#⊰ ˙ ˖ ✧ — allies once more ┊ thread

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part One

CW: angst, hurt, dystopian, Mutant!Reader, mental anguish, existential despair, suggestive emotional and physical intimacy

Word Count: 2436

A/N: Hey loves! So I' m back with the first part of this new series featuring DOFP! Logan---Definitely one of my favorite x-men films that I went to see in theaters a few years back. I really hope y'all enjoy it--As always comments and feedback are highly appreciated! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(Part Two)

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The world had become a graveyard of memories, littered with the remnants of a civilization that once thrived. The skies, once a brilliant blue, were now a perpetually overcast gray, the sun a distant and pale shadow of its former self. Buildings stood as crumbling sentinels, their facades scorched and broken by years of unrelenting warfare. The air was thick with ash and the scent of burning, a constant reminder of the lives that had been lost and the battles yet to be fought.

The war had waged for years, perhaps decades—time had lost its meaning in the endless cycle of violence and survival. The Sentinels, monstrous machines designed to hunt and exterminate mutants, had decimated the population. Humanity, too, had been nearly eradicated in the crossfire, caught between the relentless advance of the Sentinels and the desperate resistance of the mutants. Those who remained were either in hiding or dead. The world was a barren wasteland, devoid of hope and teetering on the edge of oblivion.

You stood on the precipice of what was once a thriving city, now reduced to ruins. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, carrying with it the echoes of a world that no longer existed. Your heart was heavy with the weight of all you had seen, all you had lost. But you were still standing, still fighting. You had no other choice.

Your powers had been both a blessing and a curse in this war. The ability to manipulate time was a formidable weapon, allowing you to slow it, speed it up, or even rewind it in brief bursts. But every use took a toll, draining your energy, leaving you weaker with each passing day. It was a power that came with a price—a price you had paid over and over again, watching friends and allies fall only to rewind their deaths, knowing that it would only delay the inevitable.

And yet, despite everything, you had survived. You were one of the last remaining members of the X-Men, a shadow of the team that had once stood as a beacon of hope in a world that feared and hated them. But hope was a luxury none of you could afford anymore. Survival was all that mattered, and even that seemed like a losing battle.

Beside you, Logan Howlett—Wolverine—surveyed the desolate landscape with a grim expression. His once fierce eyes were hardened by the years of combat, yet there was a depth of sorrow in them that matched your own. His presence was a constant, a rock in the storm that raged around you both. You had fought together through countless battles, each one more desperate than the last, and had watched the world crumble piece by piece.

Logan’s wounds healed quickly, his regenerative abilities keeping him alive when others would have perished. But even he was not immune to the emotional toll of this endless war. The loss of friends, of family, of a future worth fighting for—it all weighed heavily on him, carving deep lines into his face, turning his hair to gray.

For years, you and Logan had been comrades in arms, partners on the battlefield. But there was more between you than just the bond forged in blood and fire. There was something unspoken, a connection that ran deeper than either of you dared to acknowledge. It was a thread that had woven itself through the fabric of your shared experiences, pulling you closer even as the world around you fell apart.

The quiet moments between skirmishes had become precious, stolen time where the chaos of the world seemed to fade, if only for a brief while. It was in those moments that you would catch Logan’s gaze, his eyes searching yours as if seeking solace in the only place it could be found. There were times when your hands would brush, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through your entire being, a reminder that you were still alive, still capable of feeling something other than pain and despair.

But there was no room for love in a world like this. No room for the vulnerability that came with it. To love was to risk losing everything, and neither of you could afford that. So, you kept your feelings buried deep, hidden beneath layers of resolve and determination. There were more pressing matters at hand—survival, resistance, the slim chance of victory.

As the days passed and the future grew increasingly bleak, a plan began to take shape among the remaining X-Men. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to change the course of history, to prevent the events that had led to this catastrophic timeline. The idea was to send someone back in time, to a point before the Sentinels were created, before the war had begun. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance you had left.

The choice of who to send was obvious. Logan was the only one who could survive the journey. His healing factor would protect him from the physical strain, and his mind was strong enough to endure the temporal displacement. But even with his abilities, the mission was fraught with danger. If it failed, if something went wrong, there would be no coming back.

Your role in the plan was just as crucial. Your powers would be used to anchor Logan’s consciousness in the past, to guide him and keep him connected to the present. It was a task that required immense concentration and would drain you of almost all your energy. You knew the risks, knew that there was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t survive the attempt. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was giving Logan a chance to succeed, to change the future, to save the world.

The night before the mission, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of what was to come pressed down on you, a heavy burden that you carried alone. You had always been strong, resilient, but the thought of what lay ahead filled you with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake.

You sat alone in the darkness, the cold air seeping into your bones, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and determination. The reality of the situation was sinking in—this could be the last night you ever spent in this world. The last night you would see Logan, hear his voice, feel his presence beside you.

The sound of footsteps drew you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see Logan approaching. His face was set in a somber expression, the lines of worry etched deep into his features. He said nothing as he sat down beside you, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said, no words that could capture the magnitude of what was about to happen. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with the unspoken emotions that had been building between you for years. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface, always there but never acknowledged, was now impossible to ignore.

Finally, it was Logan who broke the silence. His voice was rough, low, like gravel underfoot. “Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break.

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yeah. It is.”

He turned to look at you then, his gaze intense, searching. “You ready for this?”

You met his eyes, seeing the concern there, the fear that he was trying so hard to hide. You managed a small, sad smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Logan’s hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before he rested it on yours. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cold that surrounded you, a lifeline in the darkness. You looked down at your joined hands, your heart pounding in your chest.

“This could be it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If things go wrong… I just… I don’t want you to—”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could finish. “Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t say it. We can’t afford to think like that.”

But even as you said the words, you knew it was too late. The reality of the situation hung between you like a shadow, impossible to ignore. Logan squeezed your hand, the pressure grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“You’re strong,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. You have to.”

The intensity of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered, took your breath away. For a moment, you felt like the world had stopped, that there was nothing but the two of you in that cold, desolate night.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his face in your hand, your thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his cheek. “And you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You have to come back. You have to make it right.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the hardness in them giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed, his voice fierce, filled with a determination that sent a shiver down your spine. “I swear, I’ll make it right.”

The moment hung between you, heavy and charged, the tension that had been building for years finally coming to a head. It was as if all the barriers you had both put up, all the walls you had built around your hearts, were crumbling in the face of what was to come.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before the fear could take hold, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was fierce, desperate, a collision of pent-up emotions that neither of you could contain any longer. Logan responded immediately, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as if he could merge your bodies, your souls, into one.

There was no room for hesitation, no time for doubt. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more intense, as if you were both trying to pour everything you felt into this one moment. It was a kiss born of desperation, of the fear that this might be your last chance to feel something real, something good, before the darkness swallowed you whole.

Logan’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you into his lap as he kissed you with a fervor that left you breathless. You could feel the raw power in him, the barely-contained rage and pain that he carried with him every day, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take it all away, to make him feel something other than the constant ache of loss and regret.

The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other, clinging to this one moment of passion and vulnerability. It was as if time itself had stopped, holding you in a suspended reality where nothing else mattered.

But time, as always, was cruel. The kiss slowed, the intensity gradually ebbing away, leaving behind a bittersweet longing that settled deep in your chest. You pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

He opened his eyes, and the raw emotion you saw there nearly brought you to your knees. There was so much in his gaze—love, fear, desperation, hope. It was almost too much to bear.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I need you to know… I—”

But before you could finish, Logan captured your lips again, silencing you with a kiss that was somehow even more tender, more meaningful than the last. It was a kiss that spoke of promises unmade, of words left unsaid, of a future that might never come.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling your face, his expression was one of fierce determination. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I know. I’ve always known.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding as you leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand on your skin. The dawn was fast approaching, the light slowly creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined city.

The reality of what was to come settled over you both like a dark cloud, but in this moment, with Logan’s arms around you, you felt a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. You knew that this could be the last time you ever saw him, the last time you felt his touch, his kiss. But you also knew that if anyone could change the future, it was Logan.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the gloom, you pulled back, reluctantly breaking the embrace. Logan’s eyes searched yours, and you could see the same mixture of hope and fear reflected in them.

“It’s time,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart.

Logan nodded, his expression hardening as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. But before he could step away, you reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

Logan’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something tender, something achingly vulnerable. He squeezed your hand in return, his grip strong and reassuring.

“I promise,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ll come back. I’ll find you.”

With one last lingering look, Logan turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows as he prepared to embark on the most dangerous mission of his life.

And as you watched him go, your heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope, you whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, begging them to bring him back to you.

Because in this world of darkness and despair, Logan was your only light, your only hope.

And you weren’t ready to let that go.

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Taglist: @hughverine @itzyahgirllkita1 @nonamevenus

(If you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series moving forward just comment below <3 )

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[bat-boys]

forever, my love

pairing: Azriel x fem reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: 18+, mentions of battle and war, references to depression, smut (fingering) but it's romantic, angst but also fluff.

summary: you and Azriel had seen many battles over the centuries but when something goes wrong and has a lasting impact on you, Az promises to take care of you.

a/n: thank you so much for the love on the first fic! here's another one! I promise next time I'll write something happier haha, suggestions are welcome! I hope you enjoy.

The cruel, unyielding symphony of battle swelled in you as you continued to swing your sword at the enemies in front of you. Grunts of pain and screams of frustration left your lips as you continued to carve a path through the soldiers in your way, desperately trying to hold the line as Cassian had commanded. 

Your body moved automatically, thanks to the centuries of muscle memory drilled into you from the intense training and the many battlefields you had found yourself on during your long life. In recent decades, you may have taken a step back from helping to command the Night Court armies and turned your attention to training the next legion of warriors and aiding your spymaster in more covert missions. Still, your body would always remember the steps needed in battle. It would never shrink from charging head first.

Once, you had been told you were beautiful to watch in battle—second only to Cassian himself as you danced your way through enemy hordes. But now, as you cut through another bottleneck of soldiers, you could only focus on keeping yourself alive, so you were extremely exhausted. 

Step, swing, push, slash, pivot, hit. 

As you managed to gut the last soldier in front of you, you allowed yourself a small moment of reprieve to collect your thoughts and take a gulp of air. The sound of battle raged around you, and you could faintly see your friends and allies around you, diligently fighting for a future you had only just battled for a mere handful of years ago. You sent a pulse down that precious thread, tucked deep within your heart and nodded your head in relief when you felt a responding pulse from the male on the other end. Alive. He was still alive. That's all that mattered at the moment. 

You heard a shout close beside you and watched an Illyrian soldier, who had been grounded due to semi-shredded wings, fight off a group of soldiers starting to swarm around him. Taking a deep breath, you sheathed your long blade and palmed the knives strapped to either thigh.

Winnow, slash. Winnow, stab. Winnow, swing. Your High Lady herself had taught you this particular move after you had seen her yourself face enemies from a different war, a different conflict. You kept the image of your friends smiling at Feyre as she had embarrassingly walked you through how she did it, blushing furiously at your instance in teaching you at the forefront of your mind, and you continued to dance to the sound of the battle's symphony. 

That was the future you continued to fight for, and you were determined to protect it. 

…

Your entire body heaved as you shoved your blade through the chest of the last soldier in front of you. The sounds of battle were quietening and dying out as the last of the enemy horde were tied up or killed. 

A groan left your lips as you yanked your blade free and used the last of your power and strength to winnow to the edge of the battlefield. You stumbled as you landed, cursing yourself for letting your power drain so thoroughly during battle. Az would chastise you about that later. Speaking of which…

Where are you? You sent down the bond, waiting for the familiar calm voice to reach your mind. A frown fell on your face as the minutes stretched past, and you didn't hear a response from him. 

Az? 

You refused to panic just yet. While this was unusual, you knew the moments after a battle was the most crucial for a spymaster as he gathered up defeated enemies to spirit them away for interrogation. He was probably just busy, you reasoned with yourself.

But a small part of your brain also whispered that he always kept the precious channel between you both open and always responded when you called. 

You trudged through the mud towards the huge fortress in front of you. It may have been dilapidated and crumbling, but it provided a place where Rhys could gather his allies and forces and not be constantly caked in dirt and mud from his war camp. Once, it had probably been beautiful, home to some illustrious High Fae family, but now it was home to tired soldiers and had clearly seen much better days. 

Azriel. You tried again to reach your mate through the bond, your heart thundering louder in your chest when you didn't receive a response. This time, you stretched your consciousness along that bridge…and slammed into a cold stone wall on the other end. Panic began to claw up your throat, but you refused to give in. He was probably busy with Rhys or Cassian; you desperately tried to reason with yourself as you sheathed your heavy blade into the scabbard strapped to your back and walked up the stone steps to the bustling entrance of the fortress. 

"Injured that way, please!" You heard the familiar voice of your High Lady directing her people from inside the entrance. She turned around, and you saw her face relax in relief as she spotted you, "Y/N. Oh, thank the cauldron, you're alright." 

Feyre was wearing her Illyrian leathers, her hair windswept and looking just as tired as you felt. She walked towards you, and you hugged her tightly, grateful to see one of your dearest friends safe and sound. You gently manoeuvred around the bow strapped to her back as she hugged you back just as fiercely. Much to everyone's surprise and yours and Rhys' amusement after the war with Hybern Feyre had mastered the notoriously tough Illyrian bow - why anyone doubted her after her past in the human realm you were still confused by. You had seen her sweeping over the battlefield today and dispatching enemies, saving your life more times than you cared to admit. Her flying wasn't strong enough to join in with the Illyrian legions yet, but she had become invaluable on the battlefield once again.

"You looked awesome up there today." You both grinned at each other, warriors recognising each other, "where is everyone?"

"Amren and Mor are in the war chamber, exhausted but ok. Cassian was dropping off a soldier to the hospital wing."

"Az?"

"I thought he was with you?" A quick shake of your head had her face falling, "Ok, he's probably busy with clean up - let me see if Rhys can reach him."

"Thank you," you whispered, and she squeezed your shoulder and kissed your cheek before going back to directing people coming through the entrance. 

You jumped as you felt a bigger, wider hand fall on your shoulder but relaxed when you turned to see Cassian grinning down at you. Not the Illyrian warrior you were desperate to see but still a fucking welcome sight. 

"You saved our asses out there, as usual, tiny angry one." You rolled your eyes at the nickname he had given you hundreds of years ago as you let him pull you into a bone-crushing hug. 

"Glad to see you survived another battle, General, and without getting yourself torn to shreds."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up you." He teased as he gently pushed your shoulder. You may be Az's right-hand woman with his spy network now, but you were Cassian's second in command first. A formidable warrior whose name struck fear into your enemy's hearts, renowned for being utterly ruthless in combat and undefeated. How long ago it now felt when you and Cassian had first led the armies in that war hundreds of years ago.

"Have you seen Az?" You hated how quiet your voice sounded, but you struggled to keep the panic at bay. 

"No," Cass frowned, "is he still out there?"

"I don't know, I can't reach him." You whispered, and immediately you felt Cassian shift, ready to head back out there and find his brother - could see the panic that settled in his eyes at the thought of finding him dead on the battlefield.

"Let's not panic yet. We'll go find Rhys, and we can set up a patrol-"he continued to talk to you, laying out a plan before you, but you couldn't hear him. Couldn't hear over the sound of your own panic as you tried to not give in to the fear that was eating away at your heart. You absolutely refused to even think for a minute that he was dead. But why was the bond cold? Why hadn't he gotten in touch, and why hadn't anyone seen him since the battle ended?

You turned your head to the side, ready to throw up the small amount of food you had choked down earlier, when-

Y/N! You froze as you heard a familiar roar and couldn't place if it was something you had heard echoed around the stone room or through that precious bond you shared. 

Immediately, you turned from Cassian toward the sound of that shout, and your knees nearly buckled when you finally spotted Azriel walking through the fortress's entrance, bathed in his shadows. 

His eyes were wild as he scanned the room, looking for you. His hair was matted to his sweaty forehead, blood coated his face, and he was stalking forward with a slight limp. But he was alive. Alive.

"Az." You had barely whispered his name, but you watched as his eyes snapped to you, and something broke in his carefully carved facade as his gaze took you in. Pure, undiluted, raw relief settled on his face as he realised you were still here, unhurt and standing. 

Sobbing, you left your friend behind and ran towards your mate. He just stopped where he stood and held his arms out, catching you as you barrelled into him. He rocked ever so slightly back as he caught you, a testament to the exhaustion seeping through his body, but you felt that primal part of you that had been thrashing around your heart ease as his arms circled around you tightly and he buried his head in your hair - breathing you in.

"I thought I had lost you." You sobbed as you pushed your face into his neck, breathing in that comforting smell of night-chilled mist and cedar.

"I know, baby, I know." His beautiful, scarred hands gently stroked down your blood-soaked and matted hair as he continued to mumble, "I'm here. I'm safe. We're safe."

"What happened?" you asked as you pulled away ever so slightly from his body, letting your feet hit the unforgiving stone floor. Azriel's face was so tender, so soft, as his hands came up to cup your face. You watched, giving him a minute to scan your face for any injuries. A sigh left his lips when he noticed that you were largely unharmed apart from the usual cuts and scraps from battle. 

"Faebane," he muttered darkly, and you gasped. "One of the soldiers had some and threw it on my face when I got close. Clearly, they haven't got much, and it's a diluted solution leftover from the war with Hybern as it cleared quite quickly, but still…this is something we now have to factor in."

"I couldn't feel you down the bond." Your voice hitched.

"I couldn't feel you either, sweetheart, I didn't know if you still breathed. I was so scared." Another sob slipped through your lips, one of sadness but also one of relief as you gripped his Illyrian leathers and pulled him closer - unable to stand any distance between you. You rose up on your shaky legs and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss wasn't sweet or tender; it was demanding and all-consuming. It was a kiss between two mates who had been terrified that after their years of searching, they had lost each other. You felt the rumble of Azriel's moan as you tilted your head to get better access to his lips. His hand reached up to cup your head to hold you in place as he licked into your mouth, and his arm snapped around you as your legs finally gave out and caught you before you sank to the floor. 

You broke away gently, not going far as you rested your foreheads together. Your bodies heaved as you sucked in air for what felt like the first time since the battle ended. You closed the distance again to press your lips to his again, once, twice, thrice.

"I can't do this anymore, Az." You whispered, tears slipping down your face. Tears that Azriel captured with his thumbs as he looked at you with such devastation, "the wars, the battles, not knowing whether our friends are alive, not knowing if you are still alive. I have never felt so old."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." 

You both sighed as you felt the soldier hovering near you, waiting to catch your attention. Once, you would have known every soldier's name, but now you just had a vague recollection of his face. "Azriel. Y/N. I'm sorry to interrupt, but Rhysand has requested your presence."

Az pulled away slightly to nod at the soldier, who offered you both a respectful salute before leaving. You felt his scarred hand drift down your arm to grip your hand. You felt his squeeze, and you squeezed back, "Come on, love, let's go get this over with, and then let me take care of you."

…

The fortress was quieter now, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next attack; the next moment, you would all be dragged out onto the battlefield again to face your enemies. You and Az had been stuck in meetings for hours after that initial reunion, and you had felt so hollow as your friends recounted what they saw throughout the day, the tactics the enemies were using and how you stood a chance at defeating them once and for all if you hold strong. You hadn't let go of Az's hand the entire time, only letting go once he had told his story about the faebane and he had seen tears slipping down your cheeks again and had pulled you into his arms. 

A sadness clanged through your chest as you watched all of your friends that afternoon once the allies from other courts had left for their own war camps. Even through the exhaustion, the court of dreamers was still fighting, even though you had all been on the battlefield in a different war only a handful of years ago.

Azriel had made good on his promise. The minute Rhys commanded you to rest, Azriel gripped your cold hand and pulled you towards the room down the hall you were sharing. Immediately, he had asked a passing soldier to grab you a plate of food, something warm, before strolling into the room and firmly closing the door behind him. With such gentle hands, he had taken your frozen body and sat you down on the impressive four-poster bed in the centre of the room, your body sinking deeply into the comfy mattress. 

He firmly pressed a loving kiss to your forehead before moving away to stoke the fire that someone had forethought to start while you were in meetings. Once satisfied, he quickly looked back over his shoulder at you - to check you were ok - before moving into the expansive bathing chamber. You could hear his footsteps on the tiled floor and the water gushing out of the taps into the large bathtub, but you couldn't stop the fear from clawing up your throat. Panic began to settle in again because he was out of sight.

What your enemies would think at the mighty Y/N reduced to this quivering mess.

Just as you couldn't take the roaring in your head anymore, at the nausea swirling in your stomach, and were about to get up to run to his arms again, Azriel stepped back into the room. You must have been shouting down the bond again because he had a soft, sad look on his face. 

"I'm here, sweetheart." A whimper left your lips as you flew from the bed into his arms again, unable to get enough of the feeling of him, of being safe with him. His hand skated up and down your spine again, mumbling soothing words and pressing his lips into your hair: "I've drawn you a warm bath; come on."

You hadn't realised how much you had been shivering or how long you had been cold until the idea of settling into warm water felt so appealing. He smiled at you as he took your hands and guided you into the large bathing chamber. The bathtub sat in the middle of the room, large enough for not only you but also to accommodate wings, you realised. A soft smile fell on your lips at the thought.

In a comfortable silence that you and Az had always been able to enjoy, he gently began to unbuckle your damp and blood-encrusted leathers. With slow, methodical movements, he pulled the material from your body before throwing it into a basket in the corner of the room. You watched, your breathing shallow as Az ran his soft fingers up the exposed skin of your arms before hooking under the strap of your bra and removing it carefully from your body. Only then did his fingers skate down the soft valley of your breasts, over your abdomen, before slipping underneath the waistband of your underwear and slipping them down your thighs. Az had seen you in every state and had marked every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue, but this moment, him undressing you as you tried desperately to keep yourself from shattering, was the most intimate thing you had shared. It was warm and sweet, flecked with starlight.

That same warm smile was still on his lips as he took your hand and guided you into the warm water in the bathtub. An appreciative groan left your lips as your feet, legs, and body were submerged in comforting, warm water. 

You turned around and grinned at your mate as you watched him unbuckle his own leathers and shuck them off his body. You couldn't help gazing appreciatively at his body, that body you also knew as well as your own: the proud contours of his shoulders, the toned muscles of his arms, his chiselled abdomen, the thick, powerful thighs. He truly was sculpted by the gods themselves. 

Az silently padded over to the bathtub, slipping into the warm water himself before resting against one end and gently slipping his arm around your waist to pull you against him - your back pressed tightly against his chest. 

With a gentleness that you know would shock so many people, he reached to grab the washcloth and soap from the side before he lathered them up and softly washed the mud and blood from your body. He took his time, kneading his hands into your aching muscles. He even undid your tattered braid and carefully washed the blood and dirt from your hair. The moment was so loving and beautiful after what happened earlier in the day that you couldn't help the tears that silently slipped from your eyes and tracked down your cheeks. 

Once you were both clean, he pulled you flush against his chest again, letting you lean against him with your eyes closed as you enjoyed the feeling of being this close to him in the warm water. You idly traced the scars on his hand underneath the water where it was resting against your stomach whilst his other hand slid up and down your thigh, over your hip and up your body.

"I love you, Az." You whispered into the soft silence that had settled between you.

"I love you too, baby." You felt him press a kiss to your temple.

After today, after the horrors you had seen, after the panic that had coursed through your veins, you needed to feel something more. He wasn't close enough; you needed to feel him. Without saying a word, you lifted your free hand to gently grip the hand that was trailing up and down your body, stopping it in its lazy movements to slowly place it closer to that now throbbing part of you at the apex of your thighs. 

"Sweetheart?" He questioned quietly. You could sense through the bond his willingness to touch you and feel his want with the way his erection was pressed against your lower back. But he needed to check that you really wanted this and that he wouldn't overstep some line, especially after today. 

"Please, Az. I need you." You whimpered as you felt his slender fingers skim along your inner thigh.

"Relax, sweetheart, let me make you feel good." He rumbled against you as he gently began to press kisses under your ear, at that sweet spot he had found on that first night all those years ago. Your chest heaved as you felt his calloused fingertips trace up your thigh, over the curve of your hip, and along your bikini line before sensually slipping down to trace your slit.

A soft hiss escaped your lips at the feeling of his fingers so close to where you needed him most, a whimpering, "Please," leaving your lips as he chuckled behind you. His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear and caused a shiver to run down your spine. 

"I have worshipped your body for centuries, love," Azriel murmured, his strong nose nudging the side of your head so he could begin placing open-mouthed, hot kisses down your neck, "and I never get tired of hearing those noises you make when I touch you." 

You whined softly when Azriel moved his hand, but it was quickly silenced when you felt him suck on the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder as his strong hand gripped your thigh to move it to the outside of his so he had better access to you. 

One of his slender fingers returned to your centre and traced your slit once again before gently swirling around that bundle of nerves. A curse ripped from your lips as your hips bucked at the contact, and another primal chuckle rumbled up Azriel's chest at your delicious reaction. 

Azriel continued to swirl his finger ever so gently over your clit, every now and then applying the smallest amount of pressure and causing a sharp cry to leave your lips as white-hot pleasure shot up your body. It wasn't enough; he was teasing, and you needed your body to shatter in a way you were familiar with.

"Use your words, love. Tell me what you need." You could practically hear the smirk in his voice, and if you weren't wound up so tightly, you might have called him out on it. 

"Your fingers, Az. Please." You whimpered.

"Because you asked so nicely." He mumbled into your skin as he gently slid one finger into your core. A sharp cry left your lips at the feeling of those scars creating the most delicious friction against your walls. 

He set a slow but deep pace as he pumped his finger inside you, his thumb still drawing figures of eight on your clit. You could feel the pleasure building inside of you, your toes curling as you felt Azriel taking you higher and higher. His hand that you had been gripping, resting against your stomach, slid up your body to cup your breast. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as he expertly rolled your nipples between his fingers and tweaked them in the way he knew you liked. You could feel that familiar crest of your orgasm approaching, and he had barely touched you. So expertly knew your body. You threw your head back against his shoulder, unable to do much but go limp against him. 

"I love you so much, Y/N." He whispered, and you turned to face him and saw that raw emotion on his face again, an emotion that mirrored yours. As he slipped another finger inside you, curling his fingers to reach that spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars, you reached up to grip his hair and press your lips to his. 

You felt him grin against you as you kissed him, your hips undulating and rolling against his fingers to meet his lazy thrusts. The kiss was full of teeth and passion, and you felt the rising tide of your pleasure as you writhed against him. A cry left your lips as you felt yourself reaching the top of the wave, your mind turning foggy and hips bucking sloppily as you felt your orgasm approaching. 

"Let go, love, cum for me." His words, whispered lowly in your ear, his tone dripping lust and awe, and the soft thrust he gave behind you that had you feeling how much he was enjoying seeing you like this, caused that band in your body to snap and the pleasure he had been slowly building crest and shatter. Pure, white, hot pleasure sparked throughout your body, sending every nerve-ending alight as your orgasm washed over you. Chants of his name left his lips as your back arched and your hips thrashed as he continued to pump his fingers deliciously inside you.

After what felt like hours, the wave of pleasure began to subside and be replaced with a bone-deep satisfaction. A sigh left your lips as you slumped back against your mate, his arms catching you - as they always did - and pulling you close to him. You felt Azriel mumbling your name whilst pressing soft kisses to your temple, cheek and jawline. 

"Rest, love. There will be time for more later. I promise." It was that promise you clung to as you rested against your mate and let your body relax in the cooling water of the bath. 

[chococolte]

☼ — osculatus solem

my take on sagau/cult au zhongli, reactions to first meeting you/as a worshiper + reactions to being your lover

word count. 4.2k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationship, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au shit, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im sorry if tense is weird im kinda dumb lol

Zhongli has waited for you for six-thousand years.

It wasn’t until he was faced with you that he realized how cruel the wait was. Six-thousand years of patiently waiting had never felt like grueling punishment until he realized what he was deprived of. Like a man starved, he had grown used to the numbness of constant hunger— he found it almost comforting, as he had lived his entire life malnourished. He lived unaware of what it was like to have a full stomach.

Your presence is primeval. It emanates, and it overwhelms all else. When Zhongli looked into your eyes for the first time, he finally felt complete. He was finally where he was meant to be. Finally with who he was meant to be with.

The scripture had described you in detail, but there were only so many words, so many different ways to speak of you. None of them could compare to how you looked in person, standing in front of him.

Your eyes hold all the knowledge in the world. Constellations and stars shine within them, a myriad of stellar tapestries formed within the small reflective surface of your eyes. Past, present, and future dance inside, moving according to your design. You see all. You are all. Everything that is, and everything that will be, is you. Every burgeoning bud, blooming flower, roaring wave, and colossal beast; you are every death, there in every mournful cry and scornful glare; you are every mortal life and every god.

You are the sun that brings warmth to Teyvat, the moon that caresses its tides, and Zhongli wants nothing more than to worship you for it.

Zhongli was not always your devout worshiper. He was once, like all of his temperament, rebellious and spiteful. He refused to believe that all of his victories in battle had simply been part of your design. Just a single thread in your grand tapestry.

His triumphs were his, and his alone. He won by his own virtue, will, and vigor. He won by his own hand, spear, and stone. You did not aid him in his wars. You did not save anyone worth saving. Zhongli watched his allies die, slip through his fingers like grains of sand— and he would never thank you for what he endured. He promised himself that if ever faced with you and your faux benevolence, he would demand answers from you. You owed him that much. A recompense for all the hardship and injury he had sustained.

Zhongli, in his youthful hubris, did not care who heard his blasphemy, and whether they thought it distasteful or not. He was the god of war, and would allow no being to silence his voice. Zhongli bathed in his rage, wallowed in it; he would not allow himself to believe what others so easily indulged in. Ignorance led way to arrogance.

Guizhong had always been of the opinion that you were a kind, gentle god. She argued that your light could not be quantified, nor labeled; just because you did not act in ways he could see, did not mean you did not act at all. You breathed life into the abandoned, the lost— you embraced those without a home, without purpose. You forgave and you pardoned, and you rained down fury on those wicked and vile.

Zhongli had long grown used to her arguments. Every victory of theirs, despite the tight grip on his weapon and the ichor on his blade, was attributed to you— your grace, your blessings. By your grace you allowed them one more day, by your blessings you allowed them one more triumph. Zhongli thought her pitiful; you had done nothing to deserve her kindness. She worshiped you, and what had you given her in response to her devotion?

Guizhong died in his hands, and he had nothing to show for it. Helplessness ate it's way at him, through his flesh and bone. What was left was nothing more than a husk, a parody of a god. What was once anger at authority transformed into righteous anger at the one who made him. You allowed him his victories, to parade around with pride and vanity; you gave him your blessings, benediction and approval, and yet you let the one who meant the most to him die. The one who worshiped you above all else.

Why did he live over her? He did not appreciate you. He did not worship you. He made no offerings, nor did he pray. He did not believe in your salvation, neither did he ordain your will. But he was the one left behind with the sorrow and the guilt, and Guizhong was the one turned to dust. Why was he chosen?

Zhongli knew that asking questions was meaningless. You would not deign to answer. Maybe it was to be expected. Why would an Almighty God answer to a lower being demanding answers far beyond their comprehension? Why should you have to explain yourself, when you saw all? Zhongli was merely the god of Geo. You could take even that from him.

You were the God of All. The Primordial One. No being had authority over you; not even one of the Seven.

It was only in the light of Guizhong's death that Zhongli had finally begun to understand her perspective. He might’ve been alone, but that did not make you cruel. It did not mean you were unable to be kind, tender and loving. You loved as much as you breathed— the world was showered in your love for it, in the wind that caressed its people and the sea that fed them. Your love was in its bountiful harvests and its gentle rain.

You loved just as any other, but Zhongli had long refused to see it.

He started small. Gestures of devotion hidden underneath many layers of misty glass, only clear to those who looked hard enough. Zhongli had postured to those still with him that he no longer minded if they worshiped you in his presence. If he was feeling particularly daring, he would join in and mutter a small word or two of thanks. Perhaps he thought of it as a way to make up to Guizhong after so many years of his disapproval.

Though he may have found it unbearable at the beginning, he soon began to pray to you in times of need. He looked for you when he found himself in need of counsel, forgoing the people around him. He made offerings in your name when there was a drought or a shortage, praying for your guidance. Even if he did not initially believe that you would truly respond, the comfort it brought outweighed the logistics. If there was no one else he could turn to, he still had you— and you would never forsake him.

Zhongli started to find your answers in the strangest of places. An arrangement of flowers in some botanical garden of some odd scion, the conversation of two orphan boys that shed a new perspective; a tale that seemed almost catered to him told by a storyteller at a tea house. Perhaps he was imagining things— he surely would have thought so a millennium earlier. But were they truly coincidences, if they only happened after he had prayed and offered at his altar for you?

If it was the Zhongli of old, he would have said yes. But the Zhongli of new knew better now: it was you, speaking to him through indirect means. You answered his prayers and accepted his offerings. You forgave him for what he had done and the things he had said in the past.

Liyue was modeled after what Zhongli believed you favored the most. Its jagged cliffs, jeweled karsts, cuihua forests, and vibrant plant life; sculpted and molded to fit your tastes. He sometimes daydreams of showing you his life’s work— would you like it? Would you tell him he’s done a good job, that he had done enough to please you? If you found it distasteful, would you tell him why? Even if it meant tearing the land asunder and usurping the earth that tethers it to its place in the sea, Zhongli would change whatever it is you dislike immediately.

Even if the problem was himself. He would happily bow his head, whisper one last plead for forgiveness, and take his own life. If it was your will, there is nothing he wouldn't do.

When Zhongli meets the Traveler for the first time, he is frozen in place. His heart drops to his stomach as he sees the gleam of your existence in their eyes. It's you. You're here, in front of him— he wants to kneel and worship you the way he's always wanted, but…

Why is it them, and not him?

Zhongli knows he shouldn’t be jealous. It’s a blessing in the first place to meet you like this. It's a blessing to know that you're real. But he can’t stop himself from lying awake at night, thinking of what it would be like if he was the eyes through which you experienced this world.

It’s an ugly feeling. A twisted, nasty feeling. It leaves him feeling bitter in the morning and sick whenever he sees the Traveler walking through Liyue’s streets. He assists them on their quest, because you are there with them— watching him through their eyes. He hopes to leave a good impression, to assure you that there is no problem with him; perhaps, that is why you did not choose him? Because he was faulty in some form?

Hours upon hours of self-reflection spent in dark, locked rooms. Zhongli stays there, looking in mirrors, searching for reasons why. He looks at his mortal form and wonders: is this why? Did you want him to serve you as the Geo Archon for longer? Why not him?

Was he not enough? Was Liyue not enough? You are never wrong, never incorrect— the problem lies with him. But no matter how long he looks, he can't find the reason. He's better in every way. Better in his devotion for you, better in his worship— he would kneel until his knees turned raw and skin gave way to bone, he would pray and sing your praises until his throat bled. He built Liyue with earth and stone, and cracked the land until it was worthy enough of a formation, molding it with his hands to please you. He had changed himself until he was deserving of your forgiveness, until he was worthy enough to worship you.

The voice in the back of his head tells him it was because he once hated you. Once, when he was a fool and a heathen, he spat on your good name, derided it with disgust. Zhongli thought you forgave him for the sins of his past. He thought you still loved him despite it. He thought he had purified himself long ago, but perhaps he still had some rot left to root out. What part of him wasn’t perfect? What part of him wasn’t enough for you?

Zhongli knows he’s only being ungrateful. You’ve done enough for him. Who is he to demand more?

REVERENTIA ; first meeting/as a worshiper

Zhongli did not know what to do with himself when his eyes laid on your figure for the first time.

You were beautiful. Resplendent and illustrious. When you spoke, crying out so timorously, he shuddered involuntarily. He clasped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to steady his breathing, but your voice was infectious. His heart felt heavy in his chest as you looked at him with wide eyes.

Nothing could compare to your stare, to the life that swirled within your eyes.

Zhongli knelt, then, his head hitting the floor. His shoulders trembled with tension as he kept them taut and straight, keeping his posture as poised as possible.

His first words to you: "Welcome home."

Whether your reaction was volatile or not, Zhongli is at your beck and call. He waits on you hand and foot, staying by your side and keeping close. He acts as your shadow, following your orders, even simple commands, as if the result of his failure will be death. Zhongli is aware that your current form is weaker, mortal in nature; but when you ascend once more, he wants to be known as the one who never doubted you, never thought of you as lesser because of your current circumstances.

Zhongli, despite his worship of propriety, is still prone to decadence. His hands as he helps you dress linger for far longer than they should, brushing against the soft skin of your shoulders. The tips of his gloves burn from where they've touched you, and you notice him wearing them less and less often, now.

In Zhongli's eyes, you are never wrong. You stand at the pinnacle of righteousness, justice and light; anything you say is gospel. He commits all of your opinions, even of the littlest, pettiest things, to memory. His personal thoughts on the matter are meaningless, now— if you dislike it, then it's bad. Simple as that. If you find something enjoyable, then it's good. If your concept of morality is twisted and murky, then he will morph his own to match it; there is no internal struggle, no hesitation in his thoughts and behavior. Your will is all that matters.

When in your presence, Zhongli is perfect. He is courteous, gentle, and benign. He never does anything without your explicit permission. He brews you tea, and tells you anything you wish to know. He worships you with so much vigor it's hard to deny him.

Outside of it, he is barely hanging on by a thread.

Zhongli doesn't know how he lived without you before. He feels vaguely sick even thinking of going back to when you were not present. Just a moment without you is hellish. Every step away from you is like walking on scorching coal. It is an agonizing pain, one slow and tortuous.

He has never felt such pain before. The mere thought of leaving you by your lonesome sends him into a frenzy powered only by his desire to stay by you. He is willing to tear anyone apart should they stand in between him and his god. He can't leave, not when he isn't worthy of your forgiveness yet, not when you're so fragile in your current form.

Every night he rests only barely. Every morning he rises with relief, knowing that once more he is allowed to bask in your company.

Perhaps he's still driven by his insecurity, by the idea of you thinking him unworthy of you.

Zhongli speaks of your grace and elegance, of the light you inspire; he tells you how long he's worshiped you, how long he's loved you.

He tells you of his devotion, of the offerings he's left at your gilded altars, jewels and the finest riches. Zhongli brings them directly to you, now, with an uncharacteristic bashfulness.

He tells you of the wars he's fought in your name, of the blasphemers he's slaughtered— though, conveniently leaving out that he used to be one. Zhongli hopes you're proud of the things he's done in your name, that you will finally embrace him, utterly and wholly.

In the dark of the night, when doubt and searing loneliness so clearly bite at his mind, Zhongli walks to your room. He never dares to walk inside, always conscious of your privacy— but he kneels outside your doors with muted footsteps, only the soft echo of ruffling fabric to accompany him.

He mumbles into the gelid floor unintelligible prayers. He listens for your breathing, for assurance you're still within reach. His unrest is barely abated each time.

When he is particularly nervous, he stands by your doors until morning light, shoulders trembling with unease until you rise from your slumber.

Zhongli is fearful. His muscles are tense as he whispers pleadings that you stay, that you at least say goodbye, should you leave again. He fears one day he will awake and you will be gone.

He fears that he will be left alone again, once more without the tenderness of your guidance. Back to when he had thrown you away, when he only knew of bloodshed and the weight on his shoulders.

You freed him from his self-imposed shackles, whether knowingly or not.

Only when he's assured you're safe will he allow himself peace and serenity.

Only then, will he finally rest in the only paradise he wishes for: being by your side for eternity.

VENUSTUS ; as your lover

Zhongli has always loved you. By virtue of your holiness and sacred being, he has always loved you as his god. As his guiding hand and light, sculpting him into the Archon you want him to be; into a believer worthy of worshiping you.

Faced with your luminous presence, finally able to see what he has only imagined before, Zhongli's love for you only grows. It unfurls like a blossoming glaze lily, petals perfect and serene.

He would never dare presume that his feelings are returned. As his God, you are above him in every way— you are above him in every breath, every step you take. In every slight movement of your fingers, you establish the bridge between you. The line he should never cross.

You are above him. He is beneath you.

Whether it is intentional or not, Zhongli knows his place. He is grateful to be where he is, blessed enough to stand beside you in any capacity. To know that you exist would've been enough, but to care for you personally— to be the one with whom you spend the most of your treasured time with; that is an honor worth dying for.

Zhongli has played with the idea of being your consort before. Of being yours, utterly and entirely. He never lets the thought stay for long. Shame begins to eat at him all too quickly, twisting his stomach into knots of guilt and remorse. He's embarrassed more than anything; of having the gall to dare to imagine himself ever being so important to you.

The thought would've never crossed his mind before, the mere idea laughable. You were untouchable. Above even The Seven, above Celestia. You had not shown interest in any individual for a millennium, and it would be no different now.

But Zhongli knows you now. He's felt the brush of your touch, the zephyr of your breath when he leans in too close. He's felt the warmth running through your veins, the warmth that leaves him flustered, even when you've only touched him for a moment.

The thoughts come more often, now. More vivid. More apparent. You cradle him in your arms, whispering soft words of loyalty and love. You hold his hands in your own, intertwining your fingers, and tell him how you have come to love him. He is special. He alone is yours; no one else.

It terrifies him.

Zhongli is nothing more than your worshiper. He is your servant. He may have been a god, but now he is just your tool. He is content with that much. He should be content with that much. But his heart wants more from you, more than you've deigned to give him.

It wants your love. Your attention. His heart yearns to be special to you; to be the sole holder of your affection.

It's a selfish desire. A nasty one. One that he wishes he could remove, exorcise out of him like a spirit. But every attempt to carve it out of him only leaves him bleeding, and it hurts more to pretend like it doesn't exist. It burns him from the inside out, a fiery jealousy that roars whenever he sees you with another.

It should be me, his heart trembles. It should be me, his heart weeps.

Zhongli is terribly flustered when you begin to show signs of reciprocation. Small things like careful touches, honeyed tones, and words of favor. You compliment him more often, go out of your way to do things that please him; brushing and running your fingers through his hair, listening to him spin tales of old. He is aware that you must know everything already, but you look at him with such big eyes of wonder and interest he can’t help but go on.

He’s barely able to speak when you admit to him your feelings. His heart beats fast in his ears like war drums, his heartstrings tightening as if nocked by an arrow.

It's an uncharacteristic moment of timidity for the wise ex-archon. He's stammering over his words, barely able to keep up his façade of calm. Is that something you truly wish to do? With him?

You assure him— I want this, you say— and Zhongli allows himself to believe you. He follows you when you lead him by the hand into the palace of your heart. He cradles it softly in his hands, gentle and delicate. Zhongli swears to never hurt you, to never let another harm you in any way; but he still fears, still doubts you.

It should be expected for you to have multiple consorts. Multiple lovers, all equally vying for your attention. Zhongli should be happy that you have any interest in him at all— but the thought of being second to another in your heart makes him sick.

Venti, the verdant bard, does nothing but drink. He wastes away his woes in bottles of wine and bourbon; surely, you will not choose him over Zhongli? Ei lorded over her people and took their freedom away. Her reasons do not matter. All for an eternity unreachable by mortals and gods, she attempted to trespass upon your domain. Surely, you will not choose her over him?

The thoughts are foolish. Nearly sacrilegious in nature. He has no control over you; no place to demand that you only love him. But Zhongli has spent thousands of years worshiping you— is it wrong of him to believe himself better than the rest? Venti does not worship you in the way he does, with such fervor or zeal. Ei may pray or rest her eyes beneath your statue, but she has not spoken good of your name like he has, hasn’t hunted blasphemers like he has.

She’d rather her servants deal with them, whenever they so rarely come. Zhongli deals with them personally, knuckles clenched around his blade.

In every way that matters, he is better. As such, he shouldn’t fear, shouldn’t worry of when you will inevitably grow bored— he should enjoy the moments he has with you, the brief time when he is all that you have. When he is still all that you want.

Fear still grips his throat with its tiny, intangible hands. Even if he severs its wrists, it continues to thrive; to suffocate him with its pervasive thoughts.

He must prove himself, it echoes. Or else he'll be deserted. Discarded when another proves themselves his better.

Zhongli won't let himself be thrown away. Whatever he must do to please you, he will do.

Until his mortal form wears down to nothing but dust and bone, until his only coherent thought is how wonderful it is to worship you— until you have no need for anyone else.

Whatever your command is, he will follow. As long as he alone stands in your heart, as long as he alone can kiss the dirt off your feet, he will be content.

He only hopes that he can love you as you deserve.

Zhongli’s zealous behavior worsens to an obscene degree. He never falters in his fervent, almost fervorous veneration— it becomes excessive, almost actorly. Though his obsequiousness appears inflated, it is entirely genuine; he fawns a tad more obviously, smiling with dazed eyes when you kiss his cheeks or lips.

This has always been how he feels. He's only unrestrained, now. And even still, he hides the deeper parts of his worship, the servile and fanatic in him that wants to drool at your lap. It's hard to stop himself every time you sit on your throne to immediately drop to his knees.

Zhongli is happy to give and never receive. He is pleased with being yours, though it never clicks in his mind that the same is applicable to you.

You are not his, but he is yours. If you call yourself his, Zhongli melts. His face blossoms red and it permeates his cheeks for hours afterward. His hands slightly shake and he has trouble standing still in the immediate aftermath. All he wants to do is kneel, and say I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

If you'd like it, Zhongli would let you do whatever you want with him. Tear him apart with your bare hands, and shred him of any sense; it matters not as long as it's you.

You are everything, your love is everything. Even the softest of your kisses and touches have him breathless and numb, and anything else only serves to make him fall deeper into you.

Only with you is he easy to fluster. Anyone else, and he'd have punished them long ago, if not tore out their eyes for having seen him in such a state.

But it's you. You could crush his heart in your hands, leave him heartbroken and bitter, and Zhongli still would not find it in himself to hate you.

You are the lifeblood that runs underneath Teyvat’s cracked earth, the soft undercurrent that ties it together— and, if only you'd let him, Zhongli would worship you for it.

[xoxoemynn]

Transcript of tweets below the cut but in short: calling makes the biggest impact, focus on DEI, you can call more than once, and you do not need to be in the US or have a Max subscription to call.

Everyone, I just talked on the phone to an absolute ally at Max, and they gave me extremely useful information! We need to be calling WAY more. It's a higher impact that most other things we can do. Here's the phone number: (855) 442-6629. But read on if you want to know WHY.

Every time Max receives a customer feedback call, that information is logged in the system. The info, *including all the details* is pushed to a server that relays it to the higher ups. They don't just get a tally of calls and general opinions—they get the full feedback.

And it's not just higher-ups at Max. Per the service rep, "it's actually read by the higher ups who are in charge of what happens within Warner Media/ Discovery."

The rep also suggested that particular types of feedback, especially those around DEI, might bear extra weight. They had to be a bit cryptic for job reasons, but they made this very clear.

They ask for an email but don't triage based on whether that email has a subscription. E.g., if you're outside the US and watch elsewhere, you can still call, and your feedback will still go up the chain.

In fact, the rep was very clear to encourage ALL people with feedback to call individually. And to keep calling! I asked whether multiple calls from the same person make a difference, and the answer was a clear yes bc the feedback gets shared as it comes in, not batched.

It's also worth noting that phone calls in general are always higher-impact than letters, online engagements, etc. This is true for political campaigns, and it's true here. There's a real cost to having people answering phones. It takes time, which equals $$.

So: Call. I know it sucks; I hate the phone too. If you have phone anxiety, you can also delegate to a friend and have them provide your name and email. If you *don't* hate making phone calls, ask friend for permission to call on their behalf!

I'll put together a little phone script shortly and add it to this thread.

Source

[petit-etoile]

Congrats on 200 followers! :D For drabble ideas, how about one where Tav is becoming overwhelmed from being the leader of their group and they end up having a bit of a breakdown in camp, so Astarion whisks them away and dotes on them for the evening to help soothe some of their worries.

i  am  tired  of  being  brave

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount:  1,036 content warnings: none other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, idiots in love, established relationship, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, be added to the taglist here

summary: All you want is to get away from everything. Astarion indulges you.

‘Enough!’ you shout.

Lae’zel and Shadowheart have the decency to look properly chagrined when they peer over at you, frozen as if turned to stone. Shadowheart’s knife dips underneath Lae’zel’s chin, but the pretense of applied pressure goes away. You have no idea what hour it is or how long they’ve been going at it but the little patience you have snaps like a fine thread.

‘We have only gotten this far because we trust each other,’ you snap at them, pulling your nightshirt tighter around your shoulders. ‘But if you want to ruin that, leave me out of it!’

In what is likely the silliest mistake to make, you turn around and march to your bedroll to pick up your hunting knife and then march beyond the outskirts of camp  —  beyond Halsin and Jaheira and Gale and Wyll and Karlach, and Withers who seems to be musing over the situation with faint interest.

If Shadowheart and Lae’zel want to fight to the death, let them! You’ve done all that you can to get the group this far. You’re tired, you’ve been woken up two nights in a row, and you’ve had it with the drama.

You plunge yourself through the nearest bush you can find and sit next to running water, your arms pulled across your chest to keep the breeze from chilling you to the bone. You’re miserable beneath the moonlight. You can’t remember the last time you’ve slept more than four hours.

You almost doze off in the underbrush beneath a tree, but then there’s a hand sliding over your mouth and a body behind yours, somehow wedged behind you once your eyes closed. You gasp and try to reach for your knife, but Astarion tuts and continues sliding between you and the tree. It would be annoying if you weren’t relieved it was him. You relax back against him despite the feeling that your heart is going to leap out of your throat.

‘You shouldn’t fall asleep in the woods,’ Astarion warns you. ‘There are terrible beasts that have made this place their hunting ground.’

You shiver. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ you say. ‘I just needed to get away.’

He hums. ‘Did something happen back at the camp?’

It doesn’t do any good to keep secrets, and your other companions had already witnessed it. You tell Astarion about Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s never ending fight. It doesn’t make sense to keep attacking one another, especially since the Artefact is the only reason the worms haven’t burrowed deeper into your skulls. It wears you down every day to keep making decisions for everyone when there are people with better experience. Everyone looks to you no matter how much you wish they’d look elsewhere. You never wanted this fellowship to hang on your every word. You just wanted allies.

‘It’s hardly fair,’ Astarion agrees. ‘To have the weight of this…Absolute sitting on your shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to wrangle us all into cohabitation.’

‘Some discomforts are easier to resolve than others,’ you say. ‘It was easy making everyone throw their stakes away.’

‘I’m fairly certain Wyll kept his,’ Astarion snorts.

‘Yes, but he doesn’t wake us all up holding it at your neck,’ you say, elbowing him. ‘They don’t have to become friends or lovers or anything of the sort. They just have to get along until we arrive at Baldur’s Gate.’

Baldur’s Gate still seems so very far away. Acknowledging this drags you down more than you wish it to. You’re tired of walking and fighting and lying your way out of every other conflict. You miss your family and your life before the worm. The only good that’s come of it is Astarion. He lets you lounge on him when you please in exchange for some blood, and…

It’s more than that.

Astarion lets you do whatever the hell you please as long as it doesn’t annoy him. You’re free to nap in his tent or sit at his side while he reads, and he’s even allowed you to style his delicate curls with pomade. He lets you kiss him if you ask, holds your hand. If you asked him to kill someone for you, you’re certain he would without question.

Reluctantly, you sit forward. ‘I should probably head back,’ you admit. ‘I should make sure everyone is still alive.’

‘To the hells with it,’ Astarion disagrees. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back. ‘You close your eyes and sleep. Let them come looking for us if it troubles them that much.’

‘And if Shadowheart kills Lae’zel?’

‘I’m almost certain Lae’zel would win,’ he says. ‘But, I have no doubt they’ll behave. You, on the other hand, are being naughty.’

You laugh but you do as you're told. You worm further in the roots and lean back against him. It’s chilly, but having someone else there does wonders for how willing you are to fall asleep. It’s almost nice how secluded you are away from the drama and stress. You almost wish you were a vampire so that you could sneak out and use hunting as an excuse.

The respect for all you do is nice. Sure, Halsin and Jaheira have both commended you for how hard you work for your age, but it isn’t the same. You still stand in the middle of camp trying to handle things on your own. The planning, the decisions. They somehow fall on your shoulders. A little more input would be nice, or a sign from a god that you’re doing the right thing. You try not to think about it as you feel sleep edge toward your consciousness. Astarion hums softly in your ear, and though it’s uneven, you can’t help but think it’s so off-tune that it’s lovely.

You yawn so hard your jaw pops, and Astarion hushes you, kissing idly behind your ear. It lulls you into an ease you haven’t experienced for a while. You melt into the touch. If you could purr, you would.

‘This,’ Astarion says, ‘is what you deserve. To relax here in my arms. Sleep now, and we’ll deal with what shall come in the morning.’

[gaysindistress]

Allies or Enemies - one

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

pairings: Dragonborn!bucky x f!reader

Summary: The reality of her cruel world is more evident than ever before when her stepfather sends her to her death under the guise of diplomacy. Y/n, the expendable daughter of a scared king, must find a way to secure her own protection among the Dragonborn and she will do that by whatever means necessary.

Warnings: mild cursing

Word count: 3.3k

series masterlist | main masterlist

taglist: @unaxv

“The king requires your presence.”

“But were I to require that he does not bother me, my request would be ignored. We cannot always have the things that we desire,” I sigh whilst continuing to read the journal in front of me.

The handwriting is terrible, so much so that I can barely finish a page in 5 minutes but given that the king has been demanding my presence at every chance that he gets, I continue with my struggles. An older woman stands in the doorway and I can feel her glare at me with a hatred that I imagine is reserved only for me. After all, my mother is the one who married her lover.

“Now.”

The finality in her tone would’ve caused a younger me to look up in fear but I’ve grown used to the stern reality of our world. As the eldest daughter of the queen, I’ve been educated in every form of manipulation that can be conveyed through the voice. As the child of the late king and the unwanted stepchild to the current king, I’ve been taught that I am the only protection that I have. No one will come to my aid or offer me guidance when I need it. No one will tend to my wounds when the cruel servants of the king lash me with their words. No one will care for me in the way that my younger sisters are looked after. No one would even bat an eye if I were to vanish into thin air. They might celebrate if that were to happen.

The woman whom I despise just as much as she me repeats herself with a heavy huff as if I have greatly inconvenienced her by breathing the same air as her or simply existing. Whether it be my existence or continued residence at the palace that is more vexing to her is yet to be determined I’ve decided.

The journal before me bound in precious leather and gold thread suddenly becomes unimportant. While it details the various races of creatures that occupy these lands and would prove to be useful in my studies, it will do nothing to shield me from the king’s wrath. My fingers drift away from the frayed edges and allow it to close by itself, prompting small dust specks to flutter around it. The black silk ribbon that I wound around the end of my braid is dangling above the curious journal, trailing its delicate ends over the monstrous illustrations hidden in its opulent bindings. The ribbon, much like my heart, yearns to open it once more and lose myself in its pages but is bound by duty to ignore such a yearning.

“Your highness,” she demands in a tight voice, “We are to leave now.”

Rolling my eyes would most certainly earn me a slap across the face but it doesn’t stop me from squeezing them shut in frustration. Standing up from my desk, I swipe at the dust on my lap, smearing gray streaks across the thick black fabric of my over skirt. She makes a small noise of disgust at the action, no doubt complaining loudly in her mind that being presentable is not something I know how to do. We make eye contact for a brief moment and she is quick to turn on her heel, forcing me to nearly jog to catch up so that I may follow this hateful woman to my certain death.

The Beloved King Anthony Starkov had been a wonderful king at first. After the invasion of the Dragonborn and the apparent failure by my father to protect his nation, Anthony seemed like a god sent. He rode in on a pure white horse with the head of the most fearsome Dragonborn knight on his sword as he declared that he was now king. My mother, the poor grieving widower queen, had no choice but to accept his proposal and promise to care for us. He’s doted on her, showered her with affection and gifts, and most importantly he treated me as if I were his own. Following my father’s death and living in fear of Dragonborn attack’s, a protective shield was all I prayed for. My mother could barely protect herself from the onslaught of the court’s cruel words and it became apparent that soon they would turn on me. It was not for a lack of trying surely but due to the fact that she was not a man. As the angry old woman who calls herself my advisor likes to remind me, a woman is only as powerful as the man that marries her and that meant my mother had no power until Anthony.

The moment that Anthony took the crown and later my mother’s hand, we’d all thought that this would be the bright moment in our bleak lives that we’d been looking for. The nation of York was at peace when it had been a foreign concept to me and many others after the Dragonborn had launched their attack. The love that Anthony and my mother shared burned brighter than the terror that my father had allowed into our land.

Until the rumors of his cruel actions behind closed doors began to spread.

The help always gossiped against themselves and no one truly paid any mind.

That is until evidence accompanies these rumors.

My mother did well to hide what she could but once again there was only so much that she could do to protect me. When my sisters came along, I presume that Anthony no longer felt anger towards her but instead towards me, the last reminder of the Failed King. I’d always had pitying stares and endured hushed conversations where my name slipped between their fingers as they whispered to each other.

Poor child.

I heard that she’s going to be married off as soon as possible.

I heard that she’s just as weak as her father.

Poor child.

I ignored them until I couldn’t anymore. I ignored them until I had been sent to live with a distant cousin to be “taught the art of diplomacy” and was told to never return to the palace. With this distant cousin, I did learn the art of diplomacy as planned but as the craft of cutting words and cunning actions. I’d grown rather talented at navigating the complicated relations of neighboring nations, so much so that foreign diplomats asked for me by name. My ability to seamlessly blend together warring cultures and broken bonds earned me fame beyond that of my late father. Of course like any wicked stepparent, Anthony demanded I return to court so that my talents may be best utilized to serve the nation.

What a wretched lie to shorten my leash.

So began my rebellion.

The older woman who is also my ill informed advisor, Pepper, stomps down the dim hall towards the grand battle room. Her reddish blonde hair hardly moves behind her as she makes a determined path to the king despite the curls it’s been styled into. It’s rather shocking to see her hair down at all considering she is usually the one to lecture me on the propriety of society and how as a member of the royal family, I must uphold that. After she’s red in the face and moments away from exploding with fury, I like to remind her that I’m the forgotten eldest daughter. No one thinks of me as the face of this family or that of modern society either.

Despite its name, the battle room cannot be considered grand by any stretch of the imagination. Much like the rest of the palace, it is old and worn from economic fatigue. Where gold used to be brushed across every inch, there are now only flecks of lackluster yellow. Where towering windows used to bathe the halls in sunlight, there are now curtains drawn to prevent the Dragonborn from seeing movement within the palace. There is no finery to be seen and what was once a regal sight to behold is the stark reminder that we are at war with enemies who have every advantage.

With a deafening boom, ragged guards who’ve past their battle prime push the battle room doors and alert the king to our arrival. Pepper stomps right to where the king is sitting among pillars of maps and letters and whispers something in his ear. I don’t need to know whatever lies she’s telling him because his expression tells me enough. His ever present scowl deepens when he looks up and settles his disgusted gaze on me.

Dust swirls from my skirts as I shift on my feet and hit the wood paneled floors beneath me with a silent loudness as he stares at me.

A single question hangs in the air as he attempts to peer into my soul, “Were you aware that the Dragonic bastards were planning to create an alliance with the Elven counsel?”

Of course no warm welcome or small talk. Straight to the heart of the reason he even dragged me back here in the first place.

“Was I aware of this alliance?” I calmly restate, arching a brow at the man who sits high on his worthless throne and judges me. “Had I been, I would have informed you the instant I knew, your highness.”

In truth, I had heard snippets of clipped conversations about something brewing between the two nations but nothing raised concern within me. Rather nothing could’ve convinced me to speak to this man willingly.

The throne is a disgusting sight to behold with its mangled wood and tattered black cloth that flows in the still wind behind it. Black as night and deafening as the ever present silence that fills when you’re dying, this throne is what haunted me as a child and whispers promises of my demise now as an adult. The throne smiles when it senses my anger and the man who is occupying it becomes a conduit for its emotions as that familiar sinister glint flickers in his dark eyes.

Anthony throws a glance to the dust that has fallen around me with disappointment before speaking, “Do not play games with me, child.”

My eyes narrow at his choice of words.

“I assure you,” I start as I take a step forward as the heels of my boots make light taps on the wood, “I am not playing games with you. As I said before, if I had heard anything about this rumored alliance then you would have been made aware as well but alas I did not know.”

Anthony’s hollow chuckle causes my hair to stand on end but my face is schooled into perfect indifference. I allow my expression to portray only mild concern for the safety of our nation and that gets under his skin more than anything.

“If that is the position that you wish to maintain, then so be it.”

I roll my eyes at him and his flash with rage for a brief moment. The king settles back into his chair as he smirks at me, “you are my most sought after diplomat, are you not?”

Where is he going with this? I think to myself while I nod.

“Of course you are. You have your father’s legendary silver tongue. I should think that you would be the perfect person to forge an alliance on the nation’s behalf.``

My heart stills while my body becomes completely frigid. Suddenly the thick fabrics of my skirts and tight corset are useless against the chill that has begun to creep up my spine. The king holds back an all out grin and clenches his jaw. The action tightens and sharpens his already pronounced jaw, giving him the appearance akin to a statue. A crown of graying black waves adores his head but it does nothing to soften the severe look on his tanned face. “I have arranged for you to travel to the Dragonic capital and broker a peace treaty of sorts between us and them. We cannot allow this war to rage on any longer if they intend to ally themselves with the Elven counsel. This nation will not survive.”

“You expect me to do what?” I snarl with a curl of my lip which sends the entire room on high alert. Pepper gasps as she steps behind Anthony and the guards have arranged themselves in a defensive circle.

The king on his feet in seconds, brandishing a dull sword and pointing it at me albeit still a safe distance away. My gaze makes a slow path from the pathetic sword to his furious face. It is not the first time that he’s drawn a weapon on me and I doubt it will be the least.

“Your father is the reason this nation is all but decimated and it will be you who corrects that mistake. You will do as I demand of you and you will do it well if you wish for your mother to live.”

“You would not dare.” I hiss at him as I step closer. He steps back and says my name but I interrupt him with a roar of anger.

“You cannot expect me to willingly walk into a viper’s den, provoke the beast within, and survive, let alone make it obey me. You must know that this means almost certain death for me and I will fail. It is an impossible task, your highness. I will not do it.”

He hesitates, something that I haven’t seen him do ever, and I want to take pride in being the one to cause his hesitation but it’s short lived. His lip curls up into a nasty smirk as he sneers at me and circles his desk to stand mere inches from me.

“We might share blood but you are not my step daughter or family in any sense of the word. You are an abomination, a blight upon this earth. You are a dark stain in the fabric of our history and one that I will spend the remainder of my reign trying to scrub clean. You are a beastly girl who knows no discipline nor manners and nothing can forgive the torment that you've put this court through. Understand that is a blessing and that I should sentence you to death outright for simply being the offspring of the Failed King.”

Too caught up in the king’s self-serving monologue, I’d failed to hear the sound of thundering wings and the dreadful slap of scaled boots marching towards the battle room. I’d missed how the palace seemed to shrink around us in fear while its enemy stormed its halls with permission. I’d missed how only Anthony and I remained while the others had fled for their safety. I’d failed to notice that the air grew hazy and thick with smoke instead of tension as I had assumed.

Just as I catch the scent of burnt embers, I turn to glance over my shoulder and see the most important thing that I had failed to notice; a knight clad in iridescent black armor who is standing just behind me.

Towering above everyone and everything in the room, the knight seems to be almost double the size of any mortal man I know. As I spin to face it, the hulking frame shrouds me in complete darkness. My eyes make the nearly seven foot long ascent to where a face might be if it weren’t for the helmet that chills me to my core as I recognize it.

It’s the helmet of a Dragonborn knight.

They all wear the same sleek black helmet that resembles their beastly forms; six large horn-like spikes that stretch from the sides and top while the chin comes to a narrow point like a dragon’s nose. The helmet is otherwise plain with engravings or markings to decorate it aside from two sets of ruby glass eyes that stare down at me. It covers the knight’s entire face and head, leaving not even a sliver of skin or strand of hair to be seen. Save for the nature creases where the armor is cut to allow for movement, it lacks any decorations or embellishments much like the helmet. I’d once been told that it’s iridescent quality was due to the fact it was made from their dragon form’s scales instead of metal like mortal knights’ but I’ve never been close enough to one to ask. This is the first time I've been close to a Dragonborn at all, knight or not. My father had allowed a handful of their diplomats into the palace before his death but they’d used they’re mortal forms and only stayed for however long was absolutely necessary. I scarcely remember them aside from their silently menacing presence that would engulf rooms before they walked in and the scent of burnt embers that clung to their skin. Aside from those few past encounters, my knowledge comes from the journals I’ve snuck into the palace but nothing would’ve prepared me for this moment.

The knight simply stares down at me with those double ruby eyes before lifting its head to look at Anthony. With its gaze off of me, I look around it to see that there are only three more Dragonborn knights. Given how hostile our nations’ relationship has been, I would’ve expected to see a small army. Instead it seems that their leader did not think they would face much resistance or maybe these knights are more vicious than I’d been led to believe.

Anthony lets out a shuddered breath before he speaks, “You will leave with them in two days time.”

The knight glances back at me. The clawed gauntlets that cover its hands make a small noise when they come to rest on the hilt of a onyx greatsword. It stiles a cord of deep rooted terror within me that I can’t stop from setting ablaze to my nerves.

they’re not like us

they’re not like us

they’re not like us

It echoes throughout my mind while we stare at each other. The knight cocks its head and I can only assume it's studying me as I am it.

Anthony’s unsteady footsteps stop me from getting caught up entirely in the knight before me.

“She’ll never forgive you,” I whisper without looking away from the knight. I don’t need to look to know that my cowardly stepfather is retreating to safety and leaving me with these monstrous knights.

“She’ll be more thankful that her true daughters are alive.”

The other knights approach us, causing Anthony to let out a shaky chuckle in fear and stumble as he steps back.

One speaks, his gravelly voice rumbles the walls of this weak palace and shakes dust all around us, “The binding ceremony will take place tonight. Have you made the preparations as requested?”

I hear Anthony mumble something along the lines of ‘yes’ with a rambling of nervous explanations. The only words I can focus on are “binding ceremony”. They fall off my tongue in confusion and disbelief without me realizing.

“For your protection,” another more guttural voice answers. It’s quieter, one could not call it gentle but the low tone might be considered such to their kind. The knight before me waits for me to say something and when I don’t, he adds, “you will be safe with us. No harm shall befall you under our guard.”

A sarcastic chuckle wants to spill out but I keep my lips sealed. Safety is an illusion for any member of the royal family and it’s one that I saw through many years ago. I have no doubt that the knights will protect me as long as I prove useful but the moment an alliance is forged, that protection will end. Anthony will kill me the moment I step foot back into his nation and I have no allies of my own to rely on me.

The reality of this cruel world is more evident than ever before; I must find a way to secure my own protection and I will do that by whatever means necessary.

[insomniamademedothis]

Just read through a post regarding lgbtq proportions across generations on a relatively neutral subreddit and the amount of casual biphobia being tossed around in every single thread in the comment section was so infuriating and upsetting. I am so tired of it.

Yes, it is biphobic to assume a large proportion of adult women identifying as bisexual are lying or don’t know themselves well enough to know that they’re actually straight.

It is biphobic to suggest, based on absolutely no evidence, that people are calling themselves bi because they once had “one single gay thought”.

It is biphobic to assume people are calling themselves bi because being queer is trendy and it’s a “low cost identity” because they can still date the opposite sex.

It is biphobic to say bisexuality is a phase lots of people will grow out of (how is the ‘phase’ argument about lgbtq+ identities still being thrown around) - this is separate to the fact of some gay people initially identifying as bi before they realise they are gay. If someone says they’re bi, take their word for it. If their label changes later, as people across all sexualities do, that’s great! Doesn’t mean you can subsequently view bisexuality as inherently a phase though.

It is biphobic to assume that most bi people have strong, intense attraction to the opposite sex but only a weak, infrequent, and cognitive attraction towards the same sex.

It is biphobic to say that the fact that there are more (out) bi women than bi men is proof that those women are lying, rather than acknowledging that there is still a huge stigma against bi men specifically (it is so common to see straight women point blank refuse to date bi men, even women who call themselves “allies”).

It’s a “low cost identity” until your two options are: naive & stupid, or clout-chasing liar.

[lovezbrownies]

Nia with a reader who has an overprotective child, like whenever Nia tries to court reader or something the kid is like.. "dont touch my parent >:[" yknow what i mean?

Your choice whether or not child is from a previous marriage!!

Those meddling kids! (Yandere Queen x GN!Reader)

Nia's masterlist - General masterlist

Synopsis: Nia's love journey with a darling with kids! Warnings: Death of a loved one, societal pressure, Nia being a little evil, kinda cute :3 also reader referred to as Papa (short for parent)

Nia Bloodwen x GN!Reader

From the moment you were born, you were shaped by a world of duty and honor. As the heir to the revered L/N family in Xelera, your life was a tapestry woven with the threads of tradition and responsibility. From your earliest years, you were taught the importance of your family's legacy, and instilled with a sense of purpose that guided every step you took.

When your mother introduced you to Melanie Strater, it was not just a union of families but the beginning of a deep and heartfelt connection. Melanie’s warmth and kindness drew you in, and over time, your feelings for her grew into a love that felt like a beacon in the complex world of nobility. Your marriage was a joyous occasion, and the arrival of your two sons brought a new level of happiness to your life. The mansion, once cold and silent, was filled with the laughter and love of a growing family.

Tragically, the joy you found with Melanie was short-lived. A sudden and mysterious illness took her away from you far too soon. The silence that followed her departure was overwhelming. Your home, once alive with her presence, now felt hollow. Your sons, though young, sensed the depth of your grief and did their best to offer comfort. Their efforts, small but heartfelt, were a testament to their love for you and their mother.

Years passed, and you slowly began to find solace in the daily routines of life. Despite your best efforts, the absence of Melanie remained a poignant ache in your heart. Your sons, now grown up, became your closest allies in facing the outside world. They were determined to protect you from the advances of ambitious nobles who sought to court you, driven by their own desires rather than genuine affection.

Theodore, your eldest, used his natural charm and extensive network of friends among the noble children to keep potential suitors at bay. His ability to weave tales and spread rumors about these suitors kept them away, sparing you from the discomfort of their attention. Theodore’s actions were a silent but powerful declaration of his loyalty and love for you, ensuring that your focus remained where it was needed most.

Henry, your younger son, had his own way of protecting you. At social gatherings, he would craft elaborate schemes to capture your attention, from feigning injuries to claiming he felt unwell. His antics, though often playful, were a means to keep you close and shield you from unwelcome advances. As he grew older, his methods evolved, but his intention remained the same, to keep you by his side and away from the clutches of those who sought to intrude on your life.

But it was Queen Nia’s presence in your life that grew ever more unsettling. Initially distant and even antagonistic, she had come to respect and admire you. Or perhaps it was something more. Nia’s feelings had twisted into an obsession that she carefully concealed beneath a veneer of professionalism and support. She couldn’t stand the thought of you being with anyone else, especially after Melanie. Her jealousy was a consuming fire, her thoughts constantly drifting to ways she could bind you to her forever.

Your children, however, posed a significant challenge. They seemed to have an uncanny sense of Nia’s intentions, and they did everything in their power to keep her away. Whenever Nia invited you to her palace, your sons followed closely behind, never giving her a moment alone with you. And when she visited your mansion, they were always present, like little sentinels guarding their most precious treasure.

Once, when Nia playfully presented you with a box of cupcakes she had made herself, she tried to create a lighthearted moment between the two of you. "Hello there, my dear, yes it is I, your Queen! Kneel before me~! Haha~ I’m just kidding, look what I made for you, however! Cupcakes~ Open the box! There’s a secret message for you!”

“Oh, how sweet! Thank you, Nia, I—”

Before you could finish, your children came charging down the hall, laughing. For some reason, they couldn't go any other way but directly between the two of you. One of them bumped into Nia, causing the box of cupcakes to fall onto the floor. A gasp escaped both of you as Nia glared at the children. You pulled them aside, sighing at yet another disaster caused by those little pests. In her mind, Nia seethed. If only she could eliminate them too… No. She could never hurt you like that. Or could she? The thought lingered, dark and dangerous.

Nia tried to maintain her patience, but her frustration grew. She needed you to see her, to need her as much as she needed you. Once, she sent flowers to you every day for a month while away on diplomatic business. When she noticed the lack of grateful letters from you, she knew your sons had interfered. “So, did you receive anything while I was gone? Like… flowers?”

You looked at her, eyes bright and wide. “No, should I have?”

Her nails dug into her palms, her patience fraying. She had poured her heart into every flower, every petal, every handwritten note. "…No."

Even her attempts at verbal confessions were thwarted.

“Y/N… I am deeply—”

“CONSTIPATED!!!” Henry’s voice suddenly rang out, and he appeared, waving his arms frantically. “PAPA, I NEED TO POOOO!! IT HURTSSS, PAPA, IT HURTS! I NEED A DOCTOR, PAPAAA!!!” You hurriedly caught him, giving Nia an apologetic look as she sighed, begrudgingly letting you go.

But recently, Nia had learned of their schedules. There was a half-hour sweet spot when both children were occupied with their tutors. It was her golden opportunity, a precious thirty minutes for her to finally confess—and perhaps more.

“Bye bye, Theodore, dear! Have fun with your tutor! Oh wait! Where is Henry? Ah, right, he’s also being tutored! Isn’t that fun, my dear? Just you and me, all alone for half an hour!” Theodore seethed as he was led away by his tutor, watching Nia’s wicked smile as she locked the doors to the living room.

She turned back to you, her gaze intense. “Well, we don’t have much time, so let’s get this out of the way, hmm?” You looked at her, confused, your usual soft smile still on your face.

“I am madly in love with you. I have been since you married Melanie. May she rest in peace,” she said, though her eyes betrayed her true feelings—may she not rest ever.

“Oh, Nia, I don’t—” You tried to gently reject her, but she interrupted.

“Dare you reject me, I will bring down your entire family, kidnap you, and leave your sons to rot in this soon-to-be-forgotten mansion. Pick your poison, dear.” Her voice was almost feverish, eyes wide with a manic intensity. You felt a chill run down your spine. You agreed, there was no other choice. It couldn’t be that bad, right? At least your family would be stable and successful, and your sons happier and healthier in the palace… right?

Meanwhile, Henry, having been alerted by his brother about Nia being alone with you, frantically tried to open the living room doors. Despite finishing his lesson as quickly as possible, he found the door locked. Knocking and pounding, he yelled as loud as he could, knowing they could easily pull at your heartstrings. “PAPA!! PAPA!! I CUT MY HAND ON ACCIDENT, PAPA, HELP!!!”

The door burst open, and your worried face came into view. “Where?!” You looked disheveled, dark red lipstick smeared around your lips, and your coat discarded. Henry glanced past you at Nia, who was lounging against the couch with a cocky smirk.

Nia’s heart raced with a twisted sense of triumph. She watched your son scramble around you, desperate for your attention. They were losing this battle, and she was so close to finally having you all to herself.

The Queen always wins.

[m-y-fandoms]

Commission: DRV3 Boys x Female Reader - Seven Minutes in Heaven

Details: Takes place during the killing game, timeline switched around, creative license taken to imply everyone is alive and has known each other for at least a few weeks and has had time to get to know each other a bit. The threat of the killing game is still there though. Monokuma has announced it, just nobody has been killed yet. It’s also implied that the reader has a crush on the boy in each section however whether or not the boy is oblivious to that fact or feels the same varies.

Word Count: 5K Words

Warnings: SFW - fluff, maybe mild angst, possible V3 spoilers

Everyone needed something to divert their attention and obsessive thoughts away from the killing game. Though nothing had happened yet, the group of Ultimates got more and more antsy by the day. Every dark corner or empty stairwell seemed like a threat, and mistrust grew and loomed over them all like a black mold growing on the walls.

No one seemed to feel safe, though it had been weeks since the menacing-looking monochrome bear informed them that they were to kill each other for sport so they could return home to their regular school life and families. There was no concrete proof that this wasn't an extensive, well-planned practical joke or social experiment, some prank that would result in cameramen and producers springing out of the woodwork once all was said and done, and that was the only thing holding them together mentally. This could all be fake.

Nevertheless, something needed to change. They all had their little subgroups, individual trusted cliques or closest allies, but there was no denying the entire group needed to come together, to get to know each other a bit better and let off some steam. Unity meant potential lasting peace and no fatalities.

Someone suggested they play a frivolous little game that could keep everyone's attention for a while. Even though most of the group hadn't played it since middle school and some never at all, the rules were straightforward and simple enough. In addition to passing the time, it might even spark a little drama or romance. Any emotion was preferable to the fear of death and the sense of impending disaster.

Seven Minutes in Heaven: a game where two people go into a small room or cramped closet alone and have seven minutes to do anything they want to each other. Usually, the goal was the get handsy, to kiss or hug, to confess to someone, to make each other nervous, or to engage in casual romantic activities. It was supposed to be steamy and awkward, to put pressure on the two people. They would all randomly pick straws, and the two people who got the shortest straws would have to go in together while everyone else sat outside and timed their seven minutes. Knowing your peers were mere feet away outside the door only added to the tension.

The location was set: a small, cramped closet on the first floor next to the spare classroom and just before the steps down to the basement. It was dimly lit by an ancient overhead lightbulb hanging on by a thread and had just enough room for two people once the abandoned supplies, tools, and cobwebs were scooted to the edges. The Hotel Kumasutra was suggested first, but was shot down for being perhaps a little too intense, dramatic, and high-pressure for such a simple game. Nobody felt comfortable enough to enter the daunting building as of yet, despite its proximity to the popular casino.

And so, the game began.

Rantarou Amami

Waiting anxiously to see who you'll be paired up with, you pace the meager few steps you can manage in the tiny closet - back and forth, back and forth - working up a sweat that's more nerves than physical exertion. When the door swings casually open and you immediately see a fluffy full head of green hair, a shiver runs down your spine. It's a shiver that is half excitement and half humiliation. Of all fifteen other classmates, of course your crush, Rantarou Amami, was the one destined to draw the other straw and be trapped in here with you for seven excruciating minutes. Anyone else, literally anyone else, and you could've stalled, talked your way through those seven minutes, felt indifferent, and at most a little awkward. Rantarou made your heart flutter, froze you in place nearly every time he interacted with you. You stuttered, felt like you never said the right thing. He was just so handsome, with a smooth voice and a mysterious yet kind personality. You were quite sure, even with the memory loss you'd all suffered, that you hadn't had a crush this intense in quite a while. Certainly not one that turned you into a foolish mess.

Rantarou entered with his head bowed, shoulders shrugged forward. You'd never seen him - a dude who was usually quite confident and smooth - looking so uncomfortable. When he spun to look at you, the door now shutting you two in alone, he was almost wincing, facial expression squeezed into wrinkles and furrowed brows. It was as if his face was trying to say: "I'm sorry about this..."

"Heeeeey, (Y/N)," Rantarou spoke in a sing-songy voice that, again, was out of character for him, yet you felt your body stiffen up all the same. You hugged your body instinctively, feeling vulnerable as your heart beat wildly in your chest. You took a step back to create more space between you and the object of your infatuation and nearly tripped over a cardboard box on the ground behind you. "Yeah, this is about what I expected," he chuckled, his eyes wrinkling closed into kind little lines. He held his hands out in a sign of passive surrender. "So sorry about this, (Y/N). I swear, there was nothing I could do! It was all random." He rubbed the back of his neck, a small dust of pink over his cheeks. You felt your stomach drop. Did he think you disliked him? Was he perceiving your involuntary reaction as disgust rather than flustered? You suddenly felt super guilty. You were just now realizing he probably had taken note of this same adverse reaction every single time you were in the room with him. The logical thought process would probably be that your body language showed disdain.

"Oh, oh no, I hope you don't think I'm upset about being paired with you! I didn't realize my-" you tried to relax your shoulders, not wanting to let your own feelings affect him negatively.

"No, I don't think that at all, actually..." he cut you off, not wanting to let you get too far into this incorrect notion. He paused, thinking over how to word things delicately. "It's quite the opposite. I'm not as dense as you might think, actually. I pick up on things pretty well," he chuckled again, trying to ease the tense atmosphere, "and I... I kinda know you like me. You always get like this... when I talk to you. I'm... a bit more perceptive and empathetic than people think. I just wanted you to know, it's okay! You don't have to feel that way! I was worried about your reaction when I stepped in here. I knew you'd freak out." So subtly - almost seeming practiced and experienced - he gently clasped his rough hands into yours. They felt calloused, perhaps from the travels and adventures he'd vaguely mentioned when you sat there like a statue listening to him talk around the academy. The many bracelets settling on his wrists shook you back to reality, and your face heated up at the skin-to-skin contact. "I mean, I'm not trying to boast because I really don't think I'm such a catch, but I see the way you look at me, I've heard Miu talking about you having a crush as well..."

"I... I don't know what to say," you release a breath you didn't know you'd been holding, "This is a bit embarrassing..." you grumble, looking at the ground.

"You don't need to feel embarrassed. Honestly, I think you're a really cool person as well. I would love to get to know you more, but you always seem to run away after we talk for a little. The others are always around. It would be cool to spend some time hanging out alone, now that... I'm kinda confessing that I'm interested in you too?" He gives you a crooked smile. "Woah... your hands are like shaking."

Was this a dream? Was Monokuma replacing your classmates with clones to prank and humiliate you? There's no way Rantarou, the most attractive and fascinating guy here, was into you...

"I... I would really like that. Yeah, I'm sorry about my... less than pleasant reaction. I really didn't mean to come off as weird or make you uncomfortable."

"Hey, no worries. Well, you know, I played this game a ton in middle school. It was always silly, and stupid, but I have no issue playing it again, especially with you. What do you say? After all, I've played games way worse than this."

Ryoma Hoshi

The athlete strolled leisurely into the closet, hands in his pockets and the stick of a lollipop hanging carelessly out of his mouth. He always had something hanging out his lip, be it a candy cigarette, a toothpick, or something in between. You wondered if it soothed him. You'd gathered from conversations with him that his life had been pretty traumatic, at least in your opinion. His eyes were half-lidded as always, lazy and donning dark bags underneath. He sighed, stepping into the dim lighting provided by the single, dingy bulb above.

"Yeah, so I didn't really have anything better to do. Everyone else was sayin' they'd play and I was in the room at the time so I got roped in. Can't be much worse than anything else I've been through. Figured it might be good for morale, for these people to loosen up and play a game or two together. Lotta mistrust brewing." He looked around, seemingly disinterested and boasting an incredibly calm demeanor. You were wondering how someone could feel not even a little bit nervous playing a game with a premise like this.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to!" You smiled softly, offering him an out. You liked Ryoma a lot. His chill attitude, mysterious and interesting past, deep voice, and cute face intrigued you enough to even form a little crush, but you didn't want him here out of coercion or peer pressure.

“It’s whatever. I’m down to play. It’s fine. However, I’m sure I wasn’t who you expected or were hoping for.” He shrugs, less self-deprecating and more as if stating a plain fact. It didn’t seem to bother him either way if you did in fact wish it was someone else who was chosen to be with you for this dumb little game.

“Nah, I’m not disappointed,” you smirk a bit deviously, trying to hide the excitement you truly felt. You see his eyebrows raise a tad, which is more expression than you usually get from him. “Someone like you is kind of an interesting partner for this game. I’m betting you have more life experience overall than me. In fact, I know you do, after listening to some of your stories. You probably have more experience in everything: street smarts, common sense, even romance.”

“Uh, let me stop you right there.” He lets out a tiny, brief, dry chuckle, something skeptical in his tone. “Actually, not true at all, that last part. Not much romance in my life. Funny, you and I actually talk more often than I do with the others… I thought you would’ve picked up on that.”

“Oh?” You challenge him playfully, trying to flirt him into a more open mood.

"Yeah, I'd think that would be obvious. Who wants to take a chance on a no-good criminal with a clouded, ominous past? I don't really tell people all the details, and I'm not going to, but then I can't be surprised if people don't want to get to know me or trust me. Also, I'm aware I'm not the ideal, looks-wise. Never bothered me, but-" Once again, you can tell he's not looking for sympathy, but just honestly sharing his thoughts about himself. Before he can talk himself down further, however, you cut him off.

Stopping his words in their tracks, you leaned down to his height, bending at the waist sensually. Without skipping a beat, you casually took the lollipop from his mouth, coaxing it out without much resistance on his part. Smiling impishly, you popped it into your own mouth.

You'd never seen Ryoma Hoshi blush before this moment. It seemed like something he was incapable of.

Korekiyo Shinguuji

The lean, dangerously mysterious anthropologist stood across from you, tall enough and so close that he blotted out the dim light from the single bulb above in the cramped closet. He appeared like a silhouette, like some spooky demon or spirit from the cultural legends he often told you about. He seemed to be giggling behind his mask, amused at your flustered reaction to his closeness before he began to speak in that mystifying voice of his that was like smoke hissing past your ear and tickling the outer shell:

"You know, (Y/N), I almost said no to playing... This seems like such a childish little game, maybe even a waste of my precious time when I could be studying up on literally any other topic. But... then I thought: I've done far more promiscuous things than this before, games and rituals alike, so what's the harm in some little kid’s game? Why not? After all, there's something to be learned from every experience, and this game seemed integral to the middle school lives of our classmates, therefore making it culturally significant... if I... broaden my definitions a little." He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, making you sweat as he moved even closer during his little monologue.

"I see you're being v-very open-minded," you chuckled nervously, trying to hide the loud pumping of your heart. "Yes, I would've thought you were far too mature for this game!" You were now flat against the wall, nearly caged in by his lithe form hovering over you.

"I thought it might even be exciting," his tone adopted a more predatory note, "to see who I get and explore the essence of who they are, find their inner beauty for myself, one-on-one and in private. When nobody else can hear or see, they might let down some walls, and expose a side of themselves in this killing game that nobody has seen yet. It could be a fascinating study of human behavior. I didn't really care who I got matched with, as everyone here - with such varied personalities and talents - could be an extremely interesting subject!"

"Subject?" Now he was starting to worry you. You had to admit, though, the way he was passionately speaking, the way he pinned you into the corner of this enclosed space... it was rather exciting.

"You seem nervous..." he tilts his head innocently. "There's nothing to be afraid of, little (Y/N). This game, as I take it from the rules, is to start a romantic or flirty interaction, to cause feelings to bubble up in each other - excitement, arousal. These emotions are so wonderfully and beautifully human. Is that what you want, to try this in earnest?" You see one of his hands reach over to its opposite and begin to unravel the layers of gauze bandaging. You nod enthusiastically, almost entranced by his words. He takes this consent as his opportunity to take control, and something in his golden eyes turns animalistic. 

"Good." He purrs.

Gonta Gokuhara

Almost comically shoved into this tiny closet and leaving little to no room for you was your chosen-at-random partner: Gonta Gokuhara, the gentle giant. He was desperately trying not to hit his head on the ceiling while also trying to remember to be considerate of you and your personal space. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all.

"Gonta wanted to play, because all of his friends were playing too! This game... sounds fun, but Gonta never played it before. Gonta a bit confused. Gonta love everyone here as a good friend, swear to protect them all, so why we not all play game together, in bigger, more comfortable place?" He asked genuine, thoughtful questions, and it appeared to you that he in fact did not know what he was getting himself into. You'd make sure he understood clearly before playing, as someone had obviously shoved him in here without a clear description of the rules or goals.

"Well, Gonta, this is a game where you're supposed to come in with one other person only and do flirty, cute, romantic stuff. Why did you agree to play without knowing what's going on?" You shook your head, snickering under your breath. You'd always found Gonta's endless positivity and determination to make others feel happy and protected adorable. He probably just wanted to be included, to make sure everyone had fun. And you had no doubt he was intelligent enough to understand the simple rules of this game, it was just very likely someone more mischievous - like Kokichi or Miu - purposely kept him out of the loop.

"Oh! O-okay!" He begins to blush, his mouth pressing into an uncomfortable, pursed line. "Gonta never done anything like that!" He was beginning to perspire on his brow.

"Well, do you want to try? You don't have to, keep that in mind! It's your choice, Gonta." You smiled in encouragement, making sure your body language wasn't applying any pressure to him even subconsciously.

"Ummm... Gonta would like to try if everyone else playing. Also!... Gonta trust (Y/N)." His words are shaking, and you decide you'll do the bare minimum, just a warm-up to see if he truly means his words. Him putting his trust in you was melting your heart.

Gently, as if you were approaching a bird that might fly away at any moment, you took a step closer to him and began to unbutton the tight brown suit jacket from his abs and waist.

Kokichi Ouma

Immediately upon being trapped in the closet with this gremlin, he started teasing you, trying to make you crack, or cry, whichever came first. All reactions were good reactions to him.

"Of all people, you got stuck in here with me. Sucks for you, don't it, (Y/N), you prude!" He swirls a finger in the air and presses it firmly into your chest, taunting you.

He spends the next few agonizingly drawn-out moments poking fun at you, at your flustered reactions, at the way your body responds to both his words and small touches.

"Oh, come on, (Y/N), this is baby shit! I barely even touched you! With my title as Supreme Leader, I've had to seduce hundreds of marks into giving up information or giving me what I want, and you can't even handle this? You wouldn't last two minutes in an interrogation by my organization, let alone seven. Pathetic!" He starts laughing, amused by your humiliation so much that his eyes begin to water.

You're sure his claims of seducing and interrogating victims before are lies, but regardless, your heart was beating out of your chest. Why did he have this effect on you? He had you right where he wanted you, and you were falling into his trap. Every time he ran his chilled fingers up your exposed arm or touched your chest and collarbones, you felt a shiver of desire and fright, a shockwave of panic and delight in tandem.

In truth, the others were worried about you. Most of them, the kinder portion of the group, felt bad about sending you in there alone with Kokichi. They didn't think such a kind, unassuming person deserved this kind of treatment.

With an underlying gentleness that almost betrayed his performative vitriol for you, he pushed your shoulders back, like a bully on a playground. He took note of your clumsiness, of the lack of coordination you must have if such a petite young man like him could nearly topple you over. He seemed to be taking into account his lack of time. Seven minutes wasn't much to work with. He'd had his fun, and was ready for the climax.

You stumble back against the wall, and instantly he pounced on you, cornering you in. Before you had time to adjust, to correct yourself to an upright position, he grabbed both sides of your face, pulling you in for a sloppy, deep kiss that lacked any care or gentleness. Your eyelids flew open as the taste of sweet candies and grape sodas flooded your mouth.

Kaito Momota

Kaito stood with his arms crossed defiantly in the middle of the closet. His taller frame and masculine figure took up most of the space as he stood firm, stubbornly biting the inside of his cheek. His brow was furrowed angrily, but not with an anger directed at you. After all, you must've been a victim in this just as much as he.

"Now, I didn't really wanna do this... it's beneath someone who sees fit to call themselves the Luminary of the Stars. I didn't earn this title through kiddy games after all, but..." he looked frustrated, maybe even with himself, "but they tried to say I'm too scared to play! As if!" He paced once in a circle in the tight confines, then huffed. "I'm realizing just now that I probably fell for it and this was their plan all along." He sighed deeply. "I gotta stop letting these assholes get to me." He conceded, his pride hurt. You had to admit, his reaction to the game was disappointing you, as you couldn't think of a better person to get stuck in here with. You smiled sheepishly, letting the uncomfortable silence mellow out in the air. You only had seven minutes, after all. "Man, it's cold and awkward in here..." Ah, yes. Kaito wasn't the type to let things just be silent. You decided it was your turn to speak now.

"So... you don't want to play with me, at all?" You speak shyly, a bit embarrassed at your own words.

"What, you do?" He counters, a single brow raised as you piqued his curiosity,

"Well... I mean, haha," you thought through how to word this so as to not weird him out or scare him off, or really just embarrass yourself in the process, "I felt really lucky to get stuck in here with you, out of everyone. If I may speak openly and honestly, I've been crushing on you for a while..." You felt your blood running hot.

"You have?" He's flushed pink, pulling his jacket in closer for security.

"Yeah, of course! You're handsome, charismatic, and you make me laugh when we are just hanging out casually. I think your determined spirit is admirable... but if you don't feel the same-"

"No!" He cut you off a little too eagerly before he could remind himself he was supposed to be playing it cool. He cleared his throat, calming down his tone a bit, "No, I mean I think you're great, too. And you're beautiful! Out of all these idiots, I'm glad it's you, too." Your heart swells. "Not that... not that I've been dwelling on this thought for too long." Though it feels like your heart is pumping fast enough to warm the entire room, Kaito was right, it was quite drafty in there. Seeing you shiver at the temperature, Kaito removes his large galaxy jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. It smells of him, of hair products and fresh deodorant. Simple and subtle. "We should hang out some more on our own, when we want to, not when these assholes force us into some stupid game with expectations and shit." He shows you a beaming, celebrity-like grin. "I would be an idiot to not want to get to know you more, especially with your talent!"

Shuichi Saihara

Poor Shuichi. The reserved, introverted detective had found himself shoved into this closet against his will. He'd merely come to observe the game from the farthest corner of the room - bored, and too wary of the threat of the killing game to be alone. Being alone was just the worst option right now: either his own thoughts would consume him or a potential killer might.

So now here he was, paying the consequences of wanting to hang out with a group of his peers. They'd put his name into the lottery without his permission, thinking it a cute and funny little prank, and when he was chosen, it only took two or three of them to shove him inside while he attempted to jump and claw his way out. Now he was a sweating, blushing mess, pawing at the door like a cat trapped in a bedroom. The same students that pushed him in snickered and howled in laughter on the other side, leaning their weight into the door so he couldn't escape. After a while, someone as smart as him knows when an effort becomes futile. He sighs, turning to face you with a warm flush of red over his entire body that contrasts wildly with the blues and blacks of his hair and uniform tones.

"Ugh, I'm so sorry, (Y/N)," he groans, his voice cracking under his nerves. "I told them I didn't wanna play, but..." were you really that bad to be stuck in here with? His reaction seemed... over the top. Your shoulders sank downward, humbled by his response to your existence in the same space as him. He sees your crestfallen expression and panics, guilt overcoming him. "Please, no it's not you! I mean no offense. I didn't wanna come in here with anyone." He takes note of how your mood doesn't pick up in the slightest, and lets his head fall into his hands. "This is so embarrassing. I actually do really like you, this is just so awkward."

"You do?" Your ears perk up at that. Maybe you were mistaken in your earlier judgment.

"Yeah! You've always been kind to me, and you're quite interesting and fun to hang out with in this hellhole. Talking to you... really gets my mind off things..." he admits, clearly self-conscious. "I... well sometimes, I hear you talking about how you think you'll be the first victim of the killing game, talking down about yourself. I don’t think you should count yourself out... we all have our own strengths, though I know I ought to take my own advice sometime." He chuckles in such a gentle, exhausted way that it might as well have been merely an exhale.

Neither of you even noticed that during his little speech of praise toward you, he'd reached out and taken your hands gently in his own. It was a reflexive, instinctive, and intimate move. Rather than pull away, now feeling a bit more stable, and comfortable in sharing his thoughts as you hadn't reacted adversely, he pushes a bit further. He rubs his thumb across the back of your hand, and for seven minutes, that's enough for him.

Kiibo / K1-B0

The almost-human robot is standing across from you, arms flat by his side. He looks far more relaxed than you were, passive and maybe in some kind of rest mode, if he had one.

"Now what?" He asks plainly.

"Nobody told you what to do?" You replied, a bit stunned and wondering why he was even here.

"Vaguely. It sounded like a complete waste of time, though. If it's what humans do, it's certainly not in my programming. Therefore, I might as well learn from this experience as not to be embarrassed later on should the topic come up again." He sounded so practical, so... bored with the current situation.

"Well... I don't know how much you were told but this game is about emotions, feelings... touching and flirting, making the other person nervous and flustered, seeing how far you two are willing to go with each other… in a romantic kind of way. It's uniquely human... it may not be productive for you if you can't comprehend-"

"I have plenty of emotions and feelings! I can understand it perfectly fine!" He retorted, offended and seemingly embarrassed. You didn't know he could get embarrassed. Maybe he could in fact enjoy this game to its fullest. You intended to get something out of this experience. This could be fun. You had to admit, you'd been curious about the extent of Kiibo's understanding of human interactions and emotions for a while now. You wondered how much he could feel, emotionally and physically. If you pulled his hair, would he cry out? If you scratched his thigh, would it bleed simulated blood? There could be a lot of room for exciting discovery that awaited you.

"Well then, I'm curious..." you reach a single, cautious hand outward and stroke his hair. It's stunningly soft. It feels shockingly real, not like some cheap synthetic wig or some type of rubber or metal shaped to mimic hair. Kiibo did something like a vibration or shudder, a chill running down his spine. You wondered if this was a programmed response, all artificial and planned, or if Kiibo's free will really extended that far. How real did his creator intend for him to be? For what purpose was he truly built? What did a scientist stand to gain from making a feeling, loving, human-like young man? You could see a war machine or an endless knowledge bank easily being worth the time, but Kiibo didn't seem to excel in pretty much... anything. "How does that feel?"

"I... I don't know. It's making me... relax? I think that's how you'd describe it. I feel like I am running on low power and sluggish, but in a good way? On purpose..." he speaks softly.

"And this?" You run a hand down his pale cheek, and it's warmer than expected, though below a real human’s body temperature for sure. You're so focused on touching the simulated, soft, supple skin, that you don't even notice Kiibo's eyes blown wide open as if scanning you, entranced and staring almost through you. It was safe to say he might have been touched-starved, unused to the sensation.

[demigoddessqueens]

Gonna give the poor boys a heart attack but imagine how absolutely TERRIFIED Haytham, Shay, Connor, Arno, Ezio, Altair, and Malik would be if you got kidnapped. ESPECIALLY if it was by the other faction.

I mean, Haytham's sister was kidnapped, I think that's reason enough for him to absolutely panic if you were as well. The assassins know what the Templars are capable of. Especially Malik and Ezio. Shay always seems like he'd be extremely protective anyways.

And if you were hurt by your captors? Even tortured? Heads would probably roll and you probably aren't leaving your poor boyfriend's sight ever again.

First off, how dare you??! 😭💔

Second, oh boy , buckle up

haytham

he feels like his chest is about to cave in from how rapid his heart is beating when he hears the news

It’s all hands on decks to look for you and find you

when he finds you, he rushes to your care immediately and the stern facade falls as silent tears fall

shay

if this was when he’s an Assassin, he’s INCREDIBLY impulsive and hot-headed and will do anything to get you back

Templar-wise, it goes the same way only there’s more of a vicious element to it because it’s the Assassins he once knew

ultimately, when you are safely returned, he refuses to leave your side at all times

connor

There will be no remaining Templars who know peace for the short time they have remaining

This man will go above and beyond to find you, even against the better judgment he knows of what will be a dangerous situation

the moment he has you back with him, he insists to help you with anything, everything and refuses to leave your side

ezio

Oh why torture this poor man?? All of Italy and the Borgias will know his wrath!!

He REFUSES to let what happened to Cristina happen to you

As soon as you’re returned home, it’s all hands and allies on deck to help you recover, all under Ezio’s watchful eye

arno

Everything feels like it’s crashing down and he’s barely hanging on by a thread

Also a disaster like Ezio but amped up more, sobbing flashbacks between seeing your face and Elise’s

Once you’re back home, he’s always there to help you through the nightmares and gets emotional when you try to sleep or help replace your bandages

malik

Livid and so afraid for you, but he hides it behind barking orders

Altair knows better than to interfere but does all he can to help his friend

Once you’re back home, Malik constantly holds to you and worries for your safety

altair

He is livid!! The entirety of Masyaf and Jerusalem will be scoured by every inch to find you. Behind closed doors those golden eyes betray his heartbreak

No Templar is safe from his blade and he cuts them down easily

Having you back home requires all of his attention when you recover, heal and the Flying Eagle himself never letting you go far at least not without him

[forasecondtherewedwon]

After the Horse Has Bolted

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: T Word Count: 1899

Summary: Though they escaped execution, Guildford continues to struggle with his transformations and, worse, with dreams of losing Jane. A frank conversation with Susannah might help more than he expects it to.

He loves her like this, watching her move about the camp at twilight. She isn't the only person here with medical knowledge, and she lacks the experience to deal with more severe battle wounds, and some of the Ethians are steadfastly distrustful, but there are enough willing to let Jane close, and enough minor wounds, and, generally, enough patients to go around. Her skills are badly needed.

As Jane tends to people, Guildford feels a bit useless. Though he did try to help, he quickly realized it was all too unfamiliar for him to be of much use. Besides, these people don't extend the same welcome to him as they do Jane. He doesn't have her bedside manner, he supposes. Fuck them for finding him slightly jumpy and suspicious after one of their own (technically, one of his own, but fuck) attempted to murder him with iron manacles. But he thinks this without heat. These people are their allies—almost their only allies—and he's trying to see what Jane sees.

Mostly, he just likes seeing Jane. Jane in the early morning, scavenging in the woods for medicinal plants. Jane winning over strangers by sitting at their side to cut the thread of their stitches with her teeth instead sitting on the throne to sign a document they may never feel the benefit of. Jane alive. Guildford hasn't told her yet that he sees her differently when he closes his eyes. He sees her pristine white dress across the square, the black strip that blinds her. In his dreams, he watches helplessly as she kneels and the axe swings down. That's when he wakes up screaming her name.

Yeah, maybe that's another reason these people feel a little uneasy around him.

Except Susannah. Susannah's been marvellous. They've sort of met before—him below the stairs with the beautiful woman he would next see walking up the aisle of a church, her rushing down those stairs to warn Archer about the guards, then the night of the attempted assassination outside the old Ethian camp—but Susannah makes more of their acquaintance than it really is. She does it so the others will trust him, because they clearly trust her. They listen to her. It isn't long before Guildford learns it was Susannah who mustered the rescue party that saved his and Jane's lives, though he suspects as much even before it's confirmed. He sees their bond. He's grateful for it.

How grateful though, is the thing, when Susannah plonks herself down on the log where Guildford's seated, and follows his eyes, smirking to catch him gazing at Jane.

"D'you ever let your wife ride you?"

He can't look at her as he responds, "Just the once, escaping execution."

"Ah, y'know that's not what I mean."

"No, I don't know that," Guildford says stubbornly.

Susannah hunches forward and catches his eye.

"How come you're blushin' then?"

"Piss off."

"No."

He looks at her, and she's grinning. While Jane was raised a lady and Susannah supported herself in service, Guildford's found them to be cut from a very similar cloth. They're both unflinchingly bold when they want to be. Cautious, at other times, but not timid. Not everyone can tell the difference. He's been learning Jane, and is beginning to know Susannah, and he can tell she's teasing him for a reason. It might be friendly, or a protective test of Jane's husband's mettle, or something else. Whatever it is, Guildford realizes he's probably better off not trying to shut her out. They're persistent, these two women.

"Want to know why I'm asking?" Susannah prompts.

"I'm guessing you'll tell me."

"Very good!" She shifts closer and lowers her voice. "It's 'cause I've heard you screamin' your feckin' head off the last three nights."

"And you thought Jane was responsible?"

"Yeah, I hoped she was ridin' you like there's no tomorrow. Two reasons for that. You want 'em?"

"Terrific," Guildford says flatly.

"One," Susannah says, holding up a finger to show the count, "because back when Jane and I lived under the same roof, I was beginning to have serious concerns that she was never gonna let herself enjoy herself. It was a virgin you took to your marriage bed, Guildford, no question."

"You are nosy, aren't you?" He scowls at her, but Susannah stares back, unfazed.

"It's the same for her with me. If your hair wasn't curled already, she'd have stories to tell you that'd do the job."

"Please just get to your second reason."

Susannah sighs.

"If it's not Jane, somethin's troublin' you, and it can't go unaddressed. We can't have that. You'll either attract trouble to our camp or somebody already livin' in it'll stab you themselves to keep you quiet. Probably your wife."

Guildford sags. He knows she's right—the last thing he wants to be is a liability. He doesn't want to get anyone else hurt or killed. Especially Jane. Jane, who was sentenced to death for marrying him. Jane, who stood in the fire with him, the bond between them even stronger than the rope that wouldn't split. She would die for him. Without question, without thought, without hesitation. But he wouldn't survive getting her killed.

Susannah has fallen silent, apparently waiting for him to suggest a solution. Guildford doesn't know if this is an Ethian thing or just a Susannah thing: allowing that the person with the problem probably knows themselves best. He thinks it's likely that she's wrong in his case, believing himself the picture of stunted self-knowledge and repressed memories. He takes a deep breath. He can't be that man anymore. It doesn't do anyone any good, himself included.

"I keep dreaming she was executed. You and the Ethians don't come, and I can't get free of the ropes, and I see her beheaded." His own throat feels painfully thick as he forces the words out.

"I can see why that'd be botherin' you."

"It nearly happened," Guildford agrees.

"That's not why. I don't think it's about Jane."

"Of course it is!"

But Susannah's shaking her head.

"It's not her who's powerless, it's you. In the dream, you're tethered. Outside the dream, what is it you feel you can't control?"

Slowly, Guildford understands what she's getting at. He answers, "My transformation. My Ethianism." He narrows his eyes at Susannah. "You're very insightful."

"I'm not, actually. You just have a very straightforward problem: mental impotence. See it all the time in men. Tragic affliction."

He catches sight of her smirk and wants to shove her off the log.

"Have the two of you been able to fuck since the near-execution, by the way?" Susannah asks.

"Thank you for the advice, doctor," Guildford says sarcastically, head cocked to one side, "but that is really none of your concern. Try meddling in your own relationship."

"What relationship would that be?"

He frowns.

"Are you and Archer not...?"

"Archer?!" Susannah catches herself and continues more softly. "In his dreams. Not to be insensitive," she adds, making Guildford roll his eyes. "But no, definitely not. Trust me, if he'd been lucky enough to have me in his bed, he wouldn't have been lookin' at..."

It's far too obvious that Susannah has just caught herself again, but Guildford's glad she did. His trust in his wife is absolute. That doesn't mean he would appreciate Archer attempting to come between them. He rises, deciding to forget Archer and focus on Jane.

"Try the sex thing," Susannah says on their parting. "It might help, is all!"

"Try the minding your own business thing!"

Guildford actually does plan on trying something thanks to this conversation, but it's not sex. (Yet. Later? Gods, yes.)

He doesn't try to sleep that night, not yet. He lies on his back in the dark, listening to the low murmur of conversation from the lookouts tending the campfire, to the sound of his own even breathing. He stares up at the trees, their shapes black against the blue-black night. Sometimes, he stares past them at the stars.

Before dawn, Guildford gently rouses Jane from where she sleeps beside him. Between treating the injured and being startled awake by his screams, she hasn't been getting as much rest as she needs, but he hopes she'll understand. Taking her hand, he leads her to a clearing a short distance from the camp. Someplace they'll be able to see the sky change colour ahead of sunrise. They walk with soft steps. The yawn Jane can't stifle has the round, open notes of birdsong. Soon, real birds begin to sing. He wonders whether any Ethians are among them.

Gradually, everything brightens.

"Stand here," Guildford says, taking Jane's hands in his plea, then dropping them and backing off to a safe distance.

She doesn't argue. He's told her about his mother.

Before the light of day can rush across the horizon, Guildford closes his eyes and concentrates. There's no risk of imminent death to compel him now. He has to know if he can do it anyway. Instead of resisting thoughts of the past, he permits himself to recall how it feels to change, concentrating until the sensation is alive in him. Instead of disconnecting from the present, he inhales the earthy scent of the forest, shifts his boots on the ground, knows without looking that Jane is standing where he left her, waiting for him, trusting him.

He changes just before daybreak.

In this form, his hearing is keener, keen enough to pick up Jane's quiet gasp from across the clearing. His own steady breathing expands his strong lungs, drawing in details of his environment that are beyond his human senses. What he likes best is Jane's smile as she approaches him, the soothing strokes of her hands on his face. He stands there on four legs, enjoying her gentle touch and the heat of the sun on his flank, then, closing his eyes to the world once more, Guildford changes back.

He's stumbling forward into Jane's arms before he realizes he never moved away from her before trying to transform. Obviously, his human form is smaller and therefore less of a hazard, but Guildford isn't convinced that was the ruling instinct. It felt more like... he just knew he could do it. He was sure of himself, in that body and in this one, and in whatever he is during the fleeting moment in between.

"Guildford! How did you do that?" she demands, full of awe and urgent curiosity. "I haven't seen you control it since the night we escaped the Tower!"

Yes, that's true. After bearing her away from that place, he turned back into a man. That's how he was when the Ethians found them, and how he remained through the night. At dawn, he despaired, once again becoming a horse against his will. It persisted. Day, horse. Night, man. The terrible dreams. This morning has been Guildford's first time taking the reins, so to speak. It's a colossal relief, and he looks lovingly into Jane's eyes, knowing she understands that much, even if she can't yet explain the rest.

It seems to him that the best words to say are, "I've always wanted to kiss you at daybreak."

"That's a lot of effort for a kiss," Jane observes.

"Then you'd better make it worth it," he retorts with a grin.

And he holds her, and she does.

[lets-try-some-writing]

i remember the younger primes being outcasted/mistreated by the older primes after the battle w/ unicron in the covenant of primus, though i don't remember if thirteen was also mistreated since i haven't read it in a long time

so i was thinking maybe a short story about thirteen being mistreated? but like, marginally more since he's thr absolute last of the thirteen

I got you pal.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Giftless, powerless, without purpose. That was what they said about him nonstop. They did not mean to be cruel, Thirteen could see it in their optics. They were merely stating what they saw as a fact. That didn't stop it from hurting. That didn't keep him from wandering aimlessly in order to escape their backhanded words.

Most of his siblings ignored him or otherwise regarded him distantly. He was a decoration at the best of times and a roadblock on days when the patience of his kin was limited. Prima threw him out of the way once, and Quintus threatened to drop him in a vat of acid just to see if an energy being could melt. If he wasn't a waste of space, he was a training dummy. There really wasn't much of a choice on his end. he didn't feel pain, so of course it was only logical that he assist in things that had him performing as an object rather than a person. Thirteen was not their equal, not in the optics of his fellow Primes.

The only one who treated him well was the most unlikely of the Primes. The only other partial outcast.

"Thirteen, my little Prime, what have they done to you this time." Solus ran her digits along his armor, the armor she made for him when she saw how damaged his original shell had become. It was a gift forged with love after she finally witnessed how carelessly he was being treated.

Where before she had largely ignored him, now she coddled him. Perhaps it was the fact that Thirteen was being damaged, or maybe it was simply because she had been mostly unaware of his presence. It could have even been because she saw another outcast in him. Whatever the case, she tended to him.

"Another scorch mark..." She sighed as she pulled him into a hug. It was a new thing for him, but Thirteen melted into her embrace all the same. She was the only one who understood. She was the only one who cared.

"I'm sorry they cannot see your light as I do." She shook as she caressed his helm so lovingly forged for his use. He could feel her tears trickling onto his armor. He wanted more than anything to wipe them away, but there was little use. She was the only one of their number who did not match the mold set by the others, and Thirteen was the broken Prime lacking in power and frame. They were outcasts, and neither of them were going to cease being scorned for their oddities any time soon.

"I promise you, I will change things for us. We will be seen, and when I can convince the others, I will personally make you a seat at our table." Solus cupped his face, her violet optics burning bright with passion. She would do as she promised, regardless of the cost. Thirteen wished he had a voice to deny her wishes with. He was fine being discarded so long as he had her. He needed no seat at the table of the Primes. He needed no respect or honor despite how much he longed for it.

He just needed Solus, and he needed her to be safe. Standing up for him would only make her a target. Her oddities already had her position hanging by a mere thread. If she were to act out on his behalf...

"Don't, please don't. they will hurt you as they do me."

His words meant nothing. She could not hear his pleading thoughts as she comfortingly began the process of touching every new scar upon his frame. It did not hurt. He was incapable of feeling pain. But by Primus, did every mark feel like a scorch on his spark.

"I will speak with Megatronus. If all goes well, we may gain him as our ally and fix things. Don't you worry Thirteen, this too shall pass." She pressed a kiss to the crest of his helm, a motherly gesture that Thirteen cherished. He prayed that she would endure, that her passionate spark would last forever.

And yet, he had a feeling it was not to be.

[artemiscrocksgf]

pleasure | rhaenyra x fem!reader

rated: mature, explicit 18+ (minors DNI) nsfw

pairings: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!reader

summary: “There are other means of pleasure”

warnings: smut, some explicit language, fingering (receiving and giving), oral female

word count: 2.5k

loosely inspired @delfiore 's story &lt;3

a/n: this is my first time ever writing smut or fanfic in general so please forgive me if this terrible!! but if u do enjoy i'd appreciate if you like or reblog

The grand hall filled with chatter, as the King hosted his festivities in honor of his son's fifth nameday with the Lady Alicent Hightower, now Queen Alicent. It had been years since you had returned to Kings Landing though back then you were a mere child – now a lady to be paraded to the court for a husband.

Rows of tables fill the hall, each accompanied by the royal Houses of the kingdom allied to the King. You slowly trail behind your father, the soft glow of the candles and the sounds of the orchestra warmed the air of the Red Keep – the feeling almost nostalgic to your childhood. Your father was among the Kings' council, your mother a dear friend to the late Queen Aeema meaning you often frequented Kings Landing.

As you made your way to your table, indulging in false pleasantries with people you did not know, you found your eyes wandering the hall for a certain Targeryan. Your gaze lands on the empty seat beside King Viserys' royal table, a twinge of disappointment pierces your heart letting it soak for a split second you turn your attention back to the feast that lays in front of you. That was one of the many riches you adored during your stays at the Red Keep, the King did know how to throw a grand feast. Although you try your best to distract yourself, filling your cup with the juice of the grape – your eyes cannot help but drift to the empty seat.

You let your mind turn off as you fake conversations, nodding absentmindedly at the politics thrown at you. When a glimpse of silver-blonde braided hair catches the corner of your eye, she walks towards the King, her guard on tail. You subtly watch her movements, she looked the same as you once remembered but something had changed about her — she stood more confidently. Her eyebrows furrowed as she sternly spoke to her father, you were seated too far to hear the conversation but you could tell neither one of them was happy. Ending the conversation, Rhaenyra abruptly exited the hall ignoring the calls from her father and her guard.

You wait a few moments before excusing yourself from your table, quietly leaving the festivities. You wonder the torchlit corridors, your footsteps echoing the stone pavement. You search the grounds when you catch her sitting on a stone ledge with her knees in her arm. Her face was lost in thought oblivious to your presence, "A gold dragon for your thoughts Princess?".

Following the voice that startled her, Rhaenyra turns, her eyes lighting up when she sees your familiar face. "I did not know you would be attending…" she smiled, pulling you into a gentle embrace, "I would have greeted you if I had," her fingers lingering across your arms. Her fingertips stop at the Valyrian steel bracelet that adorned your wrist. She smiles softly, "You still wear it?" fumbling with the red stones encrusted around the bracelet.

"Of course, it was a gift from the Princess… now heir to the Iron Throne! I shall treasure it with my life." you laugh holding your hand across your heart.

"Heir… to the Iron Throne.." Rhaenyra repeated, her smile fading as she picked at the threads on her embroidered gown. Her expression was not of one that was happy with being named Heir. Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose, letting out a sigh in annoyance. "My father sent me on tour to find the most suitable knight or lord for my impending betrothal…" she paced back and forth. "All of them were halfwits who would not know the difference between their own balls and a dragon's egg." she scoffed letting out her annoyance, "Just the mere thought of having to bed with any of them makes me want to be ill". You sat down on the stone ledge, trying to stifle your amusement at the Princess' disgust.

"This is not a laughing matter, you will not find this amusing when you are devoid of pleasure," Rhaenyra hissed, her arms crossed. Just the thought of Rhaenyra experiencing pleasure sends a blush across your cheeks. "What is it I hear? That you are to be betrothed to Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock?" she teases.

It would be a lie to say you did not find the Princess attractive, but the feeling of heat that seared from your center was something you had not felt for Rhaenyra before. Perhaps the wine had given you confidence or perhaps the haze of desire that clouded your mind drew you towards her — her eyes softly watching your movements as you stood toe to toe.

"There are other means of pleasure," you murmur, your fingertips grazing the sleeve of her gown, your words lingering in the quiet air. What you and Rhaenyra were doing was unfit for the Heir of the Iron Throne, unfit for any becoming lady but the adrenaline that pulsed throughout your body hid your worry.

Her eyes drifted to your mouth, "Tell me," she prompts. Rhaenyra steps forward, the warmth of her body heat lingers, as her deep blue eyes burn into yours. She was so close to you, you could smell her scent – a mix of lilies and dragon, everything about her was intoxicating. Without realizing what you were doing, you reach up cupping her cheek as you bring her closer to your lips when the sudden slam of the grand hall doors startles you both.

She hastily grabs your hand, pulling you with her as she runs down the corridor, the voices from the hall becoming quieter as you run farther away. She pulls you behind one of the stone columns, hiding from the guards that patrolled the halls. Seeing the opportunity she continues running your hand still in hers. Before you could even decipher where you were, Rhaenyra tugged you into a dark room locking the door behind her. You lean against a pillar trying to catch your breath as you study the room you were in, "Are we in the spare quarters?"

Rhaenyra lights a candle illuminating the room, "Do you recall when we would sneak out of our chambers and come here to drink in the late hours," she laughs, the sweet sounds of her laughter making you smile. She catches you staring at her lips while she extinguishes the match, a cocky grin spreading across her face. Heat rushes to your cheeks maybe from the embarrassment or from the heat that filled the air, "Or when you convinced me to ride dragon back with you" you reply diverting the attention, "Gods, we gave our parents a fright when they saw us — my father stationed a guard outside my chamber every night for a week after that,".

"I did not hear the end of it for a month!" she whined, both of you reminiscing on the memories of your childhood. You move towards her gently holding her hands, "Rhaenyra forgive me for not visiting you sooner." You smile sincerely as you rub the back of her hand with your thumb – Rhaenyra's composure changes, her eyes darkening giving you a coquettish glance.

"You are here now," she murmurs, her fingers caressing yours. Pulling you closer to her, she wraps her arm around your waist causing you to let out a small gasp from the sudden contact. Her hands were on your torso, the warmth of them seeping through the fabric of your gown. Goosebumps travel up your spine as you feel her fingers linger up the base of your back to the nap of your neck, gently resting her thumb on your jaw. Your breath catches in your lungs as the Princess brushes her hand on your cheek. "Show me the other ways" her soft eyes locked on yours, slowly pulling you closer to her lips nose skirting yours as her lips hover mere inches away. Her lips brush yours, moving against yours hungrily, and in a way that leaves your mind dazed and your lungs nearly breathless. Rhaenyra's lips smother your small moan as the warmth of her tongue skims against yours.

You pull away from the kiss, a frown spreading across Rhaenrya's face, her lips missing yours. You hold her hand guiding her over to the dressing mirror, pulling her in front of you as you both stand looking at the reflection. She tries to turn and face you but you hold her firm, "Stay," you command.

The rise of your chest is pressed against her back, your hand following the curves of her body - the other tangling in her gown as your lips gently press against her shoulders. Her eyes follow your gentle touch, her lips parting slightly when your palms gaze down her stomach. You reach the hem of her gown and pull it up, your fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps. The effect you have on her leaves you with searing heat from the center of your core. Leaning forward, you slid your hands further up her thigh, Rhaenyra's breath quickens as her skin prickled with heat under your touch. Your hands part her thighs, the distracting caress of your touch has her eyes sink closed, her breathing grows heavier. Your fingers trail the top of her wetness, circling her clit and then down to rub over her dripping entrance. Sliding your fingers through her soaked folds, back and forth they tease.

Letting out a soft whimper, Rhaenyra pushes your palm closer to her wet lips. With a smirk, you rest your cheek down against her shoulder, circling her clit, you tease the entrance of her wetness – slowly sinking the tip of your finger inside her. Her knees buckle with your touch – gliding like silk you easily slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle. You watch her in the mirror, as you slip two fingers into her slit, slowly drawing them out, your finger slick with her wetness. You thrust them back in, setting a steady pace, making her eyes roll back with pleasure with every stroke. Rhaenyra wrapped her arm behind her grasping your face, as you curled your fingers pumping in rapid beats against her wetness. "Seven hells," she moans, her face flustered as her hips grind into your palm.

"Open your eyes," You coo into her ear, Rhaenyra's back sinks further into your chest, almost causing you to lose your balance. Your other hand gripping her breast through her gown, her eyes locked on you as you continue to sink further in her. Thrusting in her, you feel her body seize up tight – squirming underneath your hold, you continue to pump your fingers through her orgasm. As she heaves for a breath, you slowly pull your fingers out – dripping with her cum. You turn her around, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss, your hands gripping her face as you back her into the pillar. You lower yourself kneeling as you lift her gown, getting a perfect view of her wetness. Letting out a gasp Rhaenyra trembles as she feels your mouth teasing her entrance, her eyes instantly rolling back as you lick her wet folds. Her hand tangled in your hair, "Fuck" she cries, your tongue pushing in and out of her. You send her into another frenzy, her sensations spilling over as you savor the taste and the noises that she makes.

She slowly brings your face up to hers, her hands tangled in your hair as she pulls you in for a kiss, your mouth parts as you feel the soft brush of her tongue. You feel her lips tug into a smirk as she pulls away, grappling with your gown she guides you to her bed.

Her fingers toyed with the string of your gown, gently tugging and pulling until the material pooled by your ankles, leaving you bare. Doing the same, Rhaenyra tugged the cloth over her head freeing her breast. You lay down on her bed, admiring her exposed body. The ethereal lines of her face, and the softness in those blue eyes as she watches you. It drives you wild. Straddling on top of you, her hands explore your body – the flats of her fingertips rolling over your nipple. "Rhaenyra you do not need to", your voice shaky.

"I want to pleasure you as you did me,". Leaning down, she molds her mouth to yours, Rhaenyra nips at your bottom lip, her lips smothering your soft moan as she draws you in for another kiss you. Pulling away, she slowly moved down your body leaving wet kisses across your bare skin until she was between your thighs. A whine escaped your lips, unable to close your legs as a burning tension collects in your core. Rhaenyra lowers herself, arching her back to get the perfect view of your wet folds – her fingers trace circular patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending ripples to your throbbing center. You tense as the tips of her fingers brush down your wet slit, back and forth she teases.

"My love…" letting out a needy moan, "I will not be able to take it if I do not feel you inside me", aching for her touch, you shift your hips closer. With no warning, Rhaenyra thrusts her fingers into your entrance – your hands gripping her sheets as she plunges deeper into you. Deep inside your core, her finger brushes against the rough spot of nerves against your walls. You tense as you feel Rhaenyra slip two fingers inside, your walls stretching around them, sending waves of pleasure through the walls of your cunt. Her two fingers slick with your wetness plunge deeper without resistance. Doing her best to replicate what she had experienced, her mouth slips around your clit – tracing circles with her tongue. Waves of pleasure cascade through every nerve in your body. Her mouth laps your entrance, gently sucking your clit while her fingers are still thrusting inside your clenched walls. The sight of the Princess devouring your swollen lips sends you over the edge, and the bubbling energy coiling in the pit of your stomach violently spills over. Head thrown back and panting, Rhaenyra continues to lick you through your climax, her fingers plunging faster into you. You feel your muscles tense as the orgasm grows, pulsing around her fingers – everything tightens like a vice, stars imploding behind your eyelids. You whine and subconsciously try closing your legs as the ecstasy sends waves from your core to every nerve in your body, Rhaenyra's hand dipping further into your thighs, her other hand pinning down your legs.

Your ears ring, the ecstasy bursting through your trembling body. Your knees buckle, your eyes squeezed shut – the feeling descending upon you in a vicious wave. Your chest heaving, you pull Rhaenyra from your thighs to your mouth capturing her in a deep kiss.

"Realm's delight indeed.." you smirk.

[cemeteryspider]

Dearie~ Part 2

Alastor x Singer! Reader

Summary: Alastor waits for his chance to finally be reunited with you

Trigger Warnings: Violence, blood, exploitation, manipulation, revenge, and overall dark themes

Word Count: 1224

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Alastor woke up on the cold concrete with crimson blood spilled around him. A note lay in front of him but he remembered the conversation quite well.

See you never, Has-Been ~Vox

Swiftly, Alastor conjured inky black tentacles that snatched up and tore apart the note. He let the torn up pieces be carried by the wind into the sky. This would not be the end of the Radio Demon and his love. Nor would this be the last Vox saw of him.

With a sinister resolve, he cloaked himself in shadows, transporting to an old friend.

~~~

As the years rolled on, you found yourself relentlessly passed around by the Vees, each day ensnaring you in a new performance or appearance dictated by their capricious desires.

Under Vox's control, you were forced to guest-star in an array of macabre shows, becoming the centerpiece of his infernal entertainment empire. Many ads starred your shining face and within a year the once all-powerful overlord was replaced by an actor who lived life through others.

For Velvette you modeled at every show and ad campaign she wanted you in. It could range from the ugliest costumes to the skimpiest lingerie Hell has ever seen. You were ripped to shreds in every fashion talk show and magazine only to be built back up to be torn back down.

For Valentino, you took care of his highest profile clients. Avoiding videos or pictures was imperative, safeguarding your image as Hell's coveted poster girl in the twisted realm of infernal celebrity. After all, you were bad but not that bad.

The relentless passage of time bore down on you, the weight of each day settling not just on your shoulders but seeping into the marrow of your bones, a haunting exhaustion. You found yourself wishing for Alastor's return, but alas the cards were not stacked in your deck, only in the Vees.

You worked tirelessly and kept up with Hell's most influential people despite being on a short leash. You talked to many people, and you knew how to get what you wanted. You spoke to talk show hosts about current events and who was most powerful and how Hell changed with each passing day. Fellow models usually gossiped about frivolous things, but sometimes they would slip up useful information like when overlords fell and who died during the extermination. Some wealthy clients talked business when you were around and you became an encyclopedia of who was connected to whom.

Not to mention that you met very important demons through your jobs and gaining allies was becoming a more useful skill with each passing day.

~~~

After dealing with his employer Alastor was finally back in the Pride Ring. New and improved some may say. Screens, like omniscient sentinels, adorned almost every conceivable surface, projecting Vox's influence across the sprawling canvas of the Pride Ring. Clearly time had been good to him.

Alastor on the other hand had used his time to plan. Time for the revenge to simmer and brew into something truly utterly bitter. Seven long years of watching his Darling be used by the demon who managed to best him, allowed him to draw up his sinister plot.

Unbeknownst to Vox, a shadow was casting itself over his dominion. Nothing seemingly stood in Alastor's way, yet the impending storm was invisible, silently gathering its strength.

A sardonic smile tugged at Alastor's lips as he wove the threads of his revenge, exploiting the very vulnerability he had once sought to assist Vox in overcoming during their fleeting acquaintance.

He stood by a screen watching Lucifer's daughter pitch her hotel. Very unsuccessfully.

Amidst the towering screens broadcasting Vox's shows, Alastor sensed the malevolent pieces of his grand design falling into place, each detail a shard in the mosaic of his revenge. Every detail and nuance aligns to bring about the demise of Vox and the liberation of his Darling.

~~~

One part of being so successful is to be able to get things quite easily. Stealing wiring from vanities and circuit boards from old televisions.

Though it was supposed to be hush hush, many of the powerful people couldn't help teasing you that her boyfriend was back in town to get his ass beat again to be saved by another girl, Charlie Morningstar.

That's when you started to assemble a makeshift radio, a desperate attempt to breach the infernal walls that separated you from Alastor.

It took many weeks of stealing small items and talking to Vox about wiring to finally complete a (Semi) working radio.

With the makeshift radio finally assembled, you anxiously tuned through every channel, the urgency in your actions mirroring the desperation to reconnect with Alastor.

~~~

Alastor, with a determined focus, waded through the channels, guided by Angel Dust's cryptic hint that someone sought to reach him. Angel wasn't sure whom, due to the fact that the information had -passed through many to get to him. The static crackle of the radio filled the air.

Nothing was working until he heard the voice of his sweet angel.

"Fools rush in to where angels fear to tread and so I come to you my love my heart above my head"

Your voice was melodic and each note held perfectly in tune. You sang with gusto and a sadness that he knew came from your heart.

"If there's a chance for us then I don't care. Fools rush in where wise men never go, but wise men never fall in love so how are they to know"

His smile became more real. Realer than it had been in all of his seven year absence. He was closer than he was to getting you back yet still through the radio your voice felt so far away.

"When we met I felt my life begin again, so open up your heart and let this fool rush in"

As the song's final notes lingered, Alastor's voice, a lifeline through the radio, faded into a slight crackle. He felt the weight of anticipation, a heartbeat frozen in the ether between separation and reunion

"Dearie, how I have missed your gorgeous voice"

A sharp, audible gasp reverberated through the airwaves, a sound resonating with the weight of revelation. He heard your heels clicking over to meet him.

"Alastor, Darling?, Is that really you"

"Yes my love and do not worry, we will be together again soon"

"Alastor, I've missed you so. I feared the cruel silence would be our only communication, that I'd be forever denied the sight of you."

"Trust me, Dearie, you will be freed soon enough. Nothing can keep us apart"

A frantic tapping could be heard from your side of the radio.

"Alastor, I need to go, I love you Darling"

"I love you too mi amor"

With a slight crackle he stopped broadcasting his voice over the radio and he heard the radio on your end being shoved under something so it could not be seen.

~~~

"Sugar, who were you talking to"

Alastor seethed at Vox's voice. He would pay in due time.

"No one, just fine-tuning my chords for tomorrow's performance."

"Good good, sweetheart, keep those chords moving"

He chuckled but not a single peep came from you. Your conversation with Alastor caused a shift in you. Maybe soon Vox would fall. Maybe there was still hope yet.

~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

The song you were singing is called "Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread" by Ricky Nelson, it is a great song and it is worth a listen. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and are enjoying this story so far.