He pushes up harshly. The moment it meets your asshole, you moan shamelessly, reaching up to stroke both cocks with silk on skin.

“That’s it,” he muffles a growl against your flushed cunt. “Show me how greedy you can be with me.”

Mouth stained red, his second pair of eyes roll back to watch you writhe between his powerful legs, both your hands working him from root to crown while you stare up with selfish eyes at his cocks. The room grows hotter, his skin burning as the two of you move in tandem, pleasuring each other’s dripping sex. He tastes the salt of sweat on your skin, feels the slickness under his tongue and fingertips, feels just how wet your tight hole is with his other tongue.

“Yes,” you groan, tossing back your head, warm, trembling breath brushing his thighs. “Put your fingers inside me.” Your hips begin to roll against both his tongues, the sheets folding in soft creases. “Fill me,” you pant.

Heat whips down his spine at the sound of your needy demand.

“Ask me again,” he sneers against your core, his tongue pulling out and dragging slowly up and down your labia. “But this time, use that vile mouth properly and ask me nicely.”

“P-please,” you whimper just as the slick muscle at your ass dips inside your hole once, making you gasp. “Please. Put your fingers inside me. I need to feel more of you.”

“Good girl.”

The hand with the mouth beneath you curls inward, and one finger sinks into your tight asshole, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. He pumps slowly, until a second finger joins it, pushing in so he’s buried to the first knuckle. The stretch must burn, but your greedy body devours him like it’s trying to swallow him whole. So he pushes deeper, down to the second knuckle. He watches you twist across his sheets with your legs shaking, and it only makes him hungrier.

So hungry.

Hungry enough that his stomach maw drools warm trails across your naked torso, the fluid sliding down to soak into his sheets.

“And to think months ago, you used to shy away when I touched you here,” he chuckles, another hand sliding below you as he braces on his elbows. He forces your hips up, just enough to give himself a better view of everything he’s doing.

And what a view it is.

Your trembling thighs, glazed in spit. Your cunt, slick with wetness and blood. His fingers, plunging in and out of you.

Lovely.

A quiet, throaty hum breaks from him as he bends low, unable to resist pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your folds, followed by a slow lick from the top of your slit to the bottom, where his fingers sink deep into your ass.

“I-I think you... gods,” you try to speak, but your voice breaks as he curls his fingers, twisting and easing them in further with obscene care. “I think y-you underestimate the things I truly want.”

His grin spreads wide at the sound of you throwing his own words back at him.

“Is that so?”

Lifting his head, he looks down at you.

“Yes,” you gasp, just as he turns away to spit on your pussy again. Sukuna watches it drip and slide slowly over your folds and down your crease, meeting the steady thrust of his fingers. Then he buries his face in, tongue working rough and fast along your slit, dipping in to taste your blood here and there before dragging it upward in open-mouthed flicks across your clit.

You shiver. Moan.

“More. Please!” The desperate cries start spilling out of your throat.

He drags his tongue harder across your swollen nub while his fingers sink deeper, stretching you open until your body begins to shake. You whine, needy and perfect, and that sound alone makes him shift. The hand braced on your abdomen slips away. He grabs a fistful of your hair, angles his hips, and drives his upper cock back into your gasping mouth, hard and deep, his pelvis rocking against your face with force. Sukuna lingers there for a moment, lost in the decadent rhythm, tasting you while you taste him, like two creatures twined in shared madness, until he thrusts once more and pulls both leaking cocks from your mouth, his attention returning to the trembling mess beneath him. The grip holding your legs open shifts. His hands slide lower to spread your ass, pulling you closer as he buries his face into your cunt with hunger. He licks and sucks at your clit, the ruined side of his face pressing into your thigh while his tongue works you over.

“Cum,” he demands. “Now.”

A desperate whine tears from the back of your throat, and your back arches off the futon, hips undulating for friction, folds grinding against his mouth with soft, slick clicks.

Sukuna moves his head up and down faster, stirring his damp pink hair as he flicks and circles you with the tip of his tongue.

“Ah!” you sing out mindlessly, cumming as your heels dig into the sheets. He breathes raggedly, devouring you, collecting the juices that spill out onto the flat of his tongue. He swallows.

There’s something about the way you sound for him, the way your body reacts, that brands itself into his mind. It ignites the urge to bury one of his cocks deep inside your holes and take you again, restrained and violent but close to him.

Coming down from your climax, he places your hips back on the futon.

“It’s still pathetic how easily you cum,” he murmurs against your folds, dragging his tattooed tongue through one last time and takes another taste.

You hiss. Shiver.

“I don’t see you complaining, my Lord,” you huff. “You’re the one who can’t stop putting your mouth on me, so I know you enjoy it.”

With a smirk spreading across his face, he slowly slides both fingers from your ass, before circling the tight hole.

That’s not untrue.

Pulling away, with another hand he swipes a wrist over his slickened mouth and pushes onto his knees while hauling you up with his second pair of hands around your waist, and another ridiculous noise pushes out of you before he flips you and turns. Settling back against the cushions piled across the futon, his lower arms recline across the pillows, while his upper right arm folds behind his head. Then, spreading out his legs, he lounges as his twin lengths jut upward.

He is nothing but a king at rest.

All four red eyes fixate on you.

He doesn't need to speak the next command. It’s already understood. You're already crawling to him. The sight alone makes the tips of his cocks leak, precum welling until it drips slowly down his shafts along the distended veins. And the room feels quiet as you come, the sheets whispering beneath your hands and knees, his pulse heavy in his teeth.

When you kneel between his outstretched legs and lower your body, then your face to him, your lips find their way to the black tattoo on his right thigh. You press a kiss there.

It’s warm and tender. Reminiscent of the stare you give him.

Both cocks twitch.

Lifting your head, you move without haste, marking him with another kiss on his left thigh, slower this time.

He huffs.

“Brat…” his voice warns, eyes narrowing on your lips as you lean back slightly.

He’s not unfeeling. He remembers that embrace.

His mouth on yours.

He thinks of it now. Has thought of it before. Wishes he hadn’t. Even though he can’t.

Nudging his hips upward, he makes his lengths sway, wordlessly indicating what he wants. He watches you just long enough for it to feel like you’re seeing past something he never meant to reveal before you sink lower toward his lap.

Trailing your nose lightly along his lower shaft, he feels you inhale, mapping the skin with soft presses of your mouth until your lips wrap tightly around the head. Your other hand moves to grip and stroke his upper cock while you take his lower one into your mouth, making his brow twitch with pleasure.

Mind crawling into darker places, he’s more than ready to watch his cum spill and paint across your pretty face for the first time.

The arms resting on the cushions lift away, and with his left hand, he reaches down, fingers sliding between yours to guide your grip, tightening the pace.

“Like this,” he mumbles.

With both your hands working him together, your mouth and tongue move to his balls, where you place a kiss, followed by dedicated licks before a heavy suck, stretching the skin with your lips, then letting it slip free with a soft pop.

“Yes,” he rasps, hips tilting and thrusting upward, both cocks flushed a deep red now, black tattoos standing out. Another suck on his balls, then your tongue traces down, lower, until you’re laying flat on your stomach, and dipping your head just briefly, you place a teasingly wet circle with your tongue at the rim of his asshole, making him breathe out a curse. A second small caress before you pull back onto your knees with a mischievous grin and spit on his lower dick, then the top one.

“Nasty little bitch! Look at the mess you made,” he hisses through his teeth.

More.

More of all that.

Sliding your hand off him, he guides it to rest on his thigh and pumps both wet shafts himself in rough, punishing strokes.

Coated in sweat and your slick, spit, blood and the cool air of November, he’s close now. And all he can do is watch you tucked in front of him, eyes wide staring back, licking and sucking what skin you can find while both of you bring him closer to release.

“You look good like this, my Lord,” you murmur breathlessly, working at him with your mouth, then moving your hand from his thigh and squeezing the tightening weight of his balls.

Even though he hates when you call him that or anything other than his one damnable given name, he still moans and breathes deeply. Maw parting slightly, and the tongue inside crawls out, licking its lips, making your brow pinch together with pleasure.

Closer now.

His strokes turn harsh, the sound so slick and wet inside the still room while his blood surges everywhere. Pulsing through his veins, pounding through his dicks. And this is infuriatingly better than any night spent with his hand or the bodies of his three concubines.

You’re decadent. Something terribly pleasant.

Either flavour that feeds the same hunger.

He strokes faster. You lick and suck harder, until your eyes darken and you pull away.

“Cum,” you whisper against his skin, eyes half-lidded.

His cocks swell.

“Cum for me.” You part your lips slowly, spitting a thick string of saliva that drips from your tongue. It lands against his balls, then slides down their curve to the sheets. His nostrils flare. Breaths grow heavier. His hips jerk off the futon in sharp, stuttering thrusts while his lower hands grip both shafts tight, the pressure alone making the veins stand out.

“Let me taste you,” you breathe, holding his gaze as your hands glide along his spread thighs, moving up to his hips, then trailing back down.

His jaw clenches, his second set of eyes roaming over your naked figure.

Lowering your head again, you part your lips wide as your mouth opens for him. You look up.

All at once, everything tightens.

“Give me more of you, Sukuna.”

And then everything snaps.

“Fucckk,” he groans, open-mouthed, voice low at the sight. At the first heavy spurt, his head falls back into the pillows and his upper right hand slides to the top of your head. Fingers shoving into your hair, he holds you down, keeping you in place, upper eyes sliding shut, and his lower pair staying locked on you. You lick and slurp messily at both tips, and when the shudder finally tears through him, down to the base of his spine, he cums hard, both cocks pulsing, spilling thick seed across your tongue, your lips, streaking your face. His upper shaft paints a warm mess across his abdomen, where the mouth on his belly laps at the spill. And you take it so well. Brow creased in pleasure, panting, swallowing what you can with your eyes never leaving his. In that moment, Sukuna is lost to himself. Hips lifting into his own hands, both lengths twitching, release pouring from him as a second guttural moan vibrates deep in his chest.

“Keep looking at me,” he hisses quietly, pumping the last of his cum across your face so it lands in soft, creamy paths.

Beautiful.

His red eyes trace over it, and a sudden desire hits him. One to take you fully and fuck you hard in the one way possible that might hurt the most. And make you look at him as he does it.

Releasing his hand from you gently, you sit back, watching him and the way his chest rises and falls in the aftershocks of bliss. With his head still buried in the pillows, his upper eyes blink open and track you down the length of his nose, catching the subtle clench of your thighs.

Soon, the room alters into a quiet, filled only by the slow thump of heartbeats and uneven breaths.

Lifting a gloved hand to your chin, you wipe, but Sukuna sees you miss most of his seed decorating your cheeks. You swipe again, a few more times, thinking you’ve cleaned it off, before your hand falls and your attention wanders back to him.

Silence.

Neither of you have been here before, like this.

You shift again, settling on bent knees, and drop your gaze to a completely unremarkable spot on the sheets that now feels oddly worth staring at.

After a beat, Sukuna slips his massive frame off the raised futon and crosses the room, muscles slick and swollen beneath the afternoon light.

Retrieving a folded piece of cloth, he returns to you.

“You’re a mess,” he mumbles, handing you the fabric while sliding a hand through his hair.

Hesitation, before you take it from him.

“Thank you…” you murmur, awkwardly wiping it across your chin and mouth. Most of it comes off, but not all of it.

His mouth twitches.

“There’s still more.”

“Oh…”

You wipe again.

It doesn’t come off.

“It’s still there.”

A third attempt.

Still nothing.

He doesn’t say anything, only stares at the glistening stickiness on your cheek with his lower left eye, watching it smudge slightly with the motion.

Then it’s quiet, and he stands there.

Unsure.

A rarity.

He folds his upper arms across his chest, shifts his weight, then drops them again, restless in a way that doesn’t suit him.

Normally, whoever he had used, they’re gone by now, or he’s had to peel a desperate bitch like Sayuri off of him and force them out. But you just sit there. Contemplative. Naked and sweaty, looking flushed and lovely and somehow just as unsure.

Fuck.

With his upper right hand, in a small, habitual motion, Sukuna slides the pad of his thumb across his index and middle fingers, and on the futon, you shift, eyes moving to him, likely recognizing that as a telltale sign of past threats.

But…

“Here,” he growls.

Leaning in, his massive figure curves over you. He reaches. You still. He stops, thumb just short of brushing the curve of your cheek. Your eyes flick up to his, and he wonders what’s running through your head, even as his lower eyes catch you quietly pinching a piece of your glove, and he knows exactly what’s happening beneath silk and skin. Can feel your energy reaching for his.

He pulls away.

No matter how many times he swallows down the idea that you belong to him, whatever this broken, reckless thing is between you two, it will never be easy. Nothing ever simple.

Especially not with that one piece of information he still keeps to himself.

“There’s still cum on the right side of your cheek,” he concedes with a grumble, stepping back and away, retrieving his hakama from the floor, then moving over to the door. Sliding it open to the garden, he pauses, gaze drifting toward the bathing pavilion.

After what just happened, he intends to bathe. Remove all the heady scents smeared across his body. But something about the sight of it puts a question in his mind. And before he can give it shape, he hears you.

Glancing over his left shoulder, he catches the last of your retreat. No words, just the soft patter of feet and the trailing hem of your kimono vanishing beyond the doorway until you’re gone.

He isn’t sure what to make of it. Of your back turning. Of watching you leave.

Staring at the space you left behind, his eyes linger on the faint impression where you had just knelt, warm and willing to give him the pleasure he wanted.

He exhales an agitated breath, trying to banish your scent clinging to him.

It does nothing.

Pulling on his hakama, he steps out onto the engawa and into the chill, the sting of it biting at his heated skin.

He’ll be bathing alone.

The dead grass crunches beneath the soles and arches of his feet.

Even the consideration of asking you to stay and join him had been an irritating thought to begin with.

Reaching the bathhouse, the King of Curses steps inside and closes the door shut behind him.

Maybe.

* * * * *

Elsewhere, Kamo estate��

There are three things Yuna Kasai knows with absolute certainty.

First, she has a sister who she loves and would do anything for. Second, she prefers sweets over anything savoury. Third, Ryomen Sukuna is a scourge who has you.

The latter doesn’t sit well with her.

And it’s something she intends to change.

Even now, as she kneels in a smoky room at the Kamo estate, bent over her watercolours, she imagines the moment you and her will finally be reunited as a family. Because it’s been a month too long since she last saw you, and you should be here. Though what she was told, you were supposed to meet her. Find her. Choose her.

And you didn’t.

You chose the aberration instead.

As your older sister and the Kasai clan’s new head, she knows best, and a life with the King of Curses is not one she will allow.

Furrowing her brow in deeper concentration, she leans in closer to her painting and sighs, her brushwork faltering. Court life had taught her many things, especially from the Fujiwara courtiers, but whatever she’s working on now, this spring scene in bloom, is laughable by comparison.

It looks like shit.

With a huff, she drops the brush, letting it splatter across the paper, ruining it.

“Painting cherry blossoms then wrecking them again?”

Her eyes lift at the man’s voice from the other side of the room.

There’s a hiss, then a puff.

“Something must be on your mind.”

It takes a heartbeat for the face to shine through the smoke that hovers around him like a cloud of hot air.

Noritoshi Kamo, the new head of the Kamo clan, sits on a cushion, dark yukata drawn tight, a pipe balanced in one hand. He stares at her, eyes heavy through the room. But she doesn’t believe that’s truly Noritoshi Kamo or even his real name. Whatever resides inside him, it isn’t who he claims to be.

Her gaze drags along the seam of his stitches, tracing it in her mind like a fingertip, then slips down to where his mouth curves around the pipe. She knows the difference.

Blood, brain matter, bodies and minds.

She’s seen it before. And the two of them feel similar in a way.

Somewhat.

The tobacco crackles as he inhales, the bowl flaring gold and orange, casting dancing shadows across his face. He watches her with equal parts fascination and disgust. Like he’s already drawn the lines of her future and found them disappointing.

But she remembers that look.

Years ago, maybe less than eight, a woman arrived at the Kasai compound, claiming she was there to serve as an attendant. She dressed Yuna, bathed her, combed her hair, and asked too many questions. Not about chores or routine, but about bloodlines. Spiritual aptitude. Her mother. Her sister. Her father’s lineage. About her.

Back then, Yuna hadn’t understood why that strange woman took such a keen interest in her family. But now she realizes, they hadn’t come to serve. They had come to study. And they likely believed no one was watching in return.

But she was.

Now, she has spent time in the company of this same individual twice. Once, while they wore a woman’s face. And now, seated across from her in someone else’s skin, she’s still trying to learn their true name.

“If you must know,” she hums, offering a smile as she stretches and straightens her spine. “I was thinking about how much I miss being home.”

Kamo’s jaw feathers. His eyes crinkle.

“Miss it?”

She nods.

Opening his mouth, he releases a thin stream of smoke between his lips as a throaty laugh escapes. The sound is made of fragments.

Her smile sours as her lip curls.

Though she’s kept herself busy with other disciplinary pursuits these past weeks, being in this man’s presence has been its own kind of battle.

“I doubt that very much,” he says, just before their eyes lock.

Mentally, she traces each raised bump and every fine strand of thread stitched into his skin. She’s counted them numerous times. Seven. There are seven sutures.

“There’s no need to play the deceiver with me, Lady Yuna. We’re far too alike for that. And given how things have played out for you, I know home hasn’t been on your mind for some time,” he adds smoothly.

She holds his gaze a moment longer before rolling her eyes.

“Fine.” She exhales a breath. “If you must know, I was thinking about my sister,” she says, tucking her feet delicately to the side, folding them up and under the neat hem of her kimono. “I haven’t been with her properly since the summer, since that four-armed fucking demon took her.”

Kamo leans back, resting his free hand across his lap as he nods thoughtfully.

“Go on.”

Curving her fingers behind her ear, Yuna smooths out some unruly, stray strands of hair.

“So, I’m growing anxious in her absence, that’s all,” she concludes.

Another nod.

“You seem to have quite the distaste for Ryomen Sukuna.”

At the sound of that name, Yuna feels a sting work its way into her stomach. A visceral reaction.

“Too many creatures like that one hold all the power,” she says, lifting her chin. “I had to fight to claw my way into a place half as high and still must give up too much.”

The man’s eyes dance across her face from point to point.

“That’s a lovely sentiment.” He tilts his head, black hair falling like a dark slash against the soft light of the room. “Still, using your sister and your own family to get there is an interesting way to secure your position, don’t you think?”

Refusing to look away, Yuna only blinks once.

To her, these words are nothing but waste.

“I did what I had to do. And I would do it again. Because now, she and I are free from the burdens my father shoved down our throats since birth and my mother never lifted a finger to protect us.”

“I see...”

The hand in Kamo’s lap forms a fist. He lifts it to his temple and rests it there, shutting one eye.

“And what if…” he begins insouciantly, studying her through the slow drag he takes from his pipe. “your sister no longer wants to leave the south?”

The eldest Kasai daughter stiffens.

Another puff of smoke hits the air.

“What if she’s found something you can’t give her?” he continues. “And what if…” He pauses, and she waits for the words. “... she’s starting to feel something for—”

“No.”

The word is a knife.

The sound is a knife.

Her stare, a knife.

Kamo opens his eye.

“No,” Yuna repeats softly. Her face stone. “I forbid it.”

It is forbidden.

It is not possible.

I will not allow it.

Even if it’s true…

In her lap, her hands twitch.

There are ways to help oneself forget inconsequential matters of the heart.

“Besides…” She suddenly pulls her feet free from beneath her kimono with a smile. “I know her well enough. She does not love a filthy, cannibalistic animal like that.”

“I never said the word,” Kamo replies with a shrug. “But I’m fairly certain we attended the same harvest festival. The two of them seemed…” He lets the word roll around on his tongue. “Close. One of them more foolish than the other.”

Yuna clenches her jaw in memory.

She remembers you holding that thing’s fucking hand like you were actually bound in union. Like you found freedom there. Like you forgot your place.

How could you be so stupid?

Her mouth opens to defend you with a retort, then stops.

At the far end of the room, the door slides open. Footsteps follow.

“Onishi!” Yuna’s voice sings brightly, beaming at the man as he enters and approaches.

“My Lady,” he says.

Keeping a respectful distance, he kneels, head bowed low.

“This arrived for you not long ago.”

Lifting his eyes briefly, he extends both hands, offering a folded piece of parchment with deference.

“Oh, lovely.”

Taking the delicate paper, she immediately recognizes the signs of a Zen’in. Unfurling it, the writing rises before her eyes—like a love letter from a warlord.

She smiles.

“I assume it’s favourable news?” the advisor asks.

She hums, still reading.

“The Zen’in clan will be joining us in a week’s time for our little meeting.”

Onishi inclines his head.

“And has a location been agreed upon with Ryomen Sukuna?”

“It has.”

Yuna slips the letter into the silk folds of her kimono.

“It seems he’s sentimental enough to choose the same place we met several months ago.”

An infectious smile stings her cheeks as she looks at both men.

Across the room, the body thief barely shows a trace of interest. Likely too absorbed in his fucked-up, esoteric ideas and the things he forces into existence.

“Once again, we’ll be meeting where the north and south cross.”

#beneath the silk #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #true form sukuna #heian sukuna #dark fantasy #dark content #jjk fanfic #sukuna fanfic #sukuna smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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