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flowerandblood · 6 months

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The Man with the Pearly Hair

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, fingering, smut, angst, obsession, symptoms of the disease such as fever and convulsions ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, verydark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Her husband did not let her experience any peace or rest the night after the ball, informing her that he did not mind if she fell asleep while he was rooting into her sore core. They would fall into sudden, deep slumbers, his arms embracing her tightly.

As soon as he awoke she could hear his murmur of satisfaction caused by her presence and the closeness of her body – his length throbbed inside her, and with tentative, slow movements at first, he would begin all over again.

She felt stunned by the intensity of the sensations, feeling as if they had truly become one flesh, his scent filling her nostrils, her cheek nestled against his chest. After their intense rapture, they fell asleep again, and when she regained consciousness for a moment, she told herself that she couldn't open her eyes, as if Vhagar was lying next to her and not her husband, her King, the man who killed for her.

She would then open her eyes and lift her head, gazing with bliss and peace at his sleeping face. She stroked gently his cheek and hair, afraid that she would wake him. She was only answered by his hum of contentment, his arms clasping around her tighter, pressing her closer to him, his hand sinking into her hair, hugging her cheek to his heart.

She could hear his slow heartbeat, feel his warm breath, and thought she had never felt truly happy before him.

Truly peaceful.

Truly safe.

When, during one of the evenings they spent quietly in his chamber, each sunk in reading a book, sitting by the fireplace, Ser Criston walked in and announced that the bodies of the royal family had finally been found, decisions were made very quickly.

Her husband had ordered the tombs for his family to be made much earlier and they stood empty under the great temple next to the graves of his ancestors, waiting for their burial place to be discovered. She could see the pain mixed with anger on his face when he found out that the bodies of his parents and siblings were buried in a mass grave under the kitchen cellars.

She lowered her gaze with a clenched throat, thinking only of how humiliating it must have been for him, that her father had treated them worse than the murderers, who at least had the opportunity to be buried with prayers and any dignity.

Her husband ordered the work to be expedited and decreed that within the next two days everything was to be prepared for this grand royal funeral, unable to bear the thought that the bodies of his loved ones were lying and rotting, waiting for justice.

He did not speak, he did not eat and he did not sleep, immersed in his own thoughts, sitting for long hours in front of the fireplace and gazing into the flames, joining her only in the morning, seeking refuge in her embrace, tired and distraught.

Even though her father had done all this, she felt complicit.

"My Queen, the dressmakers have not managed to sew a suitably thick gown and cloak for you. It is freezing and snowing outside, why not wear a different gown, such as this one, a brown one?" Suggested one of her servants a few hours before the ceremony. She shook her head without even bestowing a single glance on her, looking in the mirror.

"No. I must wear black, wear mourning by the side of my King. Bring my gown and the cloak I wore at my mother's funeral." She said dispassionately, she heard the women look at each other with concern.

"But Your Grace, you will frown, the material is too thin. Let us at least put your furs on underneath your cloak." Mumbled one of them. She sighed and nodded.

As she rode behind her king-husband, past the row of coffins in front of them, the cold winter air pierced her body like daggers. She closed her eyes, trying to curl into herself, knowing that she faced hours of standing during the funeral ceremony in the cold temple and thought that this would be her punishment for what her father had done.

For the fact that his treacherous blood flowed in her.

Therefore, she hid the quivering of her body by standing behind her husband rather than at his side, wanting to bear it with dignity, thinking of lying down in a warm bed as soon as they returned to their stronghold.

Already on the journey back she felt an excruciating pain in her bones, her head heavy as if someone was squeezing her skull – it seemed to her that the world around her was humming and blurred, struggling to maintain a straight posture.

When they reached the courtyard of the fortress Ser Criston had to help her off her horse; he looked at her for a moment, apparently seeing her pallor, however he said nothing.

He did not trust her knowing who her father was.

She did not resent him for this.

The most important thing for her was to know that he was completely devoted to her husband.

Her King no longer commanded her to come to his chamber, simply disregarding the possibility that she should spend the evening and night anywhere other than with him.

For this reason, she followed him into his quarters feeling her whole body shaking – everything around her seemed blurred and painfully loud, she had the sensation as if someone was breaking her bones.

She swallowed with difficulty, stripping out of her cloak and gown with the help of her servants, one of whom seeing her pale face leaned over her and asked in a whisper.

"My Queen, shall I summon a medic?"

She shook her head, raising her hand in a gesture that informed them that they could leave – all she dreamed of was to lie down and sleep. Her husband only hummed under his breath when she told him she'd already gone to bed, sitting with his back to her by the fireplace, staring into the flames completely absorbed in his thoughts, memories and regrets.

When she lay down she finally felt some kind of relief – she didn't have the strength to turn or move so she just closed her eyes and after a moment there was silence and darkness all around her.

"My love?" She heard as if through a fog someone's voice, his voice, her King, her husband, her death, her beloved shadow. She felt his wonderfully cold hand on her inflamed body – even though she was drenched in sweat, she got the impression that she was freezing all over. "My love, wake up."

"I'm cold." She mumbled out with difficulty, unable to stop her body shivering, each breath made her struggle.

She felt that her lungs and nostrils were on fire.

She heard him swallow loudly and then he was gone, her mind drifting away again. She awoke with difficulty lifting her eyelids, suddenly noticing that the chamber she was in was filled with the light of candles. She could hear conversations all around her, as if there were several people inside, someone's hand washed her forehead and her chest with a cold cloth, bringing her relief.

"My King, we asked her, but she said she was choosing this gown and this cloak and that she would not bring shame to the king, that she must look proper on such an important day, we could not force her." She heard someone's terrified voice and recognised her maid, answered immediately by her husband's cold, mercyless hiss.

"You fucking fools! I'll hang each of you in turn as soon as…"

"− my King −" She muttered quietly, wishing he was by her side, terrified that she couldn't see anything clearly – her head was spinning and she had trouble keeping her eyelids open.

"− I'm so cold − yet at the same time my body seems to be on fire −"

She heard his quick movement, a moment later he was already beside her, his cold, familiar hand caressing her every night touched her cheek – she sighed in relief as she smelled his scent.

"− you have a fever, my love − brother Albert will prepare a decoction at once, which you will have to drink − rest now −"

She lurched as he forced her to drink the disgusting decoction she was nauseous from, the taste of ginger and garlic so intense that her stomach twisted all over.

"− drink − that's an order − you are to obey your King and husband −" He exhaled, holding her cheek painfully tight, tilting her head back so she wouldn't choke, forcing her sip after sip to drink it all to the bottom.

When he finally let her go she cried out loud, terrified and weak, not fully aware of what was really happening to her, forgetting where she was and who she was.

She felt her husband holding her in his arms throughout the night, his hand touching her forehead again and again, checking if her condition was improving. She had a feeling, half asleep, on the verge of consciousness and lack of it, that she heard him praying quietly, lying on his side behind her, his face pressed against her hair.

Gods, who watch over justice in heaven and on earth, have mercy on us.

Gods, who intercede for the poor and despised, have mercy on us.

Gods, who have brought this woman before me and bound me to her for eternity, have mercy on us.

What was empty is full.

What was broken is whole.

What was separated is one.

She tightened her hand on his arm which embraced her hearing his words, feeling a squeeze in her throat. He flinched at the gesture, lifting his head, she felt his anxious breath on her hot cheek.

"− my love? − how do you feel? −" He asked quietly and she swallowed loudly, feeling that she was still hot, her head was spinning and she was in pain all over, but she was no longer trembling.

"− tired, my King − tired and sore −" She whispered, and he sighed heavily, embracing her more tightly, putting his face where it had been a moment before.

"− sleep, my love − your husband is with you −" He whispered, rising after a moment, taking the cloth from her forehead – she heard him dip it in the water and squeeze it out, only to lay it again on her hot skin. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief at how pleasant it felt – he slipped his ice-cold hand under her nightgown and placed it over her heart.

The next day her husband had to attend a meeting and her mother replaced him at her side. She was forced to drink another dose of the medicine, but this time she was able to drink it alone, falling into a restless sleep again afterwards.

Brother Albert found to everyone's relief that her fever was slowly lowering and her body was beginning to fight back, that the worst was probably behind them.

Despite her mother's objections, when she felt a little better in the afternoon she asked to be allowed to take a bath and to change into a new chemise.

Washing her hair and body all drenched in sweat and then putting on a new undershirt made her feel fresh again, and although she felt like her head was going to burst and she had to go to bed again immediately, she regained her appetite and her mother personally went to see to it that everything she needed was brought to her.

She was surprised when one of the lords loyal to her husband since their conspiracy days, who was among his closest advisors, Lord Malet, entered her chamber. He had not announced himself beforehand and surprised her completely with his visit.

"My Queen, I know this is not the right time, however, there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you." He said standing away from her bed. She lifted her gaze to him and sighed heavily, having great difficulty concentrating, everything around her was spinning.

"Speak, my Lord. I am listening to you." She said in a hoarse voice and coughed quietly, sighing heavily. The lord shifted from foot to foot, swallowing loudly, clearly aware that he had to brew words.

"The King has decided today to marry my eldest daughter to an important dignitary of a neighbouring kingdom, to strengthen our alliances. However, I have already promised her hand to someone else. The King will not listen to me and I have come to beg you to intervene in this matter." He said lowly looking at his feet, embarrassed apparently by his request and by having to beg the traitor's daughter for help.

She let out a quiet breath, recognising that this matter required great delicacy and forethought – her husband was like a burning flame and all it took was a moment's inattention for him to set everything around them on fire in his rage.

"− I will try, my Lord −"

Her husband walked into their chamber as her mother was helping her eat the broth. Something about the sight pleased him; he hummed, coming closer to them with his hands clasped behind his back, his forehead lightened and smoothed.

"− my wife −" He said softly, and she nodded, not having the strength to do anything else.

"− I will take care of her now, my Lady −" He directed his words to her mother, and although the tone of his voice was calm, one could hear that he was not giving her any opportunity to object.

She nodded, handing him a half-empty plate of soup and stood up, stroking her head, telling her to rest.

As soon as the door closed behind her, her husband pulled the eye patch from his face, accustomed to not wearing it in her presence. He sat down next to her on the bed, putting on a spoonful of soup and placing it under her mouth. This time she did not stand up to him and ate slowly even though she was already full.

"− I'm glad you've got your appetite back −" He said lowly, relief and weariness in his voice at the same time – she knew he hadn't slept through the night, exhausted after the funeral and terrified of her condition. She swallowed quietly, gathering herself with difficulty to get out what she wanted to say.

"Lord Malet paid me a visit today." She began hesitantly, lifting her gaze to him. She saw that he looked at her surprised, vigilance in his healthy eye, his brow furrowed.

"What did he want from you? Why was he bothering you in such a state?" He asked with an air of annoyance and displeasure. She pressed her lips together, feeling her heart pounding fast.

"He came to ask me to help him in a matter concerning his daughter." She said slowly and saw him lick his lower lip furiously. He chuckled under his breath, however there was no laugh of amusement – he ran his hand over his mouth and chin impatiently.

"I see. Do not think about it." He said dryly, indicating to her that he intended to end the subject, putting another spoonful of soup on her.

"He is her father, Aemond." She made another attempt – he saw his jaw clench, his lips forming thin line, his nostrils moving restlessly.

He tried not to explode.

"And I am her King. She lives to fulfil her role for the kingdom." He said harshly, coldly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She could see in his gaze the threat that one more ill-considered word from her and he would lose his temper.

"If your father had told you to marry another woman instead of me, would you have done it?" She asked quietly, feeling her words hang in the ether; she saw the shock and fear in his gaze, his lips twitched – she could see he hesitated.

"…yes."

She looked at him with her lips slightly parted, feeling a tightening in her heart and in her stomach, some horrible, cold kind of disappointment flowed through her body, the realisation of who she was in his eyes.

A favourite, but still, just a pawn.

She answered nothing more, lowering her gaze, feeling only a terrible headache, only fatigue, only resignation.

"However, I fear she would soon meet with an unfortunate accident that would make me a widower." He added after a moment and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling her heart pounding rapidly.

He stared at her, his healthy eye wide open, focused only on her, a certain, cold, piercing gaze that would see every lie and hesitation, every weakness.

"The daughters of lords in the kingdom would die until you were the only candidate to become my wife. You know very well that I am very patient." He added in a half-whisper – she swallowed loudly as she saw him set the bowl of the soup down on the table next to their bed.

"You and I are like the sun and the moon. Like north and south. Like day and night." He hummed with delight, grinning uneasily to himself, his fingertips running over her warm cheek.

"Do you think I would let any other man take you as his wife? I'd let anyone else touch you? Hm?" He asked softly, but there was a sweet threat in his voice that sent a shiver through her. She shook her head, despite her fatigue and weakness feeling the throbbing between her thighs at his words, so dark, threatening, certain.

"And you? What would you have done if I had not come to you that night? If your treacherous father had married you off?" He asked lowly, quietly, looking at her vigilantly, more like an animal than a human being, searching for any signal of hesitation or falsehood.

"My husband would find me dead in his bed before he had time to touch me, to bruise me of the only thing left of my dignity." She whispered with a certainty from which he licked his lower lip quickly.

He began to breathe involuntarily through his mouth as he stared at her with wide-open eye, his sapphire gleaming mischievously in the moonlight streaming through the window into his chamber.

She sighed quietly as she felt his hand slide from her cheek down her neck to her breasts and lower abdomen, lifting her nightgown with an impatient motion, his fingers sinking into her hot, soft womanhood.

Her lips parted in a quiet, dreamy moan as he began to explore her condition, meeting her wetness between her slit – she saw a smirk appear on his face from which her walls pulsed hard around nothing.

"Destroy me. Leave me with nothing. Those were your words. Weren't they?" He gasped, his fingertips trailing between her folds, teasing her bud, her thighs involuntarily spread wider, the pleasure and tickle she felt in her lower abdomen making her feel even more stupefied.

"Yes." She mumbled quietly, innocently, with a sigh, as if the very memory of the intense, brutal act that was their first physical intimacy when he took her maidenhood brought her some kind of relief.

She shuddered as she felt his finger begin to slide tentatively inside her, teasing her opening with a click of her moisture, looking at her with some kind of intrigue.

"You didn't know who I was, and yet you let me take you. You longed to become my wife. Why?" He asked low, his voice deep and resonant, and she realised that this was the first time he had ever broached the subject of his or her feelings in any way, that he was allowing her into places of his mind that no one else had access to.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus, feeling weakened and at the same time distracted by the tickle she felt between her thighs, the tension that grew in her with each passing moment as his fingers dug harder into her throbbing heat, sliding out of her only to slide back in.

"− because you were like death − like a dark veil, a shroud, a coffin, and I felt dead − it seemed so right −" She whispered and she heard him draw in the air loudly, as if her words had startled him, his thumb beginning to run over her pearl and tease her as his fingers pressed the spot inside her hidden in her folds with sure, circular motions.

"− do you still feel dead? −" He exhaled in a trembling voice, as if there was something in the sight of her, in the way she moaned softly and wriggled helplessly, without the strength to resist him, from which he was losing his temper.

"− sometimes − but not with you − never with you −" She mumbled, glancing up at him wearily – his face looking different from usual, breathing loudly along with her, his full lips parted slightly, his eyebrows arched as if in worry, his eye misty, full of affection and longing.

"− if I will not be violent − will you let me? −" He asked in a quivering voice, and she nodded, knowing what he wanted, knowing what he needed.

He undressed, allowing her hand to untie the ribbon in his hair as he leaned over her, gently stroking her face with his fingers. He lay down between her thighs looking down at her, lifting the material of her nightgown only over her thighs, not wanting her to get cold.

She felt the head of his cock pushing against her slit and she sighed softly, spreading her thighs wider, wanting to make his task easier. He rooted into her surprisingly tentatively and slowly, sliding out several times, as if he wanted her insides to adjust to such intense filling.

It was such a surprisingly pleasurable and tender sensation that she began to moan quietly beneath him, stroking his cheeks and hair, their mouths meeting with each other in a sticky, hot, slow kiss, then another and another, their lips trailing over each other, their hot breaths surrounding their faces.

She ran her fingertips over the skin of his scarred cheek, feeling his thrusts begin to grow deeper and more confident, they both started to pant as a thrill of pleasure shuddered through them. She clasped her hands on his bare buttocks, rubbing against him so that he pressed the wonderful spot inside her each time he slided inside her.

"− yes − oh, yes −" She whispered, tilting her head back, his lips slid down to her neck, placing small, greedy kisses on her skin, leaving a wet trail on it, sucking and licking her naked flesh, rooting into her with the sure, deep thrusts of his hips, her walls clenching against him steadily.

"− am I causing you pain? − do you want to stop? −" He muttered between his pushes, with the remnants of his strong will trying to remember that she was still weakened and sick, that just a few hours ago she had a fever and should now be resting, not exerting herself.

However, he had never done this to her in such a gentle way before and she shook her head quickly, breathing loudly along with him.

"− n-no − please − please, husband, it feels so good −" She mewled, massaging his neck with her palm – she heard him groan low, his manhood throbbed hard inside her. He immediately sped up his pace, taking her hot hips in his hands, pounding confidently and deeply into her, slapping his thighs against her buttocks with a loud click of her moisture.

"− fuck − so good −" He exhaled looking down at her with his lips parted wide – she clamped her hands on the pillow on either side of her head, feeling her walls suck him inside, soaking his cock, his pace increasingly intense and fast.

All that came out of her mouth was a mumble as she came suddenly, pleasure shook her body and she just began to moan helplessly, trying to push him away, but to no avail – he pressed his hands against the bedding, slamming into her like mad, panting and groaning loudly, allowing himself to be more vocal than usual, his forehead pressed against hers.

"− just a little longer, my love − I'm so close − oh, gods, fuck, fuck, fuck! −" He gasped loudly, with a few final, desperate thrust filling her with his seed, his face expressing fulfilment and bliss. They panted for a moment with their eyes closed, still rocking their hips, trying to calm themselves.

She stroked his soft, long hair as his body fell gently on top of her, completely without strength, making sure he didn't crush her with his weight.

"You have possessed my body and soul." He whispered in her ear, his large hands still stroking her thighs and buttocks in a soothing, calm motion.

"You have broken into my mind. Into my heart. I feel that I'm losing my mind. That I have crossed the line leading into madness." He muttered in a trembling voice and, without knowing why, she felt herself smiling, her lips placing a tender, warm kiss on his bare, sweaty shoulder, her fingers running over his back.

"We both crossed it long time ago, my love."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu

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briefpiratewitch · 8 months

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Ok to all the people who are fans of Percy Jackson and the Percy Jackson universe have you ever wondered what the chronological order of the the books are, because I have. And guess what... I figured it out :) It took a long time and I had to ask for some help from a friend but I got there. I am about 90% sure this is right and there is also his new book that hasn't been released yet that comes after The Chalice of the gods: Wrath of the Triple Goddess. I no virtually nothing about this book but I'm really look forward to it. I also included a few short stories from his side books. And so I now present you all the books in chronological order:

The Diary of Luke Castellan (The Demigod Diaries)

The Lightning Thief

The Sea of Monsters

The Titans Curse

Percy Jackson and the Olympians the Ultimate Guide

The Stolen Chariot (The Demigod Files)

Battle of the Labyrinth

The Bronze Dragon (The Demigod Files)

The Sword of Hades (The Demigod Files)

The Red Pyramid

The Throne of Fire

The Last Olympian

Percy Jackson and the Singer of Apollo

The Staff of Hermes (The Demigod Diaries)

Son of Magic (The Demigod Diaries)

The Serpents Shadow

Demigods and Magicians

Brooklyn House Magician's Manual

The Lost Hero

The Son of Neptune

The Quest for Buford (The Demigod Diaries)

The Mark of Athena

The House of Hades

The Blood of Olympus

The Greek Gods

The Greek Heroes

The Sword of Summer

The Chalice of the Gods

Wrath of the Triple Goddess?

Hotel Valhalla Guide to the Norse World's

The Hidden Oracle

The Hammer of Thor

The Ship of the Dead

9 From the Nine Worlds

Camp Half-Blood Confidential

The Dark Prophecy

The Burning Maze

The Tyrant's Tomb

Camp Jupiter Classified

The Tower of Nero

The Sun and the Star

The part I'm unsure of is the The Sword of Summer and the books under it. The first reason is because of all the new books Rick has released lately and the second is the fact that ToA and MG happen around the same time. I would not recommend this order to people reading the books for the first time but for long time fans I challenge you to try this. Hope you enjoy this either way.

Adiós! ;⁠)

#rick riordan #percy jackson #the kane chronicles #heros of olympus #magnus chase #the trials of apollo

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bimoonphases · 2 months

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@wolfstarmicrofic May 9 - prompt 9: Star-crossed Lovers [word count 963]

[also my small tribute to the thousands of lives we the fandom have created for these two to live through]

TW: multiple deaths ahead

There had always been two moments, two split seconds in all of their lives, where they knew: the first time they laid eyes on each other, teeth of recognition gnawing at their memory with still no chance of remembering; then those last fleeting instants before death, when fate chose to hit them with the fact that the love of their lives was about to be snatched away from them. Again.

The flapping of wings got closer, and Sirius stretched out his hand, every fiber of his being trying to reach the man looking at him from the cloud below, blinking away the sweat from his forehead.

“Please, my lord Helios, please…” Sirius begged, stretching further down. “I swear he’s not trying to slight you, only to reach me. I’ll do anything, please, let him come to me.”

But the gods never listened, not even to lesser gods, and as Helios burned even brighter over him, Sirius could only scream as the wax on Remus’s wings melted and he fell.

Ancient Greece

Remus passed his sword to his other hand and cradled Sirius’s cheek, ignoring the ominous footsteps coming towards them from further down the pass.

“Let’s win this, my love,” he smiled. “Then let’s go home together.”

Sirius nodded and kissed him, their helmets clanging softly, like multiple others around them. The footsteps got closer.

Thermopylae, Greece, 480BC

Sirius moaned as Remus pushed him against the wall of the nearest house, his mouth immediately latching onto his lips, his hands grabbing his waist over the fabric of his tunic.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered between searing kisses. “I’ve loved you for lifetimes now.”

“I love you too,” Sirius answered, his fingers curling into Remus’s hair. “You’re mine and I’m yours, for this life and others.”

The sky went dark in that moment.

Pompeii, Roman Empire, 79AD

Sirius was laughing. He was laughing hysterically, which was a strange sound coming from the cart transporting them to the square where a pile of wood and kindling was waiting for them. Remus would have worried if he hadn’t been just about to be burnt at the stake.

“What’s so funny?” he sighed.

“The fact that for once in their lives these people got it right,” Sirius went on laughing. “They’re burning witches, and here we are with our magic.”

“Which is useless now,” Remus grumbled, straining against the rope binding his wrists, as if his wand could somehow be within reach instead of already ashes in some magistrate’s fireplace.

“And they’re hanging men who sleep with other men,” Sirius went on. “And again, here we are.”

Despite all, Remus chuckled. Sirius grinned and moved closer to him.

“What do you say, my love?” he whispered. “Let’s give them what they want.”

And not even the shouts of the crowd pressing around the cart stopped Remus from kissing Sirius one last time.

Milan, Italy, 1384

The mercy of it was that they still had some instants to say goodbye. Sirius cradled Remus’s cheek in his hand.

“At least,” he murmured with a smile. “We’re already in a tomb.”

Remus smiled through the tears, shuffling even closer to Sirius on the marble slab.

“At least I get to keep you in my arms as we go,” he whispered. “I always wished to be with you until the end. I just hoped the end would come years from now.”

“I’d rather have only days with you than nothing at all,” Sirius said.

The cold was seeping into his bones. Time was running out.

“Do you think that English poet who’s been in town lately will write about us?” Remus murmured.

“If he does he’ll have to change some details,” Sirius got even closer, the cold now all over him, his mouth desperately searching for Remus’s lips one last time. “Thus, with a kiss, I die.”

Verona, Italy, 1590

They had lost, that much was clear. Remus stumbled back into the building with the others, desperately climbing over barricades of furniture. They had lost, and the National Guard was advancing on them. No one was coming to help them. Shots rang out, some people fell and Remus crashed into the back wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the leader run up the stairs, his flag still in his fist, a testament to a last stand already. There was a crack, and the last chairs blocking the door moved, leaving room for the guards to move inside, shotguns at the ready, eyes locking with Remus’s, who sighed and leaned back on the wall. He felt a hand slip in his and turned his head, a smile he would have recognised everywhere in front of him.

“Sirius…” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Dying with you, my love,” Sirius answered.

They almost didn’t feel the bullets, lost in each other’s eyes.

Paris, France, June 6th 1832

“Should I call you ‘my lord’ then?” Remus asked, his hands slipping under the silk waistband hugging Sirius’s evening suit.

“Never,” Sirius whispered, his arms around Remus’s neck. “I want to be just Sirius tonight. I don’t want to be my family name, or my title or my fortune or anything other than yours.”

“Your wish is my command,” Remus said, leaning in to start kissing Sirius’s neck.

Outside the porthole of the small cabin, the Atlantic Ocean was gleaming under the moonlight.

RMS Titanic, April 14th 1912

This time, the first moment was stronger, almost breaking to the front of their consciousness. They were young, so much younger than every other time. They had all their lives ahead.

“Hi, I’m Remus Lupin.”

“Sirius Black.”

Yes, what could go wrong in two children’s lives after all?

“My name’s Peter Pettigrew.”

Hogwarts Express, September 1st 1971

#no I don't love History and tragedies what are you on about #also not me conflating two of my tragic fandoms together here #I'm sorry alright?#wolfstar #wolfstar microfic #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #marauders era #marauders #the marauders #the marauders era

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jujitto · 9 months

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𝟥 : 𝟦𝟧 𝖯𝖬 💭 沈泉锐

𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗇 ׂ ۪ 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗒 ⭒ ۪ ׂ ۪ genre ۪ ׂ ۪angst & 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ⭒ ۪ ׂ ۪ cw ۪ ׂ ۪mentions of death of a family member ⭒ ۪ ׂ ۪ wc ۪ ׂ ۪𝟩𝟨𝟫 ⭒ ۪ ׂ ۪ rq 𝟦 ۪ ׂ ۪ @hannahhbahng

9:34 PM, how long have you been sitting here? You couldn’t help but wonder. The tears streamed down your face, not stopping anytime soon. As much as you wanted to stop crying, you couldn’t. It was pointless. Sitting there lost in thoughts, you couldn’t help but ponder the amount of time that had passed.

How long had you been sitting here alone staring at the photos, the one thing you had left, the one thing you had left of them? You didn’t even get to say goodbye. You couldn’t even remember the last time you saw them. Some part of you still didn’t believe that they were gone, that this was all real. The weight of their absence pressed heavily on your heart, making it ache with every beat. Memories flooded your mind, each one like a bittersweet melody playing in the depths of your soul.

The room around you seemed to blur as your gaze remained fixed on those photographs, capturing moments frozen in time. The smiles, the laughter, the shared experiences – they all felt like distant echoes now. Your fingers brushed over the edges of the images, tracing the contours of their faces as if trying to etch their presence back into reality.

“Y/N?” As the soft voice called your name, you looked up to find Ricky standing at the doorway, concern etched on his face. How could you forget? He was probably searching high and low for you all over the apartment. Your poor boyfriend.

Ricky's eyes met yours, and he took a step closer, his expression a mix of empathy and worry. "Hey," he said gently, his voice a soothing melody that reached the depths of your turmoil. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Are you okay?"

You tried to offer him a faint smile, but your lips quivered, betraying the façade you were trying to maintain. Ricky walked over and knelt down beside you, his warmth enveloping you like a comforting embrace. He reached out and wiped away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “I-I wish you could’ve met them.” Your words echoed through the quiet room as Ricky smiled, sadly, and yet glad to hear those words from you.

“I wish I could've too.” He says as you look down at the photo in your hand. Wanting to give everything to have them back with you, here with you. Your hand clutched tight to his shirt as he held you close. He held onto you, his embrace a shelter from the pain that was ripping apart your heart. You leaned into him, the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body comfort that made the ache seem just a little more bearable.

In a world that seemed to be spinning out of control, his arms were the one constant that kept you grounded. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a reassuring presence that brought a sense of stability to your fractured world.

You weren't sure how long you stayed there, but the ache in your chest gradually faded as the minutes passed by. Ricky remained by your side, his presence a source of strength and solace. It was something you couldn't take for granted.

He didn't say much, but then again, he didn't have to. His mere presence was enough to remind you that you weren't alone. That no matter how much it hurt, there were people who cared for you, who would be there for you. That was Ricky for you, your pillar of support, a source of hope in your darkest hour.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ricky pulled away, gently cupping your face in his hands. He gazed at you, his expression filled with so much love and concern, that it brought a lump to your throat.

"It's getting late, we should probably get some rest," he murmured. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you stood up. Ricky wrapped his arm around your shoulders, holding you close. As the two of you left the room, the empty apartment greeted you like a silent tomb, the walls echoing the emptiness that now filled your life.

Ricky stopped and turned towards you, his gaze filled with understanding. "Don't worry," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "We'll get through this. Together."

You nodded, the ache in your chest easing at his words. It may not be the end, but the pain is only temporary. The memory of them will live on forever. You knew that, and deep down, you knew it would be okay, especially with Ricky by your side.

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a-s-levynn · 7 months

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A Series of Small Offerings

or a Sleep Token prompt list based on lyrics

A 4 part art challenge that can be an extensive several weeks long endeavour or you can pick and choose the part(s) that interest you the most.

Big or small, wonky or beyond artistic, just a scribble or a masterpiece; drawing, sculpture, drabble, full on fanfic or even a piece of music? Everything has a place here so long you enjoy creating it. No offering is too small to be a worthy one. 🫶🏻

Pick one (or even both) of the lines from the given song. Take it as literal or abstract as an inspiration as you feel fitting and let the creativity flow.

Worship. 🙏🏻

(edited version with Shelter added, a line switched for TMBTE, corrected Blood Sport lyrics)

PART I - ONE, TWO and the singles

Thread the Needle

You turn the lights down / Come on and find out or Just look at where we're lying / An invisible space

2. Fields of Elation

The daylight recedes in unison, this room / Buries the hours like death, in motion or And nobody else can pull me out / And the fields of elation, quiet and loamy

3. When the Bough Breaks

We could stay suspended / Even when the bough breaks or You don't really love, you just hate to be alone

4. Calcutta

I sweat and I ache for / Your eyes and the way you breathe or Melting skywards more than silence broken / I'm whole again for just a moment

5. Nazareth

Building you a kingdom / Dripping from the open mouth, [I'll show you] or Manifest pain at the core of pleasure / I'll see you when the wrath comes around

6. Jerico

Tread, ancient water salt / Like I sink, down like precious stones or My hands are not worthy

7. Jaws

The whites of your eyes burn / From across the room or Caged and always provoked / By prey left unattended

8. The Way That You Were

To tear that knife from what once / Would have been dead fingers or And you will no longer / Stand between collapsing walls

PART II - Sundowning

The Night Does Not Belong To God

The whites of your eyes / Turn black in the lowlight in turning divine or And the night comes down like heaven

2. The Offering

And you are a garden, entwined with all / You are the silence on sacred shores or So take a bite, I want to know

3. Levitate

And we imitate a story of perfect days / A ballad we fabricate or Will you levitate / Up where my love doesn't matter?

4. Dark Signs

And where we met, there must have been dark signs / Omens in your skies or And I hate who I have become (I might break and bend to my basic need to be loved and close to somebody)

5. Higher

And we are exhausted by all this pretending / We just can't resist the violence or When you're alone / I am granting you more than / The debt that I owe

6. Take Aim

And it sends me shivers / How you love like weapons kill or Call, won't you call out my name? / Like a curse on this world?

7. Give

I'll tear the fibre from the filament / I'll be the limit of your light again or Want to give you all that I can give / All my darkest impulses

8. Gods

No more teeth to bite with / No more smiling faces i am alone again or Like fire from the heavens / Tearing me asunder beside you

9. Sugar

We still know how to feed / We still know how to bleed or Let me wrap the chains / Addicted to the pain, oh

10. Say That You Will

Is that a glint in your eye? / Is that a blade in your palm? or In this light you are mine

11. Drag Me Under

And I know the gods will abandon the heavens just to find us or Hold me beneath the surface (And I know the angels tonight are as lost for words)

12. Blood Sport

Even if the sky cracks in mourning / And the heavens just won't open up for me or Tangled with what I never said / You say it doesn't matter

13. Shelter

When it rains, you don't take shelter / You don't take signs from God or And as you become part of my waking rituals, I can tell / You gather up all of my demons

PART III - This Place Will Become Your Tomb

Atlantic

Crumble like a temple built from future daughters / To wasteland when the oceans recede or So flood me like Atlantic, weather me to nothing / Wash away the blood on my hands

2. Hypnosis

Lift, oh, lift me out / Of my own skin or Split my skin, no / Just make me bleed

3. Mine

We balance fire in the earth we walk / Will never stop me reaching forth or With colors over all the wasted years / Eternity will bring you near

4. Like That

New weapons to snap those final strings / Just to watch me fall back or Push down into membranes and layers / Creating a slow dissection

5. The Love You Want

Too many swallowed keys / Will make you bleed internally someday, oh or Now keep the freakshow talk / To a careful minimum

6. Fall For Me

In a city of ice there are burning cathedrals / Turning the skies into glass or And I feel like I'm losing touch with what I am again / And slowly I remember why I cannot pretend

7. Alkaline

It's too late for me now, I am altered / There is something beneath or I see in a different light / The objects of my desire

8. Distraction

'Cause I am broken into fractions / Oh, and I am driven to distraction or Something much more than I could ask for

9. Descending

Create, release or My love withers and chokes in perfect awe

10. Telomeres

And we go beyond the farthest reaches / Where the light bends and wraps beneath us or Through death / My arms are open

11. High Water

When the mouth of infinity / Buries its teeth in me or Wash me clean again before I pull myself beneath the waves

12. Missing Limbs

The blessings rain on battles in the heaven's arms or 'Cause it still makes my blood run cold / To remember what I did before

PART IV - Take Me Back To Eden

Chokehold

A sacred guardian or Even if I can't sleep / Oh, and though we act out of our holy duty to be constantly awake

2. The Summoning

A taste of the divine or Take me past the edge / I want to see the other side

3. Granite

Between the second hand smoke and the glass on the street or Never mind the death threats / Parting at the door

4. Aqua Regia

Following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw or Between the pain and the way you look / I'm stuck in a time where the mountains shook

5. Vore

You have become the voice in my head or Will we remain stuck in the throat of gods? / Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

6. Ascensionism

Your reflection, your bitter deception / Setting you free or With one eye on the door, other eye on a rail / Other, other eye following a scarlet trail

7. Are You Really Okay?

I was trying to hold back the darkness or But I, I don't believe you when you tell me you are fine

8. The Apparition

I wake up to a suicide frenzy / Loaded dreams still leave me empty or Just let me go or take me with you

9. DYWTYLM

Do you pull at the chains? / Or do you push into constant aching? or Do you ever believe / That we can turn into different people?

10. Rain

Refracted in light, reflected in sound or And I know, I know, I am what I am / The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb

11. Take Me Back To Eden

We dive through crystal waters, perfect oceans / But no one told me not to breathe or I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired / Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher

12. Euclid

The night belongs to you / This bough has broken through or The whites of your eyes / Turn black in the low light

Thank you so much if you took any part of this on or just read through it.

Never forget, that the most important thing is that no matter what,

Worship 🙏🏻

#a series of small offerings #sleep token art challenge #sleep token #sleep token fanart #levynn tries to draw

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taomubiji · 7 months

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List of DMBJ Comics (Manhuas)

1. Daomu Biji Comic: CAH Series (2009-2012)

4 books, not available online. Loosely based on Volume 1. Similar story to Daomu.

2. Grave Robbery Note Comic Series (2011-2017)

10 books. Based on Volume 1. Translated to English online by Bilibili Comics under the title Grave Robbers' Chronicles.

3. Daomu Biji: Private Picture Book (2011)

2 books, not available online. Loosely based on Volume 1. Similar story to Daomu.

4. Daomu (2011, 2015)

1 book, not available online. Loosely based on Volume 1. Originally published in English first in 2011 and then again in 2015. Also published in French under the title Daomu - Pilleurs de tombes

5. Grave Robbers' Chronicles Seven Dreams (2015)

Based on the characters from DMBJ. Translated to English online by Bilibili Comics under the same title.

6. Sand Sea Comic (2015)

2 books, available online. Based on the novel Daomu Biji Youth: Sand Sea.

7. Tibetan Sea Flower Comic Series (2015-2017)

6 books. Based on Tibetan Sea Flower. Translated to English online by Bilibili Comics under the title The Secret of Metok.

8. The South Bureau (2018)

Available online. Based on The Southern Archives.

9. Daomu Biji Restart (2018)

Available online. Based on Restart.

10. Daomu Biji Restart: Daily Life (2019)

Available online. Based on the characters from DMBJ.

11. Qinling Sacred Tree (2022-2024)

3 books, available online. Based on Volume 2 and the animation Buried Tree Devil.

Updates:

The Lost Tomb Comic Series was removed since it's another version of the novels with some pictures in it. (11-23)

Updated the CAH Series and the private picture book to confirm that they're all based on the same story. (1-24)

Added earlier pub. and french version to Daomu. Added the new third book to Qinling Sacred Tree. (2-29)

#dmbj #dmbj manhua #resources #years are based on their physical publication date if available #if i have missed anything please let me know!

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limeflavoredlobotomizer · 1 year

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Y’know, I really think I was on to something when I said Nonius is the only one who was able to live for the Ninth and die beyond it

#like that really was something right there #I can FEEL it #Nonius #matthias nonius #Nonius the ninth #the ninth house #I guess this is kind harrow spoilers so #htn spoilers #just in case #htn #gtn #ntn #tlt #9 for the tomb and for all that was lost #stfu kor

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angel-of-the-moons · 9 months

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Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

Summary:

Thousands of years ago, you were his greatest treasure. Robbed away by a culprit never found.

Separated by life and death, you were destined never to see one another again.

He was doomed to walk an Earth without you, cloaked in silvery shadows as he dispensed justice, returning to guard your tomb like a hulking ghost, a slave to his grief with only his soft words spoken into the dank air of your resting place to provide a break in the painful monotony of his haunting.

He would always mourn you.

He would always love you.

The only mortal to ever make his cold heart beat.

TW/CW: Death, mentions of death, violence, pain, blood, injuries, murder, betrayal, exhaustion, depression, loneliness, mourning, some historical inaccuracies here and there (for plot, and I obsessively read about Egypt on my own but I am by no means an Egyptologist), implied/shown incestual marriages/relationships (c'mon guys it was Ancient Egypt, I'm not gonna pretend those canon events never happened), Some fudged canon MCU!Moon Knight mixed with a few elements from the comics (it's fanfiction, what do you expect?) NSFW, smut, eventual smut, pining, memories, reincarnation, pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy, some OOC Khonshu (depending on how you look at it)

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N:

This is something that came to me in a mix of a disassociation listening to this song (from which the story gets its name) and a plot facilitated by a Khonshu bot on c.ai (are you guys even surprised at this point?)

The main thought was, "Hey, what if Khonshu is an incorrigible douchebag because of some reason he hasn't disclosed? To anyone, for thousands of years? Why does he look so different from how reliefs depict him in scriptures and tombs? Does he secretly hurt inside and feels so much rage at failing in his duty to dispense justice on the one person he feels deserves it the most?" And this stemmed from all that.

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Chapter 1: Dust And Echoes

Chapter 2: Stressing My Mind (Mind)

Chapter 3: Knowhere

Chapter 4: Strange Places, Old Faces

Chapter 5: Pomegranates

Chapter 6: Trust Issues

Chapter 7: Modus Operandi

Chapter 8: River's Flow

Chapter 9: The Book Of The Dead

Characters:

Chapter 10: Guilt

Chapter 11: Styx and Stones

Merit (Animated by Me)

Merit (Picrew)

Human Khonshu (My Artwork)

#khonshu #khonshu x reader #khonshu x you #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #layla el faouly

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nerdanel01 · 11 days

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Thrown In The Deep End

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 2.5k+ wc | SFW Agnes Gallatus, a newly initiated member of the Mourn Watch, grows into her new role under the guidance of her mentor, Emmrich Volkarin. Set 22 yeas before the start of DA:TV.

________________

9:30 Dragon Age

Cli-clack. Cli-clack. The heel of her left boot savaged beyond repair, Agnes Gallatus walked unevenly through the colossal halls of the Grand Necropolis, each of her shuffling steps echoing through the vast chambers of the dead.

Ahead of Agnes, her recently appointed mentor, Emmrich Volkarin, was leading the way. He had summoned a glowing, green magelight to illuminate the path before them and beneath their feet. The magelight threw Emmrich’s deep, plush shadow back onto Agnes’ own body, exaggerating Emmrich’s form, casting Agnes in darkness.

Agnes had no way of knowing—no sunlight reached these lower levels, and they had no timepiece with them—but it felt as though they had been walking for the better part of a day already. She was trying not to be too concerned about that, reminding herself that her anxiety was likely playing tricks on her. Probably, they had only been down in the dark for a few hours… but the growling hunger in her stomach suggested otherwise.

They had brought supplies down with them. Ser Volkarin had walked her through all of it at the start of their morning, taking her through his carefully listed inventory, showing her how efficiently it had been packed for the journey ahead: foodstuffs, water canteens, fire kindling, potions and other remedies, even a tent and a pair of sleeping bags. It was Agnes’ first trip down into the Necropolis as a member of the Mourn Watch; a kind of orientation, it was just supposed to be quick journey, down and up again before nightfall. As Ser Volkarin had told her, however, the Necropolis was an unusual place, and “it never hurts to be over prepared.”

Unfortunately, all of that preparation—food, kindling and all—had been lost within the first hour of their trip. As Ser Volkarin had been leading her to one of the most extravagant of the Pentaghast tombs, they had encountered a nightmarish creature that Agnes was certain none of her training had prepared her to face. The sight of it, all mismatched bones and too-long-limbs and hollow eyes, had made her want to tremble and retch.

Ser Volkarin, on the other hand, had simply identified it as an “uncatalogued anomaly” (with what Agnes thought was too much fascination, and not enough fear) and, to a gobsmacked Agnes’ utter shock, he had approached it. Talking to it, saying something, Agnes could not remember—she could only recall her stupefaction at the fact that it seemed the necromancer was trying to reason with the thing.

When the “anomaly” had turned on him, both Agnes and Ser Volkarin alike had lost their packs in the pursuit; while running through one of the cobbled halls of some great Nevarran lineage or another, Agnes had broken the heel of her boot. All things considered, they were lucky they had escaped with their lives. If Agnes had not pulled Volkarin away from the creature just in time, she wasn’t even certain he’d have that.

But the chase had driven them far from the elevator that had dropped them down from the upper floors, into chambers and halls that looked (to Agnes’ untrained eye) dusty from lack of use and visitation. Cli-clack. Cli-clack. How long had they been walking? Her knees and her hips were beginning to complain of her uneven gait and the strain it was putting them under. But ahead of her, Ser Volkarin—probably twice her age—had not flagged in the slightest, so Agnes swallowed her discomfort and followed him in silence.

She had never wanted to be part of the Mourn Watch. The idea of living one's life in the Necropolis, down among the dead, far from the sun and the trees and the stars, did not appeal to her in the slightest. But it was not exactly an honor that was easily refused… and certainly what was left of her family would have disowned her (or worse) had she tried. The position came with power, esteem, and honor, things Agnes had no use for but with which her family was quite obsessed. It was not an opportunity they were going to let pass them by.

And so, now, here she was, on her first day, which had already gone so catastrophically wrong. She had been reassured, at first, when Ser Volkarin had been introduced as her mentor. He was clearly an experienced member of the guard who had seen a decade or more in its service already; under his guidance, Agnes reassured herself, she had nothing to fear.

Only now, that decade of experience did not seem to mean much. They had arrived in a large, vaulted chamber, and the green magelight cast eerie shadows on the tall columns and walls. Ahead of her, Volkarin had come to a stop. He cast his head from side to side, his fine profile a midnight silhouette against the magelight as he surveyed the paths that led forth from the chamber.

He had never paused like that, his step until this moment always confident, clear. “What is it?” Agnes asked, fearing the answer.

Ser Volkarin hesitated, before admitting, “This place is utterly unfamiliar to me.”

Agnes did not like one bit the slight note of anxiety she had detected in his voice. “You said you had taken countless journeys into the depths of the Grand Necropolis. That you practically lived down here.”

“I have. I do,” Volkarin replied. “But I told you above, before we descended—the Necropolis is inconstant. Its architecture isn’t fixed. The levels, even the individual rooms change locations, only a small percentage of them are even catalogued; without some sort of beacon to guide me to one of the known paths…”

His voice trailed off ominously. But then he turned, his cupped hand swinging the magelight around with him so that he could offer Agnes a reassuring smile.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Volkarin said, his voice all warmth, his uncertainty dispelled (or at least, concealed from her.) “For now, we seem to have found a pocket of safe space—I sense no disturbances among the dead here. I shall set a ring of magical wards around our position, just to be cautious, and then we will take a few hours of rest before starting out again. Who knows?” He offered her another smile, his eyes gleaming between the disheveled locks of his thick, black hair—the elegant coif he’d styled it into had melted into a mop of waves and curls during their earlier flight. “Perhaps when we have woken, the Necropolis will have reconstituted itself into a configuration more familiar to me.”

“Do you really think so?”

Volkarin shrugged. “It is as likely as it is unlikely. But I prefer to be an optimist when it comes to such things.”

Agnes was not sure she shared his optimism, but she was thankful for the chance to rest. She did not allow herself to ask him what would happen if the path was not clear when they woke. The answer seemed rather obvious. They had no food, and no water, and only the shelter the Necropolis would provide them with. To whatever end, they would have to keep wandering—the elevator was their only hope of emerging back into the upper levels of the Necropolis, and rejoining the remainder of the Mourn Watch.

They decided to rest against the far wall, the place in the chamber with the greatest distance from any of the entrances. True to his word, Volkarin began setting the wards around them, whispering the incantations lightly under his breath as he circled Agnes in a half moon. For her part, Agnes tried to relax, but it was not easy. And now that they had stopped walking through the Necropolis, and her body had cooled from the exertion, she began to realize how cold it was down here.

She was attempting to warm her palms beneath her arms when Ser Volkarin returned to her, wards set, removing his intricate leather overcoat as he approached and extending his hand to offer it to her. “Here.”

Agnes’ eyes widened. “Ser, I couldn’t.”

“Agnes, I insist. You’re plainly freezing, we’ve nothing else to warm you with because we have lost our supplies, and as your mentor, it is entirely my fault we are in this mess. Please, take it.”

With some trepidation, Agnes took the overcoat from his hands. The brown leather was pliant, soft the way leather is when it is still warmed from the heat of a body. Acquiescing to Volkarin’s behest, she draped the coat across her shoulders and was instantly warmer. But when Ser Volkarin himself sat beside her, to rest his back against the same wall, she extended her arm, to make room for him within the coat.

“We can share,” she told him, “can’t we?”

They could—barely. It was a snug fit, and it meant Ser Volkarin needed to sidle into his coat almost behind her, ducking his shoulder behind hers. Agnes found her back somewhat pressed against her mentor’s chest, the crown of her head tucked a few inches beneath his chin. When he exhaled, she could feel his breath tickle her scalp.

His body was stiff against hers (uncomfortable, perhaps, with such intimate proximity) and it was also unquestionably colder, nearly clammy to the touch. But as Agnes leaned against him—as time passed, as they fit themselves against one another inside Volkarin’s coat—he warmed.

And the living presence of him—the smell of him (bergamot and pepper) and his slow breathing—lulled Agnes first into a sense of comfort and safety; then, into sleep.

The bed beneath her was freezing, but beneath the covers, Agnes was warm. She nestled her head deeper into the pillow. She had been in the Necropolis—had that all been a nightmare? Soft, pinstriped, bergamot-scented pillow.

Pinstripes— trousers—

A fraction of a second after Agnes recognized Ser Volkarin’s leg stretched out in front of her she was jerking her head out of his lap, pulling herself upright, hoping the dark hid (at least somewhat) how monstrously her face was blushing. It felt like all the blood in her body was rushing to her cheeks and her neck. Perhaps she was lucky. Perhaps he was not yet awake—

But, “Good morning,” came her mentor’s voice from behind her—that would have been too good to hope for.

“Or good evening,” Volkarin added. “As you may have noticed, it is nearly impossible to tell down here. Did you reset comfortably?”

He sounded… inexplicably cheerful. Not a trace of mockery, malice or discomfort in his voice. Agnes noticed the leather overcoat, draped once again around her shoulders—Ser Volkarin must have covered her with it when she had pillowed her head in his lap, stretched out on the floor.

“...I think so.”

“Excellent,” Volkarin replied, delighted. “Now, had we not been dispossessed of our supplies, I would offer you some refreshment before we start out again. But I fear we will have to forgo sustenance for now, until we can return to the levels above. Fortunately,” and here, at last, it seemed, was the cause of all his cheerfulness, “I do not think that will be very long from now.”

Agnes’ heart leapt with hope. “You know where we are?”

“Approximately,” Ser Volkarin replied. He rose to his feet, then offered his hand to Agnes. “Shall we?”

Agnes accepted his hand and he pulled her to her feet. Her cheeks still felt like they were burning. She bat at her skirts with her palm, trying to beat the dust of the Necropolis off of them, and offered Ser Volkarin back his coat.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head and accepting it gratefully. “Though neither of us will need it where we’re going.”

Through one of the archways out of the vaulter chamber, Agnes could see a strange, emerald glow in the distance. They struck out in that direction. As they approached, Agnes realized it was not a glow at all, but some incredible trick of magic—or else of engineering—as they emerged into a large garden, filled with a light that had the same color and warmth as the sun.

In the center of the room, a large mound rose out of the earth. An imposing door of marble had been cut into its face, but the tomb was otherwise covered in green grass, and tall flowers. The botanical fragrance of the room was dizzying, giddying. Though it seemed impossible so far beneath the surface, fat, furry bees flew, pollen-drunk, from flower to flower.

“It is the Enchanted Garden of Undying Devotion,” Ser Volkarin told her, as Agnes reached down to pull off her crooked mismatched shoes so she could walk barefoot on the warm grass. “It was created in the Exalted Age by one of the Van Markham kings, in memory of his deceased wife. Not the rarest of sights in the Necropolis, perhaps, but one of my favorites—you are lucky to see it on your first trip down here.”

The garden was so warm and light—so humid— it was like being a child, back in the glass greenhouse on the Halkias estate, amongst the tropical flowers and pitcher-shaped plants. Untold miles above, in the city of Cumberland, winter reigned in the city but here , in this warm shrine to the dead, the dahlias are in bloom. Tight little yellow and orange puffballs, wide pink dinnerplates nearly as big as Agnes’ face. Along the lip of a fountain grow her mother’s favorite flowers—clusters of petals the size of Agnes’ hand, with an outer ring of carnelian red and a tight, white face.

“I knew the Necropolis contained wonders,” Agnes breathed, to herself as much as to Ser Volkarin, “but I never thought I’d see anything like this down here.”

“I’m pleased to tell you it isn’t all the standard mausoleums, catacombs and ossuaries.” Then his voice changed. A passion came into it, a kind of promise. “There are miracles down here, Agnes. Works of art that those who go about their lives in the world above could never dream of.”

He lets that tantalizing promise hang, delectable, for only a moment.

“And there…” Volkarin continued, pointing to a faintly gleaming structure in the distance, “is our way out.”

Agnes squinted in the dark, until her eyes distinguished forms: the elevator’s lever, it’s chamber, its wired gate. “You found it!”

“Perhaps, through sheer luck. Or perhaps the Necropolis guided us to it. Who is to say?”

And then Ser Volkarin dropped into a bow, extending his hand that Agnes might proceed him, enchanting his magelight to hover a few feet ahead of him and light her path.

“After you, Miss Agnes.”

And suddenly—with his elegant air, with that gleam in his eyes, with that pleased, delightful smile—he outstripped the inexplicable sunlight and the bright faces of the dahlia blooms to become the most wondrous thing in the room. A little shiver worked its way down Agnes’ spine, and she felt a warmth—unwelcome, unbidden, and absolutely nothing to do with the sun—working its way through her chest.

Perhaps the Mourn Watch would not be so terrible, after all.

#emmrich volkarin #da:tv #data #dragon age fanfic #agnes gallatus #i have been possessed body and soul #da4 #i'm using tags on ao3 that don't even exist yet baby #f!rook/emmrich #dragon age emmrich #emmrich the necromancer

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klausinamarink · 24 days

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writers 20 questions

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

45 at the moment! I have a few more wips to post on the way so the number is going to go higher

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

130,657

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Stranger Things. I’m looking to branch to other fandoms though like The Locked Tomb in the future

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Standup, You’re Never Too Much, Recapturing the Sunset, Just Another Flesh Wound, One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes!! But not always as sometimes I immediately forget to reply and when I do, it’s a few weeks or a month later skkshdk forgive me

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Biting Back in Anger. It’s Eddie having a bad day and blowing up at Steve, who leaves trying not to cry :)

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

uhhh most of my fics have happy endings but I think I can nominate The Tinsel Tradition. It has Steve, Eddie, and Robin building a home together in NYC, healed and happy in every queer way!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

nope, thank god

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I’ve been writing more smut recently and exploring some areas. I’m honestly gotten more comfortable though it’s still a challenge to get the right words without coming off as awkward lmao. but that’s Phil’s (@theheadlessphilosopher) job 🫶💜

10. Do you write crossovers?

I’m more of a fusion au writer who borrows the setting and elements and places my blorbos in there than a straight-up crossover. Unless that counts as a crossover? Those two terms are kinds confusing sometimes..

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

There are a couple folks who played around this idea with me but nothing concrete. Though I guess Phil’s beta work can count because he writes better lines and scenarios than me

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

You’re asking me, a Steddie blog—

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

oof. I have a TLOU steddie wip based on resande’s sketches, but it’s looking unlikely to be done because the person looking it as my beta reader over got busy with other things and I’ve lost the writing juice 😔

16. What are your writing strengths?

Many people tell me that I am very visceral with my descriptions, esp with horror, and setting the tension is top-notch 🥰 (I am a freak who loves gore and blood tehehehehe)

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I have too many ideas and a problem to actually write what I want that it comes off as juvenile to me. I also have a tendency to gloss over the editing of my fic which I’m trying to break out of.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I honestly don’t mind it at all. However, I do get taken right out of the story if the language is written literally (like kanji for Japanese, Cyrillic for Russian, etc.) and not romanized when the character is speaking because that’s not how it works

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Warrior Cats. We all started our writing careers from that series at some point in middle school lol

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Noooo, I can’t pick favourites- I love them all equally. But FINE, I’ll say it would be When Life Gives You Pickles, Make It Into Soup. I wrote this as mostly self-indulgent because I LOVE pickle soup and is the best comfort food of all time. I think anyone making soup in general for their significant other if PEAK relationship goals because who doesn’t love soup?? Of course I had to Steddie-ify it

thanks to Devon for tagging me! Tagging others with no pressure: @thefreakandthehair @pearynice @3minsover @penny00dreadful @chaosgremlinmunson

@cranberrymoons @dies-somniator

#tagging games

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flowerandblood · 7 months

Text

The Man with the Lost Soul

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: virgnity loss, smut, angst, violence, mention of the suicide, murder attempt, trauma, mourning ]

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She remembered little of her father's speech, focusing only on the fact that she had a fever and on her little brother's body, cuddled into her, shaking with sobs. She wore a matte, black suede gown with open shoulders, its sleeves reaching all the way to the ground.

She wore no adornments, her hair loose, falling freely down her back. She felt his presence a few paces behind her, separating her from the rest of those gathered, the lords and ladies of the court immersed in disbelief, weepeing loudly in despair as if her mother's fate would ever concern them.

They all knew that her father had kept her locked up for years.

She looked at her King and though she could see his lips moving, tears on his cheeks, but she could not hear or feel anything − all she could think about was what Vhagar had told her that night.

Your father the King wanted me to make it look like she took her own life.

"It was with great regret that I accepted the high priest's decision regarding the fact that a person who takes his own life cannot be buried with honours in the royal tomb. For this reason, therefore, my beloved, poor, suffering-stricken wife will be buried outside the town walls, respecting her remains and her memory, needless to say." He said in a trembling, deep, hoarse voice, as if he really suffered at the thought.

She felt something surge through her heart, a tightness and pain from which she parted her lips in trembling breaths, a single, lonely tear running down her cheek.

When it was all over, her servants braided her hair and put a black, translucent veil over her face. She felt suddenly that she was partially covered from the world, that she was surrounded by the darkness she felt in her heart.

She wondered if this was what Vhagar felt while hiding behind his mask.

She followed her father and brother in a small procession behind a closed coffin covered by a shroud, a monk in front of them singing a slow, mournful chant that echoed in her mind.

She stared at the back of her king-father and thought only of the fact that he had killed her mother and deprived her of an honourable burial, without even waiting for the mighty of the Kingdom or her own family to arrive to bid her a proper farewell.

She watched as the coffin containing her body was lowered into a deep grave dug outside the city walls, heard the sobs of the mourners, but she herself shed no more tears. She looked to the side − behind her father stood his guards, his ghosts, but her ghost, her Vhagar stood by her side, a few steps behind her.

She felt his presence, the presence of death with her whole being.

When it was all over her father pulled her out of her musings by approaching her, pale, wiping his face with his palm, as if he himself could not believe that all this was really happening.

"I know you blame me for this and you have every right to. By separating you, I drove her to the brink of despair, she obviously felt she no longer had a reason to live." He muttered in a trembling voice, not looking at her but somewhere to the side, far away.

She looked at him through the thin material of the veil, feeling only her breathing and the beating of her heart, besides having the impression that she was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.

"I do not blame you, my King. You have done everything in your power. She was mad with despair. You could not help her." She said softly, calmly, her words like pleasant music to his ears. He grunted and cheered up, walking up to her, grasping her face in his hands, placing a long, drawn-out kiss on her forehead.

"My beloved child." He said warmly − she felt a squeeze in her heart and forced herself to smile.

As soon as he passed her the corners of her mouth sank down, her gaze focused on the spot where she saw fresh earth and a small stone monument, all surrounded by flowers.

"My Princess."

She heard his voice and shuddered, only now noticing that there was no one around them anymore, they were completely alone.

"It's time to go back."

She shook her head as she walked closer, placing a hand on the cold tombstone − she had the feeling that everything around her was blurry and foggy, her heart and throat squeezed.

"No. I won't leave her alone this time." She whispered, feeling like just laying down next to her, growing into the ground, being covered in flowers and grass, falling asleep next to her.

"She's free now."

She pressed her lips together, feeling a squeeze in her throat at his words, her nostrils quivering in an anxious breath. She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking at his tear-streaked mask, and thought that they were the same now.

She approached him with the quiet rustling of her gown, the hum of the grass and the singing of birds all around them, their robes blowing in the wind.

She stood in front of him and looked at him, at the man who had betrayed her, at the man who had killed her mother, at the man who had taken away her chance to decide her own life and death.

Every time she thought about it she had to remind herself that it was her father who made him follow her, it was her father who made him report on everything she did, it was her father who ordered him to kill her mother and it was her father who made her want to end her life.

He was just a tool, a blade held by someone else.

She placed her hand on his chest, rose on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mask where a tear had been outlined − despite the material that separated her lips from it, she felt the cold, unpleasant, tart taste of steel.

She heard him swallow loudly, his bright iris looking straight at her in surprise, his pupil dilated wide, his eye almost completely black.

"This is my expression of gratitude for your dedication to the affairs of our family." She whispered with feigned fondness, running her hand over the spot where his cheek would have been, the steel beneath her skin uncomfortably cold and slightly wet due to the moisture it had gathered from the air around them.

She passed him without a word, heading towards the gate. As she walked along the roads of the city, the people living in the townhouses threw field flowers under her feet, called out her mother's name, expressed their love for their Queen.

She trampled their wishes, their gifts, their words with each step, looking ahead, lifting her gaze to the great fortress standing on the hill before her in the distance − it seemed to her now completely black, its towers partially veiled by grey clouds.

A great black coffin, she thought.

She was as dead as her mother.

As she stepped into her chamber she ordered loudly that she wished to take a bath. Vhagar stood at her door watching as her servants filled the tub they had brought moments earlier with warm water, one of them helping her undo the ties of her gown.

"Your Grace…is he…" The girl asked uncertainly, looking at the hooded figure standing on the other side of her chamber.

"Let him look." She said dispassionately, feeling no shame or embarrassment as she was left in just a thin white chemise − her maid swallowed loudly and nodded, curl by curl loosening her hair.

She stepped into the tub and sighed quietly, resting her head against its edge, closing her eyes, saying softly that they could leave.

She heard quiet footsteps, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then there was complete silence.

She lifted her eyelids and saw that he was standing in the same place as before, right at her door, straight, with his arms folded in front of him, looking at her unashamedly, her naked body peeking through from under her wet undershirt.

"Do you draw satisfaction from this sight?" She asked teasingly, twisting in place with a quiet splash of water, its pleasant warmth relaxing her tense muscles, finally no longer shivering from the cold.

He stared at her in silence, his pupil fixed on her face.

"Do not do anything thoughtless under the influence of emotion." He said dryly, his eye wide open, his chest rising slightly with each breath he took. She furrowed her brow at his words, feeling a tightness in her throat.

"I don't understand what you mean, Vhagar." She said coolly and he chuckled under his breath, however it was a laugh from which a cold chill went through her despite the warmth of the water.

"Your father wants to believe your words, which is why he does not yet see what lurks in your gaze. But when he finally notices it, it is not me he will send to you. I will not protect you from what will happen, and your greatest nightmare will come true." He said with a cold tone filled with some kind of superiority and opened the door from her chamber, disappearing behind it with a quiet clatter.

She pressed her lips together at his words, drew in a breath and slid backwards, sinking her entire head under the water − the voices in her head silenced, only an all-consuming hum around her.

She lasted like this for a moment before she felt a tightening in her mouth, her body craving another breath against her will, demanding to live. She rose to the surface, drawing in air loudly, wiping her face of the water droplets with her hands, sighing heavily.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what her mother had said, what she had spoken about since they had lived in this fortress.

The passage in her chamber and the cry of the child.

She opened her eyelids, feeling the sudden, rapid pounding of her heart.

Has Prince Aemond's body been found at last?

She stepped quickly out of the bath with a loud splash of water, quickly putting on a black, matte robe, tying it around her waist, opening the door of her chamber and stepping out into the corridor.

Although her body was shivering from the cold, she had the feeling that her heart was on fire.

She felt his surprise, his quick steps behind her, trying to catch up with her. She ran into her mother's old royal chamber, and as he entered behind her she looked at him with furrowed brows.

"No, Vhagar. Wait outside. It is time for me and my mother." She said coolly. She felt him hesitate, stand still for a moment − he turn his head, impatient, and walked out, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

She looked around the room, running quickly to the walls, touching them with her hands, trying to discover some roughness or unevenness, something that would tell her there was a hidden door behind them.

She pressed her lips together and ran her hand over her face in impatience, unable to find anything, wondering where the child could be hiding.

She circled the room with her fingers pressed to her lips, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

His face was cut open, he couldn't survive it.

At the time of the attack he was not in his room but in his mother's chamber − her father's soldiers said they attacked him first − his mother threw herself at them to protect him, and then the Prince suddenly disappeared and was not found.

The entire chamber was searched, at first believing her mother that he could indeed have been hiding there, however nothing was found and it was decided that it was a figment of her imagination, the result of her remorse, and that the boy had taken advantage of the inattention of the men when they were wrestling with his mother and had fled.

She looked to the side and froze, licking her lower lip, feeling the cold sweat on her back as she looked at her mother's large bed.

Where did children hide when they were most frightened?

She walked over there slowly and crouched down, peering in from underneath, seeing only the dusty wooden floor. She swallowed loudly and pulled herself in deeper, feeling her body quiver at the thought that maybe she was now in his place, imagining all that must have been going on around him, that he had very little time.

She began to press the various pieces of wood one by one, hoping something would happen, however nothing did. She sighed heavily as she pressed her forehead to the floor, resigned, thinking it was pointless and suddenly she felt something under her hands.

It seemed to her at first that it was simply a piece of wood that had chipped away over the years, but it had a semi-circular shape, and was so small that only her little finger could fit in there.

She tried to lever it up and lift it, but nothing happened. It wasn't until she slipped her finger in deeper that she felt she had pressed on something cold and made of steel, and when she pushed it hard and let go she heard a quiet click − the piece of floor lifted slightly, as if the hinges holding it in place had loosened.

She lifted the flap higher, breathing loudly, feeling the chill emanating from the black stone hole, with a small staircase that a very petite woman or child could fit into.

She clenched her eyes shut, feeling tears of regret and horror running down her cheeks, panicked at the realisation that her mother was not mad, that she had died for nothing.

Was his body there or had he managed to escape?

Where did this passage lead?

She began to crawl down inside with difficulty, seeing only complete darkness in front of her, and then she heard a slam and loud footsteps, someone's large hand grabbed her ankle and aggressively pulled her backwards.

She screamed, terrified, clenching her hands on the wood, her willowy legs trying to kick him but to no avail − after a moment he forcibly dragged her out from under the bed and turned her onto her back, his eye wide open, staring at her in disbelief, she could hear his loud breathing.

He seemed to hesitate.

"What have you done?" He asked in a trembling voice, his hands held her shoulders pressed to the floor so that she could not move, her breathing laboured, looking at him in horror.

"I have discovered a secret passage." She muttered, feeling that she was trembling all over. "My mother said she heard a child crying inside her chamber. I think she heard Prince Aemond."

He was silent for a long time, breathing loudly − she heard him swallow with difficulty and clench his eyes shut, and when he opened them his gaze was different, frantic, dangerous.

"I told you not to do anything thoughtless." He said tiredly and resignedly, coldly, in a way that made her feel a shiver run down her spine.

His hands moved from her wrists to her neck, clamping down on it, instantly cutting off the oxygen supply to her lungs. In an involuntary reflex, she grabbed his wrists, her eyebrows arching in horror and pain, her body beginning to wince in despair.

"You're making me do this." He muttered under his breath apparently trying to drown out the sound of her choking, her mouth desperately trying to catch her breath.

He leaned in suddenly, the cold steel mask pressed against her forehead, a desperate growl of grief and rage escaped his lips, his hands let go of her, her lungs drew in a quick, deep breath.

She tightened her hands on his shoulders, trying to keep him away, but he lay on top of her, pressing her to the floor − she shuddered, a quiet gasp escaping her lips when she felt something hard throbbing between her thighs.

"You are my curse. My ruin." He breathed out; she felt his hips move back and forth, rubbing against her, her body went breathless all over − she felt something pulsate deep inside her, some kind of tickle in her lower abdomen from which she sighed quietly, her heart pounding like mad. "My doom."

He exhaled heavily − she could feel his hot breath gushing into her face through the holes in his mask, his hands from her neck slid down to her thighs, slipping under her thin robe. She shuddered as she felt his leather-gloved fingers tighten on the bare skin of her plump buttocks.

They both let out a loud, ripped breath, her hands slid lower from his chest, pressing his hips closer to her body, the spot between her thighs throbbed hard − she felt some kind of need inside her, for some reason despite her terror she didn't want him to stop.

She wanted him to take everything from her, she wanted him to strip her of her dignity, to punish her for allowing all this to happen.

"− destroy me − leave me with nothing −" She whispered softly; she heard him groan low at her words clenching his eyes, his hands slid down her thighs to the material of his coat − she saw him unbuckle his belt, her fingers helped him untie the bindings of his breeches.

"− fuck − fuck −" He mumbled, both of them breathing loudly in what felt like excitement and desperation, she tightened her hands on his back and whimpered when she felt something begin to push against her flesh between her thighs, trying to force itself inside her.

"− let me inside − don't fight me −" He breathed out, trying to forcibly slide deeper into her − she clenched her eyes shut and cried out, spreading her thighs wide in an attempt to ease the immense discomfort and excruciating pain she felt, one of his hands placed next to her head, the other firmly holding her hip.

He rooted into her with one brutal thrust of his hips and she whined loudly − despite his mask she could see that he was looking at her with a misty gaze, his body in what felt like a natural reflex began to move inside her, his manhood rubbing her again and again at a spot that sent shivers through her.

She panted and sobbed beneath him, feeling with every movement he made that one more thrust from him and he would tear her apart − he was too big, her muscles clenching against him in terror.

She heard his growl of pleasure each time he sank deep into her body again, instead of slowing down he accelerated, his movements beginning to be followed by the quiet click of her moisture.

"− g-gods, forgive me −" She mumbled out panting along with him, feeling with horror that the faster he slammed into her the more pleasurable it became, the tickling between her thighs became unbearable.

They both sighed with pleasure as her hips began to respond to his movements, his length rooting into her with increasing ease, sticky with her moisture − she felt as if her body had adapted to his size.

"− good gods, you are fucking enjoying this −" He scoffed teasingly, the thrusts of his hips sinking him deep inside her again and again. She felt with embarrassment her own wetness running down her buttocks − she tensed so that with each push he rubbed that wonderful spot from which shivers of pleasure ran through her.

It was so wonderful to be so full when she felt so empty, it was so wonderful to shudder with emotion when she thought she would never feel anything again in her life.

"− Vhagar −" She mewled beneath him, her heavy breathing making the moisture condense as vapour on his mask − he groaned low, both of them panting loudly, apparently taking surprising pleasure in this primitive, animal slapping of flesh against flesh.

"− no − not like that − you know my name −" He hissed out, she felt him twitching hard inside her as if the thought of her knowing his identity aroused him even more − she felt her heart pounding like mad, her lips parted wide, her hands slipped under his breeches and tightened on his buttocks.

She knew him.

Gods, she knew him.

"− I − I don't know −" She mumbled between his aggressive, sure thrusts, from which she felt stupefied, felt unbearable tension and heat in her lower abdomen − she had a feeling that a few more of his stabs and something would happen.

"− come on, you can do it − say my name − say my fucking name −" He growled, slamming into her with loud, low groans of pleasure, she could feel him throbbing hard inside her, her walls clenching down on him greedily, sucking him inside.

She shook her head, unable to give him an answer, her mind completely frazzled with pleasure, only whimpers and sobs coming from her mouth, her hips responding involuntarily to his every push, feeling the wonderful tickling between her thighs, in her fingertips, in her lips.

"− I − p-please, oooh, gods, yes, yes, yes −" She cried out loudly tilting her head back, feeling the unfamiliar, overpowering hot pleasure shake her body, her insides began to throb like crazy.

She heard him growl low feeling it, rooting into her with a few more desperate, sloppy thrusts before she felt something warm spill inside her, a loud sigh of relief escaping his lips.

His seed.

She looked sideways at the closed door to the chamber, hearing only their loud, raspy breaths, her body convulsing, her mouth parted wide in disbelief.

What had she done?

They both pulled away from each other − she hissed in discomfort as he slid out of her and rose slowly, quickly tying his breeches. They were both breathing loudly, terrified of what they had done, of what had happened.

She moved away from him, looking at him in disbelief, wondering if he was going to try to strangle her again.

Why did her discovery frighten him so much?

Who was this man?

It seemed to her that he could read the doubt written on her face − he stood up and sighed heavily, buckling the belt of his coat.

"If your father finds out we missed this, he'll kill us all." He said lowly, and she felt some kind of relief that he had done it purely out of fear.

She swallowed loudly, looking at him distrustfully, catching herself with shame that she could still feel him deep inside her, her walls sore from his aggressive, greedy thrusts.

"If you wish, I will inform him of what you have discovered in your presence." He said finally and she turned her face away, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart.

Did she want her father to find out?

If Prince Aemond was still alive, he could return and take the throne for himself.

He could have done what she had secretly dreamed of since she saw her mother's coffin disappear into the black depths.

He could kill the King.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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